“Now you’re gonna get it!” I shouted, unable to completely disguise the amusement in my tone.
I leapt from the couch, clawing over my shoulders and under my shirttail for the ice cube my laughing step-daughter had dropped under my collar. I spun around.
Before me, on the far side of our family room couch, stood my eighteen-year-old step-daughter, Christina. She was crouched at the ready, prepared to bolt either right or left should I make a move. I made one, to the left.
Christina shrieked, and then dodged me by circling the couch to her left as well. She skidded around the corners, her white socks sliding on the hardwood floor as we made two complete clockwise orbits. Then I stopped suddenly, bringing her up short. It took her a second to react to my maneuver, but she adjusted, sidling backward into a position directly opposite my own. She was breathing a little with the effort, but there was a grin on her face, and a delighted sparkle in her big blue eyes.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean it…I’ll be good….Let’s just forget get it, okay Dad…Daddy…Dad-DEEE,” she yelped and cut herself off as I darted to my right, chasing her about the sofa now in a counterclockwise direction. This time we came to a mutual halt with our positions reversed: my back was now to the kitchen, and my step-daughter stood at the front of the couch, her back to the stairway. She was panting with the exertion of the chase and she was flushed with adrenaline, standing there before me, tensed and ready to leap to the right or to the left again as needed.
She was clad in a tight pair of yellow short-shorts and a plain white T-shirt. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her youthful and quite lovely eighteen-year old face shone with her energy. On her feet the white socks hung loosely around her thin ankles, and her shapely legs sported a pair of rollerblading kneepads. She was pulling the matching pair of elbow pads from her arms.
“I see you’ve been rollerblading. Where have you left your skates, young lady?”
“In the kitchen, Daddy,” she replied, with mock sheepishness.
“You mean you haven’t put them away properly? So you had time to play a trick on your father, but no time to care for the equipment he bought you? Very naughty! For that, I’m afraid you’ll have to be PUNISHED!” With that I leapt like a grinning maniac over the back of the couch, and my schoolgirl quarry shrieked once again, pausing only to playfully hurl the elbow pads in her hands at me before bolting toward the stairway. I was right behind her.
She sprang up the stairs, taking them three at a time, her cute little ass a bouncing yellow target before my eyes as I eagerly tried to close the distance. As she reached the top of the stairs, I grabbed at her legs, and brought her down giggling on the landing. She rolled over onto her rump, and began crab-walking backwards, trying to extricate herself from my grasp.
I laid hands upon her kneepads and pulled them down over her beautifully tanned shins and delicately curved calves. She kicked the pads off her feet, and, now free of my clutches, she let out a peel of laughter and struggled upright, to make a dash down the hallway for her bedroom.
I stumbled up myself, cast aside the kneepads, and hurtled after her. The bedroom door was flying closed when I reached it, but I threw it back open.
Christina had an old-fashioned, full-sized brass bed complete with a pink gingham quilted comforter and a passel of stuffed animals. She had taken a defensive position on its far side, her hands resting upon the quilt, ready to reprise our ring-around-the-rosie dance from the family room. She was panting, and grinning, and so was I.
I made a move around the foot of her bed, and she started to crawl over the mattress. Once over, she’d have an open shot at the door, and I couldn’t allow that. I reversed myself, slid back around to the near side of the bed and started to crawl over it myself. She scurried back down on her side, and cautiously made a motion toward rounding the foot of the bed while I was stuck atop it. I drew back in time, and we were again at an impasse.
“Daddy, you’re not really going to punish me, are you?”
“You know I have to, sweetheart,” I replied in an increasingly husky voice. “Your impudence cannot go undisciplined.”
“I’d rather have Mom punish me. She’ll be home any minute, you know.” She arched her eyebrow in a challenge. This little minx will have men eating out of her hand her whole life, I thought.
“Mom won’t be home for some time. She’s showing at least ten properties today. So I guess it’s up to me to punish you, once again. Besides, I find your mother’s methods far too… conventional.”
She darted around the foot of the bed, attempting to draw me in that direction before reversing and going “over the top.” I took the bait, but when I saw her move for the bed, I dove over the brass footboard. I landed flat on the mattress but struck my shin on the brass top bar. I barely felt it, for I had something more important on my mind – the delicate, sock-clad ankle in my grasp.
At this point, it was all over for the girl. Sure, she tried to struggle away, but I easily pulled the ninety-pound waif into my closer grasp. I crawled on top of her, covering and controlling her wee little form with my substantial, one-hundred-ninety pounds. Our faces were inches apart, and I drank in how her skin flushed prettily, how her nostrils flared rapidly, and how her pupils dilated into two big black pools.
I reared up onto my knees, manhandling the girl into a position in which I could seize the waistband of her too-short shorts. She squirmed around a bit, but at this point, the struggle was effectively over. Her efforts now were just “for show.” I drew the scant pants, along with her tidy white undies, down her coltish legs and over her cute little feet. I threw both garments across the room, where they settled on the desk amongst my little eighth-grader’s schoolbooks.
“Have I been bad, Daddy?”
“Very bad, you naughty little girl, and now Daddy must punish you.” I sat back on my heels in the center of the bed, her naked legs hooked together under one of my arms and resting across the lap my position afforded. Her cute little mons was only hinted at between her thighs in this arrangement, the top of a little slit peeking out under the wispy patch of downy blonde peach fuzz, which sprouting lightly from an area no larger than a nickel.
“How bad have I been, Daddy?” she asked, staring up at me, her head wedged among the scattered pillows and teddy bears.
“Let me show you.” I straightened, until I was “kneeling tall” on my knees. Her legs were still crooked under my arm, so they rose with me, elevating her to the point that her sweet little bottom was partly revealed. I turned in my stance to better face her eyes, and then drew down the waistband of my sweatpants and briefs. I “hooked” them below my scrotum, an act which prominently displayed my ugly, weeping prick in all its turgid glory. Christina gasped.
I say “ugly” because, although I have never felt there was any such thing as an attractive penis, mine seemed, under the circumstances, to be menacing in the same way as a man with a knife-scarred face can be . There was nothing pretty about it. My big, purplish knob was actually wider than most of my shaft, a shiny, swelling bulb. A continuous trickle of pre-seminal lubricant was leaking from its tip. It bobbed and weaved, giving the appearance of some relentless beast, some primitive intelligence seeking its prey, and, after a fashion, I suppose that is exactly what it was.
The shaft was knotted and veined, and slightly crooked. And it was large: I’ve heard many men claim eight inches, but I suspect it’s not too common. I’ve measured, however, or rather my wife has. Eight-and-a-quarter inches along the inside of the curve. Nine along the outside. Two inches in diameter, almost three at the base. In short, it was an ugly, dangerous-looking weapon.
Below my stalk lay my heavy scrotum, accentuated by virtue of the out-thrusting force of the lowered waistband of my sweatpants. My balls were large, to match my prick, almost avocado-like. My left testicle hung lower than the right, as always, adding to the intimidating, unrefined look of my manhood.
I had been keeping my wiry, salt-and-pepper pubic hair trimmed back ever since I had initiated Christina’s “punishments,” in order to make my cock seem larger still. Every added sense of size contributed to Christina’s alarm upon its almost ritualistic presentation, and every bit of size contrast whenever I laid it against her underaged, nearly hairless pudendum lifted me to new heights of lust.
I displayed this oversized, angry, curved, seeping, ugly diamond-cutter to my as-always awed little girl.
“What do you think? From the looks of ‘The Punisher’ here, how bad would you say you’ve been?”
She gulped. “Pretty bad, Daddy. Pretty bad.” She was almost whispering.
I wasted no further time on chitchat. I rolled my step-daughter back onto her shoulder blades, pushing her knees up to her chest until they were pressing into her lemon-sized breasts. She was braless, but her chest remained hidden under her white T-shirt, her only remaining garment save those girlish white socks. My maneuver rolled her up off her ass, and presented her fat little vulva to me, glistening, swollen, and now perched as the most elevated part of her torso.
I repositioned myself at this crux, resting my wicked tool along her nearly-innocent crease with one hand while pressing my opposite forearm across the backs of her knees. This locked her into her contorted position, leaving only her tiny feet free to kick in the air.
I slid my rod lengthwise though the groove of her soft pudding, luxuriating in its concupiscent, oily warmth and watching her cooperative slice swell, spread, and redden. The sight was fantastic. My large, barbaric prick stroked between her tiny, hairless labia and over her adolescent clit-nub in the quintessential “bad touch.”
“Fathers aren’t supposed to fuck their step-daughters, Daddy,” Christina croaked in her lust-filled voce sotto. “Are you going to fuck me?”
“You really leave me no choice, Christina, do you? Yes I’m going to fuck you. And soundly.” With that, I leaned forward and into her, pressing even more authoritatively with my forearm, while I hoisted my pelvis and guided my weapon into a workable angle of attack.
She drew a breath as my knob gained a purchase within the threshold of her adolescent box. She emitted a prolonged groan as I put my weight into it, slowly but inexorably driving myself through her resisting passage. I have to give that juvenile snatch some credit; despite having been here many times before, and despite putting substantial weight and pelvic force behind my offensive, that stubborn girlcunt yielded the inches grudgingly. It seemed a delicious eternity before I felt my glans nudging at my pubescent step-daughter’s cervix. As always happened upon initial entry, “hitting bottom” left over an inch of my shaft out in the cold. Experience told me that before I was done, I would have hammered the remainder home as well.
I started to slowly stroke into my little girl. As I plumbed her depths, each downstroke culminated in a grunt from my baby, as well as a delightful tickling sensation at the tip of my penis at every cervical collision.
I began to pick up speed, eliciting an accelerando of “ughn’s” and “ahh’s” from my step-daughter, her voice keeping time to the rhythm of my thrusts. By the time she started to wail with orgasm, and her overstretched channel began to spasm around me, I was spiking into her mercilessly, battering her innards in almost viscous abandon.
She cried out with her final spending and was gasping for air as I drove in a couple of final jabs before relaxing and easing some of my weight off of her. Feeling an early twinge, I held my pelvis perfectly still while concentrating on avoiding my own orgasm. I didn’t want to blast my seed into my little girl, at least not yet. It was a close call, but I mastered the urge; at one point I had to grip Christina’s hips to halt the slow, lazy, post-orgasmic roll they were describing almost involuntarily, for the slutty instinct of her puss almost brought me off. I passed the mark, however, and once having passed it I knew I could hold out indefinitely. And I definitely was far from finished here.
Christina recovered sufficiently to speak. “You know, Daddy, this is technically rape.”
No kidding. She was eighteen, my step-daughter, and to anyone who had witnessed the preceding, apparently an unwilling victim. Hell, the first time I’d “punished” Christina, almost six months ago, it really had been virtually a rape.
I had simply gotten to the point that I could no longer live in a house with my sexy, then-thirteen-year-old step-daughter without taking what I needed. So, one evening when her mother was out, I basically ripped her clothes off and ripped her virginity from her. She had cried in pain and shame, and I had felt like a complete bastard. I was also sick with fear that she will tell my wife. But she didn’t. When a few days had passed and the world didn’t end, lust conquered guilt and I molested her again. And again. Thankfully, she soon warmed to the abuse, and ever since I’d been “punishing” her at least twice a week, every time my wife left us alone, and usually at her instigation, just like today. Thankfully, as a residential realtor, my wife left us alone quite often.
“And you know, Cupcake, that you are technically a slut for your Daddy’s cock.”
“Yeah, I know, but you made me this way.” We started a slow, leisurely in-and-out. I’d rolled back off of her a bit, onto my heels, so now Christina’s legs were draped around my waist, gently assisting the motion of our sin. I took the opportunity to push up her shirt and play with her nipples.
“Mmmm, yes, Sugar Titties?”
“You know you have to stop coming inside me. You always say you’re gonna pull out, but more times than not, you come right in my pussy.”
“You never seem to complain when it’s happening.”
“God, Daddy – I could get pregnant. If you want to come inside me, at least take me to get on the pill.”
“You know we can’t do that. That would draw suspicion on us, and if your Mom found the pills, she’d freak out. It wouldn’t take her till nightfall to figure this all out. Nope. Can’t do it. Same way with rubbers. Your Mom had her tubes tied, so what would I be doing with rubbers?”
“Then please, Daddy, promise me you’ll pull out. You can come in my mouth.”
“I promise I’ll do whatever you ask me to do when the moment arrives.”
“No Daddy, please do what I ask you to do now, not what I say later…”
I put an end to this prattling by pushing her knees back up onto her chest, rolling her up under me, and picking up the pace until I was once again boring down into her as though I were trying to strike oil. The slushy, squeezing contractions of her underaged hole became the center of my existence. As for her, she was back to her “ungh’s” and “ahh’s,” and the volume of these utterances was rising in a crescendo. Her lust-filled face jerked to the right and to the left, and her arms flailed out of control. She knocked poor Pooh Bear right off the bed.
I had learned early on that for my precocious little girl, the second orgasm was both more demanding and rewarding than the first. I had trained her slutty little pussy so that, when handled properly, it would betray the will of her conscious, conscientious mind. I had, after learning this, ensured that I brought her to her first, very pleasurable orgasm very early in our mating sessions, so that I could save myself for her second, far more animalistic second climax.
As the minutes passed, and as I continued to relentlessly pound downward into her box, the sweat on my forehead beaded and dripped into Christina’s equally perspiring face. She’d occasionally drag her tongue across her fat, sexy lips, and her eyes took on that half-lidded, sex-zombie aspect. She grunted, moaned, swore, and flopped about under me as best she could with her knees being pressed firmly into her now bare titties. She had reached a sustained level of arousal that was a glory to behold. But still she could not achieve the resolution of orgasm. Remember, I said I had trained this pussy well. I had trained it, somehow, so that it could only achieve that highly coveted second orgasm under particular conditions. Now it was time for the payoff.
“What do you need, baby?”
“Fuck me, Daddy.”
“What do you need, baby?”
“All of it.”
“All of what?”
“Oh God, Daddy, Come! Come in me! I want to feel it inside.”
And I did. As I felt it rising, I looked down at the junction of our union, where my seemingly enormous shaft was splitting my tiny step-daughter’s sloppy, red-flushed sex. I burst into orgasm at the sight, hosing her undefended womb with the same potent seed that had created her over eighteen years earlier. This was the trigger I had trained the little slut for, so that only once she felt me coming, she was able to join in. Her second orgasm, as always, forced a loud and exceedingly erotic wail to pass her lips as her teenaged cunt clamped down on my erupting prick. The physical sensation was unbelievable, and the knowledge that I was potentially breeding my eighteen-year-old step-daughter was fantastic.
In the afterglow, we lay together and cuddled, exchanging pecks and light kisses while my thick shaft soaked and slowly shrunk in her well-fucked hairless hole.
“Daddy, why do you always come inside me?”
“Because that’s what you ask for. It’s what your pussy knows it wants.”
“But Daddy, don’t you realize I could get pregnant?”
“Hmmm,” I replied, and felt my exhausted prick twitch, and belch a final packet of incestuous babybatter into my naughty little girl. What an erotic thought. I knew it was terribly irresponsible, and I had no idea what I would do when I eventually knocked her cute little ass up, but I just couldn’t help myself. You see, although I may have trained her little pussy to demand my sperm, it had long before trained me to surrender it.
In post-coital relaxation, I must have drifted off, still embedded in the loins of my child. I awoke with a start upon hearing the garage door kick on.
“Oh fuck!” I cried, leaping from Christina’s embrace and yanking my sloppy, shriveled cock from her young hole with an audible “plop.” I stumbled for her bedroom door while trying to pull my sweatpants up over my slimy meat, spitting out instructions on the way.
“That’s your mom! Damn it, she’s home early! Get some clothes on, and open a window — it smells like pussy in here! I’ll stall her downstairs! Jesus Christ, move!”
As I pulled the door hurriedly behind me, I saw a sassy smirk on Christina’s face, but I also saw her moving to open the window and air the fuck-funk out of her room. It was good that she obeyed quickly, but as for that smirk — I was already feeling a twitch in my crotch that told me she needed more punishment, and soon!