Daddy’s Little Girl, Part II

Bondage Daddy
Playing with Daddy’s Tools

(Mf inc oral anal tools <*>)

An entry in the ASSTR Hall of Fame Writing Game

Father Ignatius

© July 2001

As a participant in the ASSTR Hall of Fame Writing Game, I was assigned to write a story in the manner of Eros. I elected to supply the continuation. of Part I of his Daddy’s Little Girl. It ends with the note “To be continued”. I can find no evidence of any continuation, however, and—as far as anyone knows—Eros has stopped writing.

[Update, Jan 29, 2005:]  Out of the blue, I got an e-mail from Eros, saying: “Well Done! After a several year hiatus, I have come out of retirement (so to speak) and am now writing for Mr Double as a regular Resident Author. I liked your continuation of my unfinished story… congratulations. Great job!! Looking forward to reading your other works… Very best regards, EROS.”

For some days after I first got my Daddy to fuck me, he kept his distance. He stuck close by Mom around the house, which irritated her, and didn’t talk to me if he could avoid it. He wouldn’t catch my eye when we passed in the passage and stuff. The guilt thing, I guess. And he’d be dumb not to be scared of going to jail. I’ve heard things about what happens to sex offenders there, especially guys who fuck their very own little under-age girls.

It was never going to last, though. He’s a real horny guy, like I told you, and Mom was as uninterested as ever in screwing him. Now that I was a stakeholder, I paid more attention to listening through the wall between their bedroom and mine and I’m pleased to say there were never any sounds of passion. In fact, at one stage I heard Mom say irritably, “Shit! Every time I turn around, there’s that damn thing pointing at me. Leave me alone, for God’s sake!” So I reckoned it was only a matter of time before poor old Dad had to point his thing in the direction of his little girl to meet his needs.

I took to staring at him a lot, at his crotch and stuff, especially when we were all three together, like in the kitchen for breakfast or whatever. He would see me staring and get embarrassed. At these times, he stuck close to Mom, pissing her off even more. I would carry on staring at his crotch, and squeeze my legs together, remembering what it had felt like to have his thick cock stretching my fuckhole like it was never stretched before, what it was like to feel his big, rough hands on my ass.

As the days passed and he got more and more overdue for relief, sticking close to Mom ceased to be an option ’cause he got a very visible hard-on whenever I began with the staring. One time at breakfast, he was supposed to be waiting for the toast to pop up. When I started staring him out, he had to sit down at the kitchen table to hide his erection from Mom. When the toast popped, she looked at him, expecting him to stand and get it.

“Allow me,” I said, and passed it over.

She looked at me a little strange, and then shrugged. I usually don’t help around the house at all. I could tell she didn’t want to make a remark over a hopeful sign and maybe start a fight. I sat down to watch him butter the toast. I squirmed one foot out of my school shoe, and slid my toes up against his foot. He jumped and moved it back. Mom looked at him quizzically. I put my foot on his knee. He couldn’t move that back. My own knee banged the underside of the table. Mom jumped and glared.

“What’s going on around here?’ she demanded.

“Nothing,” mumbled Dad.

“Sorry,” I said. I twisted my foot so my toe-nails were against the inside of his thigh, and ran my foot quickly up to his crotch. He jumped, too.

“Sorry,” he said.

Mom glared at us suspiciously. She sensed something was going on but she didn’t know what. How could she guess that her husband and her not-quite-fourteen-year-old daughter were playing footsy under the kitchen table during family breakfast?

I sat sipping my coffee, using both hands to hold the cup by the rim, and pretended to stare out the window into the back yard. But I was peeking at my captive father while my toes burrowed around in his lap. I could feel the hard bar of an enormous erection fighting against the cloth of his pants. It lay squashed between his belly and his thigh and, when I pressed against it with the tip of my big toe, it clenched up involuntarily, half a second later. It reminded me of this sea-anemone I saw on a school outing to the aquarium. Every time a fish swam past nearby, it clenched up just after the fish had passed and then it unclenched again.

It was a really strange feeling and I was having fun experimenting with making it keep happening. Dad gave up trying to look as if he was eating breakfast. He sat staring at the wall behind me, hands gripping each side of his plate of eggs and bacon. I could see the muscles of his jaw clench. Mom was staring at him with a “Say, what?” expression.

I kept on doing it, again and again, experimenting with the weird feeling, until I felt his cock pulsate not just once but over and over and over. He gave a kind of snort or grunt or whatever and let go his plate to grab under the table but my foot was back under my chair where it belonged.

“What is the matter with you?” Mom said, bugged.

“Nothing,” he mumbled, blushing like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Mom got up and grabbed her car keys. “Come along,”she said to me, “Time for school.” And to Dad, she said, “Aren’t you going to work? If you don’t leave now you’ll get caught in traffic.” He usually leaves first. He kind of grunted and didn’t reply properly. She shrugged and got up to go herself.

“Come along, you,” she said to me. I hastily squished my foot half-way back into my shoe and hobbled off for my lift to school.

“Don’t walk on the backs of your shoes like that,” said Mom.

“Sorry,” I said. “Bye, Dad!”

And off we went to school, leaving dear old Dad sitting at the kitchen table, praying for us to get the fuck out of the house so he could hobble back upstairs to get a shower and a change of clothes. He was going to be caught in traffic, all right.

“I just feel that today is going to be a good day,” I said to Mom. I wasn’t even at school yet, and already I had got my Daddy to come in his pants in front of my mom without getting caught.

Mom smiled at me and rumpled my hair. “That’s great, kitten.”

Come Saturday, things were still as they were but Mom was going shopping, leaving Dad and me together at home. I planned to take advantage. As Mom’s car backed down the drive I delved into my wardrobe to see what I could find. I came up with a white top with a deep, round neckline and short, full sleeves that used to fit me a few years ago before my boobs started growing. I stripped and struggled into it. It was a tight fit now, and not designed to stretch. My boobs were crammed uncomfortably in like grapefruit in a too-small shopping bag. It was short and would leave my midriff bare, especially if I was wearing something with a low waistline.

Low waistline. Hmmmm. I burrowed some more and came up with some stretch shorts that I also hadn’t worn in a while. They were bright turquoise and very pre-teen and un-cool. I squeezed myself into them. They were as tight as a drum. Like, I could scarcely walk. And they left absolutely nothing to the imagination. “No panties” was their message, shouted loud and clear across the room.

Dad was out back, doing something at his work-bench. I’d only manage an un-sexy hobble if I went out there barefoot over the gravel pathway, so I decided that it was pre-teen day and completed my ensemble by digging out my old Doc Martens.

I took a look at myself in the mirror. I was a dirty old man’s wet-dream. A total mall-rat. My mother would have freaked. That gawky, zitty guy down at Macdonald’s would have blushed and given me extra fries.

As a finishing touch I unwrapped a raspberry popsicle and practiced twirling it around between my pouting lips, sucking it in and drawing it slowly back out again. I brushed my fringe forward so I could peek cutely up through it at the world of adult males. Hell, if I couldn’t get laid by my own Daddy, I could go down the mall and pull someone else.

When I got outside I was surprised to see that Daddy was wearing his gym kit. Boots, his mattress pants and a thick, cotton, washed-out kangaroo top with a hood and a lace-up neck where his thick, curly, black chest-hair showed through.

We call them his mattress pants because they are made of this coarse cloth striped blue and gray. Grandpa calls them that ’cause he says mattresses always used to be made from cloth like that. Grandma said to Mom, when she thought I wasn’t listening, that it’s cuz mattresses used to have this funny, nubbly stuffing inside them that made them bulgy and uncomfortable to lie on. Granny giggled but Mom got all prissy. Whatever. They’re shorts, and very short ones at that. A lot of guys at the gym wear them.

The point about mattress pants is that they lace up the front so the guys can pull the laces tight and make them fit as snug as they like. The more buff they get, the snugger they go for. Dad is in good shape, like I told you, and has a good, all-over tan, like I said, and his mattress pants showed off his big, sexy, round beefy butt. But most eye-catching was the big bulge in his crotch under the laces. He looked really hot. Not suave or subtle or sophisticated or anything like that. Just big and meaty and hairy and sexy. I felt myself moistening up as I looked at him.

“Hi, Daddy,” I mumbled through the twirling popsicle. I fluttered my baby-blues like the tarty little mall-rat I was.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, not looking up. He was focused on his woodwork. He had a big plank over two trestles, in front of his work-bench. I went and leaned on the end of it, on my elbows. I propped my cheeks on my fists and worked on sucking at the popsicle and looking up at him through my fringe. He took not notice.

I stood up and put one hand behind me on my butt, pushing my mound out at him. I could feel sawdust and shavings stuck to my midriff. He was a real man, and randy as hell. He should have been gaping at me wide-eyed like little kids watching the guy at the mall who makes up candy-floss for them. He should have been getting hard. He should have been dragging me under a bush and fucking us both to a standstill. But he didn’t even look at me.

It was like when I was a little kid I would go out back to his work-bench. He’d be focused on what he was doing and not pay me any attention. I would play with his tools on the work-bench to get him to take notice of me. He would always start out by saying “Don’t play with Daddy’s tools, sweetheart,” but still not take proper notice of me.

This one time I had to cut myself on this chisel and scream before he took notice. He got startled and irritated and spanked me. Mom came out to see what was going on and there was this shouting match between them, and she took me off to put a plaster on my hand. But I got plenty of attention, which is what I was after.

So I knew just what to do. I bent over the near trestle, rested my elbows on it again, reached out for the tools, and started fiddling.

“What’s this thing for, Daddy?”

“Don’t play with Daddy’s tools, sweetheart,”

Bingo. Right on cue. I carried right on fiddling with one hand and twirling the popsicle in my mouth with the other. I stared up at him, wide-eyed, through my fringe. He had to look at me now. He did. I saw him noticing my outfit. There was no way he could misunderstand that my agenda for the morning included a follow-up to our recent little pool-party. He tried to play it cool, but it was too late. I started the crotch-staring game as he worked. He lost focus and, now and again, I saw his eyes flickering over to me and then quickly away when he saw me seeing him watch me. Sure enough, I could see his bulge starting to grow. His concentration for woodworking went completely to hell. It was a battle of wills, and I was going to win.

“It’s all right,” I said, “Mom’s out shopping.”

He didn’t reply.

I took a big screwdriver off the bench and started playing with its plastic handle like it was an erect dick, and I was giving it a hand-job. I squeezed it and ran my thumb over the round bit at the end, around the slot behind it, and up and down the slots on the side. He still tried to be cool. I plopped out the popsicle and was getting ready to suck the screwdriver’s red handle when he grabbed it from me.

“I said ‘Don’t play with Daddy’s tools, sweetheart’!”

He put the screwdriver down, but kept on holding my wrist. There was a sound of masking-tape being torn off the roll. He had my wrist in one hand, clamping it to the trestle. He had the roll of masking tape in his other hand and he was pulling tape off the roll with his big, white teeth. He got a whole long piece of tape off the roll and wound it ’round and ’round my wrist, and then he yanked my hand forward and wound the tape around the trestle furthest from me. I was all bent over, and couldn’t move it.

“Hey!” I said. The popsicle fell out of my mouth onto the ground. I didn’t know to be scared or not. I twisted my neck round to try and see his face. I couldn’t tell if he was laughing or cross.

He said, “I said ‘Don’t play with Daddy’s tools, sweetheart’!”

Well, I couldn’t reach out with my left hand any more so I definitely couldn’t fiddle around any more with the tools on the bench. My right hand was still free, though, and there was one of Daddy’s tools in reach of that. I decided to go for broke. I stuck out my hand, reached for his crotch and grabbed at his bulge. Yep, there was a big cock-stand in there, keen to get out and about.

“What about this tool, Daddy? Can I play with this tool? You came out here to do woodwork, Daddy. Do you want to do some work with this woody? Huh, Daddy?”

He grabbed my wrist, and tried to pull my hand away, but I grabbed the laces in my fingers and wouldn’t let go. He went for the roll of masking tape again, using both hands this time, and yanked off a length. He moved so he was standing right next to the far trestle, with his balls almost resting on it. That put my wrist on top of it and he quickly taped it to the trestle, same as the other one. I was terribly excited, but squeaked in pretend dismay.

“It’s all right,” Daddy said, “Mom’s out shopping.” I got the feeling he was teasing me.

“Okay, Bondage Daddy,” I said, “what are you going to go to me now?” I let go the laces straining to contain his package, allowing him to move away. But he didn’t. He stood there next to me. I couldn’t turn my head around far enough to see his face but his crotch was right by my cheek. I could just reach to scratch under his balls with the fingernails of two fingers. He seemed to like it.

But he wasn’t the only horny person present. Time to move matters on.

“I think you’re a mean Daddy to tie me up like this,’ I whined, writhing around and wiggling my butt. “Just for that, I’m not going to let you fuck me.”

And I spraddled my legs out so I could hook the heels of my Doc Martens around the outside of the trestle.

“So there,”I said. “Now you can’t get my pants off.”

I expected the pants to split any minute, which would have been just great, but Dad did just what I wanted. He went round the back of me and yanked my heels free. He pulled my ankles back at waist level so my legs were straight out behind me. He wrapped one strong arm around my knees while I squeaked and struggled and pretended to be scared. But I was really loving every second of it.

I felt his big, rough workman’s hand under my belly, reaching for the big, kitsch plastic turquoise button holding my pants closed above the zip. He fumbled around a bit and I thought he might just yank it right off. That was fine by me—I was as turned on as I’d even been, and desperate for his big cock to be inside me. But he eventually managed it, despite my squirming, and the pants peeled readily apart as he pulled the zip down. His fingers were right by my clit, and he teased me with a lightning-quick slide of his fingers along my slit before pulling the pants away down my legs. They caught on the Doc Martens, but he yanked them off roughly.

I was hoping he’d grab me by the thighs and sink his huge cock into my sopping, hungry cunt, but he had other plans. I saw his hand, out of the corner of my eye, picking the roll of masking tape off the bench. He tore some free. I felt him grip my ankle, and hook my heel back back round the trestle the way I had hooked it—but then he bound it to the trestle leg with the masking tape. He tore tape again, and hooked my other ankle around the outside of the other side of the trestle, and bound it also. While he was there, he taped my knees to the trestle as well. For good measure, he tore off lots more tape and put a belt of masking tape round my naked back and under the plank. It held my bare belly firmly down onto the scratchy sawdust and shavings on the plank.

So, there I was, lying face-down on a plank in the back yard. My legs were stretched wide apart, and I was taped down—hand and foot—to two trestles. A ridiculous little cut-off blouse held my reluctant boobs uncomfortably captive, and they were squashed hard against the plank. Apart from the blouse, and my boots, I had nothing on. My legs were so far apart that I could feel my ass-hole pulling in as the cold got to it, and I could feel a gentle breeze wrap itself chillingly around my wet, swollen labia. And I was more desperate than ever for my Daddy to fuck me.

But he wouldn’t. He came around to stand right in front of me, so I ended up squinting down my nose at his bulging package. I could see every stitch in the fabric of his mattress pants. I stretched out my tongue to see if I could touch it. I succeeded in swiping at the laces briefly with the tip. He moved back a fraction, so I couldn’t quite get to him. So near, and yet so far.

“Okay, you little cock-teaser,” he said, “You think you’re ready to play with the grown-ups? Well, let’s see if you can take some of what you’ve been giving me these past few days.”

His hands appeared in my line of vision and undid the knot in his laces. He pulled the laces loose, and his enormous erection shoved at the loosened cloth. He put his palms to his hips, and rolled the tight shorts down over his slinky hips and his big, round butt. His cock flopped out, and banged the tip of my nose on its way down. It caught on my lower lip. In a flash, I opened my mouth and sucked the head of my Daddy’s cock greedily into my mouth. It was huge. Like, much bigger than my boyfriend Ricky’s (but Ricky’s only fourteen). I just had to open my mouth wider than it ever opened before, is all.

As soon as my lips were round his dick, Daddy let go the mattress pants and put his big hands on the side of my head. The rolled-up cloth of the pants formed a sausage snuggled under his butt and balls. The pants weren’t going anywhere. They were too tight. I was in a position to get a very good view of this because he took my head in a grip like a vise, and pulled my face down into his crotch as he thrust his huge cock into my gaping, eager mouth. I tried to get right to work with my tongue but, truth to tell, there was much room to work in.

The head of his cock rammed its way quickly across the roof of my mouth and buried itself forcibly in my throat. Suddenly, I wasn’t so eager any more. I couldn’t breath, and I gagged and tried to pull back, but he grunted, “No way, kitten.” I felt his fingertips digging into the back of my head, holding me right where he wanted me. “Oh, yeah, baby,” he said, as my throat convulsed frantically around the head of his frighteningly big dick.

I began to panic. The thought flashed through my mind that I would have to bite to escape but he was ’way ahead of me on that one. As the idea was still forming in my mind, his thumbs pressed hard into my cheeks, pressing them in between my teeth, like when you force the bit into a horse’s mouth. To bite him, I’d have to bite through my own cheeks first, and then his thumbs. My Daddy had been around the block a few more times than his darling daughter, clearly.

Just as panic overwhelmed me, he pulled out. I lay, gasping and choking, on the plank. Saliva dribbling out of my mouth and onto the ground. His drool-slimed cock brushed against my ear.

“Okay,” said kindly old Daddy, “it seems that’s a grown-up game my little girl suddenly finds she isn’t big enough to play after all. Let’s try something else.”

I heard him pick something up off the work-bench. He held it where I could see it for a moment. It was a bottle filled with thick, gooky stuff the color of dark honey.

“Linseed oil,” said Daddy.

I heard the cork squeaking out of the neck of the bottle, and then felt a steady little dribble of oil on my shoulders, like he was pouring salad dressing or something. Daddy moved down my side towards my butt, and I felt the little tickly feeling of the dribble travelling around and around on may back, and then slowly until oil was pouring down my butt-crack. With my legs held that far apart, it flowed straight down onto my ass-hole, and on down to mix with the wetness I was making for myself.

The dribble went back up to the small of my back, and held still a while. A little lake of linseed oil formed in the small of my back. The bottle clinked back onto the bench, and I heard a rattle of Daddy picking up something else.

“Screwdriver,” he said. It appeared briefly where I could see it. He was holding it by the shaft. It was the one with the handle I’d been giving the hand-job to tease him—while, I now realized, he was waiting to ambush me into this. It had a big, rounded end, to push against the palm of your hand when you’re using it, and deep slots all down its length, to make a better grip for turning with.

I felt him twirling the rounded end of the handle in the oil-lake on my back, coating it with oil. He twirled it like I twirled the popsicle at him when I was working at getting myself into this mess. I could see the popsicle lying in the dirt below me.

Daddy started dragging the screwdriver handle along my ribs, working up my back, in strokes that went from the spine outwards, rib by rib, all the way up the one side, and then all the way up the other. My back was beginning to hurt from being taped down, and from the tension of trying to pull away from being choked by his cock. The screwdriver handle provided an excellent hard massage. Mmmmh!

When he got to the top again, second side, Daddy ran the handle, pressing hard, down my spine. He got to the masking tape around my waist and skipped over that. The handle continued down to my tail, between my butt-cheeks, and pressed firmly against my ass-hole, which clenched again, involuntarily. Daddy kept pressing it with the handle, and then relaxing. My ass-hole would clench, all by itself, and then relax again. I was reminded of what his cock did when I was pressing it under the kitchen table.

Again and again, he kept doing it, steadily harder and harder, and every time my ass-hole would clench, and relax. We kind of got into a rhythm and then, suddenly, just as my ass was unclenching the one time, he pushed the handle in again, hard, when I wasn’t expected it. Ooooh! The round bit of the handle popped into my ass, which clamped into the groove behind the ball.

“Hey!” I said. I never let Ricky fuck me in the ass. I don’t think he really wanted to—he was just curious. But I certainly didn’t want him to, and he’d never made that big a deal of it. But now, here I was, taped to a plank and my own Daddy had just stuck an oily screwdriver handle up my virgin butt!

“Hey!” I said, again. But Daddy just said, “You wanted to play with my tools, so now we’re playing with my tools.”

My embarrassed, tightly-clamped sphincter could feel the beginnings of the grooves that went down the rest of handle that was still sticking out of my butt. I felt Daddy start turning the handle and the ends of the grooves, snuggled up to my gripping, trying-to-escape, nowhere-to-go ass-hole. They went rub-rub-rub on the side of the ass-muscle, and it was nice! I felt tears squirting from in my clamped-shut eyes as I pressed my cheek against the rough plank. Mmmmh!

I realized that the muscles of my butt, my oily back, my hamstrings, the inside of my spraddled-wide thighs, were clamping just as hard as they could. And the sphincter muscle, too, of course, but I realized that particular muscle was getting tired. It was trying to crush the plastic handle, and getting nowhere. It wasn’t going to let me relax it, but neither it could stay clamped that hard forever.

The handle stopped turning, which—at least—gave me a chance to breathe, but Daddy left it jammed up my butt. I could hear clanking as Daddy fiddled around on the bench, and there was the noise of a plug going into an electrical socket. A power drill appeared briefly in my line of sight. What the…!?

“Power drill,” said Daddy. He pressed the trigger and there was a loud, roaring whirr as the drill thingy spun round. I saw his fingers click a switch on the drill. “Maximum slow,” he said, and clicked another. “Hammer-drill setting,”he said, and then “Chuck key,” and he was showing me that little screwy-in thing for tightening when you put drills in.

I know what it feels like when the shaft of a screwdriver whose handle you have up your butt gets chucked-key into a power drill. I bet a lot of people don’t know that. I got worried.

“Daddy…” I said.

“It’s all right,’ he said, “Mom’s out shopping.”

Now the handle in my butt was linked to the drill, I could feel that he could move it around a lot more easily and more forcefully.

“Daddy…” I said.

“Right, kitten, are you ready for this?”

“No! Daddy, please!”

And he hit the trigger, just for a second. I screamed in the roar of the drill and, as it slowed and clattered to a halt, I felt tears streaking the sawdust on my cheeks. There was so much feeling that I couldn’t tell if it was pain or pleasure. My clenched butt muscles were aching with the strain. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. And then I felt my Daddy pushing the handle further in.

My ass was too tired to fight it, and it let go the groove below the rounded end of the handle that it had been clenching, and allowed that end to advance further into virgin territory. I became aware that my oily sphincter was now gripping, as hard as it still could, the deep slots around the handle of the screwdriver. If he hit the trigger now…

He hit the trigger.

The top of my head came off.

I screamed with breath I didn’t have, bucking and yanking against the masking tape, for the long seconds that it took for the drill to stop again.

Daddy waited patiently until I started to draw a long, shuddering breath, and then he did it again. My stomach muscles cramped—butt, thighs, everything—and again I screamed. But it wasn’t pain. It was pleasure.

As I lay on the plank, making this discovery, I felt Daddy gently pull the screwdriver out. My trembling sphincter felt the slotted part if the handle retreat. It closed down gratefully on the groove it had clamped so hard before, and unresistingly opened for the big, round bit at the end to come out. When it was all out, and the round was nestled against my ass, Daddy hit the trigger again, this time for a fully five seconds, and I came in a way I’d never heard you could come.

When it was over, I had no strength left. I lay on the plank, all slack, like a stuffed toy.

“Chuck key,” said Daddy, again. I felt the cold, metal teeth on the bevelled head press against the oily sphincter that had no resistance left. The head popped in, and Daddy pushed the short shaft in until the little lever at the top, that you twist to tighten the drills, was nestled in my butt-crack. It occurred to me that I could walk around all day with that thing up my butt, and no-one would even know.

I hoped that was a good sign. I hoped it was a sign that Daddy wanted to fuck his bound daughter from behind, like he did the previous time by the pool. He couldn’t have done that while the shaft of that big screwdriver was sticking out of my ass.

“Paint brush,” said Daddy.

I heard him picked up the bottle of linseed oil, and felt the tickling dribble as he topped up the pool in the small on my back. I felt bristles stirring there, dabbing into the reservoir, as Daddy loaded the brush. And then he started to paint me with linseed oil.

He started by working out from the pool on my back, painting my back, painting my butt, swoosh-swoosh, back and forth. The feeling was weird. Smoothness as the brush went one way, little bristly prickles as it turned around, and smoothness going the other way.

He moved down my butt-crack, painting my ass. It didn’t clench any more, partly because the chuck key was protecting it, sort of, and partly because it couldn’t any more. And then he started painting my labia—swoosh-swoosh, with my clit getting both the smooth feeling and the bristly feeling in turn, and unable to decide which it liked better. It like both, a lot, though. My “I-want-to-be-fucked-good-right-now” feeling got stronger and stronger and stronger.

I felt my butt writhing around luxuriously and went “Mmmmh!” I heard Daddy catch his breath as I did so and prayed there was a rampaging erection right behind me that could only be dealt with in one way.

Erection or not, the paint-brush was building me rapidly to a shattering orgasm when Daddy moved away and started painting the insides of my thighs—up and down, from trembling knee to trembling ass. I whimpered a protest at my clit going on the back burner when I was in sight of coming. Daddy understood, and said, “Seems to me that little fuck Ricky, who took your cherry, didn’t know too much about foreplay, huh?”

But again, I heard that little catch in his breath, and thought, “Yes! Finally!” when I heard him put the brush on the bench and grip me round the thighs in his big hands. I could feel the roughness of his hands prickling through the lubrication of the oil. I felt the head of his cock press against my cunt. He waited, and took it away again.

“Daddy! Please! Fuck me! Please!”

He pressed again, and then, in one movement, rammed it all the way in. His balls slapped against my supercharged clit, and I felt him gasp as his big, hungry, linseed-lubed cock bottomed out nestled against his daughter’s uterus. He hung on hard to the front of my hips, and I felt two big, slick fingers—one from each side—sliding their way towards my clit. They met there, and massaged. The orgasm, that had been building for longer than any orgasm I ever had before, swept through me as my Daddy began steadily to pound into me.

My orgasm peaked rapidly, but was kept on the peak by his fingers and plunging cock. He thrust strongly, but took his time, too, and gave himself a good fuck inside his little, taped-down daughter. And, all the time he fucked, I kept coming and coming and coming beyond what I ever thought possible. Very gradually, he speeded up, and I felt his panting breath behind me as he bent more and more over me. His hairy chest pressed into my oily back, squashing my abused boobs even harder as he got to the short strokes. He grunted like an animal as he jetted his spunk into his little girl.

He lay, gasping, with his full weight on me as he recovered. After a while, I became aware of someone’s head peeking over the back garden wall.

“Daddy,” I said, “How long do you suppose Mr. Bryant from next door has been watching us?”

At that point, we heard Mom’s horn in the driveway. It was the honk that means, “Come and help carry in the groceries.” We hadn’t even heard her car in the driveway.

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