I saw my stepdaughter, Ashleigh, off through security on the Sunday morning following Thanksgiving. My wife and her ex-husband share joint custody of the adorable little thirteen-year old, and as they live in different states these days, Ashleigh lives with her father and his wife during the school year, and stays with her mother - my wife - and me during every holiday and vacation. The long summer vacation provides us all an ample opportunity to relax and develop a family routine, but the holiday breaks are always such a rush. During those, Ashleigh lives out of her suitcase.

With Thanksgiving behind us, I had begun to feel the pressure of preparing for the Christmas holiday. Thanksgiving had fallen on the 24th this year, today was the 27th, leaving me twenty eight days till Christmas Eve, inclusive. Barely enough time, if I was to reach my goal. But with diligence, it would be time enough.

Considering this sense of time pressure, you might wonder why I volunteered to take two hours on a holiday-season Sunday to get Ashleigh to the airport, rather than leaving the time-consuming chore to her own mother. You might also wonder why I lingered outside security, as the cute little seventh-grader wended her way slowly but surely through the rope-maze leading up to the security checkpoint, along with about a hundred other holiday travelers.

Well, the answers to both these questions lie in the fact that neither decision was likely to hinder my project; my time pressure was self-imposed, and both choices would in fact support my endeavors immensely.

First, I had volunteered to drive Ashleigh to the regional airport so that I would have time alone with her suitcase when I put it in the trunk. While she dawdled inside, saying goodbye to her mother, her aunt, and other relatives, I had rummaged through the bag and secured a treasure indeed: a pair of just-worn panties, which the abbreviated vacation had not allowed my wife to launder, and which sported a yellowing, drying crust where yesterday the gusset had been pressed into her adolescent crease.

Alone in the garage with my prize, I re-zipped her suitcase, pocketed the panties, and slammed the trunk shut. Then, unable to resist, I extracted the cute little cotton skivvies from their hiding place to press them into my face, and inhale. Exquisite: musky, tangy, erotic. And if the tip of my nose, which was buried in the pubic panel, didn't deceive me, they were still moist with the mucous of yesterday's juvenile discharge.

I was tempted, of course, to lick that ambrosia right off the fabric, as I had on so many occasions during her three-month stay last summer, but today I mastered myself. Those leavings were too precious, and too important to the cause, to squander in such a short-sighted (but delightful) self-indulgence.

So now you understand why I volunteered to take Ashleigh to the airport - it was the only way, given the hectic household, to secure her poon-infused underpants before she left for the next several weeks. But why, you might still ask, was I also wasting time at the airport, after Ashleigh was already on her way?

The answer to this second question lay in the sweet little outfit Ashleigh wore. She had changed right before handing over the suitcase and commencing her good-byes, so although my high-end digital camera was already loaded with imagery, both in still shots and video, of the 80-pound darling's weekend (some taken with her knowledge, others not so much), this additional chapter was just too sexy to leave out. Therefore, as she slowly moved through the line, I surreptitiously operated the camera strung around my neck on its long strap, taking several dozen photos and several minute's worth of video, all without Ashleigh or anyone else being any the wiser. I was very much the family's known shutterbug, so the presence of the camera had hardly even made my stepdaughter's notice on the drive to the airport, and my highly developed skills meant that I was able to frame and capture my subject here in the busy terminal with just the aid of the view screen atop the large camera...so neither she nor anyone else could even tell the instrument was in use.

First, I captured the young teen smiling sweetly at me, and waving goodbye. Her curly, honey-brown hair cascaded over her shoulders, but left visible her budding breasts, which poked coyly out against the ribbed material of her light top - a top, incidentally, that she had chosen to wear on this brisk November day, despite the fact that it left her midriff exposed. Her tanned, tiny waist flared gently into pre-woman hips, themselves made partially bare by her low-riding black yoga pants; the waistband of baby-blue panties peeked out above these, decorating her protruding hipbones and accentuating the flatness of her nearly-concave thirteen-year old tummy.

By now, I was covertly using the camera's powerful zoom capability to focus in on her nubile midsection, just in time to capture the turn that presented her buttocks to my lens.

Yoga pants! That sartorial bane of Manhattan fashion writers, that ubiquitous suburban-mom indulgence so out of place on a forty-year old's Target errand, that garment so infrequently donned in service of actual exercise.

But on my stepdaughter's sweet bubble bottom...well! Contouring, of course, to each buttock's tight prominence, separating them in a profound cleft, and then trending down along her sleek adolescent thighs. Mmmmm. Highlighting, even from behind, her almost impossible thigh gap, her taunting pelvic arch, inviting, it seemed, the cup of a grown man's palm. Yoga pants!

I got an excellent 30-second video clip, focused right on her astonishing little ass, as she impatiently shifted her weight from side to side. This motion caused her buns - competing globes - to undulate up and down, back and forth, side to side. This clip would definitely help me succeed in my project, and it was for the sake of its acquisition that I lingered at airport security, no matter how long it might delay me.

The second folder included only "special" shots of my stepdaughter Ashleigh, and it was hidden, password-encoded, and kept on my personal hard drive.

I spent the next two hours sorting, selecting, resizing, and cropping these to my heart's content. I also worked on the video files, editing nice little segments to save separately. I have gotten pretty good at this, and my "Ashleigh folder," initiated only this past summer, has swelled to almost forty gigabytes of photos and videos, some of them quite breathtaking. It's amazing how much you can collect, secretly, when you get to live with an adorable moppet for an entire summer, especially when you happen to have a swimming pool. It also helps when, like me, you are already well-known as a photography entusiast vis-a-vis more legitimate subjects and purposes. That way, your ever-present camera arouses no suspicion.

Among other things, I had documented the growth of my stepdaughter's breasts, from walnuts to apricots, over the course of the summer. Now, I added a November update, which unfortunately did not include bikini shots for a perfect comparison; nonetheless, it was clear that they had by now grown into mouthwatering peaches. What a miraculous age thirteen is!

Further, I had an assortment of excellently cropped images of Ashleigh's fat little mons, swelling within shorts, bikinis, and even underpants (we're an informal family, after all, during the summer months.) These are hard to capture perfectly, of course, while maintaining your cover, but given the hundreds of photos I had taken over the warm months, I was able to glean several that exhibited that ideal, split-bulb shape so aptly called a "camel-toe." Those masterpieces were segregated into their own special subfolder, for I found them "handy" whenever I wanted to give myself some relief.

Speaking of hands, while one of mine had spent the past two hours working my mouse and keyboard, sorting, sifting and editing my collection before my avid gaze, the other had spent the same period slowly stroking at my cock, which was by now a dark, angry red and seeping pre-cum. I had prolonged my pleasure long enough. It was time to move forward.

Taking a few seconds to ensure I had everything I needed for my "project," I selected the "film of the day." I had prepared an excellent twelve-second video loop, taken from that afternoon's shooting, and it was with this that I decided to resolve my need. When I double-clicked the file, it filled my 19-inch flat panel screen and began to play. With my right hand, I proceeded to steadily stroke my prick, from base to tip, running my thumb across the piss-slit at the end of every pull.

My eyes, of course, were transfixed by the image before me: a thirteen-year-old's tight little ass, swaying back and forth, almost filling the screen. Again and again the twelve-second loop cycled before my eyes, the subject perfectly framed by the camera work, its middle-school form perfectly shaped and prominently displayed by the tight, low-slung, yoga pants. Every twelve seconds her youthful impatience was replayed, which caused her to shift her weight from one foot to the other. This in turn caused, every twelve seconds, a saucy hip swish, and a concomitant deflexing of one bun, followed by the complementary flexing of the other. Altogether, this motion caused, every twelve seconds, a taut taunt to ripple provocatively across the forbidden fruit of my stepdaughter's sassy young bottom, like a banner waving in challenge. And every twelve seconds, in a primal response, my balls tightened further, my knob tingled more anxiously, and my hand pumped more energetically.

I had, at various times throughout the evening's tasks, sampled the aromatic delights of Ashleigh's soiled knickers, but I had been careful to avoid overload, always setting them aside after a sniff or two. I certainly had not wanted my olfactory nerves to develop a tolerance threshold for the wonderful substance. Now, however, it was time to overdose.

While my right hand continued to work rhythmically along my tensioning manhood, my left hand raised the purloined panties once again to my face. My earlier discipline had been worthwhile for, as the musky fragrance of my stepdaughter's precocious cunt again assaulted my sinuses, it hit me like the very first scent.

I was immediately dizzied by the experience, becoming light-headed from either my self-induced hyperventilation, or the drug-like effects of my step-daughter's rich pheromone-laden quimstain. Probably, both factors played their part; in the event, there is but one description for the sensation: intoxication.

I think my eyes crossed in a daze of delight as they struggled, over my feverishly inhaling nose in its nest of crumpled cotton panties, to keep an attentive focus on the black-clad bottom swishing across the screen before me. In exultation, I came, and huge gouts of stepfatherly semen spewed out of my delighted prick, to splatter all over my heaving naked chest and belly.

Finally, I locked my screen and went to bed.

This time, I selected a nice slide show of special "camel-toe" photos for the visual accompaniment, and the ultimate result was that I again blasted forth a prodigious load of a stepfather's contribution, gasping in my orgasmic two-fold enjoyment of the seventh-grader's sweet little pussy - experiencing it this night in both sight and scent.

Once I had caught my breath, I reached over to the fridge, and removed the collection jar from the freezer. I had to take care while executing this motion, in order not to dislodge any of the pools of cum on my back-leaning torso. It would not do at all for any of that liquefying substance to run off of me before it could be properly collected. I unscrewed the jar top, glanced inside to see a frozen layer at the bottom, and then scooped today's deposit in on top of the first. Quickly, I returned the jar to the freezer, its contents now doubled.

I dutifully tidied up, and went to bed, to rest my body for the next day's exertions.

I replayed that last bit, this time while sniffing the carefully-preserved crotch panel of my stepdaughter's panties, and blasted an impressive single-barreled load of my own. Again, I took care to properly save and store my copious spend.

A few episodes of spewing over a printout of one of her portraits were all it took to start, but then I became obsessed with the idea of somehow getting my actual cum onto her in the real world.

The first time I gratified this despicable urge was by simply adulterating her hair conditioner with a teaspoon full of my fresh cum, minutes before she got out of our pool and took a shower.

Half an hour later, as she joined my wife and me at the dinner table, I couldn't help but smile, so foolishly that both Ashleigh and her mother asked the cause. I gave no answer, but couldn't stop grinning.

Although I gave no answer, there was an answer: Ashleigh's hair was still wet, and I was certain that contributing to that moisture in some small portion was my own sperm.

After this success, I tried other things. Like depositing a fresh glob of my cum into a bottle of her hand lotion. Later, I actually saw her rubbing white goo - part lotion, part spew -- in to her hands, innocently play-acting for my enjoyment the final scene of one of my fantasies: an Ashleigh-administered handjob.

I snuck into her bathroom the next day to pour a good cumload into her face cream. I realized just in time that I had to mix that in a bit, as it was pooling in an obvious way on top of the cream. She might not have known it was my cum, but she would certainly have known it wasn't face cream. A few swirls of my fingertip, however, successfully folded the special sauce in. I didn't get to watch her use the cream, but the next morning, when I meditated upon the knowledge that this gorgeous little thing had slept all night with my own sperm seeping into the pores of those glowing, clear-complexioned cheeks, I sprung a SERIOUS hard-on.

A few days later, my summer descent continued. I snooped around her bathroom, seeking a new thrill for my depravity. Of course, I found it: her toothpaste. I retrieved an eyedropper to successfully introduce my teeming seed into a tube of Crest. Again, to prevent a watery pool of clearish liquid from dribbling out and onto her brush, I put the cap back on and squeezed the tube this way and that, to mix it all together nicely.

Apparently this worked, for although Ashleigh is a diligent and frequent brusher, I never once heard a complaint about the texture or taste of her toothpaste. What a joy it was to gaze upon her freshly-brushed pearly whites every morning after that, as she smiled at me in her dazzling way. Thereafter, every few days, I made sure to recharge her Crest with fresh sperm.

From the point of employing toothpaste to convey my uninvited sperm directly into her bubble-gum sweet mouth, it wasn't much of a conceptual leap to begin seeking a means to unrighteously transport that step-paternal spooge all the way into her adolescent tummy. I wanted Ashleigh swallowing my cum, and lots of it. But I had to be very careful

First, the chosen comestible had to be very selective. I certainly didn't want to accidentally lace MY dinner with any sperm, even my own!

Additionally, I didn't want to bear any risk of Ashleigh accidentally switching plates or glasses with my wife. Firstly, because what's the fun in watching your wife of five years swallowing your cum, especially cum that had been specifically collected for the benefit of a thirteen-year-old girl?

Secondly, I had no idea how much my semen might alter the taste of the food or drink. I was pretty sure that Ashleigh had never tasted semen - well, other than my own, unwittingly. My wife certainly had, knowingly. She just might recognize the taste, and it wouldn't take a sleuth to track down its source in our household! Now, how on earth would I answer the obvious question, "Why?" if that ever happened?

So first I thought of Coke. My wife doesn't drink it, she drinks iced tea. So one evening I stood at the kitchen counter and poured a can of Coke into a glass to serve up to Ashleigh with dinner. I pulled a vial out of my pocket, opened it, and poured a decent dram or so of slurpy white cum into her glass.

This was a mistake.

Semen and Coke do not mix. I watched in alarm as my stringy cum revolved like a stellar nebula through the translucent brown liquid, never separating, never dissolving, just branching and rolling. I quickly tossed it all down the drain and, smiling at my inquisitive family, said, "A fly landed in it." I poured a new glass for Ashleigh and sat down to dinner. Unfortunately, my stepdaughter was not afforded a dietary supplement that evening - it had been wasted, literally down the drain.

I was so disappointed by this setback that I decided to conduct experiments into the matter. I will share the results, so that if you are blessed with a young teenaged girl in your own household, you can avoid my mistake and enjoy immediate success, once you realize just how hot it would be to get her to unknowingly swallow your cum before your very eyes.

Semen does not blend in with soda. Not even if you stir it vigorously. Sure, this action will separate the strands, until the particles are so small as to be unnoticeable. But then, as the drink settles, something unsettling happens. Almost as though semen possesses a sort of hive intelligence, the particles are somehow attracted to each other, until the ultimate result is some kind of alien-style reconstitution of the original glob!

A similar result is found with other clearish liquids: iced tea, water, apple juice, etc.

So then I tried milk. Milk works much better, but again, take care! Even in milk, and even after a vigorous stirring, the glob will reconstitute, although it seems less coherent in this medium. More importantly, milk is not translucent, and it is closer to the color of the semen. Milk works fine, if you follow these precautions.

1. Do not use too much semen. This mix is never perfect, and too much semen will be obvious, forming a floating moss-like layer near the top if it is allowed to settle long enough. However, you can put up to an ounce of semen in an eight-ounce glass, and get away with it, if you also:
2. Mix it thoroughly, right before giving it to your recipient, and
3. She drinks it relatively quickly thereafter.

The first time I watched young Ashleigh gulp down a glass of cum-laced cow-juice, I almost came in my pants.

For the rest of the summer, a day hardly passed but Ashleigh either had her toothpaste re-charged with a fresh dose of eager sperm, or she drank a glass of milk lovingly prepared by her doting stepfather, or both. And it all became rather humdrum.

Now don't get me wrong - having started down this path, it had practically become an obsession for me. Psychically, I could no more blithely skip a day of introducing my semen onto or into my stepdaughter's body than I could happily ignore an obvious gap in a treasured set of porn pix. Sure, it happened from time to time - for example, when I occasionally had sex with her mother, and "wasted" my production. Or when she had Coke with dinner, instead of milk - in which case she'd get a double dose on the morrow. But the practice developed into enough of a compulsion for me that I experienced a degree of anxiety every day, nagging at me until the moment I witnessed my cum being safely taken into her petite body through her pouty lips and down her accepting throat. Weird, huh?

However, like I said, the anxiety of a "collector" notwithstanding, doing the same thing every day got a little boring. Sure, I spiced it up with variety when I could, like when I made her a sundae, covered in chocolate sauce, nuts, whipped cream, and three day's worth of refrigerated semen.

And then there was the variation I tried at the end of the summer, right before she headed back to school. The variation? Raw quantity.

The idea came to me from watching bukkake videos, which in light of my new-found hobby had begun to take a more central role in my entertainment repertoire. If you don't know, in a classic bukkake film, a young woman is forced to kneel in the center of a room, as man after man jerks off into her face. By the end of the film, she might have the semen of twenty or thirty guys oozing down her hair, face, and chest.

A variation on this theme is "gokkun," which is a Japanese word like the English onomatopoeic "gulp," whose meaning it shares. In gokkun films, the girl swallows, or gulps, the collected semen, often after playing with it, spitting it into her hand and then slurping it back up, perhaps even passing it back and forth, mouth-to-mouth, with another girl several times.

Sometimes, all the ejaculation happens off-screen, and the video concentrates solely on the female consumption of cum - sometimes the pretty little thing chugs a whole wineglass or even a BOWL absolutely brimming with the viscous stuff.

In one favorite video of mine, the name of which I believe translates into something like "Rapid Fire," the viewer can watch an adorable Japanese girl, who is over eighteen but looks maybe fourteen to my Western eyes, as she successively swallows 100 loads of cum over the course of a two hour movie. The exact figure can be relied upon, because a running scoreboard "pings" off her progress, from "001" to the celebratory "100," while the camera captures her cumplay throughout, into which she incorporates spoons, glasses, fingers, food, and, most especially, various contortions of her spermified tongue.

So I guess it is more accurate to say that it was gokkun, rather than bukkake, that I was attempting to emulate towards the end of the summer. In fact, it was a nefarious, depraved, and obscene form of gokkun, to be perpetrated on an unsuspecting, innocent young girl. In other words, it was hot as hell!

My plan was to accumulate a full ounce of my cum, storing it up by immediately freezing each day's offering until I had enough. I thought this would take me four or five days, but up until that point, I hadn't really measured my ejaculation.

In practice, it took me over a week before the collected specimen reached the "1 Oz." line on the graduated vial. Frankly, I was lucky that I had embarked upon this project two weeks prior to her departure, or I would not have made it.

As it was, one Friday evening, late in August, my thirteen-year old stepdaughter drained before my delighted eyes an eight ounce glass of milk, her throat gamely bobbing up and down as she gulped the beverage down.

Oh, did I say an eight ounce glass of milk? Make that seven ounces of milk, plus a full fluid ounce of her own stepfather's cum.

What did make me hard enough to cut diamonds was watching Ashleigh dig into her own piece of pumpkin pie, and in so doing get a fluff of whipped cream stuck on the tip of her button nose. It perched there, teeming with my sperm, for a minute at least before her mother pointed it out. Without embarrassment, my sexy stepdaughter wiped it off with a fingertip, and then LICKED HER FINGER CLEAN. After dinner, I found a little "me time" as quickly as I could, to zestfully relive that memory, cock in hand.

But it was the next day, with all the talk, television, and advertising about the next holiday, Christmas, which heralded my masterwork - my magnum opus - my Christmas Pageant.

A second factor is the length of time one spends stimulating oneself before finally letting go. The longer you prolong the masturbatory act, the more semen, basically. This is sometimes referred to as "edging."

A third factor, which I am unable to test scientifically, is the intake of zinc. During this holiday season, I took PLENTY of zinc supplements, and they must have helped. I just can't prove that part.

So, here is what my experiments, prior to Thanksgiving, had already taught me. I can ejaculate on a daily basis, provided about an hour's worth of masturbation, accompanied by visual porn and a good fuck story or two, between a dram (about 4 ml) and a teaspoon (about 6 ml) of semen. If I keep my hands off of myself for a couple of days, and then subject my gonads to the same exquisite, prolonged torture, I can coax out something like 1-1/2 teaspoons in one release.

On the day after Thanksgiving, I did a quick calculation of how much time I had, including the Sunday following Thanksgiving, my proposed start date, and the late afternoon of Christmas Eve itself, my last possible opportunity "to give." Twenty-eight days.

There are twenty-four teaspoons in four ounces.

There are thirty-two drams in four ounces.

Twenty-eight days. On average, I'd have to split the difference to make it. I'd have to produce a full teaspoon one day for every day I produced only a dram. In other words, my balls (well, actually, my prostate gland) would have to produce and expel, on average, 5 milliliters of semen a day to reach my goal of four ounces in time. And as I've mentioned, to consistently reach even these levels, I would have to commit to an hour or so of self-stimulation every day. So you see why I felt so harried this Christmas season - I had a LOT of work to do, and not a lot of time.

-o0o-

As the days went on, I kept at my preparations, and slowly but surely, the specimen jar began to fill up. Peering within it every evening, I observed a growing gray-streaked, whitish solid that represented my progress, my countdown to Christmas Eve.

And by the end of each evening, like a child opening a new day's flap on a paper Advent calendar, I systematically marked another day by adding another layer of hot cum atop this mass, to be quickly cooled and preserved, bringing me closer to four ounces, and to Christmas Eve.

On Thursday the 15th, after adding another layer of scum to the cause, I took note of my progress. I was beginning to worry about diminishing returns. I resolved to tease myself longer before cumming, in order to coax a greater flow from my overwrought organ. I had only nine more ejaculations to go!

The next evening, Friday the 16th, was my company's Christmas party. Finally, finally, after all these months, Cindy Hobson from reception, a delicious big-titted morsel no older than nineteen, got back to me on an almost-forgotten proposition I had made weeks earlier. I guess the Cosmopolitans were getting to her, for she cornered me in a conference room and practically tried to tear my clothes off!

Luckily, I fended her off. Damn it! Why now? I'd been hot for her for months, and now I had to turn it away. I didn't think I'd get another chance. After I tried to kindly refuse her, she begged me to accept a blowjob. You don't know how hard it was to turn that down! I suspected that come morning, a sober and now humiliated Cindy Hobson would dislike me very much, and vow to never give me another shot.

I can tell you that I didn't like myself very much in the morning, either, for when I arrived home, pretty much snookered, I fell asleep without completing that day's installment. I felt like a damn fool the next day. There was no excuse. I had to reach four ounces by Christmas Eve, and now I'd squandered a precious day.

-o0o-

It is embarrassing, but it worked. With one week to go, I committed myself to at least ninety minutes of anal stimulation every night, to make sure I finished strong on the homestretch.

The vibrating butt-plug did indeed seem to increase my output significantly - I scooped up six or seven milliliters every night for the rest of that week, and I noted with satisfaction the inexorable progress in my jar of frozen specimen. With the addition of the battery-powered toy, to tickle and tease my prostate, it looked like I'd reach my goal of four full ounces by Christmas Eve.

The sacrifices we make for the hobbies we adore!

-model.com." I had complete jpeg collections for dozens of such thirteen- or fourteen-year old honeys, each of whom had been my "favorite" at one time or another. My only challenge was to select from this hebephilic harem one lucky girl for tonight's effort.

As I drove to the airport on the afternoon of the 24th, anticipating the first Yule sighting of my yummy young stepdaughter, my exhausted penis shivered, and oozed with its now-routine constant flow of pre-seminal fluid.

With the drive time on my hands, I thought back upon my accomplishment, and what it had taken to get there.

I thought of the pleasures - the sights on my computer screen, the smells in my face, the vibrations rumbling through my guts, and of course the ceaseless stroking of my overused phallus - that had dominated the past four weeks of my life. I had no regrets. But ... I began to wonder whether porn, masturbation, fixation on my stepdaughter, and my oddball semen hording were beginning to take a toll on my "normal" sex life. Was it possible that these activities had displaced what therapists might describe as a "healthy sexual function?"

I had twice passed up, nay, urgently rejected, the opportunity to release my semen into a willing wet hole, in order to save myself for masturbation.

I had reneged on my lifetime aphorism - "that's an exit only" - in service to the cause, bringing myself to shove an anal toy up my own ass just to increase my output.

And lastly, of course, there are those who might say that my object herself was a bit of an unhealthy choice, as she was, of course, as my stepdaughter, legally my ward, and she was, of course, a mere thirteen-years old.

All of these self-doubts evaporated the moment I laid eyes on Ashleigh in the airport baggage claim. And I was pretty sure they would never cross my mind again, the moment I felt her firm cupcakes pressing into my chest when we hugged. I couldn't wait to get home and masturbate!

I was about to finish the ceremony so to speak, to wank out my last load before Christmas, to ritualistically open the "last flap" on the Advent Calendar, when my wife yelled down the stairs.

Damn it, she wanted me to put out the luminaries before it got dark. Well, business before pleasure, I suppose, although as you can tell, I had treated my sperm-collecting as very serious business indeed over the past month.

About an hour later, luminaries now in place along our driveway, I returned to my study with a fresh idea. Before undertaking it, I checked my jar, and found it still largely frozen. I replaced the warm - now cool - water in the bowl with a much hotter supply, and set this "defroster" aside.

Next, I quickly ran through some of the many photo sets of Ashleigh, until I settled on one image suitable for my purpose. It was part of a set of head shots, from a day when she had been making faces at the camera. One of these was quite sexy - she had pursed her full lips into an exaggerated kissing pose. I had used that image more than once over the past few months, I can tell you that.

This evening, the Night of Our Dear Savior's Birth (or is it the Night Before the Night of Our Dear Savior's Birth? I get confused), I printed this image out on glossy photo paper. It emerged from my printer almost exactly life-sized.

I let that print dry, and then slipped it into a clear plastic page cover. Setting it aside, I began to pull on my weary but willing penis, and decided to read a quick story by that famous admirer of young teen girls, Stepdaddy. Man, that dude can write a great hebephile story!

Once hard, with little time to spare for prolonged self-stimulation, I started a slide show on my screen of assorted Ashleigh Favorites. Within two minutes, I knew I could make myself cum, so I stood, leaned over the plastic-covered printout, and sprayed an honest day's work worth of pearly-white cum all over Ashleigh's taunting face, hitting with iridescent droplets her curly light brown hair, her wide, sassy eyes, her pert, button nose, her clear, high cheekbones, and yes, her full, wet, red, pursed up sexy lips.

Wow! The next best thing to real live bukkake!

Retreating to my butler's pantry to prepare this most special of beverages, I pulled down a big Christmas mug and poured in four ounces of sweet, thick eggnog from the big glass dairy bottle. Next, I added at least a shot of sweet brown rum, well more than a "smidge." Finally, I extracted the jar from the front pocket of my baggy trousers, where it had formed a substantial but apparently unnoticed lump. Unscrewing the cap and peering inside, I noted that the contents were now thoroughly liquefied, if still quite thick and viscous.

In this reconstituted state, the greasy matter was a cloudy translucent grayish white, swirling with whiter tentacles. I realized that this massive wad was quite possibly completely inert, with the notable exception of the fresh batch I had only minutes before scraped from the iconography of thirteen-year old Ashleigh's beautiful face; that last batch was surely full of active swimmers.

However, I also imagined that it was completely possible that all my previous deposits had been frozen quickly and deeply enough to put their multitudes into immediate and successful cryogenic hibernation. I preferred this theory, for it would mean that the specimen jar before me teemed with HUNDREDS OF MILLIONS - probably BILLIONS - of awakening sperm cells, enough to populate a planet with my progeny, and every single one of them was programmed with one purpose: to swim its way deep into a young girl's body.

Unfortunately for these billions, they would be entering a young girl's body through her unproductive - albeit very erotic - mouth and throat. Oh, how they would prefer to be introduced in such numbers into her fertile, virgin womb! Hmmm. Note to self: perhaps a covert project for next summer? Now there's a challenge!

I tabled these thoughts. I had several months in the New Year ahead of me to concoct a plan to bring my sperm and Ashleigh's sex organs together somehow, sometime, during her summer stay. Tonight was about eggnog.

I tilted the jar over the half-filled mug, and was struck with awe as the accumulated cum of twenty-eight days - the sperm of twenty-seven orgasms - poured thickly over the edge and flowed, syrup-like, into my stepdaughter's special Christmas treat. Yes, awe is the word to describe my feelings, as the level within the Christmas mug rose steadily with the pour until, as I had envisioned from the very beginning of this scheme, I found myself in the presence of a completely filled mug - one part eggnog, one part cum, and a dash of rum, to boot.

This is why collecting four ounces had been essential to my plan. I had known that on this day of celebration, I would not want to be forced to admit to myself that I had served my lovely, thirteen-year old stepdaughter a mug of eggnog that was 75-25, eggnog to sperm. Nor 60-40. No, not even 51-49 was a compromise I would readily admit. It had to be a full four ounces, and the mix had to be 50-50. And thanks to my diligence - to my commitment - it was.

The thick, slimy cum filled, in all its volume, the top half of the mug, but with a spoon I was easily able to mix it in with the thick, creamy eggnog and create a perfect suspension of spooge. The brown rum added enough of its own color to mask any tell-tale inconsistencies in the mix, and the grated nutmeg I sprinkled on top completed this camouflage. The Christmas Treat was ready.

Returning to the party, I passed young Ashleigh her special mug with a "tell me what you think of this." The other guests, nearly finished with their own eggnogs, and perhaps joining in on the fun of the young teen's first alcoholic drink - little did they know! - gathered around.

As the embarrassed and precious little girl swiped a cute pink tongue-tip across this white-coated upper lip, dutifully and completely bringing those prodigal outliers into her sweet mouth, I in turn corrected this correction, if only silently to myself. More like a cum-mustache, I should say, and my penis agreed, mirthfully.

With the excuse that everyone else was finished and that we were about to head to the dining room for dinner, I encouraged Ashleigh to "drink up." To my most erotic and profound pleasure, my thirteen-year old stepdaughter said "bottom's up!" and upended her mug, literally gulping down, in a state barely diluted with its dairy medium and a mere shot of rum, four full ounces of her lustful stepdaddy's carefully collected cream.

Within twenty seconds she lowered her mug, exhaled loudly with seeming satisfaction, and announced "Yum!"

I'll say.

Within my trousers, my prick was again as hard as a stone, bearing no witness whatsoever to its excessively strained abuse over the past several weeks. I was proud of my penis, so in my mind, I shared with it a poem that I had composed to commemorate this achievement:

A Yule Beverage Most Yummy,
A Sweet Drink Most Rummy,
A Teen's Taste Most Cummy,
And a Warm Sperm-filled Tummy.

At this very moment, I knew with an eye-witness's certainty that my adorable stepdaughter had, heating within her adolescent belly, four thick, slimy ounces of my own cock's produce.

Further, as I preferred to believe, within that roiling, churning puddle of semen, at this very moment spreading through Ashleigh's tight teen abdomen, there were billions of my eager, active, and squirming sperm. These pioneers, these precursors, whose later fellows might someday spread similarly through my stepdaughter's fertile womb in search of incestuous conception, were at least today feeding her hunger, and teaching her system to tolerate, accept, and perhaps even crave the potent offerings that my testicles were ready to offer her at any time, any place.

I felt, on this Holiest of Nights, finally, complete PEACE, COMFORT, and JOY.

-o0o-

Author's Note: In the mid 80's, sex therapist Dr. Ruth (Westheimer) scandalized the radio waves with her free talk of sexuality. I remember her responding to inquiries about masturbation, which in that day seemed like an unbelievable thing to discuss in a public forum (now, of course, it wouldn't even be noticed).

I recall her verdict. In addition to celebrating masturbation, as you might imagine, she suggested that it could only be harmful, perhaps, if it became so central to your life that it displaced other available means of sexual expression. If you were so fixated on masturbation that you were unable to have sex any other way, you might be on your way to a problem.

The protagonist in this story just might be on that path. His obsessions, and his onanism, are on the verge of being unhealthy. He seems to objectify women, particularly nubile young teenagers with sweet little asses, peach-like titties, and flat tummies. You might notice that there is no dialogue in his account, per se. It's all about him, his self-gratification, and his cum collection.

I myself would like to continue to analyze this troubled individual, I'm in a bit of a rush. You see, my fourteen-year old niece will be arriving to celebrate Christmas with us in less than a week, and the jar in my freezer is still at least an ounce short!