TITLE    : Christine Stafford
STORYID  : christine-stafford
SUMMARY  : Father entertains daughter and her friends.
AUTHOR   : blueboar@lit
DATE     : 2002-04-12
CATEGORY : taboo-sex-stories
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |none|


I tossed the bank's audited financials to the green grass tickling my bare right foot and reached between my thighs, almost under my khaki shorts, for the remainder of the diligence packet. I leaned back on the cushioned chair. It was the fifth diligence packet our lawyers had sent me this week, but I'd focused most of my attention on this bank. The price was right. The other four banks, more rural, more conservative, north of here, were asking for steep premiums; not this one, and I had to decide soon which of the five the investor group I was heading would buy or I would drive my family crazy if I stayed home much longer.



Nearly three months earlier, in April, you see, I'd lost my job. Don't cry for me. At forty, I'd been the youngest president ever in First National Bank's venerated one-hundred and twelve year history, before we sold her to BigBancGroup, Inc. My severance was absurdly generous-three years in the high six figures with a no compete and comprehensive benefits-but that was small change compared to the conversion of my equity and stock options into BigBancGroup stock. What I'm trying to say, of course, is that we were anything but starving, the wolves weren't at our door. No, my wife wanted me out of the house because for the last eighteen years I'd been so focused on business school and then First National Bank, twelve, sixteen-hour days the norm, that having my manic-depressant ass first running and criticizing and then moping and sullen about the house with nothing to do was forcing her to consider seriously anti-depressants. She suggested several harder, more mind-altering, drugs for me. Anything to get me out of the house.



At first, she'd urged me to start a second hobby-golf-because my early morning tennis games at the club had me back in the house before one or two in the afternoon, and sometimes when my opponent really sucked, to Mary's horror, before noon. After that failed-I found to my relief and to the sad memories of three really fine sets of golf clubs that golf required a level of patience and relaxation I could never hope to achieve-Mary demanded that we-just she and I, along with some gruesome tour group-go on an extended world tour during the children's summer vacation, but I put a stop to that talk, with just as much vehemence. No way I'd be on some ridiculous cruise off of Hong Kong, my cell phone fading on and off, a day's time difference, while the investors group aimlessly wandered from one potential deal to another and then signed, out of desperation, to prove they'd done something impressive, a deal I would have never agreed to. 



And so, in the end, Mary gave me an ultimatum-either I find something to do with myself by the end of summer or she would . . . well, her threat wasn't a pleasant one, but it had to do with stuffing me in a canvas bag with several concrete blocks shortly after I'd enjoyed three blunt blows to the head, then having me tossed in the trunk of the car, and then having her new found lover-one of her tennis coaches at the club, she specified, the one with the really big arms-having him throw me into the Pacific Ocean from a really high cliff.



I opened the diligence packet with renewed rigor and was in the process of taking off my tee-shirt to get a bit more sun in this the first really hot day of the summer when I heard faint giggling and then girlish laughter and exclamations drawing nearer. I rolled down my shirt.



"Hi, Daddy," I heard my daughter cheerfully say behind me, felt her light kiss on the cheek, and then she walked by with three other girls, all four in identical Abercrombie &amp; Fitch tank tops of various brilliant colors, and dazzling white, cotton shorts. 



I'm sure I grunted a 'hello' or something to that effect to her and her friends, but I was too engrossed in the demographic analysis prepared by the consultant we'd hired almost a month ago. Excited, the demographic analysis told me everything I needed to know about this bank. My interest increased exponentially. Twenty years ago, the population of the bank's town, though heavily blue collar, was almost exclusively white. Now, empty-nesters and seniors comprised most of the white population, but the heart of the town, its youth, vitality, was almost all Hispanic, and yet the bank's current senior management remained all white, all male. It was clear to me that if the group I was heading were to buy the bank, our success would depend entirely on our ability to attract a new management team headed by an Hispanic CEO. 



And I was excited because I had someone in mind. He was perfect. Indeed, his daughter was here, I knew, with Christine by the pool, getting ready to . . . I looked up, slyly smiling, almost conspiratorially . . . and then . . . and then . . . twenty years of grueling study, professional discipline, dedicated work and service, mergers and acquisitions, stock options, stern lectures to, terminations of, managers, millions, all of it went . . . poof! . . . vanished.



You should know that Christine was born right after Mary and I graduated from UCLA, when we were both twenty-two. Of course, Christine was unplanned, and Mary and I were wed two months later in a civil ceremony, with neither of our families approving. That's another story altogether, but my point is, though forty, I had a daughter old enough to be heading for Princeton, clear across the country, in two short months. And now, to my shock, my daughter was old enough to have friends old enough to be bending over, slowly wriggling out of their almost skin-tight white shorts to reveal tiny, barely there fluorescent thongs, and incredibly firm asses, all the while wildly giggling and teasing and softly slapping each other.



My mouth went dry, and my blood pressure, which my doctor had warned me about only a few weeks ago, threatened to burst a vessel in my right temple.



Of course, in retrospect, it was only natural I should have had that reaction. Until that moment, I'd never made the connection that my daughter and luscious companions were no longer girls, that they were now, in fact, almost women, with fully-grown bodies and all that entails, their just soft round, cherubic faces the only hint of their true eighteen years. Where had the years gone, for God's sake? It seemed like only yesterday that they were wearing their cute little pigtails, in their darling flannel, pink pajamas when they'd all be together for a sleepover at the house. 



I could have sworn I'd seen my daughter grow-up. Hadn't she just graduated valedictorian, hadn't I bought her a black convertible Jetta on her sixteenth birthday, hadn't I sat through her many tennis matches and . . . but I realized that moment, as I watched these strange creatures slowly rubbing sun tan lotion on one another's slender shoulders and muscular backs, I realized I knew nothing about my daughter, nothing about her friends . . . nothing.



I rose from the chair, as Beth, Christine's best friend and the daughter of Chris Hernandez, the Hispanic executive I'd been planning to recruit, jumped to her feet, her bright yellow bikini top flopping up precariously and then just barely containing her ample tits as she ran with purpose, her ass cheeks jiggling wildly, full of health and strength, screaming "Come and get me!" before she gracefully dived into the pool. 



I tried not to rush to the house, in a fog, past the tennis court, leaving behind my sandals, the gravel stone pathway scrunching sharply under my bare feet, the bank's financials and diligence packet scattered where I'd just been, gently waiving in the hot summer wind.



* * *



"Did you see Mr. Stafford out there?"



"Christine's dad?"



"Well, duh. How many other Mr. Staffords do you know?"



"Well, I don't know. I mean . . . Hey, make sure you put a little more vodka in the orange juice."



"What does it look like I'm doing, Jennifer? It's like in my hands. Right here. See the bottle of Absolut. God. I wonder about you sometimes."



"Oh, shut up. Come on. Hurry! I don't want to get caught."



"Oh, don't worry. He's probably upstairs jerking off."



"What!"



I stood frozen outside the wide, double mahogany doors of my library, barefoot, in my shorts, knowing I was insane for not turning around and walking immediately back to my study down the hall. My plan had been to pour a comforting drink, bring it back with me, flop down on my favorite couch and finish watching the inane nature show on the television, something about grasshoppers and locusts, Great Pestilences in History, I think it was called.



"What have I been saying? Didn't you see the way he gawked at us when we took off our shirts and shorts?"



"Stacey, are you serious?"



"No. I'm joking. Don't you have eyes? God, didn't you see him? Why should he be interested in three eighteen-year old girls, frolicking in their thongs? I mean, I'm sure his wrinkly-old wife walks around the house all the time in a thong, you know."



"Stacey-"



"Of course, I'm serious. His tongue was, like, down to his knees. Another few minutes and I thought he was going to do something really stupid, like offer to play tag with us in the pool. It was so sad, but I told you so. I told both Beth and you and neither of you didn't believe me. I mean, I don't know . . . do you think he's cute?"



A long pause, and I felt a single bead of sweat slowly descending down my forehead. Did they know I was out here, listening to them?



"Well?"



"I suppose. I mean-"



And then a screech. "I knew it! I knew it! I knew it! Just like I thought at Christine's party, but you wouldn't fess up then, would you?"



"Oh, shut up! God, you're like so immature, sometimes."



"You know it, girl. If being immature is not having the hots for my friend's father, then you bet your ass I'm immature. I'll leave that sort of maturity all to you. I mean, it's one thing to do it with an old guy if you wanted something, but it's a whole other thing to, like, be attracted to an old guy, you know, do it with him of your own free will."



"Whatever, Stacey. Whatever. You know what I mean. I mean, he's like forty-five or something, I know, but he looks like he's still got a pretty good body."



"Alright. Alright. I agree. I mean, for a guy his age, he's okay, I suppose. I mean, compared to my dad or even Beth's dad, for example, he's like Josh Hartnett. Plus, all this moolah, you know."



"You know it."



"I mean, I really think . . . well, whatever. Shit. I think I put too much in it."



"You can never put in too much vodka."



"You said it. Ready to get really roasted? We'd better get back to the pool before Christine gets mad. 'If you guys get caught, I'm gonna deny I had anything to do with it.' She can be such a bitch sometimes. Beth's right. The game goes on, as far as I'm concerned. And if I win, and I'm going to win, I'm going to hold both of you to it. I'm serious. . . ." but I never heard them finish as I rushed back to the study, bouncing painfully on the balls of my feet on the narrow, thread-bare Persian rugs running down the long hallway. 



I dove onto my old comfortable couch. Listening closely, trying to catch my breath, I could hear them sneaking down the hallway, the pitcher of orange juice and ice and God knows what else clanging loudly. They were heading toward the back of the house, toward the pool, away from me. 



For more than five minutes, I tried to compose myself, unsure, probably for the first time in my life, what the hell I was doing. I knew what I should have done. I knew exactly what I should be doing. I should walk out there, to the pool, walk to my chair, grab my discarded financials and diligence packet and then lock myself in the study for the rest of the day preparing a report for my investor group with my recommendations to purchase the bank. I should have been doing what I did all my life-I should have been productive.



And then I groaned at my stupidity. Idiot. Your daughter is out there getting drunk and you're worried about banks and . . . 



A quick knock on the doorway brought me jumping to my feet. I turned to see my daughter staring at me strangely, her long blond hair wet, slicked back.



"Christine. Hi, sweetheart," I said, my hands first clasped firmly in front of me, and then behind and then, fumbling, I stopped myself, letting my arms simply fall to each side of my body.



My daughter continued staring at me. Still in her bikini top, I tried to look down, at her feet. This was a mistake. She had put her white shorts back on, but the effect was more devastating than if she hadn't because her orange thong was wet, the shorts sticking to it, nearly transparent.



"You okay?" she asked.



"Of course, my dear. I'm fine. Just fine. Watching . . . just fine."



She semi-shrugged and then scratched her nose. "Great. I wanted to let you know, the girls and I are going to get some dinner in a while and . . . promise me, you won't get mad."



"Yes. What is it?" I asked, looking up now, into her lovely blue eyes.



"Well . . . you know, it's summer and all and I was wondering whether it would be okay if we invited a couple of more people over?"



"You want to have a party?"



"Well, no, not exactly. Just a few close friends, you know. Nothing outrageous. And, well, I mean, you'll be here, so it'll be nothing crazy-we'll just be outside at the pool, okay?"



"Fine. Fine. Sure. Have fun."



"You sure?"



"Of course, I'm sure. Why wouldn't I be sure?" I asked, my voice straining.



"I don't know. You seem a little off today, I guess. And if you're tired, we can do something-"



"No. No. It's fine."



"Great!" Christine said, smiling. "I'll go tell everyone. We're going to have so much fun!" And she started turning, started revealing her backside and . . .



"Darling," I said.



She stopped, her body twisted, the tight, little cheeks of her ass facing me.



"Uh . . . " and I had to take a deep breath before I asked something ridiculous, like 'When did you start wearing thongs, my dear?' "Darling," I tried again. "I heard . . . well, I noticed that some of the vodka . . . well . . ." 



Christine's eyes widened, she faced me fully and then she turned a bright red, on the verge of tears. "Oh, Daddy. I'm so sorry. I told them. I promise-"



"No. No. Just, I mean, be careful if anyone's driving, okay?"



Christine nodded slowly, an even more confused look on her face, and I knew exactly what she felt. Usually, I-the normal me, the executive me, the rational me, husband and father of four, for God's sake-upon finding out that my daughter and her friends were getting tight under the glorious bright sun of a summer afternoon, would have ordered her friends out of the house, my daughter upstairs to her room and I would have reveled for a day or two afterwards about the disappointment I felt and how her mother, when she returned from Christine's grandmother next week with Christine's three little brothers, would have more to say about it. But now . . . but now, I did nothing and my daughter semi-shrugged again and quickly darted down the long hallway before I regained my sanity. 



* * *



The cool air of the open refrigerator felt good as I searched for the mushrooms and red peppers I wanted to accompany the thick porterhouse steak I planned to grill outside for my dinner. At that useless, comprehensive physical I'd had a few weeks ago, my snotty doctor had told me less red meat might not be a bad idea. I wasn't listening to him, however-he'd just finished his prostate exam and I was thinking about pressing charges against him, but I didn't care now. The more red meat, the merrier. 



I felt better. I'd taken a nap-something I almost never do-but as I stretched out on my couch watching some nasty grasshoppers devour an entire village in India, I felt a weariness I'd never felt before, and try as I might I could not keep my eyes open. I kept drawing away, kept waking myself, until, finally, I gave in to my exhaustion, and didn't stir for almost an hour. 



Awake, I'd risen to my feet sharply, entered the bathroom, washed my face and combed straight my disheveled hair. I pushed aside, ruthlessly, any thought of whether an eighteen-year old would find my attractive, any assessment of my features, the slight graying of my dark, almost black hair primarily around the ears, or my still full shoulders, broad chest and chiseled chin. Even more annoyed, I discounted immediately the earlier nonsense of the day. It had been hot outside, and I'd been out too long, focused too intensely on the legal and financial documents, with the result that I hadn't been thinking rationally, had been somewhat taken off-balance, but now I felt like myself again. Feeling powerful, fully in control, I even debated whether I should retract my earlier approval of Christine's party as punishment for all this drinking crap. My daughter, the lush. Over my dead body. Outrageous! That would teach her. 



Ah, the mushrooms and right next to them the red peppers. Grabbing everything, onions and garlic, for good measure, pushing it all up in a delicate balance onto my chest I stepped back, pushed the refrigerator door shut with my foot, as I was turning around, and then dropped it all.



Standing in front of me was Stacey, Stacey Akira, the little brat who'd laughed at her friend Jennifer for thinking I was cute, the little creep who thought Christine was a bitch, my wife a wrinkled hag. She was standing in her brilliant blue bikini top, her small tits pushed up, firm, smooth and almost red from the sun, her white shorts wrinkled, but dry, the thong still quite perceptible, still quite there.



"Mr. Stafford," she said coolly, stepping back and then looking down at the mess on the floor.



"Yes," I said.



"Sorry if I surprised you."



"No, Stacey, you did no such thing. I'm having bouts of fits today, you see. It's affecting all sorts of body parts. Can't control them. See. My hands. My feet . . . my tongue."



She laughed, blushing wildly, as my tongue wagged at her, but only for a moment. She seemed to have other things on her mind, and wouldn't be distracted.



"How may I help you?" I asked, firmly, my tongue now back in my mouth.



Ignoring me, she started bending down slowly, her small breasts almost falling out of her cups to pick up a juicy red pepper, the big fat one which had rolled to a stop, resting comfortably, happily right next to her left bare, tiny foot.



"No," I said, and stopped myself from reaching over to help her back to her feet, afraid she'd jump if I touched her. I could smell a heavy stench of vodka left there by her, wavering above her now as she picked up the pepper. She stood, holding the pepper outstretched for me to inspect.



I took it from her, feeling just a slight teasing tug from her before she released it, and then she grinned and then I stared down at her, pepper in hand.



"Sorry," she said sheepishly.



"Fine. What do you want?"



"I didn't know you were cooking dinner. We just thought . . . well, Christine doesn't know, but we were wondering if you'd like to come with us to dinner . . . kind of as a good-will gesture, you know, for letting us have the party tonight, and . . . well, you know, the alcohol and everything."



"You haven't eaten yet?"



"Nah," she said, staring straight up, straight at me, almost straining her neck. She was so cute, so small, five-one if she was lucky, not close to one hundred pounds "Nah. It's only six-thirty, and we were just hanging out by the pool getting some sun, talking, and we just decided now we're hungry . . . so, do ya want to come?"



"How much have the four of you had to drink, Stacey?"



"What?"



"Do you need someone to drive? If that's the case, then I'm not sure a party tonight is appropriate."



"Mr. Stafford-"



"Young lady . . ." but I had nothing more to say, although I had so much I wanted to say. She was grinning at me, smiling wickedly, looking impish and sexy beyond belief, her long, shiny black hair, framing perfectly her fair, unmarked skin and red lips. She was daring me, pushing her chest out, but at the same time demurely holding her hands behind her and looking as innocent as a fresh baby. What was I going to say to her? What do you say to a little brat who knows that at the slightest suggestion she can get a man to do anything she wants in exchange for just a little feel, a slight touch? 

<hr pg="2" />Realizing, thank God, that the last remnants of my control were slowly wafting away, before I did anything stupid, I began sidestepping away from her, and said, averting her eyes, "I'll get my wallet and keys and meet all of you in front of the garage in ten minutes." 



And just as I was about to clear out, I was pushed back, pepper dropped for the second time, recoiling, almost crashing back onto the refrigerator door in shock when this delightful girl jumped up and wrapped her thin arms around my neck, hugging me tightly, literally hanging on me.



"Oh, Mr. Stafford," she was saying. "Thank you. Thank you. You don't know how much this means. Christine was so worried about the vodka, but I told her you were cool, and she said she was, like, no I'm dead, like, she'd be grounded for the rest of the summer, but I knew you were cool. I just knew it. I told her, all of them, how cool you were."



Her small, firm tits kept pressing into me, my self-control now openly mocking me, dancing merrily away above my head, waving 'bye-bye' with a battered suitcase and a jug of cheap ripple for brighter pastures, I could feel the beginning of an enormous erection just starting to develop. I dropped my hands to her tiny waist before I made a complete ass of myself, my self- control, kicking and screaming, being dragged back, and, pathetically shaking, I gently peeled this little nymph away, but not before, not before, dear God, she scraped her smooth warm thigh, and then, to my horror, her protruding, stiff little pelvic bone and burning softness-did I catch a whisper of curly pubic hair there?-tightly, so tightly, against my crotch. I looked into her brown eyes, cloudy, drunk, and her red lips glistened, hungry, opening slightly to show her immaculately white and straight baby teeth.



And then with a soft moan, a final thrust of her hips into me, she was gone, completely out of my grasp, and I wasn't sure what had just happened, my hands still extended holding the ghost of her delicious after-glow, my cock distended, almost painfully rigid and, trapped in my boxers and shorts, trying desperately to reach up to the ceiling.



It would be hard bending over to pick up the mess on the floor. I simply left it there for the maid to deal with as I stumbled away to change for dinner.



* * *



To say that Christine was embarrassed sitting in the front seat of her father's Land Rover, while her three friends chatted cheerfully in the back seat would have been a shameful understatement, but I had a ready excuse: 'My dear, unless you want to share a thick, juicy steak with the old man, all alone-you know, the sort of meal that makes you gag, while your friends are checking out every cute boy at the nearest teenage burger joint-there's no way, my sweet, little innocent daughter, I'll permit you to drive anywhere in your drunken state.' It would have been a pathetic excuse. But it's all I had. I believed in it, somewhat, but I knew that the only real reason I'd agreed was because I couldn't get out of my head the hard, lean bodies of those three companions in the back there. I could still feel Stacey's small breasts, her smooth thighs, her hot little cunt mound, everything, and it didn't seem reasonable to go upstairs to my room, put on some smutty movie on cable and jerk-off, all alone. 



Of course, I'd do that later, but not just now. Ridiculously I needed just a little more attention. It was innocent, silliness, a juvenile trait that I was feeling and nothing more. Let me tell you, if you're still with me, I'd concluded this fifteen minutes ago as I leaned against the car, in Brooks' navy blue linen jacket, cream button down and khaki pants-no fedora, thank you-waiting in front of the garage, and then watching the four young ladies, my poor daughter with a devastated look on her face, the other three striding confidently to me, all four in lovely, spaghetti strapped summer dresses, sandaled, make up carefully, tastefully applied. All the same, however much I thought about it, tried to rationalize, it was a personality trait, a glaring weakness, I would have never recognized in myself before today. 



And here's the answer to the riddle. Mid-life crisis, whatever you want to call it. I don't care. Better to get it out of my system, innocently, in this controlled environment where nothing could possibly, ever happen, before I did something stupid in the coming years, like divorce my wife, and marry a second, newer model. I would never do that, I was certain, but I didn't quite trust myself. Better to play this little game with myself now with these little vixens, coup it up in my memory vault, let it rest there, compound interest, as it were, and, in the coming years, whenever such thoughts rose to my consciousness again, I could simply subtract from the vault small little pleasures of naughtiness to satisfy, and hopefully placate, the thoughts-just for me, my own little private joke.



"Christine, what do you think?" Beth asked from the back, laughing.



"About what?" Christine asked sullenly.



"Sushi! Sushi!' Stacey said, happily, clapping her hand, obviously the one of the four who'd had the most to drink this afternoon. "Let's go for sushi. My parents would be so proud of my ethnic pride even though they hate it, themselves!"



Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Christine look back at her friends, with an 'Are you trying to get me killed?' look on her face, and then carefully glance at me, but all she saw was a mask of affected indifference, a man focused intensely on the palm tree lined road ahead. She sadly shook her head, and then she stared straight ahead, her arms crossed lightly over her bulging, barely contained pink breats..



"Well, if ethnic pride is what we're striving for, I think we should go to an African restaurant," Jennifer carefully said.



"Oh, I really wanted sushi, Jennifer," Stacey said almost pleading, but without any conviction or sincerity in her voice. "Please! Please! Please! Next time, we can go to an African restaurant. Please!" 



"Let's let Mr. Stafford decide," Beth said.



"How about it, Mr. Stafford?" asked Jennifer mischievously. "Do you like Sta-Sushi, I mean?"



I heard a slap, giggles, another slap from the back row, a groan of agony from Christine in front and then silence throughout.



"Well?" Beth said. "Do you like Sushi, Mr. Stafford?"



"Sure," I said. "That'll be fine."



Christine was staring at me, the abandoned, thick porterhouse on the kitchen counter-top still in her mind, no doubt. "You sure, Daddy?"



I nodded, both my hands, white knuckled, tightly gripping the steering wheel as we got onto one of the many freeway systems of metropolitan LA. 



Harmless deposits of naughtiness. Harmless deposits of naughtiness.



* * *



The girls fell into a hush almost as soon as the valet, in black tie, took my keys.



Obviously, whatever sushi they'd had in the past had been in cheap little corner places. They had no grasp of the business world, and how important entertainment was. Located in one of Los Angeles's finer hotels, this Japanese restaurant would be like nothing they knew. These little tarts wanted raw fish? I'd give them raw fish, enough raw fish to choke the lot of them.



An hour later I was greatly relaxed. The four cups of rice wine didn't hurt. Not at all. I was now enjoying their company, seated on the floor, in our own room, the four of them congregated together at one end of the table, me on the other, watching them pretend to be sophisticated, affecting their silly attitudes, completely comfortable with my presence because I'd faded into the background.



With their, to their minds, daring choices of California and Vegetable rolls, shrimp and tuna strips in front of them, a cup of rice wine for each, but no more, they laughed and giggled their way through it all, with a few groans thrown in there as I chomped away on the octopus and squid, among the other large school of fish I'd ordered. Even Christine seemed to be enjoying herself. Their earlier intimidation with the extraordinarily beautiful Japanese waitresses, dressed in traditional costume, had turned to a freewheeling discussion about what they each intended to do for the remainder of the summer.



I marveled. Teenage girls-who knew what went on in their heads? I'd gotten my first hint of their peculiarities two weeks ago, though I was only thinking about it now, during the high school graduation party we'd had at the house for Christine. They moved in groups, talked in groups, went to the bathroom in groups and looked the same-the same hairstyles, the same clothes, the same everything.



They were really hilarious. And what is even more ironic was that Christine had been brought up by her mother-if tonight told me one thing, it told me I knew little, if anything about my daughter, had had little, if any, impact on her character-she'd been taught to be independent, strong. And yet Christine, though a straight A student, captain of her tennis team, reaching with Beth as her partner the doubles' quarterfinals in State, was also on the football cheerleading squad with Stacey and Jennifer, loved to shop for exhausting hours, loved to talk mindlessly for days on the phone, loved to act normal. She was adorable. 



They were all adorable. Beth, of course, we'd known since she and Christine were in grade school together. Off to Berkeley in the fall, lovely, raven, shiny full hair, a fourth generation Californian, it never ceased to amaze me that her family still retained their Hispanic roots. As I mentioned, her father was an up and coming vice president at a rival bank in town, and I knew that he would be perfect to lead the team for the deal I'd obsessed over most of the day. It would be a tough sell to get him to join us, but without him I knew we'd have no chance at success. 



Jennifer, I didn't know too well. One of the few, if not the only, black girls at Christine's private high school, almost chestnut skinned, oval face, beautiful creamy wide eyes, sometimes shy, sometimes extremely sharp, she'd started coming around the house during the last year, her family only recently moving to Los Angeles from New York, her mother one of the top producers for public television in the City. 



Even the brat, Stacey. Just like her friends, her jet-black straight hair was long and straight, almost to her shoulders. Every few minutes she would glance shyly in my direction with her bright brown eyes, as if she was daring me to try something. I simply grinned back at her. Yes, she, too, was adorable. I knew her father, a terrific lawyer who'd once deposed me for four straight days in litigation involving one of his clients, a brokerage firm, against my former bank.



Presently, the four stepped out to "freshen up", and, suppressing a laugh, I stood and studied the artwork in the room, concluding after a minute or two that a trip with Mary to the Far East (without, of course, any sort of organized tour) might not be a bad idea once we executed the letter of intent for the bank, which I anticipated could be done within a fortnight. I'd crack the whip a little, but lawyers and accountants like nothing more, nothing makes them get up on their heels and pant for nice pats of affection than a little abuse. It would be a truncated trip, five or six weeks, but we'd be back by mid-August, ready to pack up Christine and send her on her way. We could visit Mainland China, Japan and maybe even Australia. I smiled to myself, imagining Mary's surprised reaction, even if it meant she and I would be alone together for more than a month, when I told her the news next week when she returned.



I heard the wood and paper doors gently parting, but continued studying a nineteenth century watercolor I particularly liked, the one with the waterfall in winter. The waitress could wait a moment. But when I turned, reaching into my jacket for my wallet, it wasn't our waitress standing there, watching me, visibly blushing, even trembling.



"Hi Jennifer," I said, trying to put her at ease, slightly confused myself, wondering why she was alone.



"Uh, I didn't mean to interrupt you," she said.



"You're not interrupting. Sit down."



She hesitated just for a moment, debating, I couldn't help but think, whether to stay in the room, and then, her short skirt sweeping lightly against her muscular chocolate thighs, walked up the two steps, now level with me, now sweeping the skirt under her, and she took her seat.



I smiled at her as she tried not to look up at me. "Enjoying yourself?" I asked because I could think of nothing else to say.



"Um, yes. This has been wonderful. Thank you so much, Mr. Stafford."



"Well, I'm glad. You'll be surprised how fast this summer passes, and, after that, college, so spending time together now . . . well, high school friends are always your closest," I said, not believing a word coming out of my mouth since I could hardly recall now a single person with whom I went to high school. Even college, if you asked me what my roommate's name was, I couldn't tell you. Still, it was better than the strain of sickness racing through my mind at that moment. Even more so than Beth's, Jennifer's body was the most developed of the four darlings, and right now, looking down at her almost cantaloupe-sized, slightly glistening, gently rising and falling tits, more than anything I wanted her to stand, just stand there, while I slowly walked around her, round and round, and then stopping behind her, behind that unbelievable ass, taking hold of her shoulders and . . .



"Mr. Stafford," she was saying for I fear the second or third time.



"Yes, Jennifer. Yes," I said trying not to blink like an idiot.



"Mr. Stafford. I think I've got to tell you something."



I smiled, taking a deep breath, looking above Jennifer, trying to find something, anything to occupy my field of vision, hoping to identify another watercolor, not trusting myself to face this incredibly attractive lady directly.



"Mr. Stafford. Stacey, Beth and I have a bet, and I think it's gotten like really out of control."



"What bet?" I asked, now looking at her, the watercolors, the waterfalls, all of it gone.



"It started two weeks ago, at Christine's graduation party. Right after you and Mrs. Stafford told Christine she could take the three of us with her to your condo in Florida, and Christine kept saying how great you were, you know, how much she loved you and everything, and then Stacey came up with the idea."



"The idea?"



"Yeah, it was when she, Beth and I were driving home that night. She said she was fed up with Christine and her 'perfect family', and she said no family was that perfect, and that her dad thought you could be a real asshole when you wanted to be, really ruthless, and you were a crook, and that it would be, like, nothing to get you to sleep with her."



"Whoa. Whoa. Wait a minute. What are you talking about?"



"She said you kept looking at her at the party, kept trying to flirt with her, and she just knew she could get you to sleep with her. And Beth and I laughed at her, and she got mad, and she said she had a proposition. Do you understand so far?"



"Go on."



"She said she would bet Beth and me that she could sleep with you and if she won, then Beth and I would have to pose nude with her for this new web-site she wants to put up, you know, she wants to be discovered or something-who knows? She's crazy-but if we won then she would, and then this was Beth's idea, she'd kiss each of us on our ass. I mean, really kiss them, because sometimes she can be such a stuck-up bitch and Beth thought that would put her in her place."



"Kiss each of you on your ass."



"Yeah, it's just, I don't know-it was just something we thought of driving home that night. Well, today, on the way here, Beth said the old bet was off, and that she had a new bet. You've got to understand: She and Christine got into a real big fight last week in Florida at the condo because Christine let it out that Beth had been the weak link at State, and if she hadn't been so busy hanging out with Roger, her boyfriend, they might have won it all, and Beth was crying and it was awful. Well, it was like I thought we all made up, you know, Christine said she was sorry and they hugged and everything, but I guess we didn't."



"I guess not. What's the new bet, Jennifer?"



"The new bet is that it's open."



"Open?"



"Yeah, open. It's open to all three of us. The first of the three of us who sleeps with you wins the bet, and that girl gets to have the other two act as her slaves for the rest of the summer, and do whatever-and we agreed that anything short of physical violence was open game-whatever it is she tells them to do."



"And you all agreed to this new arrangement?"



"Sure. It seemed kind of funny, and we even made a plan about today. I mean, we knew your wife is out of town. So like, you know, we turned the car right around, right after we made the bet, went to the store, got those bikinis, you know, that we wore this afternoon, even got a bikini for Christine so it wouldn't look so weird, and she was, like, no way to start with, but we kept telling her there wouldn't be anybody else around, so what did it matter, and she's, like, whatever, and she wore the bikini, too, and that's where we're at, you know. The three of us are going to spend the night at your house tonight. I mean, we even bought, like, lingerie for tonight, you know. And after we have a little party later, get a little more drunk, Stacey says she's even going to get one of her friends to bring pot with her, we're gonna draw straws to see which of us gets the first shot to sleep with you, and I'm just getting sick about this, and I just wanted to let you know."



* * *



It's so true. If something seems too good to be true, it is. If three eighteen year-old girls show up at your house one sunny afternoon each in fluorescent thongs, if they show off tight little asses and marvelous, firm breasts, rub suntan oil all over themselves in slow, sensual strokes, if they talk about you suggestively, smile at you wickedly, if they rub their cunts against your stiff prick, know unless you're an idiot or you've recently won the state lottery, in which case the normal rules of physics don't apply to you, know that there's something rotten in Denmark. Even Jennifer's confession, for example, assuming she was telling the truth could be nothing more than a self-serving trick, a brilliant ploy to develop a sympathetic rapport with me, while, at the same time, turning me off to her competitors. And then, field clear, she could just sort of let something happen later later tonight, after rather rude rebuffs by me of her rivals, coming to rescue me as I stewed in my bedroom about the treachery of youth today. 



And I thought the business world was cutthroat. These little brats, and I included my daughter and her residual resentment about losing in the State tennis tournament right in there with the other three, would have made Rockefeller and Morgan squirm with envy.



The most amazing thing was their total ease and relaxation as we drove home from the restaurant. Not a hint of nerves, not a strain of tension-nothing. Conscious? Consequences? Forget about it. They were each prepared to fuck a close friend's father, someone old enough to be their father, a virtual stranger, and it seemed to have unsettled them not at all. 



Instead, Christine, Beth and Stacey teased Jennifer about how she'd just missed both Ben Affleck and Matt Damon leaving with two other guys one of the restaurant's private rooms, how, in real life, these apparently famous actors looked even better than they did in the movies, and how the three of them had debated whether to follow the two actors and their dates out of the restaurant just for the hell of it, and see if they could hitch a ride with them, and, teasing Christine mercilessly, who knows what else with them. In the end, they'd concluded my displeasure at finding my daughter and two of her three friends missing, my wards for the night, as it were, outweighed whatever adventure they might have found with the four "awesome looking guys."

<hr pg="3" />Now, my immediate reaction, upon listening to Jennifer's confession, once the other three darlings returned to the private room, was to drive them home, direct the three of them out of the house and then have a very serious talk with my daughter about her friends. A fresh cup of tea, and glass of cold water later I realized that was all wrong. 



First, it would embarrass, even traumatize my daughter-what was I going to say, 'Christine, honey, did you know your friends are sluts, backstabbing witches, and, by they way, they had a bet about which of them could sleep with your old man tonight?' Ridiculous. Like I said, in two, three years, she would hardly remember these creepy friends. After the inevitable semester at Oxford in England or Paris, years spent out East, she would meet so many new people, have such amazing, diverse experiences, what happened to her in high school would seem like a distant, quaint, probably even slightly embarrassing, memory. 



Second, for all of that talk about my desire to protect my daughter from this ugly thing, I have to admit now that the following was primary in my reasoning that night: It would be an unbelievable blow to my ego if I had so little faith in myself to not be able to spend one night alone with three eighteen year olds without falling under one or more of their so-called charms. I mean, how ridiculous once more! I was a seasoned businessman, even "ruthless" as that prick Steven Akira had told his daughter, and somehow I was insecure about the outcome of that night? What I needed was a shrink. Perhaps Mary had been right about me all of these years.



"Ladies," I said to them, interrupting Stacey's question to Jennifer about whether California guys were cuter than New York guys, as we passed through the open almost hidden gates of the driveway. "Ladies," I said, again, this time getting all of their attention, the gates slowly closing automatically behind us. "About the party tonight. Each of you will be permitted one guest because it's late, and the guests leave by midnight, one at the very latest. Second, no drinking, no smoking, no anything like that, okay? Nothing that'll embarrass any of you or me. I want you to enjoy yourselves, but if I catch any hint of anything like that, I'll tell your parents, and none of you will be welcomed guests here any longer. Any questions?"



Solid silence, except for the tires scrunching up the tree lined winding gravel driveway.



* * * 



After all of the insanity of the evening, it might surprise you to know that the first thing I did when I got out of the car was to jog to the lawn chair, grab the discarded diligence packet and then I went straight up to my bedroom to finish my review of the target bank. No, emphatically, I didn't wait to see who the guests would be, whether each of the girls invited some muscular stud to service them until midnight I didn't care. Well, I shouldn't say that exactly. We didn't return to the house until almost ten, and it would take at least an hour for anyone to arrive, which would leave the little brats only a couple of hours to engage in whatever debauchery they had planned. By the time they returned to their booze and lit up their first joint, they'd hardly have enough time to puke their little guts out, let alone engage in some diabolical orgy. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I felt relatively secure upstairs in my bedroom, naked but for my white, cotton boxers, bifocals on, studying financials and business plans, that nothing more ridiculous would happen that night.



The so-called "open" bet I discounted immediately-any of the brats who dared try something tonight would find themselves in a world of trouble. That much I vowed to myself. I knew each of their parents and if someone showed up in my room . . . well, I envisioned long talks for the rest of the week with shocked and dismayed mothers and fathers.



And I swear this was my original plan, and it went well for at least an hour, at least until the murmur of voices and laughs and then the giggles and laughter I could hear coming from the pool grew louder and louder (I have to admit I'd unhinged earlier my double French windows, but only to get some fresh, if rather muggy, air), and then finally a loud splash and then another of someone screaming and jumping into the water forced me to toss the diligence packet onto the hardwood floor, with a plop. What was this latest outrage? Almost midnight and these tarts are . . . I stood, walked carefully to the wide, brass paned windows to get a better view.



To my shock, clearly visible under the great floodlight by the pool, all four girls were back in their florescent thongs, but this time topless. To make matters worse, two of them, Christine and Jennifer, were bobbing and splashing about in the shallow end of the pool, their young, naked bodies jiggling and shaking in the water. But no one else was with them. The girls were alone. No bulging muscled gorillas, no longhaired, drooling slobs, nothing. 



And then, to my horror, as I watched, fixed on all of this lovely, firm young flesh, as I stared and stared at Beth casually reclined on a chair and stretching her arms high above her head, her gorgeous young breasts stretching with her, pointing up, Stacey turned from the dueling darlings in the pool and looked straight up to my windows. I could actually see the the sneaky little smile take shape on her lovely face, and then the little wench called out laughing, "Oh, look Christine, your father's watching!" 



The high shrieked scream of my dear daughter from without and a mad dash by me from within happened simultaneously. As I lay shaking in the bed, groping for my covers, there was such an outburst of squeals, and laughter coming from the pool that I had to cover my ears to keep some semblance of reality. As if in a horrible nightmare that never ceases to end, I could hear them clearly, all three teasing Christine, her groans and "Shut-ups!", and then, finally, they seemed to subside.



Directly, I turned off the nightstand light and, cold sweats devouring me, tried to reason what I would say to my daughter in the morning, over our standard coffee and breakfast bagels. 



But a funny thing happened while I lay there drenching the sheets, shivering. As if I'd been struck by a flash of Divine light, everything became clear.



Fifteen years in the jungles of commercial competition, four years as president of a long established, venerable financial institution, matching wits with brilliant men, destroying enemies, spreading fire and sword against all upstarts. I'd done it all, more than most men could dream of, and what was I doing? Shivering like a child in need of its mother. And why? Was I really frightened of three recent high school graduates? 



Who the fuck did these little brats think they were? In my house! Fucking with me in my own house! 



I turned the light back on and went to the liquor cabinet for a drink.



The little brats wanted a game?



* * *



At seventeen past one, I walked calmly to the double doors and then opened them.



"Yes? Everything's alright?" I asked.



"Oh," she said, surprised for just the moment to see me in nothing but my boxers, my body still glistening from the hot shower I'd just stepped out of. "No," she continued, perfectly composed now, "No, everything's fine . . . I just . . . I don't know, I just wanted to know what you were doing. I saw your light, and I was bored, and I thought-"



"I'm finishing a project," I said motioning to the papers scattered on the disheveled bed.



"Oh."



"Yes. Oh."



"I was wondering-"



"Did you care to help me?"



"What?"



"Would you like to help me?"



"Uh . . . with what?"



"My project," I said, stepping to the side welcoming my young charge dressed in her long pink tee shirt and gray, rather tight, sweatpants.



Grinning, she walked in, and I closed, slowly locking, the doors behind her.



Hearing the lock click, she turned to me, now smiling broadly. "Why'dya lock the doors, Mr. Safford?" she shyly asked.



"I hate interruptions." I said, walking straight to her, forcing her to back away, but unable, even as she leaned back against the bed post, to avoid the brush of my forearm against her small right breast.



I went for another drink, poured some poison and then turned to see her staring at me, her little nipples clearly visible, clearly rising, blushing. 



"Care for a drink?" I asked, smiling.



She hesitated, and then shaking her head, smiling to herself, drew near. 



"Are you hitting on me, Mr. Stafford?" she asked as I handed her a glass.



"Why would I do that?" I asked finishing my drink in two quick gulps and then refilling.



"Well, I don't know," she said, taking a sip. "I mean, trying to get me drunk and everything."



I stared into her brown eyes for long moments and then grinned, reaching forward and then brushing my fingers, once more, against her small right tit. 



"Would I need to get you drunk, Stacey?"



She stumbled back, the drink almost spilling, and then stopped, a nasty scowl on her face. I could see she was about to swear at me, tell me to go fuck myself, but then she stopped herself and forced another entirely unconvincing smile. 



"You haven't forgotten about the kitchen, have you?" she asked.



"No," I said, setting my drink aside and then taking three steps to her, her tense little brown eyes watching me all the way. I reached for her tiny hand and she let me take it. 



"Why are you here, Stacey?"



She shrugged, nervous, unsure, and then tensed as I took her pink, little pinky and sucked on it. She tried to pull her hand away, but I held it tight.



"Why are you here, Stacey," I mumbled, my tongue circling her little baby finger.



"I . . . I want . . ."



"What?" I asked, slowly reaching around her narrow waist and then bringing her close to me. She gasped, squirming. as I pulled her in, and then her eyes opened wide when she felt me, felt me hardening, felt me lengthening, thickening, everything against her hard, warm stomach.



"Is this what you wanted?" I asked, whispering, ever so slightly pushing harder against her. 



She said nothing, simply staring, and then her head jerked sideways, as she felt my large hand dragging and then cupping the right cheek of her ass, palming it entirely. I slowly squeezed, at first lightly, and then harder and harder, and then almost pinching, pinching her entire cheek.



"Ow!" she said trying to twist away. "Ow! Stop! Don't do that! That hurts!"



"Does it?"



"Yes. Please!"



I slowly released the pressure and then stopped it altogether, contenting myself with a gentle stroke here, a soft prod there. Hearing her sigh, relieved, I stepped back, just a bit, and, without warning, my very erect, straining cock burst out of the open flap of my boxers. 



We both stopped and looked at it for a moment, and almost as a reflex, before she could react, before she could scream, suddenly I reached underneath her, both hands, spreading her legs, straddling me, lighter by far than I'd anticipated, and we were face to face, her soft delicate crotch balancing precariously against my rigid reaching cock.



"This is what I wanted to do to you in the kitchen," I said, leaning forward, pushing her wispy black her to the side with my nose, whispering in her ear.



"W . . . what," she whispered back, her voice faltering, her head resting on my shoulder. "What did you want to do to me in the kitchen?"



I nuzzled her ear, lightly licking it. "Fuck you," I breathed.



I could feel her tense, feel her body go slightly heavier in my hands, and then she pushed her head off my shoulder, reaching up with both her tiny hands, holding my face, staring at me with excited, drunk eyes.



I licked her trembling wet red lips and, moaning, she pulled my face to her, our lips met, her mouth opened, her tongue darted out and I sucked on it and sucked on it, tasting the liquor, her sweet, fresh youth, tasting everything.



She was pushing down, involuntarily, hard against my oozing thickness. I could feel her moistening, feel her burning and I pushed up against her harder and harder until she seemed to be bouncing wildly around my waist. One of her hands released my face and I could not help but groan in her baby mouth when her slender fingers reached back and she tried holding me.



She pushed her face off mine, straining, squeezing me, her eyes red, watering. "Fuck. You're massive, Mr. Stafford," she said gasping. "Jesus. Fuck." 



Without a word, she squirmed away and then hopped off, her hand twisting, painfully, never releasing my rigid cock. And there she stood, this small little lady, her tiny hand trying to hold, thumb and forefinger unable to circle, me.



And at that moment I almost ruined everything, my carefully structured scheme on the verge of collapse, but stopped myself just in time before I laughed like I'd never laughed before. It was obvious to me that, to her, I no longer existed, the tiny girl had forgotten about me, as if mesmerized by a wicked sorcerer, all of her focus, thoughts were directed at the stiff, pulsing cock in her sweating hand. That the prick was attached to someone, belonged to me, meant nothing to her. 



The trance continuing, not looking at me, she quickly released my cock, and it snapped back hard against my stomach. She pulled her tee-shirt off, and then peeled off her sweatpants, and there she stood naked, this tiny little girl, the bones of her rib cage tightly encased in stringy, finely stretched muscles, all the way up to her throat. I stared at her, marveling at the perfectly modeled little doll, her small brown raisin nipples reaching out, pointy, the lovely junction of her small tanned thighs, wispy black, gorged red and glistening. 



Reaching down she gripped my cock once more, leaning forward and then forward some more and then bending down, and, opening her mouth wide, she enveloped the thick head of my cock. 



Now I was the mesmerized party. I couldn't help it. I let her do it, even though it was wholly outside of my plan. My plan had been to scare her, not this. But I couldn't stop her, didn't want to end this. I let her lick and kiss and try to suck it inside her mouth, ruby little red lips stretched obscenely open. 



Groaning, as she sucked and pulled me in, losing myself, I reached forward, over her bent body, small, bird like shoulder blades, knobby, narrow spine, and gripped her ass, rubbing the silky softness, letting her lovely cheeks roll and bounce against my fingers. I couldn't stop. I had to know, as I tried pushing my cock deeper inside her mouth. I had to know. And then I reached lower, my thick fingers pushing between the little round perfect globes of her ass, lower, to her soft, downy little cunt lips.



She wasn't wet. The little bitch was dripping. Simply dripping, as I rubbed and rubbed the chubby little lips together, rolling them between my thick fingers, drenching my fingers. She was dripping and so ready, so ready. She released my cock from her mouth, squeezing me, as if her life depended on it and her entire torso twitched, when my middle finger gently prodded, and then pushed past her delicate folds before it was literally sucked into her. Two, three, four times, I pushed and pulled out, slick, slimy, until, finally, my finger was burning, buried up to the knuckle, inside her, the heavy aroma of her excitement filling the air. 



And then everything was fast, nothing else mattered, as I pulled my wet finger slurping out of her, jerked myself away from her squeezing hand, and grabbed her shoulders standing her up. Without thinking I was lifting her, opening her, her legs once more straddling me, and sucking on her neck, breathing wildly, I gasped out to her. "Put it in Stacey. Put it in now, sweetheart."



She tried, the poor dear tried. Lurching back, down, barely reaching, she held my cock up close to her cunt, and then I was touching her, and then the silky wet softness of her cunt lips was spreading, opening, and she pushed down and tried again and again until, both of us groaned, when my thick cock head finally found firm lodging just inside her.



We stayed like that, she with her eyes tightly shut, biting her lip, me simply watching her, and then slowly gently, she started rising and falling, rising and falling, rising and then falling, slick and smoother and smoother, and then one more time rising and falling this time hard, until, finally, almost two-thirds of my cock felt like it was inside her. She opened her eyes, sweat pouring down her forehead, and stared at me.



I had never meant this, I wanted to tell her. I'm sure my eyes were telling her this, but I couldn't open my mouth and without words, what did it matter? Not like this. A surge of tenderness flowed into me, and I regretted beyond belief what I'd just done. It should never have gone this far. Never. Not with one of my daughter's friends. 



She said nothing, in turn, simply stared at me wildly, and then breathing deeply, her mouth trembling, the poor girl, she rose one more time, higher this time, and disengaged her delicious body from my cock. Squirming, twisting away from my tight grip, she hopped off.



My cock twitching, straining to the ceiling, dripping with her juices, I watched, in disbelief, as she scurried to the small pile of clothes on the floor, bent down and then she produced a silver-blue packet from some hidden pocket of her gray sweatpants.





"Whoa. Whoa," I said, as she returned, and I reached forward and stopped her hand as it brought the packet to her mouth, her teeth bared, ready to tear it open. "What are you doing?"



"What does it look like I'm doing?" she said, her eyes fixed on the package.



"No condom," I replied, grateful to find an excuse to stop this insanity.



"What?" she said looking up at me.



"You heard me," I continued, trying to sound as convincing as I could. "No condom."



"Are you crazy?"



"Far from it. Here, give that to me," I said, and snatched it from her before she could react.



"Hey!" she screamed, as I stopped myself from tossing the condom onto the bed when I noticed strange markings on it. 



"What are you doing? Give that back to me!" she kept yelling. "Give that back to me, you asshole."



She was jumping, trying to grab it, but it was too high for her, my cock was in the way, and then I shook my head, as I read, in tiny, little print, the following: 'Mr. S's Dick.' 



"What the hell is this?" I asked.



"Nothing," she said. "Come on. Give that back to me."



"Why did you write this?"



She stepped away, disgusted, and then scratched her head, trying to affect a lazy yawn, although I could see that her thighs were still quivering, on the verge of violent trembling.



"Stacey," I said, carefully putting my half-erect slimy cock back in my boxers. "Did you write this?"



"No."



"Who did?"



"Beth."



"Beth . . . why would Beth write this?"



"Because . . . oh, what the fuck. Look, we have this bet . . ."



I was seated on a warm chair, legs carelessly crossed, finishing my drink, as she detailed the story, which differed very little from what Jennifer had told me earlier, except to conveniently omit any mention of the original proposition Stacey had made the night of Christine's graduation party to her two friends, the proposition that had started this whole ghastly business.



"And, no doubt, you're to return to Beth and Jennifer fiends with this condom, er . . . used, right?"



"Yep," she said, gloriously naked, without a shred of embarrassment, her nipples now soft and relaxed, leaning against a dresser, studying her fingernails, the little, gorged lips of her cunt visible, open red and still glistening



"Well, I'm afraid, that's not going to happen."



"Yeah, I guess not," she said walking back to her clothes, muttering to herself, taking one last look at me, my crotch, "His loss, not mine. Fuck."

<hr pg="4" />* * *



I felt no recriminations as I fluffed up my pillows, rolled to my side and shut my eyes. What had begun as an attempt to scare the little brat had ended with my cock partially buried in her burning little cunt. A few minutes more, and who knows what might have happened? 



On the bed, on her back, would I have really fucked her silly? I tried to tell myself, I would not have, but . . . I couldn't blame myself. I'd been, still was, reasonably drunk, and what was I supposed to do when she got naked? What would any man have done? At least I'd put an end to the nonsense before the matter got completely out of control. Her report to her friends would be enough, I was certain, to deter any other visitors. 



Sleep seemed to be almost immediate. I was exhausted, too tired to masturbate and release the unbelievable tension I felt in my balls, the feeling of Stacey's vise-like cunt still pulsing over me. More incredible, so unusual for me, I hadn't even arrived at a decent explanation. I didn't know what I'd tell Christine if she asked me tomorrow why I'd fucked her friend. I didn't want to think about it any longer. I could feel myself sinking into a deep sleep.



Not surprisingly, the dream was sexual. Deeply sexual. A woman I couldn't identify, faceless, with lovely ripe lips was giving me head as I stretched out on the bed. I wanted to reach down, grip her hair, force more of my cock inside her lovely mouth, maybe even get it into her throat, but then suddenly, and I could actually feel the bed shaking with movement, my arms felt heavy, paralyzed, and then I realized why-she was now straddling my face, her open cunt inches from my mouth, and so I reached up slightly, could feel her flinch, when my tongue found her furry, bloated cunt lips. 



Moaning loudly, her moisture seemed to ooze out of her onto my face, deeply pungent, deeply woman. Licking the full lips, my tongue scraped against her wiry pubic hair, and then finally finding her small nub, engorged clit, I began to circle it, prod it, trying to do everything but bite it off. She seemed to tense in my dream, so real, I could actually feel her teeth scraping the sensitive skin of the head of my cock, her hot breath literally burning me, as I pulled her clitoris and surrounding tender flesh in, sucked it in, deep in my mouth and then her body began shaking, and I could hear her suffocated moaning, her juices flooding my face, my cock ready to burst deep inside her throat.



Without warning, the dream shifted, my cock was released from her mouth, rudely slapping hard against my stomach, and my hands seemed to grope, trying to find her again, as she lifted her ass off my face. Still groping, feeling the sheets falling completely off my drenched body, I could feel her powerful thighs opening, stretching above my cock, and then I felt her reaching down, gripping my cock tightly by the base, pointing it up and her groan, almost scream, woke me, as she tried to impale herself completely on it.



It took a moment, but only a moment, to realize that I was getting fucked. The bed was bouncing wildly. Lovely globes of tit and ass were shaking and moving in all directions directly above me, but what really brought me to my senses was the fact that my cock seemed to be spearing and throbbing inside, literally inside a woman's rigid womb, more deeply, and harder than I'd ever been in my life.



Fully conscious now, I reached for the nightstand light, clicked on the light, and there I saw her, eyes shut, lovely oval face jerking away from the sudden brightness, but never stopping. Her face, her lovely long neck and juggling tits were streaked over and over with wild runs of sweat, streaking her chocolate skin, and I could feel her ass systematically, wildly, pounding down and up against my upper thighs.



"Jennifer!" I yelled, reaching for her narrow, lovely waist, trying to pull her off me. "Jennifer!"



"Not now! Not now! Please, not now," the lovely chestnut girl kept chanting.



"Stop! Oh, shit!" I yelled. "Stop! Don't! Get off!"



"Come for me, Mr. Stafford!" she moaned, oblivious. "Come on, come for me! Come deep inside my pussy!"



"Jenn--"



"Can't you feel me? Don't you want me? Oh, Fuck. Come! Please!"



And I was ready to, so ready, to grab her, roll her over, grip that marvelous ass underneath me, and push into her burning beautiful body as deeply as I could manage, and just fuck her. My God, I'd fuck her to within an inch of her life, and then I would simply erupt inside her flat, little baby belly, and never stop, but then I realized something. I realized what was happening here.



"Jennifer," I called to her as she still bounced and shook above me, the thick veins of my pink, almost red cock on the verge of bursting, greased and slick, fucking in and out of her dark, beautiful body. "Baby, sweetheart, slow down. Slow down."



Breathing hard, her firm, dark nippled tits heaving, she looked down at me confused, and then settled, letting all of her weight simply spill onto me. Inside, inside, so deep in there, my soaking cock was bent, snaking its way in deeper and deeper, pushing up against, uncomfortably twisting, the hard lips of what had to be the girl's cervix.



"Baby," I said to her once she stopped moving, the wild beat of her heart and mine dancing deep inside her. "Baby, are you on the pill? Do you have any protection?"



She shook her head, smiling confidently. "I'm fine," she said. "Don't worry. My period ended just yesterday."



This was not the reassurance I was looking for.



I held her hips firm, and thinking I was going to start fucking up into her now, she shut her eyes and bent back her head, her long, lovely black hair cascading gracefully down her strong shoulders, but before she could stop it, I lifted her off, my slimy cock snapping out of her, pushed her off, almost throwing her onto the bed next to me. She tried to scramble back to me, tried, but I held her firm.



"Wait, wait," I said. "Wait. The bet's still on, isn't it?"



She blushed, the poor dear blushed, as she turned to her side and looked at me, her left tit flopping down flush against my arm.



"Tell me why you're doing this, Jennifer. I need to know what's going on here."



"Yes," she said, sighing, trying to avoid staring at my now softening cock. "The bet's still on. Stacey said that you took the condom from her while you were having sex, but none of us believed her, that you guys were actually having sex or anything, we just told her she brought the condom out, and then you yelled at her and confiscated it. And then she got all mad and said that you knew all about the game, and then I told her I'd told you about it all at dinner, and then she yelled at me, and called me a traitor and bitch, and then I told her Beth told me to tell you, but then Beth said forget about all of that. She said the bet's still on, and Stacey's had her chance, and the winner of the bet is the one who got you to, you know, have an orgasm inside her . . . you know. . . "



"And you're supposed to get me to do this to you, and you're to go down, and then show them the evidence, I take it."



"Yes."



"And it doesn't matter to you if you got pregnant?"



"Well, I'm pretty sure I'm safe now. The only other time I had sex was when the guy had a rubber on, but-"



"Baby, you've only had sex once before?"



She nodded, blushing some more.



"Sweetheart," I said, and then kissed her warm forehead, and held her, gently rocking her in my arms, my cock fully receded, knowing the fun and games, for the moment, were over.



When she left the room, fully clothed in lovely dark green, silk pajamas five minutes later, no deposits of evidence of my almost desperate desire within her incredible body, it was 2:45 A.M.



I girded myself with more poison from the liquor cabinet for the next, final round.



* * * 



No knock. Nothing. The doors opened and Beth simply walked in almost an hour later, dressed in a brightly colored kimono. Her face looked fresh, clean, no makeup, as if she'd just showered.



"Hi, Mr. Stafford," she said nonchalantly, as she walked straight for the bed and then took a seat near my feet. "You're not going to tell anyone what's going on here, are you?"



I shook my head. Yes. That's the first thing I'll do: I'll advertise to the world that I'd had sex with two of my daughter's friends.



"Good, because . . . well, whatever. I mean, Stacey and Jennifer both claim you had intercourse with them, but I don't believe it myself and I told them to keep their traps shut."



"And now you're here to win the bet. Right?"



"Oh, fuck the bet. I'm here to apologize."



"That's very nice."



"I'm serious. You don't have to believe me if you don't want to. I feel terrible about this. I really do. God, I'd do anything to take back what's happened here tonight."



"I appreciate the gesture, Beth. Truly I do."



"I mean, I never wanted it to go this far. I thought everyone would chicken out, but it looks like everything's gotten completely out of control."



"Beth, the other two, Stacey and Jennifer, I don't pretend to understand why they would do something perverse like this, but you . . . I thought I knew you."



And she swallowed. The nasty little wench swallowed, and her eyes grew watery, and in a matter of seconds, slow, feminine fake tears were falling. It was too much. Really. But, of course, I'd already fucked her friends. Whatever taboo, or moral imperative required me to act like a responsible adult had long been shattered. I'd fucked her friends, and now, looking at her lovely face, pink eyes and full red lips, it was obvious to me I needed to fuck her, too.



"Mr. Stafford," she said, stifling her soft cries. "I have to tell you something, and I know it's horrible, but I have to tell you, and you can believe me, or you can think I'm a tramp or whatever you want, but, Mr. Stafford, I've wanted you for as long as I can remember." She stopped watching to see my reaction, watching to see if I was still listening.



I tried not to smile. 



Satisfied, I was still with her, she continued. "Ever since Christine and I have been friends, ever since I thought about boys and sex, I've never known a more handsome, sexier man. I swear. I have to tell you something. Three years ago, I came so close to coming up to this very room one night when your wife wasn't home, and I remember waiting outside those doors, and I don't know how long it was, how many minutes passed, while I waited there, and I remember how scared I was, but I also remember how much I knew that I'd hate myself if I didn't do it. And I wanted that night to be my first, I wanted you to be the first man I'd be with, and I came so close, and just as I was about to knock, just as I was about to make my dream come true, Christine saw, she'd been looking for me, and she asked what I was doing outside your bedroom, and I told her some stupid lie, and that was it. I never found the courage to do that again, and it's the one regret I have. It's the only regret I have about my life. That's it. That I didn't have you make love to me that night."



Obviously, if some trophy had been nearby, I would have handed it to her, clapped, congratulated her performance, and made sure she thanked her producer and lawyer and agent for all of their hard work in making all of it possible. But I didn't do that. No, I didn't. And I'll tell you why I didn't: As this syrupy nonsense was being babbled, this Beth, this girl I'd known for a dozen years, the one with the long, colt-like wobbly legs and skinny arms on the tennis court showing already the beginnings of a real wicked back-hand, the child who used to play dolls with my daughter in her room for hours and hours, this young girl, with teeth full of wires and braces there applauding and laughing with the rest of the family when my youngest boy first started walking, this girl who was as close to a daughter to me as any person could be-this gorgeous witch was slowly, carefully, breathtakingly removing her kimono. 



First her golden brown shoulders were revealed, highlighting her long, swan-like aristocratic neck, and then untying the kimono, the very tops, and then the full cups of her soft yellow, lacy bra were revealed. As I tried to sit still and pretend none of this was happening, near the climax of her charming tale, Beth stood, getting off the bed, and the kimono seemed to float off her, falling gently onto the floor. She finished her story and smiled at me.



Shaking my head in disbelief, I was beholding the most ravishing creature I'd ever seen, the muscles of her stomach almost rippling in youthful fitness. With lovely deep brown eyes, and black eyelashes longer than seemed possible, standing there in her high-cut, matching lace yellow thong, she looked at me more tenderly than anyone ever has, her long, seemingly unending golden legs, everything about her, glorious, glorious, glorious.



There wasn't much talk. Nothing needed saying. I simply reached for her, and she came, without hesitation, tears almost dried, that same tenderness and affection in her eyes, and for a moment I thought this girl really did care about me.



We were soft gently kissing, she was soft, as she stretched out next to me on the bed, and then she lifted the covers off me and saw how eager I was, how ready I was for her. She might have even cursed herself, seeing now what she'd missed when she was fifteen, I don't know. What I do know is that as I pulled her closer to me, as I undid her bra and she tossed it to the floor with a magic waive of her graceful hand, my mouth watered and then covered and then tried to swallow the most incredible tits I'd ever seen. She groaned, feeling my tongue against her hard cherry nipple, her heart beating wildly against my ear, my face buried in her chest.



When I reached between her thighs, naturally, as if we'd been lovers for years, her legs parted, and she reached down for me at the same time. Together, we touched each other, held each other, my mouth now on her lovely, warm neck, my hand cupping and massaging a dewy, heavenly lacy covered sponge of soaked heated softness between her golden legs.



Carefully pushing the delicate material to the side, I touched her bare and she squeezed me back until I thought my heart would burst. She waxed down there! This, in the small remaining sanity of my mind, I recognized, as I parted the fat, chubby lips of her delicate, smooth as silk cunt, and gently touched and then circled, bringing whimpers and moans from her, the little baby bump of her gorged clitoris. An eighteen-year-old girl who waxes her cunt. What was left?



Urgent now. Oh, God she was urgent, as she hissed and then ground her hips against my thick fingers, and I was buried, one and then two fingers, deep inside her. 



"Fuck me," she groaned into and then bit my ear while my tongue searched eagerly for her mouth, but she moved her face away, having none of that sentimental mishmash.



"Fuck me!" she cried, instead, as her powerful legs twisted and turned, entwined with mine, as I tried desperately to pull down her thong. 



"Fuck me!" she screamed as I simply tore away the flimsy lace, the material twisting, biting and then tearing, ripping against her muscular, burning ass. 



"Fuck me!" she moaned, as I rolled over on top of her, her thighs splitting open, wider almost perpendicular to me, jutting up and back, so back, so that the drooling head of my cock was poised, right where it needed to be. 



And then "Fuck-" she started, like before, but stopped as she gasped, pain and pleasure somersaulting in the room, as I simply drove my entire cock into her in one swift, brutal motion.



Again and again, I speared the voluptuous girl, fucking her. The huge, solid mahogany bed shook wildly under, above, around us, her body pushed, pushed up, pushed back, her head near the headboard, striking loudly once there and then again, but she would not stop. I grabbed her flared, full hips and pulled her back down off the pillows, away from the board, my cock never leaving her deepest clutches, watching her tits strike against each other, her chin, my chest, her shoulders, everywhere and nowhere at the same time.



I pulled out completely, a loud slurp of suctioning release, a sound in any other context, insanely unnatural, almost vulgar, but now as I looked down between her splayed thighs, as I saw her blood red, gorged, golden cunt, with just a whisper of tightly shaved black pubic hair on the very top of her slit, as I saw this almost burning red lava-like cunt, I could hear her panting and before she said a word, I plunged back deep in there with renewed, intense purpose. And she simply gasped. She twisted the sheets with her hands. She looked desperately for a pillow, anything to bite down on.



She was no longer making sense. She was no longer human. No pillow found. Howling. The dear girl was howling. As if in the throes of an agony she could not, did not want to, escape, I could see her eyeballs rolling to the back of her head, her soaked, shimmering black hair, spread wildly under her. My hands slipping as I continued to try to hold and stretch open her soaked, full ass, tried to get every last inch into her, I pushed and shoved into her with all of the remaining strength I had left. 



We were one now. One fucking motion of flesh splitting flesh, joining flesh, gripping flesh, the howling increased, the crescendo of the slap of our drenched bodies against each beyond any plateau I'd ever known. 



And then she screamed, her body locking against mine. This beautiful girl simply froze, arching her back, her fingernails digging deep into my back, and I let her come, unable to do anything else, let her come and come and come, clenching, slamming, shivering, gasping, sighing, whimpering, everything around, about, over and below, everywhere, and then silence.



My now numb, but still erect, cock, deep within her flooded cunt, I could see her, finally, after long breathless seconds, stirring under me. Her red, watery eyes opened and then she asked, between deep gasps of air, the question I'd been expecting.



"Did you . . . did you come in me . . . Mr. Stafford?"



I grinned down at her, gently rolling my hips over what had to be by now the rawest of raw nerves of her cunt, and said, "No."



Her head sagged, she knew she'd been defeated, and then she slowly sighed, slowly shrugging her shoulders. 



"You know," she said, actually smiling, as she licked the dewy salt of sweat from her upper lip. "Right now. I really don't care. God, I don't care. Who needed slaves this summer, in any event? How immature, you know?"



I continued grinning, shaking my head in wonder with this amazing woman.



"Oh, laugh all you want, Mister. I don't care. I've found you now, and I'll find you again-I'll come down from Berkeley, I'll get a studio near here, wherever you are. I don't care-but this will not be the last time between us. No fucking way, you marvelous fucking bastard."



"Perhaps not, my dear," I said and then reached down and kissed her soft, supple nipple, before I gave a her gentle peck on the cheek. "We shall see."



She grinned again and then she tried slowly twisting away, out from under me, grimacing. "Please be careful, when you get off," she said, whispering, her voice trembling, child-like. "I think my legs are about to fall off."



* * *



Like an archangel appearing in your worst nightmare to take you from this miserable life, I saw her standing at the foot of the bed. Naked, blond, her skin glowed, was almost translucent in the rising, golden-red hue of the morning dawn coming through the high windows.



I could form no words to register what I was feeling, but I could see she was watching my as I stared up at her. 



She slowly smiled.



As she came closer, her head tilted slightly to the left, as if she were studying me, everything I knew, every nerve told me to recoil, to get out of that bed and hide, but I did not. This was no dream. This was no nightmare. This is now.

<hr pg="5" />The sheets are lifted off me, slowly dragged down my body, and I am chilled in the morning air. She can see my nipples harden, the hair on my chest standing on end, the gathering bumps on my skin and she reaches down to touch me.



Her touch, so light, but heavier than anything could be, takes my breath away, but as she slowly strokes my chest, slowly comforts me, for the first moment since seeing her I think it might be alright. I know I would see her tonight, no matter how much I've convinced myself it would not be. And now she is here. And so now I reach for her, but she smiles again, stepping back, shaking her head, pursing her lovely lips "No". 



I try again, and she takes my hand, wraps it in her two smaller, warmer ones and then puts it up to her chest, between the lovely pinkness of her swollen breasts. I feel her steady, slow heartbeat, a life pulse so strange and awful that my trapped hand feels like it's on fire.



She releases my hand, and my fingers fall slowly to her sternum, to her charming stomach, over her belly button, down her firm, flat abdomen and then I pull back, afraid to go lower.



My eyes are drawn there, and it's horrible to admit I see what I see. It's the most precious sight I've ever seen, a flower of the rarest beauty. She is sparse, natural and light between her thighs, and I can see the deep indent of the furrow clearly as she takes a step back towards me, almost at my face. 



I try to shut my eyes, but cannot. My mind takes me back to when I'd last seen her like this, when she was a little girl, after an evening spring shower, running into my room, bouncing on my bed. 



But she is not that girl-I know this if I know anything-nothing like that girl, a different creature altogether, transformed into something I cannot recognize.



"Oh, Daddy," she whispers, and I know she can feel the hot air of my quick, shallow breaths against her pink soft folds. I reach and just graze her thigh, and my shaking hand slowly, careful, oh, so careful, each millimeter, envelops that thigh, brings it closer. I can smell her now, can smell the freshness and wondrous vitality. Slowly, again, so slowly, I reach out with my tongue, and her warm thighs quiver in anticipation.



My tongue, lips touch her. I feel another tremor. 



Ever so slightly I brush my tongue over every bump of her warm skin, can feel the soft downy wisps of her light, fragrant hair, can taste the slight salty taste of her. Slowly, my tongue travels deeper, deeper along that furrow, and I hear her gasp as my tongue's wetness is met with her heat, burning moisture. There against my tongue, just budding, I feel her hard, little clit and I lick round and round until I feel myself dizzy, until I feel the warm juncture of her thighs shaking against my nose and forehead, and I cannot wait any longer.



No longer. God, no longer. That subconscious desire, that dark recess of mind we hide in and toil in and struggle against, all of it bursts open, and both my hands grip her thighs, almost roughly, open her thighs. My tongue now laps, hungrily drinks, all of her. 



I bite bits of tender flesh. I suck, succulent juices only she can provide. I cannot get my fill. My fingers. I find my fingers and reach, fighting desperately to pry away my tongue, to her liquid center and my finger is enveloped, and then rudely swallowed inside her, as her entire body shakes with pleasure.



I try to shut my ears, want to know nothing. I feel only. The trembling, the wetness, the heat, the tight grip of her cunt as it strokes and milks my thick finger over and over. I try to shut my ears, but my daughter's groans, her gasps cannot be drowned out.



"Oh, Daddy," she says, moans, pulls my head tighter against her, buries me. 



"Oh, Daddy," she now groans. "It's never been this good. Never this good. Never this hot! Never! Your tongue. Oh, Daddy! Your tongue, your tongue, your tongue is fucking me. Never! Never!" and her song-chant continues, and I want to hold her face, kiss her, stop her voice, sooth her, quiet her.



In a flow of limbs, I bring her down to me, pull her on top of me, and, my eyes shut, I marvel for the first time the wonderful weight and feel of her long, warm body. I open my eyes, reach up, and pull Christine's soft blond hair out of her face, wrap it in both hands and pull it away. Shaking, I look into her clear blue eyes, looking into my daughter's eyes, and I want so much to make a connection with her. I want her to see how much I love her, how I have no idea what to do next, how terrified I am, but her eyes tell me nothing about her. Her eyes seem strange, empty, looking everywhere, but my face, and when she does look at me I see no tenderness, just impatient, juvenile desire.



Oh, she has other ideas. The connection I want is elsewhere for her and she rises, pale, pink, round, full, firm tits proudly standing at attention, and she rises, straddling and reaches back and holds me, her fingernails scrape and pinch and my eyes widen, pray for an end.



Looking at me strangely, but sure in her direction, she rises more and, without warning, oozing at the tip, the lovely lips of her cunt spread. I am paralyzed, cannot move and she teases and teases, as the swollen, spongy head of my cock swims helplessly at her opening, and she teases and teases.



"Tell me what you want, Daddy," she says gravely now looking at me, her face flush, her bottom lip bitten down on.



"Not this, baby. Not now! Just wait! Don't do this," I gasp, as she lowers herself, her cunt cruelly envelops and then grips me, just the tip, and I pray for an end.



"Don't do what, Daddy?" she says. "This?" She groans, and I am on the verge of tears, as the entire thick head of my cock slips into her.



My mouth is dry, my throat is burning, but she does not stop. "Please . . ."



"Tell me what you want, Daddy," she says, not listening, still holding me.



"Oh, Christine," I groan as another inch sinks into her, and then she nearly loses her balance and slowly another two, three, four inches are squeezed into her as she gasps and trembles. "My beautiful sweet, baby," I cry. "Please. Stop." 



Sweat pours down my face, soaks my chest and shoulders and I lean up and can see it happening, can see her half seated, leaning forward on her powerful legs, balance regained. What I see, I don't see, but I know that almost half of my cock is buried inside my daughter's pink, swollen cunt.



And now she has trouble holding still, her hand's grasp is less certain, is shaking, as another inch breaks through into what seems new territory. "Tell . . . me . . . tell me . . . what . . . you . . . want," she tries to say through clenched white teeth, but I can barely hear her as I watch another inch slowly disappear into Christine's cunt.



And she cannot stop herself. I want her to stop. There seems to be no more room inside her, for one thing, but it's just too impossible and yet I watch in horror as she grits her teeth, and tightly shuts her eyes. I hold my breath. Nothing else exists, no sound, no movement. 



We are suspended like this, joined for long seconds . . . until a blood curdling scream hits me as she shoves herself onto her father's remaining meat.



I may have passed out. I may have died that moment in the fit of a massive coronary, and the rest of this story may simply be a recording of my agony in hell-I have no answers, but when what remained of my senses returned to me, my daughter was bent over, crying on my chest, naked, my rigid cock was sheathed so deep inside her, so hard, that it seemed I could feel it actually pulsing through her burning belly pressed hard against my stomach.



But none of that could divert from her soft, angelic whisperings in my ear, as she cried and repeated over and over, almost as if she was apologizing, "I love you. I love you, Daddy. I love you."



And then, no longer capable of thinking, unable to reason any of this into any sort of coherence, I loved her back. 



Still gripped inside her, slowly receding, but never escaping, I rolled her onto her back, carefully disentangling her legs from mine, wiping the tears and knots of tangled blond hair off her soft, rosy cheeks and reassuring myself that she was okay, fully conscious, I started fucking my Christine.



Her grip, Christine's cunt was like a velvet vise of burning honey, as I literally pulled out her inner walls with each retreat before I pushed it all back in with each thrust. I saw everything, looking down, between us, I could see her body's luscious inner life being turned inside-out. My little baby could do nothing, she simply held on to me, clawed on to me, as my cock pierced her heart again and again, deeper, harder each time.



We were floating in space, just she and I in the now full morning sun, my flesh rutting up relentlessly into my own flesh and blood. It could never end, had no ending, her raw nerves clawing against mine as we tore into each other.



She didn't exist any more than I did. It was just cock and cunt, cock and cunt, cock and cunt. Her cunt my cock. My cunt her cock. She started where I ended, I commenced where she stopped. I was fucking myself. Over and over, again and again.



"Daddy," she kept saying. "Daddy, oh, Daddy!" she cried. "Fuck me! Fuck me!"



And I would fuck her. I had my daughter on her back, like some common whore, and I fucked her. And with each of her comes, how many I couldn't tell you, she would clench, scratch and bite my shoulder, leaving mark after mark, as her cunt, now sumptuously, impossibly open to everything I gave her, would begin a wild dance of convulsions and ripples, trying to tear my cock out from its roots.



In the end, just when I'd thought I had no strength left, something happened that surprised both of us, something that changed everything it seems.



The telephone rang.



Immediately, I knew it was Mary, and that idea, that fact excited me more than anything that had happened that long, awful night. Holding myself perfectly still, my cock swelled again and again, at the trigger point, with each ring of the phone, and then I nearly lost it, nearly fell off her body when Christine, gasping, did the impossible, picked up the phone and said, "Hello."



"Oh, hi mother," she said breathing hard, her face drenched in sweat, her eyes red-rimmed, but determined, the phone resting on her shoulder. 



"Oh, nothing. I just ran into the house when I heard the phone and I've got to catch my breath." She listened for a moment, and then, covering the phone, as she reached behind me with her free hand, behind us and then lower to tickle my balls, she teasingly asked, "Do you want to talk to your wife?"



I shook my head, unbelieving, as she gripped my balls a little more tightly with her long slender fingers. All thoughts of escaping were gone. She had me by the balls. I could do nothing but respond. I couldn't help but push into her, and she bit her lower lip.



"Oh, Daddy . . . I think he's inside, no outside . . . I can't tell. It's too hard. No, now he's inside . . . I mean, outside. Yes, you guessed it. With all of those awful legal papers. You know him," she said, grinning at me, now gripping my balls even harder, gently prodding and squeezing as I continued to push against her.



"Oh, Daddy . . . did me, I mean, nothing last night. Just sat around I think . . . I don't know. The girls are still here . . . Sure they spent the night . . . Daddy took each of them . . . I mean, he took us to dinner last night. It was . . . oh, Daddy . . . cool." I continued pushing into her.



"Oh, Daddy . . . I don't think he minded. . . not at all . . . Today? We might go to the beach . . . Oh, Daddy . . . I think he'll stay inside. It's still pretty hot in . . . out, I don't know . . . Oh . . . Nothing, nothing at all . . . How's grandmother?" she asked, and, covering the phone again, whispered hoarsely up to me, "Stop it! You're going to make me come again. Do you want to get us killed? It's your turn, anyway. Come, Daddy. Go ahead, come." 



Her hand continued massaging, continued gripping, scraping everything. My cock seemed to swell even more and I pushed against the tender, pulverized flesh of her cunt mound.



"Oh, Daddy . . . He'll be so glad to hear that. I'm so glad she's feeling better. Daddy will be happy . . . Are you sure? He looked pretty focused inside . . . I mean, out there. Oh, alright, but don't blame me if he starts . . . oh, if he starts yelling. Alright, I love you, too. Say 'hi' to the three musketeers. Bye." She pressed the 'hold button' and put the phone back on the nightstand. 



"Alright," she gasped, her teeth clenched. "You're too naughty. You better come, do you understand? We've only got a couple of minutes, before she wonders what the hell's going on. I'm not sure I was at all convincing." 



And with that, her thighs opened wider and she began rutting up, my cock now moving in cadence with her.



"Christ-"



"Don't be stupid! Just come," she said, almost screaming, and then gripped my ass with both her hands, urging me on, pushing me into her. "Oh, God. We can talk about everything later. Oh, fuck. We've got lots to talk about. Oh, Daddy, just come now."



"Your mother-"



"You can talk to her after . . . Oh, fuck, you're so big," she groaned as I began humping into her now in a harsh, steady rhythm. 



"Unless," she gasped. "Unless you want to come . . . come while you talk to her, but I can't promise . . . Oh, fuck me, Daddy . . . I can't promise I won't scream and then . . . Oh, God, again. Daddy . . . I'm going to come . . . and . . . and we're both in a world of hurt if she hears us."



"Baby-"



"Oh! Oh! Oh! Don't baby me . . . Daddy! Daddy! You're fucking me. You're fucking making me come again. Don't you love me?" she asked, almost tears.



"Oh, more than life. You don't know."



"Then come. Come! Come! Come! Oh, Fuck!"



And her head slammed back into the pillow, tears streaming down her face, and the veins in her neck bulged, and she strained, her chest arching up to me, her incredible pink rose nipples begging to be touched, her cunt milking me and . . . then I froze, my entire body knotted painfully. 



The long wait was over. What had needed happening for so long was happening. I hadn't ejaculated in days, certainly nothing with Mary in weeks, and it seemed like this was my first time ever.



"Ohhh, fuck," I growled. "Oh, sweet, delicious, love. Ohhh, sweet, sweet, dear Christine." 



It was pouring out of me in huge gushes, pulsing, bleeding into her. Her eyes were open wider than seemed possible and she held my face in her delicate hands, gripping my face, watching me, watching it all happen.



"I feel it! I can feel it all! Oh, God, you're drowning me! Daddy, I'm drowning in your come! I feel every drop, everything!" she cried.



"Baby," I whimpered, but it wouldn't end. It just wouldn't end. The intensity and burning and heat, all of it seemed to go on forever, and my daughter watched me, as I twisted and groaned on top of her.



"I love you. I love you. I love you," she moaned over and over, sniffling, out of her mind.



"Oh, Christine," I groaned as it slowly, finally, subsided and, unable to stop myself, I let my full weight fall onto her. 



She gasped at the sudden weight, holding my head, kissing me for the first time.



More than anything I wanted to kiss her back, I wanted to kiss her forever, but she stopped me, turning her face away. 



"Answer the phone," she said, breathing deeply. "Mother's waiting."



I nodded, trying to catch my breath. I nodded, grabbed the phone and turned it on.



"Hello . . . hello."



"John, what took you so long?" Christine's hand softly stroked my drenched back.



"I just had to finish something," I said, smiling down at Christine, who covered her mouth to try to suppress a giggle.



"Didn't Christine tell you I was waiting? Sometimes, I wonder about that girl." Christine brought her thighs down from around my waist, slowly, gingerly, shaking, but I remained inside her.



"My dear," I said, feeling my daughters firm, smooth thighs flat on the bed now, next to mine, but still spread, my cock still buried to the hilt inside. "We're talking, aren't we? Aren't we talking?"



"Whatever . . ." and then my wife went into a long tirade about how miserable Fresno was and how much she wanted to return home as soon as possible, no matter what the doctor said about her mother's tumor, and she talked and talked like she always does, but I heard nothing, only felt, my eyes shut, as my daughter's overflowing cunt seemed to be emptying itself of gallons of my come, drenching our thighs, my balls, everything. 



Christine wrapped the soaked sheets around our joined, chilled bodies, in a cocoon, and closed her eyes. Her mother talked on.



* * *



I joined Christine back on the bed after taking a much-needed piss. 



My first question to her as we faced each other side-to-side, naked together my hand gently stroking her left swollen pink nipple, was, "Are you on the pill, baby? Are you-"



"Yes. Yes. You're so paranoid about that stuff just because I was an accident--"



"Baby, you weren't--"



"God, let me worry about that stuff."



"I'm sorry. I didn't . . . when did you get on the pill?"



"God," she said, rolling her eyes. "Must be three years now."



"You've been active sexually for three years?" I asked, genuinely surprised. I hadn't thought Christine was a virgin, but this was altogether unexpected. Three years.



"A little more, perhaps, but yes about three years I've been on the pill. Who cares? God, you can be so tiresome."



I resisted a huge blow-up. I'd certainly talk to Mary about this. I'd hint here and there and she would spill the beans. She always did. How the fuck could Mary have put Christine on the pill when she was only fifteen? Outrageous! 



But what about Christine? What could I say to her? Any leverage I might have had was lost, obviously. I was going to lecture her about morality, decency? I was naked in bed with her, had just fucked her brains out for God's sake. My stomach, filled with almost a bottle of scotch, and whatever remained of the rice wine from dinner last night began to turn.



"Three years," I said. "Wow. I didn't know that. I mean, well, to whom did you lose your virginity?"



"To whom? . . . God, sometimes you talk like an alien, you know that?"



"Never mind how I speak. Never mind how tiresome you find me. Who was the guy?"



"You don't want to know," she said stretching out, yawning, her beautiful long body flawless.



"Of course, I want to know, if I know him."



"Oh," she giggled, "you know him. Don't worry about that."



"Who was it?" I asked, starting to become annoyed.



She smiled, looking at me sadly and then took a deep breath, her firm tits rising slowly and then falling as she exhaled. 



"Okay. Okay," she said. "We'll talk about this stuff, but you've got to promise me two things."



"What are you talking about?"



"I would love to . . . no, I really need to talk to you about a lot of things, I really need to, I feel I need to, like I really owe you an explanation, but you've got to promise me two things."



"I have no intention of promising you anything, Christine, until I know what it is I'm making a promise about," I said wanting to turn from her, but unable to, unable to take my eyes off her beautiful face, her perfect tits, which I prayed she'd let me slobber over soon, and then lower to her glistening, leaking cunt.



"Well, then, live in darkness for the rest of your life. I don't care," she said, and she did turn on her back, staring up at the ceiling, oblivious to me.



"I promise. Christine, I promise," I said, softly touching her warm shoulder.



"Good," she said, quickly flipping back over on her side, arm raised, holding her head up, my hand falling lightly over her firm stomach. She watched my hand for a moment, and then closed her eyes. "Okay, promise, first, that you won't tell anybody about anything I might tell you now. You can't say a word to mother or anyone else. This is just between you and me."

<hr pg="6" />"Fine. Fine," I said, starting to lose all restraint, wanting to touch her between her legs, rub her. Unbelievably, I could feel the warmth returning to my cock. We would have almost a week together alone. Would it happen again? Did I want it to happen again?



"Promise."



Startled, I looked at her confused. "What?"



She slapped my hand away from her breast. "That's for later, Daddy. We have all week. Concentrate."



I smiled at her.



Still annoyed, she said, "Get your mind out of the gutter. Promise that you won't tell anybody about what we talk about here today."



I promised.



"Good," she said. "Okay, promise me next that nothing I tell you will affect my future."



"What?" I asked, releasing her body.



"Promise me that whatever I tell you won't affect the fact you're going to pay for Princeton or Graduate School or anything like that."



"Of course, I promise that," I said, slightly upset, removing my hand from her warm tit. Where was this going? "What are you talking about? How can you say that?"



"Even if I go to medical school. You'll pay for it. Promise me."



"Christine, what the hell is wrong with you?"



She ignored my question, eager to get on with her story. "Okay, good. You asked who took my virginity, right?"



"Yes," I said, calming down a bit.



"It was Rudy Sherman."



"Rudy . . . Your tennis coach?" I asked, almost jumping off the bed, but stopped myself.



"Yes. When I was almost fifteen."



"Almost fifteen. You lost your virginity when you were only fourteen?"



"Sure. It's no biggie. I mean . . . oh, whatever."



"That sonofabitch. I've paid to have this guy to teach . . . For God's sake, he's older than I am. Did he rape you?"



"Yeah, right . . . and you promised to be cool."



"Fine. Fine," I said, promising myself that I'd get that piece of shit canned from the club first thing tomorrow.



"I mean, I don't know why you're so shocked. Beth's slept with him, too, even before I did. Lots of women have."



"Beth slept with him?"



"Sure. God, we lost State because of that asshole. We all got drunk and we were both with him the night before the match at the same time in his hotel room, for old time's sake he said, and it just totally got of control and it totally messed us up for the tournament the next morning."



A small drop of saliva caught in my throat. I coughed. "You had group . . . I mean, both of you . . . with him."



"Oh, sure. Beth's got a great body and it wasn't the first time she and I-"



"How many men, I mean, people have you slept with?" I asked my daughter, amazed at how relaxed she was about things that I would have thought impossible about her, until this morning.



"I don't know," she said shrugging. "Maybe twenty, give or take a couple."



"Twenty?"



"Give or take a couple."



"And you were part of this bet, this bet Stacey, Jennifer and Beth made about me, then?"



"Well, of course I was. And I won," she said happily, slipping her hand between her thighs and then moaning. "I have enough proof here to convince them. Christ, do I have proof."



She raised her hand, wet with our juices, extending it to me, but I ignored her.



"So everything yesterday-your embarrassment when we went to the restaurant, your shriek when I saw you topless in the pool last night, all of that was an act for my benefit?"



"Sure. God, I was good," she said, rubbing her wet hand on her left breast. "But, Daddy, know something."



"What?"



"It wasn't difficult, you know. Fooling you, that is. I've been acting like that around you all my life. I knew you wouldn't have a clue."



This was unbelievable. My body started shaking. "We committed incest so that you could win some stupid child's game?"



"Hey, don't knock it," she said, actually laughing. "I got the fuck of my life, and, though at this moment it's quite open to debate, almost as important as that, I get three slaves for the rest of the summer."



"And so, this . . . all of this was your idea?"



"Well, it started last month, really, right after I slept with Mr. Hernandez."



"Mr. Hernandez?"



"Sure, Beth's dad."



"I know who he is. Why?" I asked. I would ruin that fuck too. Holy shit. Holy shit. And I'd been on the verge of making that scum more money than he could have ever dreamed of.



"Why did I sleep with him? Simple. Because Beth said he would never sleep with me-he was too decent, too religious-and I had to prove her wrong, and, after I did, she said she'd sleep with you as revenge. Well, that pissed me off and I told her I could sleep with you before she could and that was the bet."



"And the other two, Jennifer and Stacey?"



"Oh, those two morons just sort of stumbled into this. Think of it as a bonus for you. Beth and I did this great act in Florida that got them all involved. They know nothing about my role in anything. It was stupid, but Beth and I concluded that having three slaves was a whole lot better than having just one. I mean, with three slaves, if either of us lost, we could be, like, the head slave or something like . . . Hey, why are you looking like that?"



I shook my head, unable, not trusting myself to respond.



"God, I thought you'd jump at the chance to jump all four of our bones. And you did, didn't you. You fucked us all. In one night. It's a story for the ages. I have hot friends anyone else would die for."



"Christine . . ."



"Daddy," she said smiling broadly. "Think of it this way, and it's really quite a lot more interesting: I, your daughter, acted like your pimp last night, do you know that? Look what a good job I did. But, God. If I had known you were going to be so self-righteous and queer about it . . ."



"And so you've won?" I asked, trying to hide the sarcasm in my voice.



"Yes," she said without a care in the world. "I knew you wouldn't come with any of the others-even if you actually did screw them, because, like mother says, you're the most stubborn old mule in the world. Once Beth convinced Jennifer to spill the beans to you at the restaurant, everything depended on you finding the condom, but I was pretty sure you would . . .and, I really doubted you'd do that . . . come with anyone if it meant somehow they won and you lost. Your ego is too fragile for something like that. You and I are a lot alike that way. But with me . . . I knew I could beat you . . . you're too much of a romantic. God, I wish I'd only known about this monster before." She reached and patted my cock.



And then I lost it, barely able to stop myself from swatting away her hand. "Christine. Are you crazy? Are you nuts? Christine, we just had sex! I just fucked you!"



"I know. I know," she said, reaching down again, but this time grabbing my flabby cock. She squeezed it. Hard. Almost bringing tears to my eyes. "Like I said, it was the best I've ever had. And I'm not kidding about that either. Christ."



"You honestly have no qualms about what just happened here?"



"Why should I?" she asked, releasing my cock.



"I'm your father, for God's sake!"



And then she looked at me, stared straight at me, unforgiving, uncaring.



And then she destroyed me.



"I doubt that, Daddy. I doubt you're my father."



At first, self-defense, survival instinct, convinced me she had not said what she had just said. 



"What did you say?" I carefully asked.



"I highly doubt you're my father," she said and I could see that malevolence I'd seen earlier in the early light of dawn this morning, that strange look in her eye. She continued. "I mean, you're my Daddy, and what we did is unquestionably a mortal sin on that count alone so we'll have a lot to answer for regardless-I wonder which circle Dante would have put us in-but, no," she said, looking right at me. "I don't think you're my father."



"What are you saying?" I asked quietly.



"Mother told me the story and you, you recall your promise."



"What did she tell you? What story?" I asked, my voice strangled.



"She told me that while she was dating you she also fooled around a couple of times with your roommate in college, a fool named Tim Jensen. God, what a ding-bat I have for a mother."



And like a flash I knew she was telling me the truth. I moaned in agony. Tim Jensen. Jesus. Motherfucker. I hadn't thought of that slime-ball in years, not since graduation. But Mary was over a lot at the apartment. In fact, I could remember one time, distinctly now, when I thought something odd was happening between them, when I'd returned to the apartment one day unexpected, a canceled class in the early fall, and I saw that beach bum naked, except for his shorts and sunglasses, sweating in the living room. He casually told me Mary was in the bathroom or somewhere. He didn't know. Didn't care. And, plus, dude, could I move my ass out of the way, because this was his favorite show. I remember hearing the water running, and it all seemed strange, but I immediately forgot about it when Mary came out of the bathroom, in a light skirt, glowing, throwing her arms around me, telling me she loved me, telling me that she wanted to get some lunch because she was really hungry. 



"Christine," I said, trying not to cry. "Tell me you're lying. Please, God, tell me you're lying."



"I wish I were, but I'm not. That's what mother told me, okay? It's not my fault, and it doesn't change anything, as far as I'm concerned. I still love you, and you're still my Daddy."



"Baby, I love you too, but . . ." and then I turned away from her, my eyes welling, my throat constricting.



"She said you asked her to marry her, when you found out she was pregnant, but that she never knew who the real father was. She never found out for certain, but I know what she believes. What more do you want me to say?"



"Oh, my God," I groaned, the tears now streaming down my face.



"Well, look at me," she said. "Don't cry. Face facts. I mean-"



"The boys," I groaned. "What about the boys?"



"Don't interrupt," she said sharply and I turned to her and I could see she could not have cared less about my suffering. She had a 'cool' story to tell, and she was going to tell it. She continued: "I was just getting to that. I mean, let's indeedie, look at them. Look at the boys. They have dark hair, brown eyes, just like you do-I mean, it's like you cloned the little brats or something. Everything about them is you. I mean, just look at them and then look at me. I look, if you look really hard, a little like mother, I know, but I look nothing at all like you. Do I? Look at me."



And I did look at her, searching her blond face, as if I was doing it for the first time in my life, looking into her deep blue eyes, and try as I might I could see nothing of myself in her, not her small, little nose, her full red lips, the small, delicate chin, nothing. But still, this couldn't be true. 



"And this is it," I said. "This alone, the fact that you have blond hair and blue eyes, this is the basis for your belief that I'm not your father? Your mother has blue eyes. And my mother was light, just like you."



"Well, mother said, your blood type is consistent . . . I mean, your blood type doesn't disqualify you out of hand, and there's been no paternity test or anything like that, you know, but, I mean, I don't know, look at me. I've always assumed since mother told me three years ago all about this that you're not my real father. I mean it doesn't matter to me at all, okay? I'd feel awful if it changes how you feel about me."



It changed everything, but I couldn't let her know that. First, I had to find out what sort of person this little slut was. 



"You mean, you would've done this regardless, you would've fucked me, even if you thought I was your real father?"



"Probably. I'm not sure. But it seemed like such an easy bet to win-you know, it was just like I was going to seduce some older, really good looking older guy. Hardly the first time, Daddy."



She turned over, relaxed, unhurried, onto her stomach and shut her eyes, peacefully resting her lovely blond head on her arms, her glistening, wet rump there for me if I wanted her.



* * *



Things happened quickly after that morning. 



I've been telling you throughout that I'm a ruthless fuck, so it shouldn't surprise you that Rudy Sherman's seven-year tenure, or should I say debauchery, as the head tennis coach at the club ended abruptly the next day. I had the extreme pleasure of kneeing him in the balls as he emptied his ridiculous locker, begging for another chance. And I made sure that the club manager spread the word throughout Southern California that he could not be trusted. Let him starve in Alaska, the piece of shit. Raping little girls. 



Hernandez? Hernandez was quietly terminated three days later. Didn't get a chance to get my hands on him, but I would have loved to. His current boss had been my Chief Operating Officer at my old bank. It wasn't difficult. His boss owed me his position. I strongly suggested that the mortgage on Hernandez's over-priced house, all those nifty little perqs. that executives get, club memberships, company car, life insurance, all of it should be cancelled, as well. Heated legal proceedings are pending. No bank will hire him in L.A. Dirtball. Jumping in bed with little girls. 



The only person I couldn't find was Tim Jensen. Timmy, may he burn in hell longer and with less subtlety than I, Jensen had been killed in a drug deal six years ago, no spouse, no nothing to remember him by, except a nymphomaniac daughter with a 1600 SAT he'd kindly bagged me with.



Mary, my wife? I left her. Dumbfounded, dumb bitch. Well, I shouldn't say, 'dumbfounded.' Hardly. It was almost as if she'd been expecting it. After an initial few minutes of shock, it didn't seem to bother her in the slightest. No explanation was necessary she told me-'we all make choices to make us happy' or some such other psycho-babble. Of course, I hadn't been part of her life at any time in the marriage. I simply made possible her extravagant life-style, produced three children for her, provided for her fourth, and she was secure financially and that was that. Who knows? Things might have been different, but I wasn't going to stick around to try to repair something that had long ago died. So don't worry about her. She has the house, everything she needs, will ever need. 



What I did do, which many of you may not agree with, was to set up trusts with almost everything I owned-and I owned quite a bit Mary could never get her greedy little hands on-for the boys, and a separate trust with just enough for college and any graduate school she might choose for Christine.



A promise is a promise.



And that's it. Really sorry it took so long to tell.



I watch the crashing waves on this small island in the South Pacific, laptop in hand, totally at peace, serene in a way I never knew I could be, dozens of delightful native girls (almost all descendants of a shipwreck of English sailors more than one hundred and fifty years ago and, therefore, amazingly exotic). They surround me, the girls do. They comfort me, eager to entertain.



Well, that's not entirely it. I can't hold out on you at this point. Not if you've come this far with me. 



Two days ago, while I finished the final edits of this story, I received a package from Christine with a DNA analysis purportedly proving, without question, I was her father. She said blood samples were used from the physical I'd had shortly before all of the awful things I've described here happened. (I knew that snotty doctor couldn't be trusted--the little wench probably blew him to queer the results.) I'm debating whether to have my own, independent analysis done, but so far I see no reason to disturb the status quo. 



Christine's promised visit to my Island for the entire summer with Beth, Jennifer and Stacey might change that. Time permitting, I'll let you know.



<i>This one is quite a bit off the reservation for me. A lot of fun to write. Very curious about reactions. Comments, thoughts, suggestions, criticisms always welcome. Particularly interested in which of the sex scenes worked best.</i> 

