Licking my lips, I finished swallowing his hot salty gift. I looked up at him, my eyes shining in the darkness. I had just sucked off my daddy here, in the middle of the hallway where I had class every day!
"Daddy... Why don't we go out to the car?"
"What about the dance?"
"I only want to dance with you, daddy."
~
I started to lead my daddy by the hand out to the car, much like I led Aaron, but my daddy wasn't one to be led. He took me by the hand and I followed him, through the darkened hallways. We went past the gymnasium but by now, the halls were mostly empty. Basically everyone was inside joining the dance, even Mrs. Whitefield. I didn't even feel jealous. The music was still pumping and beating and we could hear it easily from where we were.
He led me out into the parking lot and as soon as we were outside the school, my belly came alive with butterflies. What were we going to do? Was I really going to... Have sex with my daddy?
I followed him to his car, a gorgeous, sleek black BMW. Like I said, my daddy is a lawyer, and a stylish one at that. I didn't know what he had planned, so I followed him when he led me around to the front of the car and sat me on the hood.
"Baby doll, are you sure about this?"
"I am, daddy," I whispered. He leaned down to kiss me, and I inhaled his delicious scent and taste--a combination of whisky and coffee, tastes that said he was my daddy and no one else. I leaned into his kiss, my tongue all but prey to his ravenous lips and mouth. I tentatively put my arms on his shoulders and his hands found their way up my long, smooth legs, delighting in feeling my smooth skin, in stroking the very legs he had watched play youth soccer years ago, in squeezing the very butt that he had watched wiggle at ballet recitals. In that moment, in that singular moment, I belonged only to my daddy.
He kissed his way down my neck, sucking hard on my neck. He would leave marks, I realized with a rush of excitement. Everyone would assume that Aaron left them. What would Aaron think? Would he know? Did I care what he thought? Of course not.
He had me lean back and I obeyed, good girl that I am. I spread my legs without him even prodding me to. I was sopping wet by now and I'm sure he could smell the scent of my sex wafting on the late summer breeze. He brushed the tips of his big fingers against my mound and I shuddered, the fabric of my underwear rubbing deliciously against my clit. He danced his fingers along my thighs, along the creases in between my legs and my crotch, and that only made my juices flow harder, flow faster. My body felt like it was on fire. I ached for him, and for no one else.
"Daddy, please," I moaned. He slid my thong to one side and the tip of his finger met my glistening, damp folds. My heaving breasts called out to him in the moonlight and he gripped one of my tits, roughly, but it was his to grope if he wanted to. His finger slid up and down my slit before finally invading me, I let out a moan, probably too loud. I was sure anyone in the parking lot could hear us, but fortunately, everyone was inside and the music was so loud, we could even hear it clear as day from where we stood.
He worked his finger in and out of my tight hole, finger fucking me like I was his toy (which of course, I was, at that moment!). I writhed on the hood of my daddy's car, his slightest touch sending me into convulsions as he played with me. This was incredible. How could Aaron have ever done this to me? My daddy was the one, the only one. How could I not have seen that?
I was already close when he bent down and ran his lips over my nether lips, sucking up my juices and torturing my clit with his tongue. He began a long, steady assault on my clit and I whimpered.
"Yes, daddy, please, please, I'm so close. Lick me, daddy. I'm your sweet little girl."
It was too much, when he wrapped his lips around my clit and lashed at it with his tongue. I began to shake, my orgasm sweeping over me, a tsunami washing away any doubts I ever had about this. He gripped my bare ass, holding me tight as I came. My pussy spasmed beneath his lips and I saw stars, literal and figurative, as I came down from my orgasmic daddy high.
"How was that, doll?"
"Perfect, daddy."
"Do you want more?"
"Mhm."
"Why don't you show me how the kids dance these days?"
I was only too pleased to. My legs shaking slightly, I stood up and turned around. I bent over the hood of his car, my tits pressed up against it, and began to twerk my ass to the music emanating from the high school gym.
"Like this, daddy. See?" I hiked up my dress so he could watch my ass wiggle. I heard him undo his pants and I giggled, more excited for what was coming next than anything I had ever experienced.
"Do you like how I dance for you, daddy?"
"I do, baby doll, I do. Now, keep dancing..." He slid my thong to once side and spread my wiggling as cheeks apart, sticky as they were with my abundant juices. I felt his massive prick pressing against my wet hole and I gasped as it slid into me. I gave way easily. Even though I was a virgin and even though my daddy was so big, his cock slid right into me. Of course, it didn't hurt that he pressed all his weight against me and drove it in, powerful bull that he was...
"Oh, god, daddy..."
"That's it, baby doll. Now you're a woman."
"But I'll always be your little girl, daddy."
"That's right. That's right," he grunted as he began to fuck me. I pressed my hips back against him, keeping time with the music. I moaned softly, trying to keep my voice down, lest another chaperone decide to investigate the unmistakable sounds of fucking coming from the parking lot. I felt like I was dancing for him, like I was dancing dirty for my daddy, fucking myself onto his cock, impaling myself with each stroke.
“Oh, daddy, is this how you imagined fucking me?”
“You bet it is.”
He began to pound me and even if it had stung slightly when he first slid into me, I realized he had just been taking it easy on me. He forced his massive daddy-cock in and out of me like I was a piece of delicious meat and he was a ravenous wolf, taking me and tearing me limb from limb. Eventually, I couldn’t control myself. I let out a shriek and he covered my mouth, bearing down on me as he pounded my tight, hot core.
“Oh, baby sweetness, I love you,” he moaned in my ear. With a grunt, he began to cum, spraying my tight cunt with his hot seed. The very cum that had spilled into my mom so many times before was spilling into my pussy, filling me up. It ran down my thighs and I felt it stick to the walls of my cunt.
We stayed there, him lying atop me, still mounting me, for several minutes, enjoying the cool summer breeze. Eventually, he pulled out and stood up. He returned my thong to its rightful place and began putting himself back together, tucking in his shirt, zipping up his pants.
“You can go back to the dance, if you’d like,” he said after a moment. “And Aaron can bring you home whenever you two like.”
“Thank you, daddy. But I’d rather go home with you.”
I saw a smile light up his handsome face in the moonlight.
“That’s my girl.”
Sick With My Step
“You need to learn to be a good girl and this is the way you’re going to do it.”
Eighteen-year-old Ashley has been a good girl all her life. She’s a great student but now that she’s a senior, she thinks she deserves a break, so she fakes sick to stay home from school.
The man of the house, however, is not amused and decides she needs to be taught a real lesson… A taboo lesson!
If you love stories of naughty girls getting taught dirty lessons by their steps, you’ll love this sexy tale!
“Daddy… I don’t think I can go to school today.”
I let out a loud, forced cough. My father raised an eyebrow, peering at me from over his horn-rimmed glasses. He wasn’t an old man by any means—if anything, he looked very young (after all, he was my step-father—my mother had remarried when I was just two-years-old after my biological father was killed overseas), but he still wore those goofy, old-style glasses that made him look like a la
wyer from a classic movie. In actuality, he was a modern lawyer, and one who spent most of his time at the office. My mother, meanwhile, spent most of her time traveling for work. And me? I spent most of my time either at school or at home, alone. I think you get the picture.
“I’m sick,” I said lamely, forcing another cough. My father’s eyes searched mine skeptically.
“You seemed fine last night,” he said slowly, wrinkling his handsome brow. He set down the paper and seemed to peer directly into my soul.
“Um, yeah, but it came on just now.”
“What are your symptoms?”
“I’m coughing… Obviously,” I said with another cough, as if to prove my point. “And, um, I’ve got a bad sore throat and I’m congested.”
“You don’t sound congested.”
“But I feel congested, daddy!” I whined in my best baby girl voice, a voice which I had practiced since I was a kid.
My father sighed and picked up his newspaper once again.
“All right, then. You’re the expert. I’ll call school,” he said with resignation. I gave a triumphantly relieved cough and drifted back up to my room.
~
My name is Ashley and I’m eighteen years old. I’m a senior in high school and I’ve got what you might call… Senioritis. You see, I’ve worked hard for the past four years. Really hard. I’m not naturally good at school, but I make up for it with my work ethic—hours and hours of studying my pretty little ass off each night. I got into an Ivy League college (Dartmouth, here I come!) and I had started to slack off just a teeny, tiny bit. Just a bit.
But, of course, that slacking came back to bite me in the ass before long. The very day I found myself begging my father to let me stay home from school, I had a huge multivariable calculus test. I hadn’t studied at all for it, of course. I already had an A in the class. There was no way the test could affect my grade all that badly.
That, at least, until my teacher sent us all an email at 10 PM reminding us that the test would count for 30% of our final grade—failing it would be enough to completely sink my grade in the class. Getting a C in calculus could cause Dartmouth to rescind my acceptance.
So, in other words, it was incredibly important that I stay home from school and study.
Of course, I wasn’t going to tell my dad this. How do you tell your father that you didn’t bother to study at all for a huge test and you only just realized that it mattered? My parents had always been very hands-off with me, at least when it came to school work. They understood that I knew how to work hard and that I knew what needed to be done and that I would do it—if I were struggling in a class, I would just naturally put in the extra effort, go to see my teacher after class, spending Saturdays reviewing material—whatever I had to do. Failing this calculus test would completely undermine the identity I had built for myself over the past four years!
After my father let for work, I went to work myself. Of course, I was supposed to be in bed, sleeping off my fever or cough or whatever it was I had (I left it vague so that I could change it to something else if I had to… I’m clever like that, if I do say so myself), but instead, I found myself at my desk, pouring over a long series of equations, memorizing proofs, and generally doing all the homework I should have done over the past few months.
After a solid three hours of work, I was starting to feel more confident in my ability to actually pass my teacher’s test when I finally took it. I leaned back in my chair, plucking my glasses off and rubbing my temples. My head actually did hurt now from all the concentrating, from the stress of having to work so hard and so fast on something that didn’t come all that naturally to me. But I knew, at least, that I was finally getting it. I was sure I’d pass—I had to.
I stood up to stretch and drifted over to my mirror. I found myself almost involuntarily admiring my young, teenage body: I have long brown hair, a narrow, almost moon shaped face, and naturally tanned skin. I’ve even got freckles that come out when it’s warm out—they pair very nicely with my butter-brown eyes. I had always been proud of my looks, even though I had never had time for boys in school. That’s not to say I didn’t get hit on all the time—I had my fair share of suitors and, even more than that, I’d feel hands brush up against my plump ass in the hallway or find guys “falling” into me head on, their hands cupping my generous breasts through my sweater while their friends snickered and watched, high-fiving my assailant as he went back to join them. Even girls would bully me like this sometimes—at least a few times, I had some more popular girls challenge me, demanding to know if I liked girls better than boys and if that was why I hadn’t ever had a boyfriend. One girl, a cheerleader, cornered me in the bathroom, pressed me up against a wall, and drove her hand beneath my skirt, cupping my panty-clad crotch while she forced her lips onto mine. It wasn’t totally unpleasant but I was mostly surprised by the suddenness. She finally released me when an ancient teacher toddled into the bathroom, reeking of old-woman perfume.
“Just helping Ashley with her make up,” the cheerleader said, trying as best she could to hide the fact that we were both flushed and sweaty. That was just about my only sexual encounter and it was definitely less than satisfying.
I simply didn’t have time to hang out with boys—or girls, for that matter. And so, I got pretty good at pleasuring myself. I masturbated at least once a day, usually as a break in between long bouts of homework. I liked to change out of my school clothes when I got home, usually taking off my pants or skirt and just going around in underwear and a top. When I felt like I needed a break, I’d just go lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling and sliding my hand into my panties, teasing my soft folds, savoring the way they molded around my fingers as I ran my digits over them, feeling at the same time the soft tuft of brown hair that covered the crest of my pussy. As I grew wetter and wetter, I’d move to playing with my clit and then, only when I was soaking and sopping wet, would I grab a hair brush, pull aside my panties, and press the handle inside.
Immediately, I would arch my back, groaning as I penetrated myself. I loved to fuck myself hard like that, pounding my tight little hole as fast as I could, my muscles clutching at the invading mass. I’d keep rubbing my clit as I fucked myself and within moments, I would crash into a mind numbing, leg-shaking, heart-stopping orgasm.
After a few moments of relaxation and recovery, I merely rose and returned to my desk, going back to work. I often looked forward to these little sessions of mine, since the constituted the whole of my sexual life from about the age of thirteen until now.
And today was to be no different! I lay myself on my bed, eyes focused on the ceiling, and slid my hand into my panties, finding my hot little snatch.
I let my eyes drift close, while my thoughts floated from one topic to another. I thought about guys on the football team, skinny boys on the track team, even the cheerleader who had pressed me up against the wall of the bathroom: I remembered her perfume, her desperate, horny breathing, the way I had tried to push her hands away at first and then simply given in once the waves of pleasure began to flow through me as she touched me…
And then, suddenly, my father invaded my thoughts. My father! I remembered a time not long ago, a Saturday morning, when he had been lifting weights in our basement. I had come downstairs to ask him a question—probably something dumb, like if we could have pizza for dinner or if I could borrow the car to go to Target—and found him covered in sweat, his wife-beater stretched tight over his well-built body. He was covered in tattoos from his days in the Marines—a big, long sleeve tattoo depicting his unit number, along with an image of a grim reaper harvesting screaming souls—the unit had been nicknamed “The Reapers” or something. It was funny to see that on him, since he was otherwise such a normal, responsible guy—a lawyer, who wore a suit every day, and never rolled up his sleeves, not so much because it would reveal his tattooed past as because he simply wasn’t the kind of man who engaged in such informal foolery as rolling up one’s sleeves.
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He was deadlifting when I saw him and I watched his muscles strain as he plucked the bar from the ground. I remember counting the plates on each side—there were five on each side, and each plate said forty-five pounds on the side. Combine that with the weight of the bar itself and he had to be lifting at least five-hundred pounds! It was only then, in this moment when my father wasn’t wearing a suit, when he was simply lifting and being a man, that I realized how strong he was, how incredible well-built his body was, and how little I knew about him as a person.
He pumped out five quick reps before dropping the way with an exhausted gasp and arching his back, groaning and stretching. It was only then that he noticed me, my mouth gaping wide, my cheeks flushed. Had I really gotten turned on by my own father?
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