by Adrian Amos
My moaning is uncontrollable, giving no respite by his pounding cock. Every time I think my pleasure might subside, daddy's cock feeds me another dose of it, forcing it deep into my cunt. It's like every thrust sends an invisible wave into me, crashing against my cervix, vibrating with the force of his hatred for my mother.
I'm the vessel for that hatred.
The thing daddy gets to pulverize in order to make everything right again.
I'm the receptacle for all his happiness.
And, as it turns out, all his seed.
His final strokes release the waves needed to topple my body, releasing those waves to bounce around inside me, spasming muscles and convulsing my pussy. I twitch and let out all my excitement, screaming out daddy's name over and over, my words and his cock an acknowledgment of his control over me.
Daddy's last stroke flies into me. He lets go of my tits and circles his arms around me, clasping them together as he braces us both against his orgasm.
His body seizes up, only to spasm just like my own. Daddy holds me to the seat as his cock unloads into me, his warm splooge filling my cunt up. My orgasming pussy drinks him up, swallowing and absorbing as much of his cum as possible, cycling it further into me in hopes that daddy becomes my baby's daddy.
He holds me still as our ragged breaths sync up, our lungs calming down as our bodies melt into each other.
“You feel okay, babygirl?”
I nod. “Yes, daddy. I loved it. Thank you.”
He laughs, “No need to thank me.”
My face burns.
He looks around the room. “I feel kind of bad for not having a bed here.”
I giggle, and daddy says, “Well, why don't you wait here and relax, and I'll go buy something to lay on.”
I shake my head, “No, daddy. Just stay here with me for a while.”
He nods against my back, supporting me as I rest up against him.
“And then we'll go together,” I say. “I want to pick out the bed we're going to be sleeping in together.”
“Is that what you really want? You really want to be with an old man like me?”
I turn toward him and smile. “Forever.”
- - -
Daddy Didn't Raise No Slut!
“Because you didn't raise me at all!” I scream at him. “Where do you even get off callin' yourself daddy?”
The fury in is eyes is smoldering, his jaw clenched as he keeps his anger to himself.
“You're, like, barely even older than I am. What are you, 32 or something? You ain't my daddy.”
“When you're under this roof,” he steams, his low voice menacing me behind his thick stubble, “You'll do what I say.”
“Like hell I will.”
“You will. Now go change that horrible outfit right this minute. I was going to say you're not going dressed like that to the party, but with that attitude, you're not going at all.”
I roll my eyes. The way I'm dressed? All I got on is a skirt and a long-sleeved sweater. Don't ask me why, I just like how it looks on me. What is it with him? Do I got too much leg showing for him? Is it that you can see my cleavage through the v-neck? I think I'm dressed pretty goddamn good, not a thing wrong with it.
And it just burns my biscuits that he'd call me a slut. Nothing I've ever done would give off that idea. Guys are barely even on my mind after I got out of high school. I'm tired of their immature asses anyway; I sure as hell wouldn't find anybody worth it at a graduation party. I just want to dress like this because I know I look good.
“You want to stop me from going to my graduation party?” I shake my head, resting my hands on my hips. “Can't you just fuckin' let me do what I want?”
He points his finger at me, “Watch your language!”
I look around in disbelief. “What? You're calling me a slut around here. That ain't fair one bit.”
“I don't care. My house,” he says matter-of-factly.
I give him the sass I'd been holding for him, tired of this overbearing jerk trying to run my life. “This ain't your house. We both know you're just a replacement man for my mom, in between models. She'll be over you real soon. You'll be up and out that door in—”
A stinging slap to my face demolishes my taunts.
I touch my inflamed cheek, burning as I stretch my jaw. I look over at my stepfather, blown away that he would actually hit me.
The rush of blood to my face is met with a strange tumble through my stomach, like the ricochet of energy transferred from top to bottom.
The remorse hits him quickly. “I'm sorry,” he says, shaking his head, “I didn't mean to do that.”
But I'm not taking his shit anymore. “Whatever, asshole. I bet you get off on hittin' girls.”
He exhales deeply, his frustration more tiring than aggravating. “Just go to your room.”
I huff, pissed that he'd push things so far. I was saying some shit, but you don't hit people for that. My face is red from both contact and anger.
I storm out of the kitchen and head into my room, slamming the door as hard as possible.
Growling under my breath, I pace around the room, muttering curses and squeezing my fists, so upset I feel like I'm about to kick the door in. But my flash of anger comes and goes as my thoughts circle around him.
I can hear my words coming out, my bitter rebuke against the man, only to be met by his open-handed slap. The words; the sound of his swing; the sting of my face; the rush of blood throughout my body.
It's upsetting me even more how quickly his strike shut me up. I was in control, only to immediately be slapped into reality. I feel weak, like you only feel when your show of strength comes out as a joke.
Then I think of something, something so weird and counterintuitive that I have no idea where it came from. All I can think about is the fuel it'll become when I shove it in his face.
This'll make him so goddamn angry!
Why do I want to make him angry after what he just did? Who knows, but something inside me wants to get under his skin so far that he couldn't dig me out if he tried.
I rush to my closet, pulling off my sweater and skirt.
He thinks that's too scandalous? A little leg action and some cleavage? Wait until he sees me next!
I take off my bra, letting my large breasts free as I make room for my new tight flannel shirt. The v-neck on this shirt is so crazy—way more than the sweater—and the shirt so small that after I bought it, I stashed it away too afraid to wear it.
But not anymore. He thinks I'm a slut? I'll show him how a slut dresses!
My mind is racing, anger clouding my vision. I'm not just putting clothes on: I'm chucking stuff across the room, intent on making a huge mess, furious that it's taking me so long to lash out against him and show him how much I hate him.
I throw the shirt overhead, compressing my tits against my chest as I work the shirt down my body. It comes no more than a few inches above my belly button, revealing a major case of midriff. So much cleavage is showing that I don't even need to unbutton anymore. God, I look fucking good!
Panties come off, replaced by a g-string that slides into my ass crack, another article of clothing I bought but have been too afraid to wear. If he only knew how much I try not to be a slut, he'd looked so stupid right now. That'd shut his face up.
Unfortunately, I can't seem to find anything revealing enough to wear on my legs. My skirts are nice, but he scoffed at a skirt already. I need to push it so hard that he'll wish I was wearing a skirt instead.
I grab an old pair of jeans and bring scissors to the legs, cutting off most of the fabric below the butt, letting the legs fall to the floor and kicking them out of the way.
I try them on. I shake my head. Nope, more.
I take them off and cut them even more, trying them on but still not satisfied.
Finally, I cut up and around, going straight through the pockets and coming down again, creating a nice round cut. The insides of the pockets are visible, so I cut the
m out as well, grabbing what's left and ripping it out with sheer fury, tearing holes in the jeans as I remove them completely.
When I slide the 'shorts' back on, the curvature of my ass hangs out perfectly, giving the world its first view of slutty me.
I take a deep breath, composing myself so that I don't come off as desperately trying to piss him off. I want him to think it's so fucking normal for me that he'll doubt everything he knows.
I leave my room, finding him still in the kitchen making a sandwich. He's concentrating on his work, clearly doing his best to ignore me, not looking up and adding another confrontation between us.
But I didn't come here to pussyfoot around. He's going to see me in all my glory, and then see me walk out on his ass!
“I'm going to that party,” I say defiantly, my hands falling to my hips like always.
He shakes his head, putting the knife down as he turns toward me.
His mouth hangs open as his eyes look me up and down. The surprise on his face is added to my mental database of every time I've won an argument against him. I know it when I see it, and this argument is not going to be one he claims for himself. He just looks like too much of a dope right now.
I swallow, the pause and space between us—only a few feet—sets my heart to a new beat.
I feel incredibly powerful in my clothes, giving me back that sense of control I lost when he slapped me. But then why do I feel suddenly nervous at the same time? When his eyes examine me, a strong jolt of goosebumps covers me from head to toe.
“W-what are you wearing?” he stutters.
“Oh, this?” I respond cheekily, turning around and placing my arms on the wall, bending at the waist, giving him the show of his life as my ass sways back and forth. “You like? I'm thinking of wearing it to the party, really get all the guys riled up.” I add in derisively, “If you know what I mean.”
Even after clearing his throat, it still takes a moment for his words to come out. “Uhhh...” is all he manages. His voice comes out weak and broken.
That's all he can come up with?! It's hilarious! It's like he can't regain his composure, so utterly dumbfounded.
The taste of victory is so sweet! If I walked out of here right now, I'd be set. I can't see how he'd have the poise to chase after me in time.
But the look on his stupid face. I can't just walk away from this. I need to rub it in as hard as I can. It's all so funny to me. I've never seen him entirely wrapped up in his own head where he can't scold or chastise me. He's always such an ass that now's the time to watch him flounder like an idiot.
A wag my ass some more, fixated on taunting him so more. “Aww, what? Is daddy not able to say anything?” I use his own title against him, taunting him for his supposed superiority over me.
I look back, his throat gulping, his posture stiff. I laugh at him, taking in his embarrassment like a fine wine, savoring every last drop.
But then he takes a few steps toward me, his hand falling to his crotch, covering what I can only imagine is an erection.
“Oh my God!” I shout, spinning around. “Are you getting a hard-on, you pervert?! You're so gross!”
He doesn't respond, merely pushing toward me as if in a trance, his eyebrows furrowed, focused on me in something that resembles rage. His movements are so determined that I unconsciously back away from him, inevitably running into the kitchen wall.
I look up at him, my nerves shot as I think he's going to slap me again. Why else would he approach me in such a serious mood?
“I don't know what—“
His hands land on the wall to each side of me, trapping me between his shoulders.
I glance to each side. “—you think you're doing, but you better—“
His mouth comes to mine, lips locking onto me in ravenous hunger. I try to talk, but it only comes out as garbled nonsense as my mouth is sealed. I put my hands on his chest in an effort to push him away, but a big man like him doesn't budge an inch, a solid wall of muscle that doesn't give way at all.
When he pulls away, I shoot in, “Wait, stop! You're my daddy! You shouldn't be—“
“Oh?” he says, mocking me, “I'm you're daddy now, is that it? I'm pretty sure you said I wasn't old enough for that.”
“You're not, but...” I'm so startled by the situation that I can't think clearly enough to rebut him.
Instead, his hand slides behind my head, drawing me from the wall and forcing my mouth to meet his. An animal touches my lips, its tongue pressing between and separating me for its pleasure. His softness enters me, dancing with mine until I can't help but respond, my hands running up his chest and gripping onto his shoulders.
He pushes and I crash into the wall, that surge I felt when he slapped me returns, moving throughout my body and circling my stomach. This nervous energy makes me tingle, and I freeze waiting to see what he's going to do next.
“Right now,” he says, looking me up and down, his eyes falling to the opening of my tits, “I ain't your daddy. I'm all those boys you want to rile up.” He grabs my hips, picks them up off the wall, and slams my ass back against it. I oomph, the bounce stunning me. “And when boys get riled up, they get aggressive.”
I shake my head rapidly, heat rising to my face as I try to refute him. Quietly, I say, “No, no they won't.”
“When you dress like a slut, they will. They can't help it, especially when you're trying to drive them wild.”
“Well...” I swallow, “I can just stop them if that happens.” I know that's not true. I'm only a hundred and twenty-five pounds, and I've lost fights against girls a few years younger who weigh less. I'm not a fighter, but I don't want to admit that he might be right.
That wasn't the whole point of this.
I just wanted to make him mad.
And he is mad, just not how I expected. “Oh, yeah? You'll stop it? Go ahead. Let's see if you stop me.”
His hand flashes across my vision, sending my face twisting to the side. The sting sharp and blinding, and when I turn back to face him, his other hand comes around, sending my face spinning the other way.
“Ow, stop that!”
“I don't think words'll work on these boys. In fact, I think a lot of talking from you would probably just cause them to do this.” His hand flies to my throat, wrapping around and squeezing, cutting air off from my lungs. I tense up, my hand reaching for his wrist, pulling, yanking, and digging to no avail.
I'm about to pass out, a fog of blur surrounding my vision. Tightening, closing in, eyes closing, hands falling limp. A strange euphoria seems to wash over me as I start to feel a little sleepy.
Until he lets go and it all comes rushing back to me in a split second. Blood pours into my face and burns and ragged breathing struggles to regain itself. But at the time that my body comes back from the brink of collapse, that same nervous energy from before cycles through me, and it starts to well up deep in my core.
His aggression is turning me on! What the hell?!
“Jesus, stop it, you dick,” I rasp out.
“Those are some words. But what do you expect from a filthy slut. Mouth to match the pussy. But again, words won't do anything to a man messed up with lust. I mean,” he says, tsking, “look at this.” He gestures to my bountiful, teasing cleavage. “A man ain't stopping at just lookin'.”
He grabs the inside of my shirt, just between my tits, and yanks apart, easily separating the fabric and sending buttons scattering across the kitchen floor. In a single instant, my chest spills from my shirt, my tits bouncing around from the force of his pull.
“Oh my God!” I scream, reaching to cover myself up. Unfortunately, the tightness of my shirt makes it all but impossible to keep the two halves together. Letting go causes my shirt to split open, my tits dividing the fabric so that they can hang as free as their heft demands.
Which is important because he won't let me hold it closed, swatting my hands away as I try to regain my decency.
“Stop it!”
�
�You think a bunch of pussy-starved boys are going to 'stop it'?”
“This is no way to treat your daughter!”
“There we go again. Calling yourself my daughter, when you fought like hell to deny it before. But if you want to play that, then we're going to make it last from here on out, not just 'cause you want to avoid punishment.”
He spins me around, pushing my back until my large tits press against the wall. I push against the drywall feebly, knowing that I can't escape even if I want to.
And a growing part of me doesn't want to, no matter how much I scream obscenities and threaten him. I want to see how far he'll go, how far he'll take me.
He yanks on my hips, causing my feet to shuffle backwards toward him and my ass to stick out. He grabs my cheeks that my cut-off shorts so kindly delivered to him. He crushes them in his finger tips, pinching the fat and causing me to flinch as my daddy's hands molest me.
“Come on, now. Let's hear it.”
His hand comes off and springs back against me, slapping my bare ass inside my revealing shorts. A perfect slap to my fleshy ass that sends my hips bucking back toward the wall. But daddy continues to hold me back out from the wall so that his hand has free rein to strike me.
“Ahhhh!” I yelp.
He spanks me again, my cheeks sparking red as his strong hand whips obedience into me.
“Let's hear it. Who's your daddy?”
Shocked into confusion, even though the question is incredibly straightforward, I mutter, “Who's my—“
He prevents my asinine question, slapping the last word out of my mouth through my ass. From different angles, he attacks my flesh, hitting me directly, from above, from below, from the side, blistering my ass from every direction.
“Come on, let's hear it, babygirl.”
His last swing almost forces the words from my mouth. “You are! You are, you are, you are!” I cry out.
“I'm what?” he asks, lifting his hand and waiting for the correct response.
