The moment the garage door began to close, its low rumble groaning throughout the house, I knew what was coming. So did Candace, my fourteen-year-old stepdaughter.
I didn't know exactly when it would arrive, or exactly what the trigger would be, but as soon as my wife — Candace's mother — pulled out of the garage on a Saturday morning, hauling her craft jewelry to yet another distant flea market or art fair, the inexorable countdown would begin. It had become to us a Law of Nature.
Another apparent immutable was the unspoken rule that Candace and I each faithfully observed, right up until the very "moment" itself. Until that instant, we each behaved as the affectionate — but normal — parent and child we were the other six days of the week, just as though my wife were right there in the room with us.
Right up until the "moment", that is.
"Hiya, Hon. Sleep well?"
"Yeah. Is that toast?"
"Yep. I made it for you. I already ate."
She sat down and began to spread jelly over the toast, while I savored my second cup of coffee. I wondered whether I would get any yard work done today. It all depended on the adorable little eighth-grader sitting across the table from me, looking just as innocent and carefree as one might expect.
A girl her age has little in her life to engender a crinkled brow; nothing more serious than, say, an overdue sentence-diagramming assignment for her English class, or fleeting angst over whether whichever boy she currently "loved" had even noticed her. Candace is no exception, and although she isn't my daughter by blood, it delights me to watch her grow up and grow through each stage in her young journey toward adulthood.
Candace is, as I mentioned, fourteen years old, and on this particular morning her honey-brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was still in her pajamas — flannel pink, with a button-front top and full-legged bottoms, covered with little white "Hello-Kitty" icons. This comfy outfit mostly disguised her blossoming young form.
Per our unspoken rules, I awaited her initiative, which could come right away or well into the day. Maybe she had homework planned first thing; or maybe she and her little clique of junior-high heartbreakers were heading to the mall this morning. If so, the "moment" would not come for some time.
Well, if I was given the opportunity, I'd head over to the Home Depot and pick up a few bags of lawn fertilizer, then I'd...
"This toast is burnt!"
So much for that. This week's pretext: burnt toast.
"You burnt the toast. I knew I should have made my own. You suck at cooking." Mind you, we both knew the toast was not burnt.
"Candace, I don't like your tone. If you don't like your toast, make your own, or have something else. But I will not tolerate you speaking to me that way."
Her face flushed pink, her big hazel eyes widened, her pupils dilated, and I could see the cute little nostrils of her button nose flaring with her quickening breath. The "moment" had arrived, and the yard work was definitely going to suffer a delay.
"You're not the boss of me!" Her voice quavered. "You're not my real dad. I don't have to listen to you!"
"You don't think so? You're not too old for a spanking, young lady. Don't make me treat you like a little girl."
"You wouldn't dare!"
I pushed my sturdy wooden chair back from the kitchen table, as Candace calmly arose from her own seat and cleared the table of her toast plate and my coffee cup, leaving it completely bare. She placed the dishes in the sink with aplomb totally at odds with the text and tone of our interchange. I enjoyed the gliding undulation of the rounded, adolescent buns beneath her flannel PJ bottoms as she performed this task with complete composure.
Then she casually took a position standing to my right.
"You would never spank me. I'm a teenager now."
She draped herself over my lap with practiced ease, her palms on the floor to my left, and her tip-toes on the floor to my right. Her pelvis was balanced perfectly across my lap, her rounded bottom elevated defiantly. The flannel stretched across her bubble buns in this position, pulling taut across this blessed canvas six or seven "Hello-Kitty" cartoons at various angles in a fetching kitsch-art display. The seam of her PJ bottoms was perfectly aligned — it split and defined her eighth-grade asscrack.
"Look, I'll cooperate completely. See, I'm not even resisting. But there is no way you're going to spank me, is there?"
"You know so much, Candace, you must be right." With my left hand, I reached across her youthful form and took hold of her tight waist, just above her right hip. In my own plaid pajama bottoms, my growing prick struggled into a standing position, moving and adjusting within the garment under its own power, to come upright. I pulled my young stepdaughter towards me across my lap, wedging my ready rod in between my own abdomen and her lightly padded left hip.
"Go ahead. I dare you. I dare you to spank me, you — OWWW! That hurt!"
I bet it did — my own hand was stinging. I had brought it down hard across both buns, dead center. She wriggled in my lap a bit, which felt very nice as it served to roll my prick between our bodies.
Drawing my arm back, I swung again, this time bringing my open palm in "sidearm," to strike across the bottom curve of her ass. I love that part of her little rump — when she is standing, it is the portion that curves back under her shelf-like profile. For such a petite girl, Candace is blessed with quite an out-thrust rear; I imagine that if she walked nude under an equatorial sun, this part of her anatomy would spend the entire day in complete, protected shade.
My resounding swat, unlike the rays of this hypothetical sun, was unhindered in its advance, and so it did succeed in causing her under-bottom some pain. This elicited another yowl from Candace, and it propelled her forward in my lap. Well, to be precise, first it propelled her buttcheeks forward, and six or seven "Hello-Kitties" jerked at once towards her waistband, before the shock wave propagated through her body to translate into the forward motion of her entire eighty-eight pound mass. Since, naturally, momentum is always conserved, as her body swung forward, her cute bottom swung back, and a short-lived but quite delicious oscillation ensued. Unwilling to allow this delectable motion to cease, I provided it renewed and repeated impetus.
After three or four more swats, I paused. The tip of my cock was tenting my pajama bottoms, turtle-heading up from between her young body and my own, not-so-young one. A wet stain was forming in the plaid flannel, from the unashamed flow of my pre-cum.
"Okay, Robert, okay. So you can spank me. I get it. But you have no right to do more than that. You can't pull down my pajamas, and spank me in my underwear. You wouldn't dare try that."
As she said this, she was already rocking from her left hipbone to her right hipbone and back again, repeatedly, to allow me to inch her "Hello Kitty" pajama bottoms out from under her as I drew them down over her adolescent hips. With this assistance I soon had them bunched around her young calves, without her ever leaving her perch across my lap.
The display before me was exquisite. Her up-thrust buttocks were now encased in a pair of white cotton panties. Part of me was disappointed that they weren't her most innocent, schoolgirl pair. She had worn those last Saturday. On the other hand, this pair — only slightly more worldly — did a better job of lifting and separating her sweet young globes, and the leg holes rose a little more daringly to display the bare flesh of her under-bottom. The material was slightly ribbed, and it wedged even more profoundly into her crevice than her PJs had. Yummy.
Since her ritual challenge had already been voiced, I simply proceeded with the next phase.
With now only one layer of fabric between my hand and her ass, the effects of each blow were more pronounced. Her butt jiggled more freely, my hand felt the yielding flex of her glutes more distinctly, the sound of each contact rang out more clearly, and my prickhead oozed pre-cum more profusely. I also strayed off the panty-covered portions repeatedly, to directly strike the naked flesh of her lower buns and upper thighs, which turned warm and rosy in response.
Again, after several spankings in this state, I paused. While we each caught our breath, my hand traced down along her ass-groove, drifting between her thighs and into her crotch. She spread her legs a bit, as much as the pajama bottoms now hobbling her ankles would allow, which presented me with even more accommodating access to her underage sex than her wide, adolescent pubic arch had already afforded.
Her puffy labia slid about under my fingertips, their oily convolutions moistening the gusset of the interposing panties delightfully. A pheromone-laden fragrance wafted up from this region, firing both my spirit and my loins even further, if you can imagine that. Society said "no;" her hormones said "yes."
"Well, okay, so what?" Her voice was decidedly husky now, and she sounded a little out of breath. "You've shown me that you can spank me in my panties. I can't argue with that. But you would never spank my bare butt. You wouldn't dare try that!"
This time, she didn't even wait for me, but reached back and skinned her own panties down over her rump and hips. I withdrew my hand from her crotch in order to allow this, and once she had the offending article down around her thighs, I took over and slid them the rest of the way along her coltish young legs to join the pink PJ bottoms around her ankles. I resisted the temptation to reach my hand back into her gap and drive my fingers immediately up her exposed channel. Instead, I cupped her far buttock.
I have learned something about eighth-graders' asses, in contrast to those of some older subjects. If perchance an eighth-grader's ass appears to be perfect when seen in jeans — or in pajama bottoms — or in lightly ribbed white cotton panties, for that matter — then that eighth-grader's ass is guaranteed to be also quite perfect in its bare, fully exposed form.
Case in point:
The blushing peach before my eyes was, without question, exception, or reservation, simply perfect.
Candace's schoolgirl ass was alabaster pure, alabaster smooth, and — except for the splotches of inflamed pink engendered by my firm stepfatherly attentions — alabaster pale.
It was firm, taut, and rounded in a pleasing curve that might have served as the idealized, Platonic "form" for the nubile feminine. Each globe moved, rippled, and flexed on its own, but together they enjoyed perfect symmetry of shape, and flawless concert of action.
A fine, nearly transparent dusting of tiny, downy white hairs quivered across its heart-shaped surface. Confronted with this beauty, I had to respond.
So I proceeded to beat it, soundly.
With one swift blow, I set that perfection in motion before my avid gaze, the object of my devotion now being completely unobscured by clothing.
A second blow mesmerized me with how quickly it produced an angry red blush in the approximate shape of my hand.
A third, struck outward against her far buttock, spread her crack and demonstrated its sweet depth and flawlessness.
This inspired a fourth in the same direction, slightly lower down, to encourage her crinkled anus to peek out momentarily.
Numbers five and six treated the near bun to similar blows, for her identical twins begged for equal treatment.
Seven elicited a serious yelp.
Eight was delivered with even more force, under the "I'll give you something to cry about" theory of parental discipline!
And the final two delivered the coda: a resounding blow across the lower buttock, upper thigh area of first her near, and then her far, limb.
I was breathing hard, not only with lust, but with the exertion. I had just beaten that underage tush ten ways from Sunday, as hard as I could.
Candace was also panting, both from the stimulation and in an effort to overcome the sniffling that her very real tears were causing.
My stepdaughter's ass was a bright red, and shivering, when she again spread her immature thighs as wide as her constrained ankles would allow. I slid my hand down between them and felt the slick snail's trail of her quim, as it slobbered fuck oil all over itself.
I stroked the pudgy, pouting outer lips a few times, and used her concupiscence to tuft out a few of her sparse pubic hairs playfully, before finally condescending to digitally enter her overwrought vagina.
I slid my middle finger into her very slowly, not out of concern for her comfort — she was hot and ready — but for my own enjoyment. Her scalding box gripped at the invader along every millimeter of its deliberate intrusion.
"Oh, that's so bad. You can't fingerfuck me. That's way over the line. You're not supposed to touch me like this. Mmmmm ... and I know I said that you have no right to spank me, because you're not my real daddy. But this is still creepy — incest and stuff — don't think you can molest me, either, just 'cause you're not my real dad-DEEE!"
That last yelp arose from my decision, at that moment, to none-too-gently shove a second and third finger simultaneously into her junior-miss hole.
"Oooh, stop that. You have to stop!" While she proclaimed this, her exquisite rump rose and fell in time with my penetrations, in order to ensure that each thrust of my fingers delved as deeply as possible. My hand was soaked.
After a few enjoyable minutes of this, I pulled three sopping wet fingers from her eager little hole, and helped her to arise from across my lap into a standing position. While she stepped out of the pajama bottoms and underpants entangling her feet, she continued to jabber. I took the opportunity to remain seated and lick my fingers.
"Even if you were my real dad, and maybe had the right to spank me, you still couldn't molest me. I know you were just fingering me, so maybe you could say you were checking me for health, or somethin', but you can't do more than that, understood? So don't even try."
She hoisted herself up onto the kitchen table, sitting on the edge facing me. I scooted my chair forward, and she laid herself back on the dinette, putting a hand behind each knee and pulling her legs to her chest. Her cuntlet rolled up, front and center.
I leaned in and blew lightly across her immature puss.
"Eww! That's gross. Don't even think of using your mouth!"
She pulled her knees a bit further apart. This made a lovely presentation.
Her pudenda was swollen, a darker contrast to the pale, framing young thighs. A few sparse hairs, soaked and dark, sprouted here and there from scattered patches along her outer labia, and grew in only slightly greater density atop her mons. After my three-finger workout, her inner labia were blossomed out, slick and red, and her wee mating hole winked at me.
When I blew lightly across her flower again, her hips almost leapt off the table.
"C'mon! Quit teasing me!"
"What do you mean by that?" I asked archly, suspecting that she was about to break from her "script."
"Um, I mean, stop teasing me by blowing on me. Get your mouth away from me, you pervert. Don't you dare put your mouth on me!"
"Ah, well, we'll see about that. Obviously, you still don't understand who's the parent here, and who's the child. Just for that..." I opened my slobbering maw — already salivating in excess, due to a textbook case of Pavlovian conditioning — and engulfed the entire compass of her pouting puss.
An "Oh God!" escaped her lips as I drew my flattened tongue up through her groove, pressing it firmly into her flesh to spread and split her fat fucklips and to apply as many of my taste buds as possible to the native source of her nectar.
She assisted in this effort by rocking her youthful loins up into my face. By wagging my tongue slightly from left to right, I quickly coated it with her creamy offering. It was delicious, of course, both sweet and sour, both bitter and salty, both yummy and YUMMY. Candace shuddered, and released the hand holds on her smooth legs in order to wrap her calves around my shoulders and to grab the back of my head with both hands.
Next I swabbed my tongue up and down, really emphasizing the furrow of her juvenile cunt. She whimpered at this, hunched her hips down, and tugged at my head, trying to get her not-inexperienced young clit into contact with the wriggling worm. Not so fast, little girl!
Instead of allowing this, I took firm hold of her young hips with botyh hands, controlling her movement easily with a thumb pressed firmly across each protruding hipbone. Then I flexed and de-flattened my tongue — turning it now into a stiff, nearly cylindrical spear of salivating flesh — so that when I dipped my face a bit lower I could use it to pierce her leaking honeyhole. I drove my tongue deep into her channel, and was rewarded; rewarded with a gasp from her schoolgirl throat, with a buttery adolescent discharge from within, and with a precocious vaginal spasm gripping along my entire lingual length. What a pretty little precursor to her imminent climax!
"Please..." she mewled. I continued to tongue-fuck her.
"Up higher..." Her hips were gyrating so energetically now that I had to apply real effort to hold onto her bucking pelvis.
"Dad-DEEE!" Now that was worth some kind of prize, don't you think? I relented, and honored Candace's need.