"Now you're gonna get it!" I shouted, unable to completely disguise the amusement in my tone.
I leapt from the couch, clawing over my shoulders and under my shirttail for the ice cube my laughing daughter had dropped under my collar. I spun around.
Before me, on the far side of our family room couch, stood my fourteen-year-old daughter, Christina. She was crouched at the ready, prepared to bolt either right or left should I make a move. I made one, to the left.
Christina shrieked, and then dodged me by circling the couch to her left as well. She skidded around the corners, her white socks sliding on the hardwood floor as we made two complete clockwise orbits. Then I stopped suddenly, bringing her up short. It took her a second to react to my maneuver, but she adjusted, sidling backward into a position directly opposite my own. She was breathing a little with the effort, but there was a grin on her face, and a delighted sparkle in her big blue eyes.
"I'm sorry, Dad. I didn't mean it ... I'll be good ... Let's just forget get it, okay Dad ... Daddy ... Dad-DEEE," she yelped and cut herself off as I darted to my right, chasing her about the sofa now in a counterclockwise direction. This time we came to a mutual halt with our positions reversed: my back was now to the kitchen, and my daughter stood at the front of the couch, her back to the stairway. She was panting with the exertion of the chase and she was flushed with adrenaline, standing there before me, tensed and ready to leap to the right or to the left again as needed.
She was clad in a tight pair of yellow short-shorts and a plain white T-shirt. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and her youthful and quite lovely fourteen-year old face shone with her energy. On her feet the white socks hung loosely around her thin ankles, and her shapely legs sported a pair of rollerblading kneepads. She was pulling the matching pair of elbow pads from her arms.
"I see you've been rollerblading. Where have you left your skates, young lady?"
"In the kitchen, Daddy," she replied, with mock sheepishness.
"You mean you haven't put them away properly? So you had time to play a trick on your father, but no time to care for the equipment he bought you? Very naughty! For that, I'm afraid you'll have to be PUNISHED!" With that I leapt like a grinning maniac over the back of the couch, and my schoolgirl quarry shrieked once again, pausing only to playfully hurl the elbow pads in her hands at me before bolting toward the stairway. I was right behind her.
She sprang up the stairs, taking them three at a time, her cute little ass a bouncing yellow target before my eyes as I eagerly tried to close the distance. As she reached the top of the stairs, I grabbed at her legs, and brought her down giggling on the landing. She rolled over onto her rump, and began crab-walking backwards, trying to extricate herself from my grasp.
I laid hands upon her kneepads and pulled them down over her beautifully tanned shins and delicately curved calves. She kicked the pads off her feet, and, now free of my clutches, she let out a peel of laughter and struggled upright, to make a dash down the hallway for her bedroom.
I stumbled up myself, cast aside the kneepads, and hurtled after her. The bedroom door was flying closed when I reached it, but I threw it back open.
Christina had an old-fashioned, full-sized brass bed complete with a pink gingham quilted comforter and a passel of stuffed animals. She had taken a defensive position on its far side, her hands resting upon the quilt, ready to reprise our ring-around-the-rosie dance from the family room. She was panting, and grinning, and so was I.
I made a move around the foot of her bed, and she started to crawl over the mattress. Once over, she'd have an open shot at the door, and I couldn't allow that. I reversed myself, slid back around to the near side of the bed and started to crawl over it myself. She scurried back down on her side, and cautiously made a motion toward rounding the foot of the bed while I was stuck atop it. I drew back in time, and we were again at an impasse.
"Daddy, you're not really going to punish me, are you?"
"You know I have to, sweetheart," I replied in an increasingly husky voice. "Your impudence cannot go undisciplined."
"I'd rather have Mom punish me. She'll be home any minute, you know." She arched her eyebrow in a challenge. This little minx will have men eating out of her hand her whole life, I thought.
"Mom won't be home for some time. She's showing at least ten properties today. So I guess it's up to me to punish you, once again. Besides, I find your mother's methods far too... conventional."
She darted around the foot of the bed, attempting to draw me in that direction before reversing and going "over the top." I took the bait, but when I saw her move for the bed, I dove over the brass footboard. I landed flat on the mattress but struck my shin on the brass top bar. I barely felt it, for I had something more important on my mind - the delicate, sock-clad ankle in my grasp.
At this point, it was all over for the girl. Sure, she tried to struggle away, but I easily pulled the ninety-pound waif into my closer grasp. I crawled on top of her, covering and controlling her wee little form with my substantial, one-hundred-ninety pounds. Our faces were inches apart, and I drank in how her skin flushed prettily, how her nostrils flared rapidly, and how her pupils dilated into two big black pools.
I reared up onto my knees, manhandling the girl into a position in which I could seize the waistband of her too-short shorts. She squirmed around a bit, but at this point, the struggle was effectively over. Her efforts now were just "for show." I drew the scant pants, along with her tidy white undies, down her coltish legs and over her cute little feet. I threw both garments across the room, where they settled on the desk amongst my little eighth-grader's schoolbooks.
"Have I been bad, Daddy?"
"Very bad, you naughty little girl, and now Daddy must punish you." I sat back on my heels in the center of the bed, her naked legs hooked together under one of my arms and resting across the lap my position afforded. Her cute little mons was only hinted at between her thighs in this arrangement, the top of a little slit peeking out under the wispy patch of downy blonde peach fuzz, which sprouting lightly from an area no larger than a nickel.
"How bad have I been, Daddy?" she asked, staring up at me, her head wedged among the scattered pillows and teddy bears.
"Let me show you." I straightened, until I was "kneeling tall" on my knees. Her legs were still crooked under my arm, so they rose with me, elevating her to the point that her sweet little bottom was partly revealed. I turned in my stance to better face her eyes, and then drew down the waistband of my sweatpants and briefs. I "hooked" them below my scrotum, an act which prominently displayed my ugly, weeping prick in all its turgid glory. Christina gasped.
I say "ugly" because, although I have never felt there was any such thing as an attractive penis, mine seemed, under the circumstances, to be menacing in the same way as a man with a knife-scarred face can be. There was nothing pretty about it. My big, purplish knob was actually wider than most of my shaft, a shiny, swelling bulb. A continuous trickle of pre-seminal lubricant was leaking from its tip. It bobbed and weaved, giving the appearance of some relentless beast, some primitive intelligence seeking its prey, and, after a fashion, I suppose that is exactly what it was.
The shaft was knotted and veined, and slightly crooked. And it was large: I've heard many men claim eight inches, but I suspect it's not too common. I've measured, however, or rather my wife has. Eight-and-a-quarter inches along the inside of the curve. Nine along the outside. Two inches in diameter, almost three at the base. In short, it was an ugly, dangerous-looking weapon.
Below my stalk lay my heavy scrotum, accentuated by virtue of the out-thrusting force of the lowered waistband of my sweatpants. My balls were large, to match my prick, almost avocado-like. My left testicle hung lower than the right, as always, adding to the intimidating, unrefined look of my manhood.
I had been keeping my wiry, salt-and-pepper pubic hair trimmed back ever since I had initiated Christina's "punishments," in order to make my cock seem larger still. Every added sense of size contributed to Christina's alarm upon its almost ritualistic presentation, and every bit of size contrast whenever I laid it against her underaged, nearly hairless pudendum lifted me to new heights of lust.
I displayed this oversized, angry, curved, seeping, ugly diamond-cutter to my as-always awed little girl.
"What do you think? From the looks of 'The Punisher' here, how bad would you say you've been?"
She gulped. "Pretty bad, Daddy. Pretty bad." She was almost whispering.
I wasted no further time on chitchat. I rolled my daughter back onto her shoulder blades, pushing her knees up to her chest until they were pressing into her lemon-sized breasts. She was braless, but her chest remained hidden under her white T-shirt, her only remaining garment save those girlish white socks. My maneuver rolled her up off her ass, and presented her fat little vulva to me, glistening, swollen, and now perched as the most elevated part of her torso.
.... There is more of this story ...