Dear Diary 1977 : Homecoming - Vol 2
Copyright© 2026 by Emily Wendling
Chapter 7
Fiction Story: Chapter 7 - My eyes watered, tears mixing with the drool, streaming down my face as I was face fucked into oblivion, the sound of my gagging and screaming the only music in the dark room. The assault was so intense, so overwhelming, that my body began to rebel. It was not just saliva. It was a physical expulsion of fluids triggered by the sheer thickness of the intrusion. I gagged, a convulsive heave that had no escape route, and it came out in a thick, clear stream of mucus.
Caution: This Fiction Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa NonConsensual Rape Reluctant Slavery Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Paranormal Incest Father Daughter BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture White Male White Female Anal Sex Oral Sex Voyeurism
Jennifer Meininger was succumbing to a rising tide of intoxication, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird as she watched the grotesque, yet beautiful debasement unfold below. She was in a state of profound, suspended shock, her mind struggling to reconcile the gentle, polite father figure she knew with the brutal, feral beast currently defiling his daughter. Her perception of sexuality, a rigid construct she had built around her own morality, was fracturing and dissolving under the weight of the raw, taboo act taking place in the dim light.
Her right hand had slid beneath the elastic of her panties, her fingers diving eagerly into the damp darkness to steal over the slick, puckered outer lips of her mons veneris. She gasped, the air leaving her lungs as her middle finger traced the delicate seam, finding the hardened nub of her clitoris and rubbing it with a desperate, feverish rhythm.
Jennifer’s hand trembled as it pressed firmly against the soft, mound of her mons veneris. This expanse of her surface was physically connected to the delicate structures of her intimate anatomy, forming a single, responsive unit that pulsed with her arousal. She dug her thumb into the center of the mons veneris, pressing down hard, and felt the subtle tug and vibration transfer directly to the underlying clitoral hood. The pressure radiated outward, stimulating the swollen, moist folds of her labia, pulling them tight against the sensitive tissue of her inner thighs.
She massaged the mons in slow, grinding circles, the friction stimulating the hood and the clitoris deep beneath, sending electric jolts of pleasure shooting through her lower body. The combination of pressure and friction caused the mons to swell and harden against her touch, reflecting the state of her entire groin. She slid the middle finger into the deep slick crack, shuddering as the cuticle brushed across the oily, erect knob of her clitoris. Waves of sensual excitement were coursing through her, and they heightened as she watched the torture scene unfold beneath her voyeuristic eyes.
Jennifer abandoned the delicate stimulation of her mons veneris, trading it instead for the urgent, deep friction of her middle finger plunging into the slick, clenched opening of her vagina. She watched with widening, dilated eyes as Kristy gagged and choked on the thick, white fluid, her own body mirroring her Kristy’s submission. The graphic reality of the violation fueled a burning heat within her loins. With a shaking hand, she peeled the damp cotton panties down her legs, her skin scraping against the elastic as she discarded them.
The crotch of her panties was instantly overwhelmed by the heat and moisture of her arousal, a dark, stained patch that clung to the folds of her slit. The scent of her hot cunt rose up to greet her, a thick, pungent aroma of feminine musk and lubrication that hit her nostrils like a physical blow. She pressed the panties to her nose and inhaled deeply, her eyes rolling back as the sweet, musky smell thrilled her, igniting a fresh wave of desire. She gripped her mound in her hand, her fingers sinking into the soft, soaked body as she squeezed her pussy tight, reveling in the raw, animalistic scent of her own excitement.
Jennifer Meininger rammed her middle finger up her pussy and began to piston it. Intense juice dribbled down her thighs, as if her plunging finger had burst a small balloon inside her that was filled with hot melted butter. She moved her finger in circles inside her pussy as she finger fucked herself. Her middle finger moved in tight, vicious circles that dragged against the sensitive, velvety walls. The friction built rapidly as she worked her finger deeper, the squelching sounds echoing faintly in the quiet of the room, loud enough to match the wet, slapping rhythm of the scene below.
She curled the finger, hooking it high inside her, searching for the rough, hidden spot that always made her gasp, while her thumb ground against her clitoris, stimulating the bundle of nerves with blunt, heavy pressure. Her body jerked with every thrust, her hips bucking wildly to meet the rhythm of her own hand, the juices glistening on her skin as she watched Kristy’s humiliation with a mixture of awe and overwhelming lust.
Rudy released his daughter’s hair with a rough shove, standing back abruptly to put distance between them, his hard dick slapping up against his belly with a heavy, wet slap. His cock glistened with her saliva and sperm, a chaotic mixture of fluids that clung to the angry veins of his shaft, turning his skin a pearlescent white. Kristy gasped for breath, her head bent low over her chest to hide her face, her body heaving in the aftermath of the brutal assault. Sticky strands of her father’s sperm dripped from the corners of her mouth and over her loose lower lip, the clear fluid mingling with the tears on her cheeks and pooling on the cold basement floor.
His erection did not grow any smaller after he had his orgasm. Instead, it remained a towering pillar of cock, a testament to his inexhaustible, predatory stamina. He strode to a shadowed corner of the room where the wall was studded with rusted nails. Various lengths and widths of thick, black hemp rope hung in strands from the nails, alongside leather whips, heavy chains, and iron manacles.
Illuminated by the basement light, casting long, dancing shadows, stood the stockade. It was a crude, brutal thing, fashioned from heavy, dark wood that was scarred and stained with the ghosts of past sufferings. The wood was old and grainy, its surface rough against the skin. It consisted of a heavy base and two vertical posts, connected at the top by a crossbeam. From this beam hung the main apparatus. A hinged wooden board, split into three semi-circular holes. One large for the neck, two smaller for the wrists. It was designed to clamp down and lock its victim in a posture of absolute submission.
Rudy stood next to it, his silhouette projected as an exaggerated outline on the dirty wall. He ran a hand almost lovingly along the edge of the top board, his fingers tracing the deep gouges and worn patches. Kristy watched him from across the room, her heart a frantic bird beating against the cage of her ribs. She was pressed into a corner, as if trying to melt into the cold stone. He commanded her to come over. His voice was a low, calm rumble that was far more terrifying than a shout would have been. He did not turn. He did not even look at her. The command hung in the air, absolute and final.
Kristy Blair shook her head, a small, frantic motion. Her eyes, wide and luminous with fear, darted from him to the stockade and back again. He walked back towards her. The fear broke her paralysis. Adrenaline surged through her veins, hot and sharp. She tried to run away, for the far another corner of the room, a desperate, animalistic scramble for any extra second, any extra inch of space. Her bare feet slipped on the floor, sending her sprawling. She hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from her lungs.
Before she could scramble away, his shadow fell over her. A hand like a steel clamp closed around her upper arm, hauling her to her feet with effortless strength. She cried out, a sharp yelp of pain and terror. He began dragging her toward the waiting wooden jaws of the stockade. Kristy fought, her body thrashing in his grip. She kicked backward, her heel connecting with his shin. He grunted, a sound of annoyance more than pain, and his grip only tightened, his fingers digging into her like talons.
She twisted, trying to wrench her arm free, but it was like trying to bend iron. She clawed at his hand with her other hand, her nails scraping uselessly against his tough skin. He stopped in front of the stockade and gave her a violent shake that rattled her teeth. He released her arm, but before she could even think of running again, he grabbed a handful of her hair at the scruff of her neck. The pain was sharp and abrupt, bringing tears to her eyes. He forced her head down, toward the lower half of the stockade, which rested at about the height of her waist. He pushed her toward the semi-circular openings.
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