I am in quite a pickle. I just don't know what to do. You see, my daughter Millicent — well, she's actually my stepdaughter — is pregnant. That, in itself, would not be particularly vexing, except for a few pertinent, additional facts.

Millicent is not married.

And if she wants to marry the bastard who knocked her up, she can't — because she's only fourteen.

But even if she were old enough to marry this pervert, she still couldn't, because he's already married.

And she could hardly ask him to get a divorce. Well, at least not without breaking up her own family. You see, the guy who impregnated her is married to her own mother.

Me.

Oh, don't think I haven't considered abortion. But to be honest with you, I've never felt right about the procedure. Contraception is one thing, but abortion, to me, is quite another.

Obviously, I hadn't been too keen on contraception when it counted, either.

However, intellectually I could probably get over my misgivings in a case this dire, a case in which a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl is carrying her own stepfather's child. Except that I am that stepfather, and when it comes to aborting my own child, my reluctance grows. But when I consider the near certitude that any baby she births will immediately be identified as mine, I might overcome even that hesitation.

I really should try to get her to a clinic. But there are two serious difficulties with that proposition.

First, were I to present myself as her legal guardian at an abortion clinic, I'm sure an immediate investigation would ensue, and the life I've worked so hard to build for myself would be destroyed.

Second, every time I start thinking of the child growing in her precious young womb, the progeny I planted there so firmly, I find the idea so erotic that all I can think about is fucking poor girl silly once again. When this line of thought arises, it pushes all practical concerns from my mind, and shortly thereafter, I usually end up shoving my nine-and-a-half-inch prick once more up into her abused little hole.

Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

Really the beginning.

I come from the working poor of this country. My father worked as a janitor all his life, up until he died at fifty-five. My mother cleaned people's homes. They both had one goal — to get me and my two sisters out of that dead end life, through college, and up the socioeconomic ladder. And they succeeded.

I am now a successful lawyer and, at forty, a senior partner in my firm. My sisters have also done well. Unfortunately, my Gad didn't live to see it, although we try to do everything we can for Mom nowadays. She lives with my sister Mary, a designer, in Chicago.

But with my background, I feel as though I've had to pull twice as hard at every rung on that proverbial ladder. It's like I'm expected to fail, and there never seems to be a shortage of rivals, foes, or mean spirited busybodies eager to catch me in a slip-up. I know a great many people view my success as a product of special treatment along the way, although they really know nothing about my history. I know that sounds paranoid, but I've lived with it too long to believe it's anything else. And then there is the obvious, of course.

I met Millicent's mother, now my wife, at a charity fundraiser. She was recently divorced at the time, and something about me appealed to her, I guess. Alice was old money, and her ex-husband was a prominent doctor in town, so in addition to her family wealth, she made out all right in the divorce settlement as well.

When Alice and I started dating, it occasioned a bit of an uproar. People accused me of being a gigolo, or worse, as though I were only after her money. Never mind that I had a great earning capacity in my own right, and a partnership in a successful law practice. People see what they want to see, I guess.

Thankfully, Alice ignored the gossip. In fact, I think she was a little resentful of the blue-blood society of her birth, a society that had married her off to the "right sort of fellow" who then proceeded to neglect her, to openly flaunt his mistresses, and to ultimately divorce her for a twenty-two year old bimbo. Getting married to me was all her idea; I actually think that it was partly out of spite for those who had warned her against it.

The only good her first husband did for her was to father three beautiful girls. At the time of our marriage just over four years ago, Helen was twelve, Millicent ten, and Sabrina eight. Of course, they're all four years older now, and every one of them is a blonde, blue-eyed heartbreaker.

The sole other decent thing the son of a bitch ever did was to die two years ago, so he's out of our lives for good. The girls took it pretty hard, naturally, but I think they're better off this way — not that I'd ever say that to one of them, of course.

But, you must be wondering how I happened to get myself in my current predicament. Well, about a year ago, I began having trouble getting aroused with my wife. Alice had put on a few pounds, and besides, she was getting old, both in the chronological sense and in the stale pussy sense.

Thankfully, by this time I had three fantasy objects prancing around my own home, the sight of whom could warm me up enough to perform. Helen was fifteen and a cheerleader, Millicent was an erotically pubescent thirteen, and even the occasional peek at Sabrina's eleven-year-old panty-clad bottom could charge me up. Alice seldom got her conjugal servicing without the image of one of her girls dancing through my mind.

Alice didn't expect sex too often, which was a good thing, since I would have found it difficult to deliver very often. You try it — try to maintain an erection with a heavy, sagging matron, when your only resource is to concentrate on the remembered vision of one of her teenaged daughters from earlier in the day.

Not that I didn't need sexual gratification. I got most of mine from masturbating, while flipping through porn shots on my computer or while viewing one of the videotapes I've secreted away.

It didn't take long before the combination of this remote Internet "voyeurism" and the use of my stepdaughters as imaginary sex proxies led me to a more proximate, and more perilous, voyeurism in my own home.

I'd try to "accidentally" walk in on one of the girls in the shower. I'd attend Helen's cheerleading practice, videotaping it for later "use." I'd masturbate while looking out a second story window whenever one of the girls was sunbathing beside our backyard pool.

Then I got bolder. I'd walk into one of their rooms at night, pull back the covers, maybe raise the selected girl's T-shirt, and jerk off to the sight of a pantied ass, a tender pair of titties, or the contoured hint of a concealed young mound.

I most often chose Millicent, the thirteen-year-old, for this exercise, almost by default. At fifteen, Helen stayed up later, and was less likely to be soundly asleep by the time my need was consuming. And at eleven, little Sabrina had much less to offer in the way of sexual charms. So, Millicent, who would normally be in a deep slumber by the time I would make my intrusion, and whose budding adolescence had plenty to appeal to a lecherous goat like me, became the most regular object of these depraved visitations.

I'd hate to have to count how many loads of thick white cum I've blasted into purloined pairs of her cotton panties, gasping in release while devouring the delicious sight of her sleeping young body. Let's just say this: if gathered together, they would make for a bestial collection indeed.

I had settled into quite a comfortable routine, gratifying myself nearly every night, while Millicent slept of the innocent and unaware. Quite a comfortable routine, that is, until the day three months ago when she caught me.

"Daddy, what's the matter?"

I almost fell over backwards at the sound of her voice. There I stood with my cock in my hand, looking into the awakening face of my now-fourteen-year-old stepdaughter. I don't think she could see my naked manhood at first, for the streetlight shining through her window was at my back. Besides, she was busy trying to orient herself, trying to figure out why her comforter had been pulled down past her knees, and why her T-shirt had been bunched up over her small breasts.

"Uh, just checking on you, sweetheart," I offered, as I tried to surreptitiously shove my fuck tackle back into my boxers. This effort was complicated by the fact that up until a moment before, my quite large shaft had been tempered steel. It was softening in a hurry now, of course, but it was still giving me trouble.

Before I could get it properly stowed away, however, I saw her eyes, which were shining in reflection of the streetlight, glance down and peer into umbra of the shadow I cast. As realization crossed her face, and her reaction welled up, I blurted out the first thing I could think of, anything to keep her from screaming.

"Da... !" she began.

"Hush Millicent, let me explain!" She quieted, and covered herself as I finally secured my oversized tool. The look on her face was one of horror, and she retreated defensively across her bed, until her back pressed up against the wall. Now, what the hell was this explanation I just promised?

"Millicent, baby, we both love your mom a lot, right?"

"Right..." she responded hesitantly.

"Well, I want her to be happy. Don't you?"

"Well, yeah, Dad, but what are you doing in my room? Why were you holding your thing, and why was my shirt pulled up?"

"Um ... I'm glad you asked that sweetheart. You see, well, er ... you know about men and women, right?"

"Yeah, I'm not a kid, you know. We had that all in school, and I watch cable! And I know a stepfather isn't s'posed to be creeping around his stepdaughter's room at night!"

"No, I guess under normal circumstances, he's not. But these aren't normal circumstances. Can I sit down, Honey?" she nodded nervously, and pulled her cover even further up under her chin. I took a seat on the edge of her bed. My prick, safely tucked away, had shriveled to a shadow of its former glory. I felt a lump in my throat. If I didn't come up with something good, fast, I was cooked. I opted for the truth, or at least a near-truth.

"Honey, I'm sure you've noticed your mother has been letting herself go a bit, haven't you?"

"Well, maybe, but you're supposed to love her anyway. What if I told her about this?"

"Sweetheart, I do love her — that's why I'm here right now, and was doing what I was doing — it was for her. You know your father wasn't too nice to her, God rest his soul. He fooled around with other women, and finally left Mom for a girl almost as young as you are now," I exaggerated. She was listening. "Your mother is now so sensitive that if I didn't make love to her regularly, she'd be a wreck of low self-esteem." This was something an adolescent girl could relate too — self-doubt and low-self esteem.

"So, what's that got to do with me?"

"Well, your mom's getting a little heavy, and hasn't been keeping herself together, and although I love her, and want to give her what she emotionally needs, it's hard for me to become aroused with her. If I can't get aroused, I can't ... you know ... demonstrate my love for her. That's why I came in here to look at you — so I could prepare myself to be a good husband to your mother."

I looked into her blank eyes for a moment, and then my words sunk in.

"You mean I can make you ... you know ... ready to have sex with her?"

"That's right, Sweetheart. You're so lovely, a few moments looking at you, and I'm ready."

A little smirk crossed her face, the flattery of the situation outweighing her earlier fright. Her fierce grip on the cover unclenched a bit, and her hands lowered it a few inches. "But I'm only fourteen. You're a grownup. You mean I can do that, really?"

"You sure can. You're really sexy, Millie-Girl, just like your mom used to be. Now, I'm sure you can see why I can't let your mother know about her inability to sexually excite me. To protect her from that knowledge, I have to do something to 'get ready' for her, so she doesn't suspect. As long as I can perform with her, she won't feel bad about herself."

Millicent nodded, almost imperceptibly. I continued, "She'd die if she knew it was her own sexy little daughter that I used to 'get ready'." My stepdaughter smiled pridefully.

"So, do you do this a lot?"

"I'm afraid so ... I've had to. Your mom expects me to be as vigorous with her as I was when we met, and that means I've already had to follow this procedure several times already."

"What about Helen? Do you 'get ready' by looking at her, too?"

"No, I've never tried to 'get ready' by looking at your sister. She may be a couple of years older than you are, but you're a lot sexier." No reason not to bend the truth toward a good end. Millicent was very sexy, but as I've already mentioned, the difference in their bedtimes was the more significant determinant.

"So what do you have to do?"

"Well, usually I look at you as you sleep, and play with myself a bit, just to get aroused."

"You look at my bare titties, you mean!"

"Well, yes. They're so cute — they really help. I can quickly get aroused, and then go make your mother happy."

"Let me see you do it."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me see you touch your thing, and 'get ready' by looking at me."

"Honey, I don't think I should do that. I'm really sorry you had to see that before, and I'm very embarrassed. Let's just try to forget it ever happened, okay?"

"No, Dad, I want to see you do it. If you have to do it to make Mom happy, you're going to have to come back anyway, lots of times, aren't you?'

"Um, yeah, I guess so..."

"Then you might as well start doing it when I'm awake, now that I know about it."

I could hardly argue with her logic. The problem was, so far it seemed that despite getting busted by my stepdaughter, I was probably going to get away with my despicable misdeeds, scot-free. She'd bought my cover story and had reason to keep it to herself. However, if I openly stroked my tool in front of her, I would be committing myself to a very hazardous course of action, one from which I could hardly retreat. The twitch I felt in my groin, however, indicated that the notion of exhibiting myself before my blonde little stepdaughter did have an undeniable appeal.

"Well, I guess you're right. Okay, let's see 'em."

"What?"

"You want me to show you how I 'get ready', right? Well I get ready while looking at your cute little tits, and at your body stripped down to your adorable panties." This was an opportunity to make her chicken out, and save me from myself. It didn't work.

"Oh ... oh yeah. Well, if it's for Mom..." She dropped her cover, and then pulled her T-shirt up over her head and off, releasing her candy tits to my view. I couldn't believe it. My prick lurched in appreciation.

"Panties?" I inquired, surprising myself with my ability to get a sound out of my constricted throat.

She pushed the comforter down past her knees, exposing her cute little cotton briefs.

I started rubbing myself through my boxers. I wasn't sure how far I should go with this, but clearly this half-assed approach wasn't enough for Millicent.

"No fair! I'm showing you my body; you have to pull your thing out, like you had it before!"