Mistaken for Pain

by Stepdaddy

Copyright© 2010 by Stepdaddy

Erotica Sex Story: The look on my fourteen-year-old daughter's face could have easily been mistaken for pain. And if her furrowed brow, her flaring nostrils, or the row of pearly teeth biting into her lower lip might have somehow left an observer unconvinced of her discomfort, perhaps the rest of the scene would have settled it: the petite eighth-grader struggled with both little hands to insert the knob of my blunt, swollen prick into the well-prepared but resisting confines of her nearly hairless cunt.

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft   Reluctant   Incest   Father   Daughter   Spanking   First   .

The look on my fourteen-year-old daughter's face could have easily been mistaken for pain. And if her furrowed brow, her flaring nostrils, or the row of pearly teeth biting into her lower lip might have somehow left an observer unconvinced of her discomfort, perhaps the rest of the scene would have settled it. As she lay back upon the top of our washing machine, with her dimpled knees pulled up nearly to her bared, bra-less, apple-sized tits, the petite eighth-grader struggled with both little hands to insert the knob of my blunt, swollen prick into the well-prepared but resisting confines of her nearly hairless cunt.

However, despite appearances, my daughter was not in pain; the time of pain was long past ... but perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.

Katie had grown a lot over the summer. The rambunctious tomboy I had known and adored, who refused to ever wear a dress, who always easily outwrestled her younger brother, and who seemed far more interested in shooting baskets than in sugar and spice, had suddenly been transformed into a most amazing and delightful creature of an altogether different sort.

As though choreographed, her interests seemed to turn away from competitive athletic pursuits at a rate in direct proportion to the sudden widening of her hips, the budding of her breasts, and the rounding out of her bottom. By the September start of her eighth grade school year, our little hellion was wearing skirts, spending ridiculous hours every week on the phone, in the bathroom, and both, and becoming completely uninterested in any activity associated with her younger brother. In short, puberty had arrived in a blitzkrieg, and had immediately seized control of my daughter and settled down for the occupation.

My wife would smile, and say to me, "Our little girl is growing up. I know you'll miss the tomboy, but I've been waiting for years for a daughter who acts like a girl."

I'd laugh and say: "I still have Jimmy to toss the ball with. What I'll miss is living free of all the boys I'm sure will soon be buzzing around this house."

I knew that sooner or later, they would come.

Katie might have been my daughter, but I could turn an objective eye on her well enough to know that someday she'd be a heartbreaker. She already had a beautiful, doll-like face, with big blue eyes, a cute little nose, and a pouty mouth. Her healthy, thick blond hair, heretofore virtually ignored, was now kept carefully washed, conditioned, and brushed to a shine. The early promise of her girlish figure, as well as her mother's genes, suggested that someday her body would drive men to distraction. In fact, unless eighth grade boys were made of sterner stuff than I remembered, I was sure that she was already maddening them, at least, in the hallways of Turner Middle School.

One Friday evening early in the school year, Katie had her friend Bunny stay overnight. The plan was that I would take them to their soccer game on Saturday morning. Apparently the social aspect of organized schools sports was still enough to keep Katie participating, despite her newfound prissiness.

Bunny appeared to have grown dramatically over the summer as well. She came in the door wearing shorts and a crop top, and I couldn't help but appraise her with a practiced eye. The adorable brunette had developed adolescent titties, a shelved out ass, and a distinct pubic arch. I could only hope she hadn't caught me fixating on it during my first few moments of pleasant discovery.

My wife went to bed early, and my son Jimmy was on an overnight of his own at a friend's, so it was just the girls up late watching a couple of movies on cable with me. The first movie was a recent comedy, one the girls had seen before but wanted to watch again. I sat on the couch nursing a couple of drinks as my young charges spread out on the floor. They rolled around, poked at each other, giggled and whispered, while I tried to pretend to watch the screen.

What I was watching, despite my attempts at self-control, was our young guest's delightful little body. As I grew tipsier I became less discrete, and I began to suspect that both Bunny and Katie were repeatedly catching me ogling the girl. However, my overheated cumballs and the well-chilled highballs conspired to easily throw any self-discipline I had left right out the window. Oddly enough, it seemed that Bunny was flirting with me. I guess the teasing coquette routine comes naturally to women at a certain age.

When the comedy ended, and the girls scampered off somewhere giggling. When they returned, they had changed for bed. I nearly gasped when I realized they were now wearing nothing but panties and long T-shirts.

The second movie was a steamier drama, not "PG-13" as I'd thought, but strictly rated "R." I made no move to dismiss the girls or change the channel, however, even after repeated nudity and blatant (although not explicit) sex scenes. I enjoyed watching Bunny laying on the carpeted floor before me, her chin on her hands facing the TV while her T-shirt rode up her legs every time she squirmed. It seemed that the more sexual the story's content became, the more this wonderful squirming took place.

Occasionally, one or both of the girls would cast a furtive glance my way, I assumed in order to gauge my reaction to the onscreen developments. I was afraid they would instead discover my reaction to the on-floor developments in front of me. Luckily, Bunny couldn't really look straight at me without craning her neck and torso around, because she was facing almost directly away from me. This was a good thing for another reason, since it meant that her now half-uncovered bottom was pointing right at me. Her bright yellow T-shirt had ridden up to uncover the lower halves of her cute little ass globes, encased in her tight white cotton briefs. I felt my penis actually start to thicken at this depraved voyeurism – My god, she was only what, thirteen or fourteen years old?

Try as I might, however, to concentrate on the movie, my stare continued to inexorably return to the perverted pleasure of my daughter's friend's display. Her shirt kept riding up, her bottom kept squirming, I swear her legs kept slowly spreading, and my cock kept hardening. I was incredibly turned on and nearly panicking. I had to stop this right now!

Unfortunately, the fates were not cooperating. Soon her entire panty-covered ass was laid out before me, and her young thighs were spread wide enough to expose her poorly-disguised vulva to my view. The white cotton of her gusset was pulled tight across her sex, clearly outlining her fat labia and even defining her immature crease.

At this point, I was enslaved. As discretely as I could, I moved my hand to my lap and started to lightly massage my prick through my jeans. Long gone was any attempt to watch the TV: my eyes were now rabidly transfixed on the eighth-grader's taut little biscuit. The sight was so erotic, and I was so aroused, that I thought I would come in my pants at any moment, in the most perverse and frankly frightening episode of my sexual career. And then I was interrupted in a most humiliating manner.

"Jeez, Dad! Take a picture, it lasts longer! Bunny, my Dad is 'Manson-ing out' on your ass!"

Bunny turned as she sat up, hiding her sweet bottom. No matter, my penis had deflated even faster. "Is that true, Mr. Colson? Were you looking at my ass?" she asked with a laugh and a smile.

"Well," I practically stuttered, "what do you expect a man to do when you're dressed like that? Both of you. A man can't help but look if you show it to him." I tried to laugh it off, but my defense sounded a little weak. At least they didn't seem to realize I'd been touching myself!

"Oh, we know, Dad. Mr. Simmons, our math teacher, is always checking out the girls' butts. We think it's funny."

"Well, funny or not, you two should be careful. Teasing can get you in trouble."

I got a "sure, Dad," and a "we know, Mr. Colson," and we tried to watch the end of the film. I barely even knew what was going on in the plot by now, and the instant it was over I beat a hasty retreat to my private den. I locked the door, logged onto the Internet, did a search on "young," "teen," and "schoolgirl," and was within minutes stroking off to images on a website called "Barely Eighteen" or something like that. I came while "Manson-ing out" at the youngest-appearing model I could find.

I was a little embarrassed the next morning as I drove the girls to the soccer field. As we pulled up, I saw Mr. Simmons, the math teacher and assistant coach, leading the warm-up drills. As the girls sprang out of the car and trotted over in their uniform shorts to join their teammates, I thought about my daughter from Simmons' point of view.

Katie might have been my daughter, but I could turn a subjective eye on her well enough to know that she had become a little heartbreaker. Her long, coltish legs, her boyish but clearly un-boylike hips and ass, and her blossoming bosom clearly announced that her body could drive some men to distraction even today. In fact, unless eighth grade math teachers were made of sterner stuff than I suspected, I was sure that she was already maddening poor Don Simmons, at least, both in the hallways of Turner Middle School and out on the soccer pitch.

I chuckled to myself. Imagine thinking of your fourteen-year-old daughter in those terms!

The next couple of weeks were odd ones for me. I would often find Katie looking at me strangely, which would bring a burning sensation to the back of my neck. I didn't know if I'd ever stop being embarrassed at the events of that Friday night.

However, if she was "creeped out" by her dirty old dad, she sure didn't act like it. She continued to wear short-shorts, crop tops, and miniskirts around me. She never hesitated to lie on the floor in the TV room in front of me, and she showed little concern as to whether her panties were peeking out. Apparently she had no fear that the father who perved over her friend might perv over her, too. Thank goodness. Imagine such a thing!

One evening Bunny came over, but I avoided the TV room that night. Perhaps I had learned my lesson.

On the other hand, my humiliation and embarrassment were not sufficient to completely put that wicked genie back in its bottle. Once I had dipped into the "young stuff" on the Internet, I just got in deeper and deeper.

When the eighteen-year-old "Barely Legal"-type models no longer did enough for me, I went younger. I was afraid to delve into any real kiddy porn, but I did develop quite an appreciation for the cheesecake "schoolgirl" genre that our Japanese friends have mastered so well. Soon, the most explicit shot of an eighteen-year-old fuck model could no longer even approach the masturbatory value of a cute Japanese schoolgirl showing just a hint of white cotton panties under her uniform, especially if the indecipherable kanji caption included any of the numerals "13", "14" or "15".

I don't know exactly when it struck me, but it was probably the day I scolded Katie for wearing a pair of boyshorts so tight that it was obvious she had no underwear on underneath. Although I knew she wasn't planning on leaving the house, I felt I had to set her straight.

"Katie, are you trying to drive me insane with worry?"

"What do you mean, Dad?" She asked, with a wide-eyed innocent look that was belied by the simultaneous provocative tilt of her hip, whereupon she jauntily rested a hand.

"If you wear shorts like that, especially without underwear, you'll get yourself in big trouble."

"What do you mean, Dad? How would that get me in trouble?"

"Because," I said, starting to feel angry, "Men are stimulated by what they see. If you dress to make men horny, then you'll have to deal with horny men. I mean boys. And sometimes, horny boys act on their impulses, no matter what the consequences. That's what I mean by 'trouble'."

"But Dad, I'm just walking around our house. I'm not going anywhere. I don't make you horny, do I?"

"What?! Don't be ridiculous. Now go change before I put you over my knee!"

So, yes, I'm pretty sure that it was during this conversation that it struck me.

Katie might have been my daughter, but I could turn an objectifying eye on her well enough to know that she had become a little fucktoy. The undulating bubbles of her juvenile rump as she snorted and stomped away that day clearly drove ME to a surprising level of distraction. In fact, unless I soon dredged up some sterner stuff than I felt at that moment, I was sure I would soon be hurtling madly down the hallway to spank her cute little ass, at the very least, and it wouldn't be because she'd been bad.

Naughty, perhaps, but not bad.

From that point on, my primary masturbatory fantasy was no longer Bunny, or the "Barely Legal" models, or even the adorable Japanese schoolgirls. It was my precious, innocent, cuddlesome, sexy, sassy, taunting, teasing, fuckable beloved former tomboy of a daughter!

I must tell you, this development generated an incredible level of stress for me. I didn't want this fixation – who would? I found myself getting testier and testier around my daughter, short with my wife, and barely able to pay attention to my son. Meanwhile, while trying to deny my depravity, I'd voraciously cruise the 'net looking for young models who looked like my Katie, producing copious offerings of seminal discharge into a rapidly dwindling supply of Kleenex tissues. Ultimately, I found myself scanning in photos of my little girl from family albums into JPEG slideshows to fuel my sick fascination. But, I told myself in false pride, at least I've kept the real Katie out of this.

Then one weekend my wife took my son, Jimmy, up to the state capital for a math bee.

It was Friday night, with just Katie and me at home. We watched a movie on TV, but my pathetic infatuation kept me mainly focused on my fourteen-year-old daughter. I was as hard as calculus, just from gazing at her bare lower back and her denim-clad rear as she lay yet again on the floor in front of my seat on the couch. I guess I planned to indelibly imprint the image in my mind for a beat-off session later that night, but then something happened I'm at a loss to justify.

Around ten o'clock, the movie ended, and Katie asked if I'd let her stay up till midnight to see another one through to the end. I said "sure," and then a voice I recognized as a husky version of my own added, "But why don't you go change for bed first?"

She sprang up to complete that task before the next movie started and goddamn it if she didn't return wearing nothing but panties and a long T-shirt, reminiscent of that night with her friend Bunny. I don't know which was angrier – the vestiges of my fatherly concern or my over-teased prick, but whichever it was, I flew into a rage.

"What the hell are you trying to do to me? Are you that eager to get fucked, you little slut?

"What, Daddy?" Katie was alarmed, both at my anger and at my use of a language she probably thought only her generation used. "Why are you angry with... ?" She didn't get to finish, because I yanked her across my lap and she yelped in surprise. I pulled her shirt up to expose her adorable cotton panties and started to spank her bottom like my life depended upon it.

"You think you can dress like a little slut and not pay for it?" Whack! "How many times have I warned you?" Whack! "Well, you've been asking for trouble, now you've got it!" Whack-whack-whack!

The youngster was lying across my lap sobbing, my right hand was stinging a bit, and my stiff prick was trying to burrow through my jeans and into my daughter's navel when I finally laid hold of her panties and yanked them down.

Her bare ass was already red from the castigation, a coloration which inflamed me to throw a couple more swats across it before I turned her over, slid her headwards along the couch, and completed the removal of her underwear by pulling them from her ankles and tossing them across the room.

"Please, Daddy! I didn't mean any harm!"

"I don't mean any harm, either, but I told you this behavior would lead to trouble, and now I'm going to have to show you what kind."

Her butt now sat off of my lap, to my left on the sofa cushion, so I took a slender calf in each hand, lifted, separated, turned and slid into position between her tanned thighs. I now looked upon the most heart-stopping sight of my life: my own adolescent daughter's cunt.

As had been evident even behind her underpants, her young mound was quite prominent, for the womanly padding that would someday gradate its rise was as yet absent from her premature loins. Her fat outer labia were lightly strewn with a nearly invisible blonde down, and their flesh was a deeper, richer color than the surrounding skin. They gapped open slightly, and the folds of her dark pink inner lips peeked out. At their apex, the button of my daughter's clit was emerging, slickly shining. My God, what luck! The tell-tale moisture suggested that, like many women, Katie seemed to find being manfully spanked arousing, apparently even at the hands of her own father.

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