Based on The Short Story:
Carol's Growing Pains
Note to the Reader: This is a story about role-playing. No sex occurs involving a minor. All Participants are over the age of 18.
Michael heard his daughter crying as she came in the front door. The door slammed and she stormed upstairs to her bedroom on the second floor and slammed her bedroom door shut. Michael sighed. It hadn't gone well, he guessed. Folding the newspaper, he set it aside and went to stand at the bottom of the stairs.
He heard her sobbing in her bedroom.
"Carol Ann, are you okay?"
More sobbing. Sighing resignedly, Michael climbed the stairs to the second floor and made his way down the hall to his daughter's bedroom door. He tapped on it lightly with his knuckles.
"Go away, Daddy," she sobbed. Michael shook his head. Where was his wife when he needed her? He tapped on the door with the same result.
"Carol Ann. I know you'd rather talk to your mom right now--"
"No!" she interrupted forcefully.
"--but your mom won't be home until Wednesday. Do you really want to go the next four days being miserable?"
"I'll be miserable with or without her!" Carol Ann complained. Michael found it encouraging that she didn't tack "Now go away and leave me alone!" on the end of the sentence.
"Sometimes it just helps to talk," Michael said. "It doesn't matter who it is."
"You're my father!" Carol Ann pointed out, her voice filled with sarcasm. Like a 12 year old-Pardon me, he thought, 13 now-would tell her father anything intimately personal.
"Forget I'm your father. I'm your therapist tonight, okay? I don't pass judgment in my role as a therapist. And I'm not judgmental as a parent either, because I'll leave that responsibility outside here in the hallway. Consider me Dr. Vaugier for the night."
Surprisingly, Carol Ann got off the bed, came to the door and unlocked it. She shambled back to the bed and threw herself down on her side. She immediately tucked herself into a ball. Michael wondered that she didn't stick her thumb in her mouth.
Carol Ann was a pretty blond, slender and tall for her age. Her hair lay in disarray around her head, making her look more like a 6-year old than a 7th Grader. Michael couldn't believe his daughter was in 7th Grade, or that she had breasts (tiny ones, granted) and that she was interested enough in boys to get her heart broken so early.
"I take it things didn't go well at the dance."
Carol Ann turned her face into the comforter and sobbed.
"Turner!" she supplied truculently.
"Bobby Turner wasn't interested in you?"
She sobbed again, this time pressing a small fist to the side of her head.
"Another girl?" Michael guessed.
"Jennifer Pullous!" his daughter spat viperously. Michael had never heard of Jennifer Pullous.
"He asked Jennifer to dance?"
"The whole dance!" she complained bitterly. "I hate boys! They suck! All of them! Every single one of them!" She beat her small fist violently on the mattress beside her head, starting painfully. She had punched too close to her head and caught her own hair. She rubbed at her scalp, pouting.
Michael's eyes were drawn unwillingly to the significant amount of right thigh that his daughter was showing. Her dress had ridden almost up to her panties. The sight made him want to gulp. He tried, not quite successfully, to keep his eyes on her face. What she said next surprised him.
"Why can't I find a guy like you, Dad?" She sniffed loudly. "One who is nice and decent?"
Michael realized his daughter was more upset than he'd supposed. Carol Ann had never said anything like that before. It both pleased him, and bothered him, somehow. On top of that, she was laying in a position that afforded him a splendid view of her brassiere through the open sleeve of her dress. The sight of the beige cups, filled with immature breasts, made his penis stir. He wondered what they looked like bare. He wondered what all of her looked like bare. He shifted uncomfortably, trying, also not quite successfully, to avoid those thoughts. And then he moved forward and sat down on the bed and placed his right hand on her shoulder. She didn't react, didn't shrink away as he'd hoped.
You, he thought distractedly, are close to crossing the line. Very close. He tried to remove his hand and couldn't. Beneath his palm, and under his fingertips, he could feel the outline of her bra strap. His erection grew harder. And to his dismay, Carol chose just that moment to move beneath his hand and rise up to throw her arms around his neck.
"Oh, Daddy!" she complained. "I'm so miserable."
Michael took a shuddering breath. He held his hands away, afraid to let them anywhere near his daughter's flesh, even through her clothing. He felt an answering shudder, and his hands moved closer against his will. No, he thought to himself in a panic. Don't you dare do this! His hands continued to move toward Carol Ann's sobbing back until they made contact. She tightened her hold around his neck, flattening her small breasts against his chest. Michael could barely breathe.
"Carol Ann... ?" he choked out.
Sobbing, Carol Ann choked back: "Yes, Daddy?"
"This isn't a good idea."
Carol Ann continued to sob. "Why not?" ... She wanted to know.
Because what? Because he wasn't strong enough as a man and father to keep his hands off a 13-year old girl? Because he had a hard-on for her the size of the Empire State Building? Because he'd been deprived of sex for the last six months by her shrewish, calculating mother?
"Because why, Daddy?" she asked again.
And he showed her why.
Sometime later, Carol Ann lay sobbing on her bed, covered by the sheet, her face buried in her hands. On his side, Michael watched and tried to comfort her.
"Think of it as a life-lesson," he advised softly.
Carol Ann continued to cry.
"You don't have to worry about some boy stealing your virginity anymore," he continued.
Carol Ann continued to cry. Her sobs, racking her whole body, made Michael feel bad.
Well, you should feel bad, he thought to himself sourly. You just raped your 13-year old daughter.
The truth was, it was not so much rape as piss-poor luck. Michael had been sexually attracted to Carol Ann for as long as she'd been able to talk. Possibly longer. He had laughed uproariously when one of the first words out of her mouth was fuck. Her mother had paddled her bottom good. She had her older brothers to thank for that injustice.
Frankie and Jimmy were 12 and 14 years older than she, both well into their teens by the time Carol Ann could form words of her own. Of course the word fuck had come out of her mouth. The boys used it constantly. Their mother was always on their asses about it. On his ass too, for allowing its use in the house. He had spoken to the boys afterward, telling them Carol Ann deserved better than an ass-whipping due to their foul mouths. For once they had listened to him. It probably had something to do with threatening to kick Jimmy out of the house, and ground Frankie for life. As easy going as Michael usually was, he was nobody to mess around with when annoyed. He had boxed Golden Gloves in college. He'd been good, for a white guy. He stayed in shape, working out three days a week at the gym. And he still pounded a bag on occasion.
Carol Ann continued to cry.
Reconsidering a decision to touch her, Michael withdrew his hand and planted it, fist down on the bed. He wondered what he could say to make it better. Sorry I hurt you, honey? Don't be ridiculous. Being fucked the first time hurt. Sorry I took your virginity, honey? That was a legitimate thought; he was sorry. He was sure Carol Ann was sorry about it too. No doubt she wanted to surrender that precious commodity to someone her own age. Like Bobby Turner, for instance. Bobby Turner didn't deserve her. No 13-year old deserved her. No 14, 15, 16, 17 old, either. 18 years or older was out of the question. That would be statutory rape.
As opposed to aggravated rape, he asked himself. His mistake had been to kiss her in the first place.
"Daddy!" She had jumped like a startled jack-rabbit.
"What?" he had said innocently, as though kissing his daughter on the neck was an everyday occurrence.
She had blinked at him slowly, confused, not sure what he had just done, what he had meant by it. Her face went bright red and he watched her reconsider what he'd done in embarrassment.
"I'm sorry. I think I..."
"What?" he asked again.
She continued to blink, continued to redden. Finally she muttered, "Nothing" and laid back down on the bed and curled up. He rubbed her right shoulder, though now she did stiffen.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
She nodded. It looked--he swore it did--like she wanted to suck her thumb. He rolled her onto her back.
He looked into her eyes. They were jack-rabbit round and frightened now.
"I'll ask you just once. I have to ask, because I'm an adult, and you're a child. I can't just do what I want without your permission."
Now her eyes grew really round, bugging-out round. She inhaled sharply, jaggedly. Michael, already overexcited, kept his eyes away from that expanding chest.
"Nuh-nuh-no!" she protested.
"I haven't asked you yet," he said gently.
She shook her head frantically side to side. She covered her chest with her crossed arms. Michael let her. She brought her knees together and raised them defensively. Michael let her. She began to shiver. Michael could do nothing about that.
"Relax," he said, smiling. "You don't know what I plan to ask you."
She nodded, oh yes, I do. Michael guessed that she did.
"Well, I have to ask you anyway, sweetie." He watched her flinch at the endearment. "You can say no."
She continued to shiver. "I can?" she asked through chattering teeth.
"Of course, you can. Do you think I'd make you do anything you didn't want to do?"
She didn't shake her head. She only stared up at him in wide-eyed innocence.
"Well, I wouldn't. You only have to say--"
"No!" she croaked preemptively.
Michael smiled again. He sat back. "Easy as that," he said lightly. Without touching her, he got up from the bed and stretched. "I'd rather you not go to your mother about this. This is between you and me. I'll be disappointed if your mother brings this subject up with me. Agreed?"
Carol Ann nodded. It looked like she had begun to breathe again. Her heartbeat was visible as a pulse in her neck, a noticeable pounding in her chest, and another pulse visible in her temple. Michael estimated her heart-rate at something over 150 beats per minute. Her shivering was due to adrenaline rush.
"Good night, Carol Ann. I'm sorry about your dance. Sorry this Bobby fella was such an ignorant asshole. He doesn't know..." He had almost said "He doesn't know what he's missing," but thought better of it. He left it as "He just doesn't know."
"I'll see you in the morning," he said, and started to close the door.
He turned around.
"Do you still love me?" She was on the verge of tears again.
"Of course, I love you sweetheart. You don't have to ask me that." He shook his head, smiling at her kindly. "Now go to bed. I'll see you in the morning." He began to close the door behind him again.
"Yes, sweetheart?" He watched her take a deep breath, screw up her courage.
"What were you going to ask me?"
He laughed gently. "You already answered the question, so I think you know." He began to close the door for the third time.
"No!" she objected hurriedly. "I need to know." She took another deep breath. Calmer, she enunciated her words carefully. "I need to know if you were asking me what I think your were asking me."
"What did you think I was asking you?" he said.
She paused, for a very long time. And then, in a shaky, cracking, squeaking voice, she said: "I think, you were asking to make love to me, Daddy."
Silence on both ends. Michael spoke first, after a full minute of waiting.
"You said no."
Her face crumpled. "I don't want to say no, if it'll make you mad at me, Daddy."
"I'm not mad," he assured her. "You have a right to say no. You have a right to keep yourself sacrosanct, give yourself to whomever you please. It doesn't have to be your old man," he added, grinning.
Carol Ann didn't grin back. She still looked on the verge of tears.
"I don't want to hurt your feelings, either," she said in a barely audible voice.
"You're not." It was a lie, but not one he'd ever burden her with. "I have no right to expect it, nor any right to be upset if you say no. A father and his daughter ... well, you know," he said, shrugging. "It's not a common event. It's not legal, either. It's certainly not legal if I force you," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Now go on to sleep, dear. I'll see you in the morning."
But Carol Ann was not ready to go to sleep.
"What if I said yes?"
Michael reopened the door. "Excuse me?"
"What if I said yes, Daddy?"
Michael looked at her speculatively. "Why would you say yes?"
Carol Ann didn't answer. Michael understood that she was unable to answer. She was terrified. Terrified and something else. Reentering the room, he closed the door behind himself and locked it.
She was really shivering now. Not shivering; shaking. Like a tree in an earthquake, Michael thought. He felt sorry for her. He shifted on the bed, moved sideways so he could address her more easily. She lay unmoved, arms still clutching her chest, knees still pressed tightly together.
"Why did you change your mind?" he asked.
She couldn't seem to open her mouth. She was shaking too hard. She shook her head. Michael scratched his head.
"Would you like a soda? Something stronger? A beer maybe? A glass of wine?"
Her eyebrows rose. "Really?" she managed to get out.
Michael nodded. "You can't tell your mother."
She laughed, shakily, and nodded. "Can I have wine?"
"A small glass," he allowed. He squinted one eye. "You're telling me you have a preference?"
Now she looked embarrassed. She looked away momentarily. "Are you mad?"
He frowned, a father again. "That depends. Since when do you drink wine?"
Her shaking eased, but was supplemented by an embarrassed squirm.
"You're not supposed to drink. You're 13," he reminded her disapprovingly.
"You won't tell Mom?" she pleaded.
He shook his head. "Tell me about this."
She squirmed uncomfortably again. "It's not like I'm a drunk," she said, almost petulantly.
Michael had to laugh. "I'm not accusing you of being a drunk, sweetheart."
"I've only done it a couple of times," she complained.
Michael raised his eyebrows encouragingly.
"A couple of times after school," she confessed. "And once or twice, you know, when I was with my friends."
Now his eyebrows pulled together. She squirmed again in embarrassment. "Overnights," she admitted. "Sleepovers. We'd sneak it into the room. Sometimes we'd uh, smoke a little pot or--"
"Stop!" her father said hurriedly. "No more. I'm still your father, you know. I don't want to ground you until you're 18." He smiled. "Or take you over my knee and tan your little backside."
She flushed with embarrassment. The last time she'd been spanked had been just before her 12th birthday. She'd made the mistake of back-talking her mother when her dad was home. She'd been in her bedroom along with her friend Beth, and her dad had just walked in the front door and heard her mom tell her to do something (she couldn't remember what now) and Carol Ann's snappy, disrespectful reply. She'd jumped as her father stomped in the room, backed away as he'd advanced on her, opened her eyes wide in fear and apprehension at the expression on his face, raised her hands defensively and hunched her shoulders and whined "No, Daddy, please!" even as he grabbed her arm, dragged her to the swivel chair at her desk, and put her over his lap.
"What did I tell you last time?" he demanded.
"No, Daddy, please!" she repeated. Squirming did no good. She was going nowhere. Peripherally she watched her friend Beth retreat to the far side of the bed, where she clutched the tall wooden bedpost. She could imagine her look of shock, though she dared not look up to confirm. Embarrassment wouldn't let her do that. Because, what if her dad actually spanked her? Beth was a blabbermouth. Everyone would know. The humiliation would be ten times worse than the spanking.
"Daddy, please!" she begged again. To her horror, he raised the back of her skirt and laid it on her back. Oh, no, she moaned to herself. Please not on my bare bottom! Please not that! She whimpered as her father's hand roughly dragged her panties down and out of the way to mid-thigh. She was bare-bottomed now, exposed. She squeezed her thighs together and clenched her cheeks.
"What did I tell you?" her father demanded.
"Daddy, no," she repeated miserably. She could see Beth's mouth hanging open. She appeared to be hiding behind the bedpost. She appeared to be making herself as small as possible.
"What did I tell you?" her father demanded again. "Don't make me repeat myself, girl." She felt, rather than saw him raise his hand.
"A hundred times!" she blurted out. "You said you'd spank me a hundred times!"
"Make me count," she admitted wretchedly.
And what? She didn't know, And, what?
"I ... I don't know!" she cried. She looked back over her shoulder. Her father's hand hung in mid-air, poised to strike. It looked very big, huge, powerful. Painful. She looked at him pleadingly.
Her father waited.
"Honest, Dad. I don't know what else. Please let me up." She was this close to tears. Her eyes stung and her nose burned. Beth gawked at her like a beached whale, blinking slowly, mouth comically open in a perfectly round O. And she looked excited.
Noooooo, Carol Ann thought miserably. She'll be on the phone the instant she leaves my bedroom. She'll tell everyone! She began to cry; she couldn't help herself.
Her father paid no mind. "I said, didn't I, that I would make you kneel in a corner afterward with your hands on your head and your panties at half-mast. Isn't that what I said?"
She nodded dully. He had said that, hadn't he? She tried to get her sobbing under control. She was semi-successful.
"I also told you I'd take a picture of you like that, and make you post it on your Facebook page, didn't I?"
He'd said that also, she remembered now. It had mortified her at the time, terrified her, really. No wonder she didn't remember.
"Are you really going to do that?" she whimpered.
Her father sighed. "Of course not, Carol Ann. I'd be arrested for doing that." He lowered his hand and took hers and moved them to her lowered panties. "Pull them up," he said. Carol Ann wasted no time pulling them up. Before she had them completely snugged in place, her father lowered her skirt into place.
"Give me one reason I shouldn't spank you, Carol Ann."
Carol Ann's heart pounded in her chest. "I promise I won't sass Mom again?"
"Do better than that."
"I'll go down and apologize to her?"
"That's better." He helped her off his lap and onto her feet. He released her hand and let her back away a step. He turned to face Beth.
Beth shivered, head to toe. "Yes, sir?" came out a squeak.
"Do I have to tell you what I'll do if you talk about what happened here today?"
Beth's eyes grew very wide. She shook her head, unsteadily.
"If my daughter comes home in tears because you opened your mouth..." He gave her a Clint Eastwood glare. "I will hunt you down and use my belt on you." He touched his belt for emphasis. "Understand me?"
"Yes, sir," she mewed, nodding obediently. She really was hiding behind the bedpost, Carol Ann thought. She looked no older than six years old, incongruous at the moment with a 12-year-old's breasts pushing out her shirt. Michael scowled at her. Then he left the room and closed the door behind him.
Carol Ann said: "How come you didn't spank me that day?"
Michael furrowed his brow. "What day?"
"In my bedroom? Just before my 12th birthday. In front of Beth?"
Michael's eyebrows rose. He remembered that day. He grinned. "I had you really scared, didn't I?"
Carol Ann nodded. She flushed again. "I was so embarrassed. I thought I would die if you did it. I couldn't believe it when you let me up." She looked at him curiously. "Why did you?"
"I had you dead to rights," Michael pointed out.
"I know," she agreed.
"You never sassed your mother again," he pointed out.
"Not that you heard," she said, grinning mischievously.
Michael laughed. "I figured a little humiliation was more appropriate than a lot of pain and humiliation. I'm a psychologist, remember? Mortification can work for you, or against you. The threat of humiliation often works better than the act itself. Spanking you in front of Beth would only have made you rebellious. Reprieving you made you grateful, and more cautious."
"It did that." She sighed, almost regretfully. "You know it turned me on?"
Michael smiled. "I suspected it would."
"I felt so helpless."
"You were," he reminded her. "Completely."
"It's a strange feeling you get, being helpless and at someone else' mercy."
"Would you like a spanking now?"
Carol Ann considered. "I haven't done anything wrong, though."
"That's not a prerequisite," Michael said. "Besides, I'm sure I could think of something." He raised an eyebrow.
"Like smoking pot at my girlfriend's house?"
"Isn't there, like a statute of limitations on that?"
"Not for a 13 year old," he reminded her.
She smiled wryly. "I guess that's right." She arranged her face in a pout. "I can't have the wine then?"
Michael laughed. Carol Ann struggled to maintain her pout. "You're making this really hard," she complained.
"Maybe a spanking would help?"
"It might," she said, grinning wryly. She stuck out her tongue and wagged it at him disrespectfully.
Michael laughed again. He reached for his belt buckle at the same time a cell phone rang. He patted his pockets as Carol Ann stretched to look at her night stand. She frowned. Actually, she glowered.
"Here," she said disdainfully, handing him the phone. "It's your wife."
Michael glowered, not at the phone, but at his daughter. "She's your mother. Show some respect."
Carol Ann rolled her eyes. Michael continued to glower at her as he thumbed the green button and said "Hi."
"Where is your phone? I've called you three times," Monica said. As usual, no preamble, no endearments, no greeting. Michael redirected his glower to Carol Ann's bedroom door.
"Downstairs," he said tightly. "Probably in my coat pocket."
"Well, that's a great place for it," she said disdainfully. Michael had a hard time not muttering to himself. Carol Ann had it right. She really did. Monica was a bitch.
"What's up, sweetheart?" he said.
While he talked, Carol Ann took the opportunity to visit the bathroom. She really needed to pee. She wondered if maybe she should hold off, though. She paused midway in lowering her panties, thinking about it, considering how needing to pee made her squirm. Being squirmy had its advantages. Her dad liked to see her squirm. She liked having to squirm, too. Squirming made the experience so much more intimate, so much more rewarding. It wouldn't be the first time she peed herself being a bad girl either. Correction, playing a bad girl. An important distinction.
Who are you kidding, she thought with a snort. You are as bad as a girl can get. She pulled her panties back up her thighs and snugged them in place. Sighing, she checked the mirror and turned sideways to see her profile. Pitiful. 19 years old and no bigger than she was at 13. Barely 13, she reminded herself. It was 2005 again. Three weeks after her 13th birthday, remember? Barely a teenager. Christ, had she even started yet? She furrowed her brow in thought. It brought out her father in her. She wouldn't have noticed, but anyone else would. She looked a lot like her father. Same forehead, same nose, same strong chin. She even had his slightly protruding ears, though they were hidden by her long blond hair. Of course, all these features were softened and feminized by her gender. If she only had big breasts, she thought.
Sucking in air, she puffed out her chest and still looked pitiful. She wore a size 32A bra. And that was almost wishful thinking. She really belonged in a 32AA. Pride-or embarrassment, take your pick-kept her from admitting that. She sighed, disgustedly. And that bitch on the telephone was a 36C. It just burned her up.
Of course, Dad loved her "13-year-old's'" breasts. She laughed, remembering the first time she'd lifted her shirt and shown them to him. How his eyes had bugged out. That had been what, only a year ago? She sighed. All that wasted time. But then, it secretly pleased her that Michael had waited. The whole length of her childhood and adolescence. The closest she came was that stupid spanking in her bedroom. If only Beth weren't there. Talk about miserable timing. She sighed again, remembering Michael lifting her skirt and lowering her panties. It made her shiver, remembering that day. And he had restrained himself until after her 18th birthday. She respected that. She loved her daddy.
But they were so bad, doing this.
"Admiring yourself?" Michael asked.
She reverted to 13, smiling pixie-ishly. "No," she pretended to lie. "Is Mommy coming home?"
"Not until Wednesday night."
Carol Ann looked crestfallen.
"I thought things were looking up. You don't trust me to talk to?"
Carol Ann looked surprised. "Oh," she said, as though suddenly remembering their agreement. "You were going to give me some wine." She smiled radiantly, happy again.
"And talk," her father reminded her. "I'm your psychologist, remember?"
Carol Ann nodded enthusiastically. But then she frowned. "You won't tell Mom?"
"Tell Mom what?"
"What we talk about."
"I don't betray confidences, Carol Ann. First rule of doctor-patient relationships."
"Not even Mom?" she pressed.
"Especially not your mom," he assured her. "Now what do you want to tell me?"
"I'd like some wine," she said. "I guess a cigarette is out of the question?"
And a blow-job too, Michael thought irreverently. "No cigarettes. I'll tan your little hide I catch you with cigarettes. You don't smoke, do you?" he demanded, frowning.
"Not cigarettes," she answered coyly.
Her father fixed her with a look. "Pot."
"I told you I did. Some, anyway. A little bit. Not much." She held her right index finger and thumb a millimeter apart.
"Are you lying to me, girl?"
She eyed him plaintively. "Are you asking as my doctor, or my parent?"
He laughed. "Touche. I guess I deserved that, didn't I? Come on, let's go downstairs. I'll get you your wine."
Carol Ann followed her dad out of the bathroom, through her bedroom to the door, and down the hall to the stairs. She waited until Michael was halfway down and then skipped along behind him. Michael grinned widely. Still just a kid, he thought. Not even menstruating yet. At least, not that he knew of. He wondered if he should determine that fact, as her therapist. He mulled over the idea on the way to the kitchen. As he strode through the door, Carol Ann ducked around him and skipped over to the refrigerator and opened the door. She grinned widely, pixie-ish again.
Oh, God I want to fuck her, Michael thought. The idea made him ache inside; his stomach rolled, his testicles sucked up tight, he felt the muscles in his shoulders knot involuntarily. Why was she so damned sexy? Glancing away, he crossed the remaining distance and slid a bottle of Heineken out of the six-pack on the top shelf. He nodded and allowed his 13 year old to remove the bottle of Chardonnay and place it on the counter. He opened the drawer containing miscellaneous utensils and pointed out the corkscrew. He watched as Carol Ann inexpertly tried to twist the coiled steel into the protruding cork. He grinned as the tip of her pretty young tongue protruded from the corner of her mouth. And then he broke.
Carol Ann started at being touched. "What--?" she got out as her dad pulled the bottle from her grasp, slid it across the counter out of the way, and trapped his shocked daughter against the counter's edge. He tried to kiss her.
"Daddy-no!" She struggled awkwardly, hands against his chest, pushing on one arm, trying to get a forearm between them, twisting her head away and back to avoid his lips. She cried out as she felt his hardness mash against her young tummy.
"Daddy, no!" she repeated helplessly. Michael bent and threw her over his shoulder and stood up. "Daddy!" she wailed as he carried her from the kitchen. "What are you doing?" She beat ineffectually against his back with her small fists and tried to kick herself off his shoulder. He smacked her hard on the ass with his free hand.
"Be still, girl!"
"Daddy, no!" she pleaded. "What are you doing to me?" Being carried upstairs, she tried to grab the railing and banister. Her father swatted her again.
"Be good, I told you."
Carol Ann continued to struggle and grabbed at every protrusion she could: the corner of the wall at the top of the stairs, door jambs, hanging pictures-she managed to get one and Michael snatched it away from her, setting it carefully on the floor against the wall. He whacked her five times in a row, very hard. Carol Ann cried out in pain and indignation, continued to kick and grab for anything within reach. Her father had to pry her fingers off her own doorjamb.
"Daddy, please!" she wailed as he carried her across the room to her bed and dumped her ungraciously upon it. She landed with her legs spread and her pink panties showing. The sight of them sent a shudder down Michael's spine. Carol Ann was not quick enough covering up.
"Daddy, no!" she cried.
Michael straddled her and grabbed the top of her dress in both hands, right at the straps. The straps were no match for his strength, nor was the frantic clutching at him by his daughter's hands. He tore the front of the dress all the way down to her waist. A shrill intake of breath accompanied her being exposed. She tried to cover up but Michael grabbed a wrist in each hand and planted them against the mattress right at her shoulders. Her mouth was open wide in shock, so were her eyes, and she still had a lungful of air. Michael trapped it in her lungs by kissing her. He felt her shudder beneath him. She tried to turn her head away but Michael pursued her mouth, kept his lips mashed to hers. She screamed anyway, but it was completely smothered. Michael raised his head.
"Don't fight me, Carol Ann."
She struggled with everything she had to free her wrists. She kicked and squirmed and twisted furiously, thrashing side to side. It did no good. Michael outweighed her by a hundred pounds or more. He sat on her middle and watched her futile resistance.
"Stop it," he said calmly.
Carol Ann thrashed back and forth. She was very red now, from the roots of her hair down past her pert, bra-covered breasts. Michael started at her young breasts, at the few ounces of flesh captured in the shallow cups. She really was a 13-year-old, he thought, wryly. How embarrassing.
"Do I have to smack you?" he asked.
Her struggles didn't let up. She was panting, the breath chugging in and out of her lungs. She would hurt herself, if she hadn't already. Bending over, he kissed the side of her neck where it joined her shoulder. She tried to force him out with her chin. He raised his head and bit into her left cheek, hard. That got her attention
He wagged his head, as a dog would with a mouth full of flesh.
"Please, Daddy! You're hurting me!" He could feel the air sucking in and out of her lungs.
"Behave yourself," he growled.
"I will!" she promised hurriedly. "Please! That hurts, Daddy!"
He held her cheek captured in his teeth for a few moments longer, and then released her.
"I'll bite your nose next time," he threatened.
She panting, staring up at him. "You're hurting my shoulders," she said.
He laughed. "I'm hurting your shoulders?"
She nodded, continuing to pant.
Relenting, he eased up on the downward pressure on his fists. In truth, his shoulders hurt also. He nodded very slowly, watching her breathe in and out, watching the rise and fall of her chest, wanting to free her of the bra.
"I'm gonna take your bra off," he said. "I don't want you to move. I don't want you to complain. I don't want you to cover yourself up. Understand me?"
She nodded, hesitantly. Her face was pinched now with worry. Worry, fear and embarrassment. She didn't want her breasts bared to be laughed at. Michael wondered how big they really were, whether the bra made them look bigger than they really were. He hoped not. He didn't hold much hope though. He was looking forward to seeing her little nipples, however. He hoped they were pink. He hoped they were hard little points when he exposed them to the light. He wondered how big around the areola were. Her mother's areola were the size of silver dollars. He suspected Carol Ann's were more on the order of a quarter. He hoped so, anyway. He hated his wife's ugly areola.
"Leave you hands on the bed," he warned.
She nodded. Her breathing had slowed somewhat. She no longer looked on the verge of hyperventilating.
He released her wrists, kept them encircled with his fingers momentarily, and then pulled his hands away. She kept her wrists where they were. So far, so good.
"I want you to take it off yourself," he said.
She shivered, shaking her head side to side in small, desperate movements. "Daddy, please? No."
"I want you to take it off yourself," he repeated. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.
Mewing unhappily, Carol Ann lay motionless for a time, and then arched her back and slipped her arms beneath her. She looked on the verge of tears as Michael watched the material on the sides of her bra stretch while she located the catch with her fingertips and pulled it apart. The sides of her bra relaxed. Her hands came out and her back lowered to the bed. She returned her wrists to their previous position at her shoulders. Michael stared at her loosened bra, almost mesmerized. He caught himself licking his lips, and stopped. Should he bare them himself, he wondered, or make her do it? Which would embarrass her more? Which would arouse him more? He knew the answer.
Pinching the bottom of her cups between his forefingers and thumbs, he lifted the bra up and over her tiny breasts. A shudder went through him like a small earthquake. Her areola were round, perfectly pink, dime-sized, tipped with pea-sized nipples. Another shudder, a much more powerful one, rumbled up his spine and rattled his shoulders. Her nipples were hard as pebbles.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He started. "Sorry? For what?'
"That I'm not bigger for you," she whispered.
Michael laughed. "I like small breasts," he said.
He shook his head, though what she said was fairly true. On her back, laying with her wrists at her shoulders, flattening her breasts almost into non-existence, it took careful inspection to find the small rises of flesh. They certainly couldn't be called mounds, or even hillocks. She was as flat as a 10-year-old. Well, an 11-year-old, anyway.
Introspectively, he imagined what an ordeal day to day life was with no breasts. Imagine the locker room at school. Imagine the inquisitive hand of a new boyfriend. Bobby Turner for instance? Had it happened that way, when she was really 13? Did he spurn her for a better set of tits? The asshole. Boys were so stupid.
He reached down and touched her left nipple with his fingertip. He felt her sharp intake of breath, saw her face pinch and her eyes cut away. She was 13 again, good. He leaned down with his hands planted on the bed and took her left nipple into his mouth. She moaned unhappily as he pulled the dime-sized areola in with suction, widened his mouth to suck in what little breast tissue she had. She moaned again, writhing now. He switched to the other side of her chest, and continued going back and forth until she moaned and writhed continuously. She hadn't moved her hands off the bed.
"What else do you have in your prize package?" he wondered aloud. Carol Ann sobbed quietly, her chest hitching. Michael scanned down to where the front of her dress lay bunched at her waist. He fingered her belly button with the tip of his little finger, laughing as he made her squirm. Carol Ann turned her head aside and continued to cry.
Michael slid back, away from her waist, working the remnants of the dress off her hips, down her thighs, exposing her pink panties. Then he slid the remains down past her knees, shins and feet, and let them drop to the floor. He liked her in the fetchingly displaced bra and her pink panties.
"God," he said admiringly. "You are so slim." She tried to raise her knees defensively but he pushed them back down on the bed. He ran his hand along the outside of her left thigh, caressing her knee, let it continue down her calf to her foot. Her slender body was exquisite.
"I'm about to take off your panties," he warned her.
Carol Ann whimpered.
"I'm really curious what I'll find there." He placed his hand palm down atop her panties. She shuddered and whimpered again at his touch. She kept her head turned aside. Tears ran across the bridge of her nose out of sight. It quietly amazed him how easily she cried on demand. Imagine being that emotionally in control of yourself? Or out of control, he amended. Girls cry about everything.