Becoming Kitten Pt. 03

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Kitten and Nick investigate the depths of their new selves.
6.8k words
4.7
32k
60

Part 3 of the 4 part series

Updated 06/09/2023
Created 09/08/2018
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samandalex
samandalex
184 Followers

This is a work of fiction, in which all characters are over the age of 18. If you haven't, we recommend you read Parts 1 and 2 to fully understand the context for these characters.

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The spray rips across my face as waves slap themselves up over the gunwale and shoot icy sheets across the deck. The huge wooden vessel is tossed like a toy in the tempest, careening wildly, aimless in the violent roll of the storm.

Clouds darken the day into a terrifying twilight, the horizon heaving with waves and serrated with whitecaps.

Through the wet rigging I see Jessica staggering toward me from the bow, grabbing onto whatever she can as the world tumbles, pulling herself forward. Her long auburn hair is darkened by the wet and slicked against her face. She is screaming something I can't hear over the howling winds and crashing waves.

My heart pounds in my chest, the danger we're in rushing forward to dominate my consciousness. I see no one else on the ship, and I'm standing next to the helm, the unattended wheel spinning wildly. Just beyond the wheel a giant black wave rises, and rises, and rises, like a wall. It will crush us. My heart catches in my throat.

She is closer now, her repeated cries becoming intelligible.

"... eel!"

"... a....!"

"... ake!... "

"...Take... "

"Take the wheel! TAKE THE WHEEL!"

Suddenly I stand directly before the spinning wheel, wondering how I can can grab its slippery flying arms without destroying my hands in the process. The demon wave looms higher and higher in my peripheral vision, moments away from hitting us.

With a white-hot bolt of lightning, something in me shatters. . . and something else erupts into its place. The dizzying wheel is no longer daunting. In that flash, I know: it's not about the timing or technique of a grip. It's the will to take hold that matters. A new kind of wave rises inside me, somehow in dream space bigger than the one looming and threatening to pound down on the ship and kill us both. This new wave in me rolls through my body like an awakening - from the root of my pelvis through my guts and heart, past my throat and out the top of my head, washing the knowledge throughout my being: THE. WILL. TO. TAKE. HOLD.

With no thought whatsoever to finesse, I hurl my whole being against the wheel and grab on with everything I have.

In a dream-instant, everything is undone. I stand at that same wheel, but with the gentle roll of a benevolent sea beneath my feet, and a light breeze flapping the drying white canvas against blue sky above.

A seagull cries and glides lazily past in the sun. I feel the solid wood of the ships wheel in one hand, and a fistfull of my daughter's hair in the other. I look down.

Kitten kneels before me, tucked between me and the wheel, pulling my hard cock in and out of her willing mouth. She looks up at me with bottomless gratitude in her soft blue eyes.

She keeps sucking, bobbing her head slowly and sending delicious thrills up my spine. She doesn't speak, but I feel her voice inside me. Her voice resonates in my head and my heart and my cock.

"Thank you, Daddy. Thank you. . . thank you. . . thank you. I need this so much. . ." A single tear of soulful joy slides down her cheek as she sucks harder, pouring her love into my cock with the silk of her tongue and heat of her mouth.

In that moment, I realize many things, but mostly: I am not who I was.

----

Nick wakes in his bed, heart hammering. He still feels Kitten's gratitude vibrating through his half-conscious body, pulsing, like waves. It's nearly noon, and he blinks as memories of the dream weave into memories of the night before and he becomes aware of himself in his room. Disoriented.

He looks over at his sleeping daughter, naked and glorious beside him.

Shaking his head, he considers the last twelve hours. Lots of things happened and there's lots of ways to frame it but the bottom line is that he. . . had sex with his own daughter. Had sex. Was it making love? Was it fucking? Memories flash in front of him like a black-and-white movie - memories of the sweat, the pounding, the tight grips, her screams and his bellows as they both came. It was emotionally and physically what she'd desperately needed. It was a supernova. It was nourishing and perfect, but there was no doubt about it.

(That, my friend, was fucking.)

He'd fucked her. Several times.

He sits up to lean over on one elbow and lets his eyes drag across her nubile young body. The burgundy sheet has pooled around her hips and Nick watches her full breasts rise and fall as she sleeps deeply, peacefully. Unconsciously, his lungs slow to match her pace.

Kitten. She became Kitten last night.

For a moment he wonders how long he'll play along with that, how long he'll encourage her pretending. But as he thinks back on the night, the realization rises and boils over in him: "playing along" isn't in the cards. She isn't pretending. What happened last night wasn't play. She stepped out of her chrysalis and unfolded her shimmering wings. She truly became someone else.

And so did he. Last night cracked him open. Last night opened doors inside him, knocked down walls between old and new, a burning spaciousness in his chest making him feel bigger, younger, more himself. Every breath comes easier and deeper.

The torment in him is gone. The handwringing and standoffish fatherly behavior is over, those worries vanished like a sigh in a storm.

He is now all-in as the man who met this little slut in her heat and fucked her hard and repeatedly. He is the man who gave her the space to confront her own needs to fuck, and to take an emotional step she couldn't have done otherwise. In the light of day, Nick is filled with a kind of . . . pride in himself, in the man he had been in that moment last night—the moment he'd pushed her right up to the edge of herself, so that all she had to do was take the leap into. . . becoming Kitten. That kind of forceful intensity was new for him, called into being by her need. She had needed him to push her to that edge. She had needed him to pull back the curtains and awaken her.

A streak of orange light through the window stretches languidly across her pink nipples and he muses as a mote drifts across the beam. All his senses are heightened, fueled by some sense f genesis he hasn't ever felt before. He leans on his elbow gazing at his freshly-fucked daughter, his cum probably still leaking out of her, and the pride he feels tells him something has awoken in him, too. He likes being this man.

He'd loved fucking her, of course. Her body is magnificent and she'd been a powerhouse of sexual need and energy. But that push—his moving her to her own edge and watching her willingly throw herself over into whatever lay beyond, into whatever "being Kitten" might mean—that was the sexiest thing he can remember experiencing. In that moment a new version of himself erupted into being from somewhere deep inside him. One with its own set of needs and an aptitude for sexual control. Dominance. The memory of it fills him with a feeling of power. And lust.

Nick realizes that his cock is rock hard, and the insistence he suddenly feels in his body brings him back to this present moment. But the deliciousness of the lust that thrums through his veins is not just physical. Her willing response to him demanding that she leap into the unknown fills him with an almost spiritual hunger for something he's now tasted and wants more of. It is a razor sharp need with a dark edge that is beyond his ability to fight. It's like there's something new in his blood, something now coursing through his being that feels. . . bigger than him somehow. Like a tiger that's been pacing in its cage for so long, and now has begun to step through the open door. He wonders how far this new side of him will take things. He is tempted to wake her up and use her again. To just keep fucking this willing young thing that happens to be his daughter.

A moment from the night before flashes back to him--a moment on the couch when they were grunting like animals and he'd felt something very. . . specific in how she moved, how she breathed, how she grinned in abandon.

Something he recognized.

(Whoa.)

Suddenly his mind takes him back more years than he wants to admit, to when he and Carol were newlyweds, long before the divorce. On certain nights while they tumbled in bed, she had. . . transformed. She'd come out of herself with passion. Flown into a glorious frenzy and awakening of deep hunger in her that made him feel like he was seeing her true self for the first time. They'd fucked mindlessly then, her pussy flowing with need, her skin flushed with endless release. It was those nights when they got adventurous: she'd voraciously demanded he fuck her in the ass, spank her, choke her. They'd gone for hours, moaning and screaming, afterward sleeping the deepest of sleeps in each others arms.

In the mornings, what they'd experienced and discovered together had filled him with joy. But her strict Catholic upbringing tortured her with shame. She had hated that thing inside her and how she. . . became someone else when it surfaced. And she started to hate him for witnessing—and loving— what she was so ashamed of in herself. It had taken years but had finally broken them as a couple.

She'd then gone to a man who was, Nick had to admit, a good guy but a bit judgmental and dry as dust. In the years since, Carol seemed happy-ish, but her smile was always pinched, her laugh guarded, her eyes darting. No one else knew, but he could see easily past the mask: she had decided to spend her life fighting what she actually was and what she actually needed. She had decided that her happiness was a fair price for being able to fit into the box labelled "what other people think I should be."

Nick returns to the present and Kitten coos quietly in her sleep, a tiny smile on her face, her plump breasts sliding deliciously as she rolls onto her side. Her lips part on an exhale. Ever so gently, she bucks her hips a few times, lost in what Nick decides can only be a deliciously sexual dream. He blinks at her, considering. The way his girl had fucked him last night--she had gloried in their two bodies melting together and radiated with beauty. All of it clicks together in his mind--the aggressive flirting that seemed to bring her out of her trauma, the grinding on his lap that was almost unconscious, the raunchy lap dance that came so naturally, the power of their bodies exploding towards each other—all of it makes one thing perfectly clear to him.

She's her mother's daughter in a very special way. He takes a moment to wonder if hereditary nymphomania is a real thing, but then decides he doesn't care. It's what brings her back to herself, what makes her feel alive. His daughter was made for fucking, for devouring and being devoured. For opening her legs and letting her body melt into another's. Her purpose. And he worries that if she cannot fulfill her purpose, she'll be miserable. He smirks at himself, at what a strangely fatherly concern this is, while at the same time his throbbing cock and the lust roiling in him demand that he lift her ankles to his shoulders and plunge his solid flesh into her again. Now. He wants to take her to that place where she loses herself, where she gives herself to him, where he owns everything about her. His mouth waters.

The new, dark hunger in him wants it. It wants to fuck her, use her, control her. It also tells him she's going to need some rules, and lust flares white hot in the pit of his stomach as he considers that.

His daughter is a natural slut, and Nick wants to do everything he can to encourage it because he absolutely wants to keep fucking her. But also—and more importantly—he's going to encourage her blossoming into a slut because he wants to take care of her. It's the glowing seed of truth inside her, and it's not going anywhere. It's who she is and he won't let her build walls around that truth, shut herself off and become a miserable half-of-a-person like Carol did. She was made for fucking and there's no denying it. But a beautiful and horny young girl like her could easily be destroyed in this cynical world, and he's not going to let that happen either.

Sighing, he rises and heads for the kitchen.

—-

Kitten awakes to the smell of coffee wafting down the hall and into her consciousness.

Opening her eyes, she finds herself alone in her father's bed, her naked pussy feeling deliciously well-used. Memories of the night before come flooding back, bringing with them a bloom of warmth and happiness that blossoms in a wide, slow grin.

He'd really done it. He'd really fucked her. Hard. He'd fucked her gloriously, passionately, beautifully hard. Her pussy warms and moistens as she lets herself soak in the memories of their tongues together, their sweat together, the moments when he shot his hot cum inside her. Sex had never felt that good before, with others. She had never felt as overwhelmingly desired, as fully satisfied, or as truly known as she had last night. She squirms a little in the bed, happy in ways she never expected.

Lazily, she picks at a length of her now platinum-blonde hair. "Kitten. . . " she whispers to herself, regarding the color first a bit clinically, then with a loving warmth as she remembers all the new changes that have accompanied it. She's going to love being Kitten. She already does.

The need hits her deep in the chest. She needs to find him.

She puts her long hair up in a messy ponytail and pads naked to the kitchen, her footfalls a delicate duet with the morning birdsong outside.

There he is. Her heartbeat stutters as she observes him at the stove, stirring eggs and wearing the silk robe he must have rescued from the couch after last night.

She pauses at the doorway, unsure.

Her movement catches his eye and he turns, his handsome green eyes meeting her own. They regard each other there in the kitchen light, her breath catching in her throat.

This is the moment. Who are they now to each other? How will he treat what happened last night? Will he call it a mistake? (Please, God, no.) Will he say it can never happen again? (Please, PLEASE, God no.) Or will it be. . . a new beginning? She realizes with startling clarity that she wants more of him, a lot more.

He smiles warmly, eyes sparkling, but does not move toward her. "Good morning, Kitten."

Energies mix in her, a shiver travelling up her spine and down again as her wings begin to unfold. He uses her new name but doesn't approach, doesn't reach out to embrace her, to kiss her, to run his hands across her naked body. Shyly, she moves forward and stands at the kitchen island, a few feet from him.

"Morning. . . Daddy." Her voice almost falters, coming out more tentative than she wants.

She sees him watching her, almost studying her. "Have a good time last night?" he asks, his tone relaxed, buoyant even. He makes no move to touch.

Standing naked in front of her father, anxiety marches through her as he regards her with a kind of . . . distance. She feels suddenly flushed, and oddly, wet. A new rush of moist heat in her pussy shocks her into crystal-clear awareness of this moment: her naked feet on the kitchen floor, the morning sun reflecting off the satin of his robe, the spatula in his hand, the smell of eggs and toast. His determined distance. The absence of touching. Her body responds to it all with sizzling need.

"You know I did, Daddy. . ." she says, preoccupied by both the confusing nature of his tone and her body's very needy reaction to it. There is hope in her voice as she asks "Did you?" A long moment passes before he answers, eyes on hers, steady and relaxed.

"Yes, baby," he says, still completely relaxed. "Very much so."

Relief barrells through her, and she exhales suddenly, only now realizing that she had been holding her breath, so fearful that she might lose everything she'd felt in last night's delicious promise.

"We do have to talk about some things now," he says, turning the burner off on the stove and turning to face her fully, his tone still relaxed, but firm.

Finally able to breathe again, Kitten finds a stronger voice. "Sure. . . about what?" His gaze pries her open.

"Do you really want to stay here?" he asks. "Live here . . . like we were last night?"

His tone is not gushy like a boyfriend, and not cozy like a father. It's almost. . . businesslike, the beginnings of a transaction. It's a powerful side of him she hasn't seen much of, and her body responds eagerly. This man made her feel safer than anywhere else in the world and she trusts him completely. His softness and care for her had drawn her to him like a moth to a flame. She had thrown herself at him because his gentleness gave her what she needed. And yet...

There is something new in his voice. A . . commanding tone. It seeps from his pores and into every inch of her. It's unbelievably hot. She'd heard it the first time last night, when he'd flipped her over, pinned her down, and she. . became Kitten. Became herself, finally.

She gasps as a trickle of moisture escapes her pussy and her body flushes hot. Her father's promise of gentle safety won over Jessica's heart and body. But that was Jessica. For Kitten, it was this new man's presence that brought her into being, this authoritative voice and this willingness to take control, and it absolutely sets her pussy on fire. She resists the urge to kneel at his bare feet.

"Yes, Daddy," she says, moving towards him and reaching out to rest her palm on his chest. "More than anything. I want to be. . . like we were last night. Can we?"

"Yes, we can," he says, voice rumbling deep in his chest. "If you can live by a few rules, baby."

Kitten wonders if they didn't just break all the rules last night. What rules?

Nervous and confused, she takes a deep breath. With a shockingly delicious feeling of leaping into the unknown of space, she nods. "Yes, Daddy," she says, quietly, then hears herself add. "Anything."

He reaches out to take her hands with a surprisingly solid grip. His touch is electric and singes her skin, her breath panting hot and humid into the air between them.

"Wait, baby. You have to hear them first. You're a very good girl," she shivers at those words, "but you must always take care of yourself first."

Her belly rolls in warm delight. He makes her feel so safe. She bites her bottom lip, smirking.

"O.K. . . What rules?" She imagines herself doing chores.

He continues.

"The first rule: except when bathing, exercising, relaxing on the couch, or sleeping, you will always wear heels of at least four inches. I will give you an unlimited budget for shoes. But you must always have your heels on. I want you to feel sexy and glamorous at all times. Can you commit to that?" His eyes slide down and to the left, and she follows his gaze to where her heels from last night sit next to the counter.

She looks at the shoes as they shimmer in the morning light of the kitchen, then slides her eyes back to Nick, feels the electricity dancing between them. Thrilling in this new adventure, without a word she squats down and straps the heels on, standing to face him feeling. . . yes, sexier. Glamorous. And eager for what's next.

"Second, you will always wear a tight necklace of some kind. I will give you an unlimited budget for choker necklaces and the like. Even when we're not together I want you to always feel the safety that I'm with you. I want you to feel me. . ." He steps forward and rests his hand gently at her the base of her throat.

samandalex
samandalex
184 Followers
12