Coming Home to Poppa

Coming Home to Poppa

Jessalyn was seeing red. She'd navigated her car in a blind rage from her house all the way to the old driveway without having noticed the traffic signals or other cars on the road. Luckily it was late afternoon, not time for rush hour yet, otherwise the blank spot in her mind filled up with her shock & resentment might have caused her to run over a gaggle of nuns crossing the street or head-on an errant semi-truck.

She brought her compact car to a halt in a fury, barely engaging the parking brake and not bothering to pull her keys from the ignition when she'd shut the vehicle off. Then she stormed from the car and across the lawn to the porch without even bothering to slam her drivers door.

Luckily this was still a safe and quiet residential neighborhood. It had been years, almost half her lifetime that she had avoided it, but little had changed while she'd sought refuge on other parts of the island. Never fully leaving this house's orbit--but resisting the constant tug of it's gravity well until today.

Not that in her anger that she was taking any note of the manicured front yards, or the crisp paint jobs. The little touches that made it clear that her open car door wasn't an invitation to likely theft.. Nor was she bothering to make unflattering comparisons with her own somewhat grimy neighborhood, where leaving her apartment building she or her daughter were likely to be aggressively propositioned, treated to shouted obscenities, crude gestures, and waggled male genitalia.,

Not that even here she wouldn't have at least been subject to the hungry eyeballing of men and boys alike. She had barely dressed: a sports bra was struggling to contain the acrobatics of her enhanced breasts (she'd justified this by claiming that her pregnancy at age 18 had left her with a case of "droopy-tits"--but over the ensuing 18 years she'd gone back to have them enlarged further as she found the kind of men who's generosity she relied on to keep food on the table and clothes on her and Caitlyn's backs preferred her top heavy to the point of low back pain). Meanwhile her recently Brazilian butt-lifted behind had not even been parted by a thong before she'd sheathed it in some lululemon workout tights which dated to before her derrière's recent upsizing. As such the seam was buried in the cleft of her, now dangerously curvier haunches as she steamed in her tunnel vision towards the front porch.

Honestly, while the house she was charging towards saw it's share of attractive female visitors, any of the local male retirees catching a glimpse of the youthful 36 year old in her clinging exercise wear with her curves rolling and bouncing might have suffered a coronary, if not a more benign revival of even long dormant erections.

But the potential delighted consternation of the local elderly was of no consideration to Jess. She was blind in anguish as she stormed onto the porch. A sense of betrayal so profound that it made her want to scream left her deaf and unconscious to anything but the front door of the house that now confronted her.

It was locked, obviously visitors would be unwelcome interruptions to what she was certain was unfolding inside. But even at 5'5 she could tiptoes reach the top of the doorframe and slide her hand blindly in search of the old key that swiftly granted her access.

Her entrance was greeted by no response. Further confirming what she had known but still wished to deny. The house was remarkably silent. She knew that the same soundproofing that kept the neighbors from knowing what various young women got up to with the house's owner would inevitably keep her from being heard--even had she been stomping through the house in combat boots instead of her thong slippers. And she doubted the householder would be eyeing his security system to register her intrusion. Given that he was probably distracted by an intrusion of his own that he was perpetrating down on the house's soundproofed bottom floor.

Jess' formal education had stopped at 12th grade, and while she had never lacked for intelligence, life had not exposed her to the works of Proust. Nor to discussions of why the olfactory nerves have such a strong influence on memory and emotion. Nevertheless, as her angrily flaring nostrils pulled in the odors of the old house, she found herself almost bodily struck by a sense of tragic nostalgia. A longing that she had thought buried or fully renounced. So even in her bloody-minded fury a flurry of other feelings assaulted her and penetrated her fog of violence.

It left her momentarily confused. Knocking her back on her heels emotionally like a fighter taking an unexpected punch, leaving her almost disoriented. Lost in time and memories.

Literally shaking her head as if to clear it and unconsciously wiping the first bitter tears that were starting to drip unbidden from her soft brown eyes, the scantily clad brunette resumed her rapid charge forward through the near silent house. The layout was unchanged, and she knew that the studio would still be where it had always been. Only the basement was large and isolated enough to allow for certain activities. So she was through the kitchen and down the basement steps without registering the décor or any other changes the building might have undergone since she'd charged out of it equally vehemently more than eighteen years prior.

Downstairs the studio door still bears the girlishly scripted homemade sign reading: "Ssshhhh! Daddy's working." And a lifetime's habit causes her to slow and swing the well oiled door outwards towards her in total silence. But as soon as the portal is even cracked her ears are met with a cacophony of slapping flesh and an duet of grunts and pants and high pitched moans. Meanwhile, a different wave of odor washes over her and her nose draws in a gasped lungful of sweat and pussy and a smell she associates with a man's taint. A crotch perfume that activates something in the base of her pelvis. She feels almost sick with herself, her frailty given that she can well imagine what awaits her inside and has given rise to this ordure of hard fucking and it's accompanying symphony of sexual satisfaction. Tears in her eyes, but she can still feel her labia swelling against her tights. She is Pavlov's bitch, lubricating and salivating despite herself at the scent of a certain man's dirty crotch.

She has always been a victim of her eager pussy. It has always leaked aggressively. Men on dates would tell her they could smell it, and she could hardly deny it. Since she was a teenager her disobedient fuckhole has betrayed her at the merest provocation. Dripping fuck-honey and swelling like a "goddamn baboon's ass" as her older sister used to mock her when she'd find her in her room slapping away at her clit or fingering herself silly. Now, bathed in a musk of raw fuck, even in her blind rage, and, under that her burgeoning unreasonable sense of hurt and loss, Jess can't ignore that her vagina is eagerly lubricating herself even as her nipples are swelling to diamond points that struggle against her sport-bra's elastic.

The door is suddenly fully open and now vision accompanies the feast of aroma and sound that has caused her body to start further derailing her careening emotional roller-coaster.

She is out of the line of tripod'd cameras' angles. She can take in the couple who still consider themselves alone in their bliss as well as the monitors that are capturing the cameras recordings. So she is treated to multiple intimate angles of what awaits her; what she has been dreading since finally horrifyidly understanding what her phone was telling her half an hour earlier.

She'd wrenched the thick silicone shaft from her nether aperture, cut off the live cam session she'd been filming in her decidedly simpler home studio set up, thrown on her used workout clothes, and raced here. Knowing all the while what she was likely to find. But seeing it in the flesh...

The naked man is older, his late 50s with some salt to the pepper of his hair, but still trim and with a muscular back and thighs that suggest someone who continues to surf and swim (and possibly visit an anti-aging clinic for testosterone enhancement). The nude young woman belly down on the ottoman beneath him is slim with b-cup breasts that swing forwards and backwards in steady time with the regular hammering thrusts of the man's hips into her welcomingly up thrust buttocks. She has a woman's curves, but only just.

One of the screens captures her hard bitten lip and eyes rolled up in her head. The gasping moans expelled from her nostrils are synched with the old man's onslaught on her crotch.

He's not particularly tall but has worked his knees up behind the 18 year old girl's thighs such that her feet can no longer find purchase on the carpet. Prone and folded in two across the ottoman she is at his mercy and he is taking full advantage.

Another screen captures a closeup of the conjunction of their bodies. His shaft is thick, clearly stretching her wide, and it emerges long (the head not even visible) and glistening with her pussy-slime before delving back towards her center once more. It's like a piston in an engine made of her jiggling flesh. A particularly hard thrust wrenches a shrieking gasp from the young woman. She appears to be trying to make fists in the carpet--to have something to hold onto and stabilize herself with in the face of the pounding her elderly paramour is handing out to her. But it's to no avail. She can only rock back and forth at his pitiless mercy. Her cunt squelching as his thick cock drives itself back and forth.

Her thighs tremble, "Oh GAWD!", she is writhing and keening, spasming in an orgasm that Jess cannot imagine the girl ever having known before today.

Because that thick cock is a woman tamer, a bitch maker, a mindbreaker. Men have been bending Jess over, or prying her thighs apart, or simply cumming down her gobbling throat since she was legally old enough to wiggle her behind at them. She knows cocks, and she has hunted more than half her life for a tool like the one that is currently remodeling the young woman's orgasming pussy--and she has yet to find it's equal.

Even now, as her lungs are drawing in breath for the yell that will wrench the lovers out of their reverie: she can feel her juices painting her thighs inside her tights. It's the sight and smell of that fuck stick working its irresistible magic on her powerless cunt.

But if she doesn't stop this soon she's worried about what she might do. Whether she'd attack them bodily screaming and clawing, or even worse dive her face between his thrusting buttcheeks to try and capture his pendulum swinging balls between her lips, or swipe her tongue up his sweaty taint and asshole. So much that she thought buried is bursting it's way to the surface. She can't think or breathe. So she has to cry out even as she storms forward in front of the cameras and into their line of sight:

"Caitlyn-Lee! What are you doing?!"

The young girl, dick drunk beyond any experience of her eighteen years, is so cross eyed from deep dicking that she is slow to register the source of the sound or why the thrusting that has consumed her mind and being has screeched to a halt with her partners thick womb-stretcher crushing her uterus against what feels like her diaphragm muscle.

But that dominating dick's owner has more composure. He is hilted in the girl's sex, glans stretching her cervix wide enough that if he came right now his swimmers would probably ricochet right off her ovaries leaving her pregnant from her first ever lifetime fuck ("Truly a spectacular pussy" he is marveling). But he looks up into the eyes of this underdressed intruder and suddenly he is withdrawing his still rock hard shaft from the no-longer virgin cunt below him. It's owner and her presence practically forgotten. He can't believe his eyes.

In front of him, her massive rack heaving in its overburdened spandex confinement, her hands balled into fists at her waist as if trying to cover the, he cannot help noting, unmistakable bulge of her mons cameltoeing itself shamelessly against the crotch of her tights, gasping and crying such that he is already instinctively reaching out to her: is his daughter.

"Jess!?" His voice is confusion and joy. It is bewilderment and delight.

Her gaze meets his and he doesn't know what he reads there, anger that reminds him vividly of her mother, but also hurt and vulnerability, her own confusion and what he is sure is even a dash of longing--the ghost of the troubled adolescent Manny hasn't seen in 18 years.

Meanwhile, over the few seconds this exchange of glances has required, the young woman has emerged enough from her sexual trance to register some details of her environment.

She too takes in the quivering emotional figure who has burst in upon them. And then she is leaping to her feet and crying out: "MOM!"

Simultaneously Jess finds herself crying out, "Dad! How COULD you?!"

Chapter 2

Manuel Lascardo couldn't be blamed for what God gave him. This is what he would explain to people, usually women. Gods gift was of interest to many over the years. He'd never really had a choice.

By the time he was a 18 his college aged sisters had caught sight of his rare endowment as he'd emerged from the shower, or failed to adequately close his bedroom door while sleeping nude, or simply had the plum sized and colored head and the boa constrictor shaft end up dangling out of the bottom of his shorts while working in the yard to earn allowance to buy photography equipment.

Their mother and father had been strict, careful not to let their two precious voluptuous daughters go out with boys or go to parties or even live outside the house during college.

But this had backfired spectacularly as it meant that the two curvy and horny young women were constantly stuck at home, where their parents considered them safe, and where they had near constant access to their younger brother and the fat dangling tool that would go on to practically ruin them for anyone else, just as it would go on to despoil and ruin many others.

It was during senior year of high school therefore that he had come to accept that his days would begin with his sisters taking turns lapping at his cockmeat, often while he fingered one and tonguefucked the other. The girls both knew enough to be careful with their precious virginities (though really the threat of pregnancy was what truly leashed their desires--especially once Manny had summarily impregnated both of their older cousins and their youngest aunt all on the same weekend after the girls had let slip some comments about his tireless third leg while their parents were out of town). Watching the wombs of Vanessa and Conchita and their 20 something aunt Priscilla swell from the potent effects of their brother's virile seed had a disciplining effect on both his sisters.

They were studiously careful with Manny's babymaker and its thick and copious jizzum. Always making sure to slurp it deep into their bellies or, more and more frequently, getting down on all fours to let him mount their ever more flexible asses in turn. Biting pillows nearly in half as he'd sink his fat dick in their willing sphincters like he was drilling for oil.

Afterwards, purely as a preventative measure, they'd slurp his loads out from the depths of their siblings asshole--they were initially afraid that his nimble swimmers would find a way to drip down into their vaginas and leave them pregnant with mutant spawn. But after a while the practice was clearly more about the taste each had developed for his gummy spunk and for having a tongue buried in their well banged tailpipes.

This way the sisters Lascardo each eventually arrived at the altar as virgins in spirit if not in fact. Truthfully each took the opportunity after their honeymoons to steal a night in bed with Manny and his monster. Finally getting their pussies split by the dick that would always take pride of place in their dreams and fantasies. Not that he was permitted to seed their cunts even then. Each concluded even this special session beneath his hammering thighs face down and ass up enjoying the anal ravishment that had sustained them up to the portals of lawful and parental approved matrimony.

Manny didn't mind of course. As he'd matured, graduated from high school, and his prowess grew he found plenty of cunts to stretch to his hearts content. Women who understood the value of birth control (condoms seldom stood up to his length or girth) were treated to cunt-ravishing idylls, though he preferred to spill his essence in the complete trifecta of a woman's mouth, cunt, and ass. This was a matter of pride and pleasure, as he knew that few women used in this way would ever thereafter forget the ravishing he was capable of offering.

Manny had gone on to college himself with an interest in photography. Family and individual portraits at a local studio were his specialty. Inevitably rumors of his trouser-club led to some customer encounters and photo sessions that the studio's owner never would have imagined.

Certainly Manny's sisters weren't the only young brides who opted to experiment with his saber after noting the somewhat menacing bulge dangling in their wedding photographer's pants. The back room at the studio often served as an improvised fuck palace with young women who'd just happened to come alone at the end of the workday to "pick up my pictures" having their throats, pussies, and colons stretched to accommodate Manny's massive invader. They would stumble out after hours of steady merciless fucking on wobbly legs, with aching insides, while reeking of his generous spurts of baby batter.

Then, one of these young women stole Manny's heart.

She was just 19, several years younger than he, but already the single mother of an infant girl. She'd been the kind of high school senior who couldn't and wouldn't keep her legs together. Uncles, cousins, boys at school, even the pastor who was supposed to counsel her about her wantoness but ended up plowing her back forty and then coming down her throat instead--she gave herself eagerly to any and all of them as soon as she was legally old enough to dispel their fears of statuatory rape charges.

She was thoroughly cock hungry.

So when she came in for pictures with her infant daughter and noted the unmistakable dangle of big ripe dickmeat swaying back and forth in the photographer's slacks she hadn't bothered to let him snap one photo nor even hesitated to cock the curve of her hip towards him, subtly presenting her behind like an animal in rut, while thrusting out her young bosom and looking back up at him from under her lashes (she was a petite 5'2).

Meeting his gaze she raised her shirt and slapped her daughters mouth to her milk dripping udder, arched her back and coo'd "why don't you fuck me like you own me, or until I don't know my own name?"

She'd bent to place her sated daughter back in the girl's stroller. Then with Manny's guidance stepped forward into the room behind the studio's counter so she and the man who's name she had not even bothered to ask could have some privacy.

She'd worn a skirt for the photo shoot so it was convenient to use one hand to raise it up above the now fully out thrust buttocks which were tantalizingly split by a gauzy thong. This she fingered aside while spreading her haunches to offer him her glistening cunt and asshole.

"Stick that fat fucker wherever you like, and after you can have all the milk you can drink."

Manny had gazed down at the filthy little bitch who had propositioned him so brazenly within minutes of meeting him and felt the stirrings of love. He swung his now erect member free from its confinement.

"Oh my!" Her eyes were wide with appreciative joy, a look of ecstasy he'd noted on the faces of the faithful in church as a boy. She seemed lit with divine submission even as she gasped, all seductive composure lost: