Hard Times: My Girl Sasha

Story Info
Alice (Sasha) and Paul at it again. Meet Michelle's Dad.
990 words
3.68
13.1k
4

Part 3 of the 3 part series

Updated 08/30/2017
Created 09/14/2015
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susansnow
susansnow
42 Followers

I met "Sasha" about six months ago. Judge me if you will but I was bored-bored enough to look Michelle's way once she became a woman. I knew to never touch. I had control. I kept my distance. My cock would get hard at the slightest brush of her sweater. I spent loads of time in the bathroom, door locked, tugging at my cock for barely a minute while thinking of my own flesh and blood. I stroked with the outfit and sometimes her dirty underwear. Eventually, the horrified feelings subsided. Until I found myself with issue one night, half awake, half asleep, sitting next to her in her bed.

"Daddy?" she mumbled.

I didn't know what to do. I posted a craigslist ad for a younger woman. Willing to wear pigtails and a cheerleader outfit; I was willing to offer flowers. Sasha charged a quarter dozen and a half for an hour. Her body and face pics looked worth it.

Sasha had no one with her when we first met. Star Motel #3. Next town over. We discussed what I wanted-a teen fantasy. To fuck her from behind after slipping the panties from under her pleated white skirt. I wanted her to call me, well, Daddy. I'd call her Michelle. Not too difficult or complicated a request, I'm sure. I met her, per instructions, at the Star Motel. I knocked and she answered. She confirmed a great body and her hair was almost the same color as Michelle's. I could feel the ache in my pants. I had a hard on all morning since baby girl had come into the kitchen in only a towel, telling me all about her freshman experiences at a local community college. Marge didn't leave us with much.

Sasha extended her hand and I stepped into the room. She closed the door and I pulled the outfit from a brown paper bag. Sasha took the outfit and asked for the three-fifty. I opened my wallet, glanced back, feeling paranoid for a second. All unsure feelings subsided after she rushed to the bathroom and came out a few minutes later with a bit more bounce in her step. She exuded lightness, a likeness, and an eventual tightness that made me cum shortly after flipping the skirt up. I never told Sasha why I asked her to put her hair up and wear that dress.

Sasha didn't ask me to use a condom. I figured it was a huge risk, fucking a craigslist hooker without a rubber. She looked clean and I figure she was on birth control and I had no one to take a disease home to. Marge was dead. Left me with a girl to raise and now she's nineteen and I want to fuck her. For a while, I wondered if the neighbors could tell I desired my own daughter. I swore to myself on a daily basis that I wouldn't touch Michelle. There was this time, well, she was asleep on the couch. Had a really rough day during first exams, tuckered out. She shifted her leg and there, for me to see through her shorts, was her perfect peach. I crossed my legs. I came in my pants, part from fear and part from excitement and need. She shifted closed. I covered her with the afghan Marge crocheted months before she died.

Michelle is a woman. I am a man. I crossed a social line with one lingering look. In situations like these, it can be dangerous to ask. Sasha was my only outlet and opportunity to remain in good standing with God, my child, Marge, and the world around me.

Later in our meetings she brought "Security." It turned me on when he would watch us. He was a big fucker, tattoos and gruff. I paid an extra fifty for his eyes on us. Sasha's face was buried deep into a pillow as I pummeled away at her pussy. Security was wide eyed. I watched him to see if I could get any reaction. The most was a slightly red face or him crossing his legs. I closed my eyes and imagined hitting Sasha, really fucking her up, and an arm bar to her throat, hoping to feel the man's potential against me. Maybe he would punch me in the face or rape me. Give me something I deserve.

I took a chance. Opened my eyes. Put my finger in my mouth as he watched, gestured as I humped that I would pay for even more. I guess I wanted to see how far this would go. My idea is that they were working for me. I thought about him pulling my pants all the way down and slamming me in the ass with whatever was making the bulge nearest his leg. He just crossed his legs again and peered Sasha's way. I smacked Sasha nearer to her back and hard. He jumped a bit but continued to watch her face. I would have liked to see the little bitch wince.

He waited for a reaction from her. I waited for a reaction from him. He cleared his throat and crossed his legs again as she muffled a scream. I watched him shift in his pants. He then went back to looking, now, at the back of her head. I pulled her pigtails close as I was about to cum. Security just stared. My grip pulled her gaze to the ceiling, her neck and her back stretched. She bayed as I started to cum. I dumped a full load in. The heat of him and her with me was amazing. He escorted me out and kept a noticeable distance while and after Sasha changed. I could have sworn I saw him shake his head in disgust but that could be me being paranoid. They don't know anything except dollar bills.

"Call me, Daddy." Sasha cooed. Security closed the door.

susansnow
susansnow
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mikeswivesmikeswivesalmost 3 years ago

Hard Times (Series)

This shows writing talent but it is, nonetheless, hard to read. It is a matter of style. A commenter on another story made a good point, i.e. the prose style is a lot like the poetry style. They implied that the prose seemed hard and abrupt. My observation is the prose style is repetitious. Each paragraph begins with a short declarative blunt statement. Same paragraph ends with another bunt but intentionally oblique sentence. The reader is constantly jarred and does not get to follow the story flow with ease. That said, I appreciate that the poetry and prose embrace a tension of great magnitude that is personal to the author. (Explained in the bio and alluded to in various works.) My remarks mean no disrespect or demeaning of what is real and important to the author. Authors are free to intermingle fictional and real feelings and stories to any degree they choose. I'm just saying that substance of the story would have a broader base and greater freedom to develop if the transition from one paragraph to the next allowed an idea to continue smoothly. Abrupt or nonsequitur elements are great devices to set the reader's mind to be alert for a big change or an important and demanding message. Use such devices sparingly and help the reader's mind and thoughts connect the beginning of the story to the end.

- BTW, I ain't no English teacher, so no need to assume I know what I'm talkin' about.

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