Schoolgirl Pt. 01

My daughter Stephanie—Steph—posed with her right hand on her thickish, jutting hip. She was standing just inside the doorway of my "office," the room in our house where I daily waded through past-due bills deciding which ones not to pay. Times were beyond tough. The war was raging. The second "Great Recession" in four years was in full swing. Unemployment was at 20 percent nationally. I'd been laid off over seven months ago. Make that eight. Three weeks earlier Steph had lost her post-college job as a greeter at Alpo's Chop House, after a suspicious fire closed the place. Inflation was raging. We were eating a lot of beans and rice and synthetic cheese—paid for with Government Nourishment Vouchers (GNV's).

My wife Val—Steph's mom—had run off with a former customer of hers, a colonel in the Air Force, just days after I lost my job. Talk about double-depressing! She hadn't been heard from since. I suspected the worst. Steph, to her discredit, cheered the probable loss. "Bitch!"

Now my daughter posed for me provocatively in the doorway.

"So do I look like a schoolgirl or not?"

"You're 22, Val. I mean Steph." Their bodies were remarkably similar. Though Stephanie's was, of course, firmer, tighter. Sexier. She stamped a white-socked foot.

"I know how old I am! But could I pass?"

"It's a moot point," I replied. "You're not going to do this."

"Yes I am!" my daughter protested. "Mom did it!"

"Yes, and for her troubles she got arrested twice. And her mugshots in the paper."

"Nobody reads the paper anymore," Steph countered.

"The online edition. I saved screen-shots. Want to look at them again?"

Steph rolled her brown eyes. She was wearing, for my benefit, and approbation, a slightly wilted (no starch available, at least on our budget) white shirt unbuttoned to reveal the three inches of cleavage her mother's left-behind-in-the-rush push-up bra revealed. Her shirttail tucked into a plaid Catholic schoolgirl's skirt that barely covered the tops of her thick but unblemished thighs. Her lace-topped white socks were turned down at her ankles. Her brown penny loafers? In the closet, I guessed.

Seated behind my desk I had a secret hard on. My daughter looked hot, that much was for sure. Though I think what really clenched the deal was her dark-brown hair in pigtails. Hell yeah she could pass for a schoolgirl!

"Not going to happen," I repeated, in so many words.

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

Like her mother she'd folded her arms under her breasts. Her mouth was set. Val had been dominant in our relationship. After I was rejected for military service—thank god—in the general call-up two years ago, she'd taken to calling me the Dickless Wonder. Was it my fault I had "psychological issues"? Was it my fault Celine was one of my favorite authors? And what about my submissive willingness to drive Val to and from her "dates"? Wasn't that to her advantage?

"Yes it is," Steph persisted. "I have a date lined up for Saturday at noon."

I half rose out of my swivel chair. "What do you mean a date?"

"A guy I met on Deanslist," she replied, referring to the notorious online personal ads site. "An old guy."

"What do you mean an old guy?" I was—almost—fully standing now.

"He's a doctor," Steph half-shrugged. "Or something. He's looking for a 'daughter.' A schoolgirl. Do I pass?" hand again falling to jutting hip.

"This is serious, Steph!"

"I am serious! You have an very obvious hard on, you know."

I looked down at my sweatpants, open-mouthed. I sank.

"Steph, this is..."

"What?"

"You can't do this."

"I AM doing it. With or without you."

"What does that mean?"

"Either you drive me there, and be my guardian angel, or I drive there by myself."

"You don't have a car anymore." It was repossessed.

"I'll borrow yours."

"Steph!" I shouted in outrage, rising again.

"Which is it, dad? I sent the guy some selfies. He loved 'em. He wants me. He's well-off. He'll pay me two hundred for two hours. I should've held out for two-fifty, I know, but..."

Two hundred had gotten my attention.

"But...," Stephanie continued, "I'll tell him this is an introductory rate. Two-fifty for two hours, or two and a half I'll offer him...that's a thousand bucks a month just from one guy. And there's plenty more like him out there. That's enough to pay the mortgage and then some..."

My eyes had departed my daughter's luscious, thick, plaid, mini-skirted body. I was looking at the ceiling, calculating. Like a fucking accountant.

"So what do you think?" she asked.

"Uh..."

"Even if I just had two or three customers a week. These rich old guys pay big bucks for, you know, schoolgirls!"

I fought back—with half-hearted objections. The same I'd used on my former wife. "You could be arrested..."

Steph shrugged. Again. "All the good cops have been drafted into the military. The rest? They're a bunch of old guys. Homeland Security. They don't give a shit about Deanslist. Most of 'em don't even know what it is!"

"Steph," I protested, "you could get involved with some psychopath. He might-"

"Daddy," Steph replied, "all the psychos have been drafted into the military, believe me. Besides, I'd have you there."

"Where?"

"A text away. If you don't get a text at an appointed time the calvary arrives."

"What's the calvary?"

"You!"

I thought some more. But what I was really thinking about was my daughter's skimpy panties under that Catholic skirt. Pushing my fingers around, under and inside and feeling Steph's viscous wetness. After her "date" pumped his load in her, and after I picked her up, would I be allowed to spread those thick thighs and lick the spermy funk from her vagina? The way I sometimes used to her mother after her "dates"?

"Disease," I threw out, as a final impotent argument.

"Disease?"

"Disease."

"This guy's a doctor."

"What about the next guy?"

"I'll make 'em wear condoms?" she replied, as if this was all-too obvious.

"You swear?"

Steph grinned. "Is that a yes?"

"A yes to what?"

"Me and my date? This Saturday at noon? You drive me there?"

I sank my head into my hands, my elbows on the desk. Was this really happening? Again?

"Jesus, Steph," was all I could reply.

"Thank you, daddy!" my daughter said, in triumph, doing a little doorway dance. "I got you hard again. Do you need a...blowjob?"

"No!" I cried, flushed face rising from my hands.

"A handjob?" She was approaching in her mini-skirted schoolgirl outfit.

"Darling, no," I protested, with a hand wave. "Stop it!"

"How about if we do it in the chair? I sit on you?"

My mouth was dry. I couldn't respond. Steph had worn me down. I was out of protests. I yielded, despite myself.

She wiggled out of the skimpy little pink Hello Kitty panties from underneath her plaid skirt, then pulled my pants and briefs down to mid-thigh and quickly straddled me. Then she guided, with her right hand, my stiff daddy cock into super-wet, super-slick 22-year-old vagina.

She rode me in the swivel chair. I squeezed her mother's tits then leaned over and kissed the swells. I was helpless. I came quickly inside my daughter, with a scream.

Steph continued riding me till I slipped out, limp, spent.

"You done, daddy?" she asked, humping body finally gone still, my hands still gripping her breasts.

"Yes, dear," I replied distractedly, guiltily. Had all this just happened? Had I just shot my cum inside my own daughter?

She leaned over and kissed my forehead. "Thanks, daddy. This is going to be a great partnership."

"Hunh?" I asked in a daze.

Steph dismounted me, my copious cum dripping out of her, as I—reluctantly—let go of my daughter's firm tits.

It was over. Partnership? What was next?