Taped Confessions - Unsold Cassette

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He unscrewed the cap of the bottle with his teeth and in moments my fingers were doused with lotion and, with direction from his other hand, wrapping around his thick, stiffening shaft. Soon I was rubbing up and down the length of his glistening penis, hardened and reddish, the savage form I had seen it displaying the morning of his exhibition. My mind was awash in a dizzying array of thoughts and emotions as I knelt next to his hip, my hand traveling rhythmically up and down, feeling the skin slide over the tightened muscle beneath. As the incestuous reality of what I was doing sunk in, part of me felt humiliated and betrayed. I was fearful of the brutal vaginal pain his girth would cause, as well as a possible pregnancy. Tears were trailing down my cheeks. At the same time, a primitive, apparently psychotic part of my mind was flattered that a man, not just a stranger, but a virile grown-up that I loved, thought me worthy enough for intercourse, not caring that I was handicapped. Yes, there were even moments, admittedly the most addictive sensation of all, when I thought playing this sick game of sorts with my father's aroused genitals was naughty, wonderful fun.

To add to my confusion, my vagina began to sweat, I thought of it in those days, heavily and warm up. I visualized, almost involuntarily, this thick, solid cylinder of flesh entering me. Any time now I expected this huge man lying beneath me to release his hold on my wrist, arise, lay on top of me and force himself inside, splitting me open like the bloody fish I had to clean routinely at the state home. My heart had never beaten faster.

But as I kept at it, Papa remained sitting up in the bed, smiling at me as his chest heaved with heavy breath. I was sure he was staring at my little breasts as they shook within the thin camisole, nipples stiff and extended. Soon I began to think this motion was all he wanted and there would be no gutting me like a Mackerel, at least for now. I just had to continue this quick yanking until it expelled his seed, sinfully wasting it, a violation of church doctrine, still a better option than having it injected into my uterus.

'You can let go Papa,' I said, no longer tearful, able to look into his brown eyes once more. I was determined to carry this through to its conclusion. He released his hold on my wrist, and my left hand then joined my right, fully encircling his slick shaft. My motions made an audible squishing sound as I sped up, nearly creating a mist of the pink, airborne lotion.

My father began to emit some humming groans and started to squirm. He looked happy, and that made me smile at him as I yanked away. 'This isn't so bad,' I thought to myself. Maybe a minute later he grunted loudly and it was as if someone had opened a fire hydrant.

I had never given any thought to what form a man's seed would assume, nor the volume thereof. I squealed in shock as white fluid burst repeatedly upward nearly level with my shoulders, then rained down, splattering his groin, lowered pajamas, and my hands past my wrists. I was speechless, but felt a sense of accomplishment at my first actual sexual encounter and, especially at pleasing the father I loved so dearly. I had crossed into a forbidden realm, unable to deny my excitement and the vaginal liquid dripping down my thighs past my soggy panties. After the deluge of sperm subsided, I was at a loss as where to begin cleaning myself off; his expelled fluid seemed to be everywhere. I raised my hands, trying to make one or the other less coated with the cloudy goop, to no avail. Finally I wiped my hands on my camisole, plastering it to my torso, making it nearly transparent before I hopped away to get a towel at Papa's request. I returned with the towel, my robe replaced but sloppily open just enough in the front to reveal that I had removed the plastered camisole."

[Sound of a can opening, slurping of liquid, throat clearing]

"Chapter Four.

A little later that morning, as my arousal and the naughty thrill of my first 'official' sex act was washed away by the cool, sudsy bathwater surrounding my lower torso, I sobbed deeply, hoping my papa didn't hear me. Every girl has dreams of marrying her prince charming and first indulging in the euphoric pleasures of matrimony on a wistful honeymoon. Masturbating my sweaty father, however willingly, was quite a harsh dose of reality, underscoring my handicap and lack of a social life. I now regretted prancing around half dressed. I must have driven him mad, although he made the first move, displaying his hard dick to me. I tried to put the morning's incest and the distribution of blame out of my mind. I vowed never to do it again.

The ad hoc Independence Day block party that ensued in the alley for the afternoon turned out to be the perfect distraction. I became a debutante of sorts as Papa proudly introduced me to the neighbors, all families of various ethnicities. I was the perfect polite daughter, but at times I was afraid it was written all over my face that I had played with my father's penis that morning. As it got dark fireworks went off all over, especially in the night sky. Back inside, it was just the two of us, and he said nothing as I sat closely next to him to watch TV, the under the correct assumption that my restriction was lifted.

He had been drinking on and off all day but not getting drunk, and after Papa was able to gauge my mood, he suggested another beer, and to 'grab that hand lotion outta the bedroom if I wanted to' with a shrug. I was surprised he was ready again so soon, and a bit insulted that he assumed I would simply acquiesce, as if I was some kind of tramp. Despite my prior sorrow and vow to abstain, I couldn't help but imagine Papa's dick sticking out of his pants, bloated and erect once again, shining with lotion in the silver light of the TV. My answer reached my lips before I had a chance to think.

'Um, okay,' I said flatly, afraid to let on that I was becoming more agreeable to my twisted new role, servile to his erect penis.

I brought my papa a beer and retrieved the lotion bottle. As before, I knelt perpendicular to him next to his hip. He unzipped his pants and pulled out his dick. Admittedly, I loved watching it emerge; more and more of the shaft revealed above the elastic band, then the mushroom head springing out and flopping to the side toward me, as if it had a mind of its own and was greeting me, aware of my presence. I could barely tear my eyes away from its growth as he swore me to secrecy. His admonishment to not even confess to this in church sparked a pang of guilt, but ultimately added to the thrill of our immoral deeds. I held out my palms for him to pour the lotion.

I had worn a sailor-themed halter dress that day, a bit too big for me, as most clothes were. The summer frock was red, white and blue for the holiday. Of course my upper back was bare, and as I began tugging on his penis, Papa caressed me lovingly, somewhat gingerly at first, a surprise considering his intimidating nature. We looked at each other for longer than glances for the first time, and he smiled and winked at me as I yanked and twisted. The more harshly I squeezed, the more he seemed to enjoy it.

His hand withdrew from holding my back and soon I felt a bit of air on one of my nipples under my extended, rising and falling arm. I took my eyes away from the dick I was rhythmically tugging and saw that Papa had hooked a finger into the side of my dress. He had pulled it away from my torso and was looking at my bare titty for the first time as it shimmied along with my arm motions. Flattered, I didn't protest, giving implicit permission. Hell, if my hands hadn't been coated with lotion, I would have yanked the whole dress off for him. Down below, my vagina dampened and heated rapidly.

My hands kept gripping and quickly sliding along his slick muscular Cyclops, and in a couple minutes later he ejaculated, a term I later learned, a second time that day. He squirted wonderfully up in a series of high random arches, and I brought along a towel this time to mop up the strange smelling substance once again splattered all over us, even on the hem of my dress. There were no tears as I crawled into bed later, however.

That night and the next few nights, I replayed the memories of the two forbidden encounters with my father and his stiffened, spewing penis. I could not fend off the imagined scenarios of me completely naked in his arms, his hardness drilling into me. I was barely able to fall asleep. Somewhere deep within me, I admitted that I craved nothing less in my life at that time, I desired a heinous, carnal sin. I wanted to be naked and lie with my father. To use the foul language of my past schoolmates, I wanted him to fuck my pussy, repeatedly. The fearful nightmare of having a father sexually abuse me had morphed into just the opposite, the fear that I wasn't going to be able to get enough of his erection digging into me, possessing me.

Chapter Five.

Saturdays were always my favorite days. Papa usually only worked a half day, and then we went to the market and sometimes the drugstore. He would fall asleep on the couch after dinner, but would awake in a good mood, and we would have a beer or two.

As my papa said on his tape, since I moved in, our Saturday nights were spent with the hi-fi spinning his albums, many of them old and scratched. We had quickly developed our own version of dancing. Papa would hold me suspended just above his waist level, where I was essentially sitting on one of his big forearms, my face adjacent to his, my arms around his thick neck for balance. We rocked gently, swirled and even dipped, but securely, as his large hand nearly traversed my back. I felt like a movie star. It was though I had been transformed into a graceful, leggy dancer, effortlessly gliding across the floor with her debonair partner, even though Papa was not in a tux. We spun around, sometimes dizzying me, and would swoop down and raise up, like games of airplane when I was a small child. The state home, my illness and his mistakes as a younger man had robbed us of time together. We were trying to make up for, in triplicate, a dozen years, and the loss of my mama, it seemed. I couldn't have loved him more, and gave him a nice kiss on the cheek at the end of our dances.

The first Saturday after we had begun our forbidden activities, my timing was good. I had hopped into the living room with my big apron, beers and opener in the pocket, ready for him as he stirred. I quickly shed the apron, and asked to dance.

Unlike previous Saturdays, I wore no juvenile skirt and top or Capri pants and un-tucked shirt. On this evening, I had put on a clingy red knit dress. Once the ugly apron was removed, it was obvious I had neglected to put on a bra. Papa's eyes widened as my nipples announced themselves beneath the clingy fabric.

The music started and soon I was once again in my papa's arms. In the gaze of his brown eyes I felt safe and euphoric. This large man, whom I told young schoolmates was a giant, held me in his hairy arms, not caring that I was crippled or poor. After several minutes, I kissed him mid-song, and kept my lips pressed against his. I moved them like the women I had seen on TV or in the movies. I had planned not to pull away. I wanted him to know I was surrendering, his for the taking.

My papa's lips began to purse and caress mine, and moments later I felt the tip of his tongue swipe across my teeth. Damn! Wet, invasive, slick and quite dirty, I thought. I could taste remnants of his Lucky Strikes through our beer-flavored mouths, but didn't care. Somewhat invisible at my high school, as one of the 'state kids' they called us, I had been within earshot of boys speculating which girls 'Frenched'. With an outreach of my tongue to meet Papa's, I became one of them, reveling in my ecstasy, my lower torso warming and crying for attention.

If not for that yearning from between my thighs, I could have kissed him like that for hours; I adored the incredible new feeling of his huge tongue pillaging my mouth. It was indeed a metaphor for what I wanted his solidified organ doing to my innards.

I had originally planned to strip completely out of my dress in the fully lit room, while still suspended in our dance posture, and beg him to carry me to his bed, wagering he couldn't turn me down, totally naked in his arms. However, the luscious French kissing accelerated my desires to the point I urgently wanted something in my pussy, even one of his fingers. Pantyless, I slid my dress up past my navel. There was a humming electric fan on a side table, and I felt its breeze on my damp, bare genitals. I broke the spell of our entwined lips to speak, to plead in the name of the cravings that were becoming unable to bear.

'Touch me, Papa, touch me!' I implored as I displayed my dark, unkempt triangle of pubic hair to him for the first time. I grabbed his thick wrist and pulled it toward my waiting orifice. We continued to glide around the room in time with the music.

My father palmed my crotch, his hand's width forcing my thighs to spread. I raised up so nearly my whole body weight was on his open hand, wonderfully crushing my vulva against his skin, which was rough and calloused from chemicals and pushing mops or brooms most of his adult life. My papa began to knead my heated flesh as we kept dancing, although I was grinding my genitals into his palm, out of synch with the music.

After Dean Martin's last track on the album, we sat hastily on the sofa, me sideways with my bare butt on one of Papa's thighs, still holding my dress up to my ribcage. Suddenly his hand shifted from shrouding to an apex, a single digit, slick already with my glaze, creeping into me. I called out to him in gratitude and clutched his wrist, surprising myself with an aggressive shove, burying his thick finger deeply in my pussy, and tugging it in and out spastically until he took over. 'Hooray!' I thought as my hungry pussy welcomed my papa's middle finger, yellow-stained nail and all. It felt so good. The length and breadth of my vagina luxuriated in the sensation of the largest visitor to enter it yet. Papa's finger curled and twisted as if he was trying to find and retrieve some unseen object, adding to my pleasure. Soon his other hand appeared from behind me, and caressed my breasts through the thin knit fabric, eventually pulling harshly on my projecting, stiffened nipples, all to my rabid enjoyment. His hand left my pleased tits, and an extended finger descended and began lightly rubbing the mysterious nub above my pee hole. After a few minutes of more kissing, blissful penetration and massage of what I later learned was my clitoris, I was groaning with almost hallucinogenic euphoria. Soon waves of fire flowed through my body, and I moaned quite erratically and loudly when not hyperventilating. Papa gave me my first orgasm as I sat in his lap, ensconced in his hairy arms.

I had been in the process of peeling the dress off when the orgasm bolted through me, and I finished the job and collapsed onto my back on the couch, and left my legs open, my mind and nerve endings still reeling. This is the first time he had seen me fully naked since I was a toddler in the bathtub. I was shiny with sweat from head to toe, but made no effort to cover up; I wanted him to see me as the woman I now was, trembling and weak from his touch, humbled by the fact he knew more about my body than did I. I told him I loved him and watched with satisfaction as my papa blatantly examined me from crotch to tits and back with his eyes. Unsure of whether or not to brace myself for more penetration, I simply asked him if he was going to 'put it in me', my breath still insufficient.

In his grammatically bent way, Papa calmly advised me that we were done for the night, even though I could see his dick bulging, fighting against his pants. For the first time, I appreciated his restraint. His single finger had felt much bigger and gratifying than I expected. His dick was several magnitudes thicker and would have bean painful, I thought as I hopped away, naked except for my crutches, carrying my crumpled dress, to bathe.

That night about two, I wanted to surprise Papa, and make him squirt as he lay in bed in the dim light of his room to show my love and gratitude. A poor sneak thief, I pulled the bottle of Rexall hand lotion out of the night table drawer, and promptly dropped it onto the hardwood floor. It went off like a grenade.

Now my papa was usually a deliberate but slow moving man, due to his size more than anything. However, I'm not sure if it was past experience with criminals or being in the Pacific Fleet during World War Two, but he had lightning fast reactions when they were called for: a door about to slam on a elderly woman, a tipping full glass on a table, or catching a falling child thought clumsy but actually stricken by then-undiagnosed polio.

Due to his speed the night table lamp was on instantly, and he was quite relieved to see his daughter standing next to his bed. and not a burglar. A broad smile grew across his jaw, then a look of concern as he saw the jagged glass at my feet. He lifted me from danger, and did a mouth fart on my tummy, bared as his hands traveled up my torso to reach my armpits during the effortless lift. He was so strong. The crutches clattered on the floor as I gleefully laughed like a child, sitting at his feet as he raised his knees beneath the sheet.

Still, there was no hand lotion. No way to make him squirt until I replaced it the next day. I expressed my disappointment. Papa then said I could still 'surprise' him. I barely had time to wonder if he meant penetration when my nightgown, which had been askew across my midsection, suddenly began to lift off. My papa was stripping me!

Maybe it was because of the lingering childhood memories of the times I could run and play, and as a consequence, dirty my clothes with regularity, even my 'good' clothes. I remembered a specific event, an angered Papa pulling a muddy church dress off me for laundering in front of visiting relatives, my embarrassment at the sudden nudity and fear of punishment. That fear had now returned and crept into my psyche as an adult, as my skin, my breasts were now unexpectedly exposed to my papa. Even after I recalled that I had voluntarily shown them to him a few hours ago, the resulting mix of reluctance and excitement had a stiffening effect on my nipples. My vagina began to warm as I tried to pose like a calendar girl and let him look at my little tits once more. He pushed his boxers down, which of course got my attention.

I grinned, as the first order of business for the fuck I assumed that was forthcoming was to get his dick, already growing, nice and stiff. I was crawling toward it, dressed in my newest couture, panties only, when I got my most shocking directive yet.

'Put it in your mouth.'

What? His reproductive organ, what he pees with, inside my mouth, were I put food and seemingly never enough toothpaste? How immorally degrading! How vile! Then I imagined doing it, his throbbing and beastly dick, parting my lips while I hovered over it, dangling tits exposed and Papa watching intently. How perversely thrilling!

I was instantly intrigued. I knew that the flesh of my genitals assumed a different personality, lets call it, when excited, and was unsure if his swelling penis would take on some flavor differing from that of, say, his stubbly cheek. A swipe of my tongue revealed it hadn't, and I began French kissing it madly, as many fresh places as I could, following the course of veins or circumnavigating the mushroom head. His pubic hairs ticked my face, and soon my hands had joined my lips and tongue at caressing my papa's thickening and rising penis.