Trick AND Treat

One of the unexpected perks of becoming a writer here at Literotica is all the wonderful people who get in touch, to (mostly) compliment you on your stories. I'll confess, sometimes you can end up making quite the connection online. This story was inspired by conversations I had with one young lady, although the Halloween element is an ingredient I added to the mix all on my own. As always, anyone involved in any sexual activity is at least eighteen years old.

*

He sits alone in a darkened room.

In silence.

Well, not quite in silence. Every so often he sighs to himself. A brief exhalation of air, expressing his feelings more concisely and more accurately than a monologue of a thousand words could ever convey. The tone of it all is crystal clear. Its meaning is obvious.

He is angry. Very angry.

He looks up at the clock on the wall, illuminated only by the street lights outside. He's in his mid-forties, but he's never liked telling the time with an analogue device. It always takes him a fraction of a second longer to do so than it would with a digital display. But he can see what the hands are telling him. Loud and clear. It's nearly three in the morning.

Where is she?

He taps his fingers on the arms of the chair, waiting and wondering. Ever more exasperated. Ever more frustrated. She should have been home by one. That's her agreed curfew. Sure, if she was ten or fifteen minutes late, he wouldn't have kicked up much of a fuss. Even half an hour would be acceptable.

But this? This was very much not acceptable.

His wife had gone to bed early, long before the time Lola was due back. She was upstairs now, fast asleep, not remotely concerned about the whereabouts of their teenage daughter. She's always soft with them; Lola and her brother.

He's the one who has to take a firmer hand. He's the one who has to draw a line in the sand.

Halloween. He's always hated Halloween. He didn't like it when he was a kid, although that was probably because his over-protective mother always stopped him from going trick-or-treating. He has convinced himself that he thought this was a vulgar American tradition, even though All Hallows' Eve pre-dated the landing at Plymouth Rock by centuries.

But it was all so naff and stupid. The pumpkins, the candles. It was ridiculous. And the outfits everyone wore? Why did the advent of Halloween mean every girl in the neighbourhood had to dress up like a slut and a whore? With their short skirts and their revealing tops and their stockinged legs.

It was wrong. It was so wrong.

Earlier in the evening, things were fine. Younger children would come knocking on the door. You would see their parents stood at the end of the driveway, keeping a watchful eye on proceedings, as their darling offspring asked for sweets. Little girls dressed up as witches. Little boys dressed up as skeletons. That was charming. That was delightful. That was acceptable.

But, as the night progressed, the age of the trick-or-treaters increased. Burly young men, barely bothering with a costume, asking for money rather than confectionery. It was more like extortion with menaces, than some innocent late autumnal festival.

And the girls? They were more akin to common prostitutes, as far as he was concerned. He had seen Lola leave the house earlier that night. He was going to say something, but his wife had pleaded with him to keep quiet.

"She looks like a slut!" He hissed.

"She looks grand. She's only wearing what they all wear. Stop being so protective. She's a young woman now. She's not a kid."

So, he had reluctantly acquiesced, letting his eldest child enter the night, dressed up like a tart. All evening he had obsessed over it. Obsessed over her appearance. Those black, knee-high boots she had on. The fishnet stockings. The short skirt. The white blouse that was tied up, revealing her bare midriff. A white blouse that was almost completely unbuttoned, exposing her lacy, black bra to the world.

Those images were never far away. As he tried to watch television. As he answered the door to more and more children. As he wished his wife a good night, when she went to bed. He could picture Lola. Her legs. Her body. Her face.

Finally, there was movement. He could see the headlights of a vehicle shining through the curtains. The engine continued running and he heard the muffled slam of a car door. Then the clack clack clack of high-heeled boots on concrete, as she walked up to the front of the house. He stood up and glided silently into the hallway. Standing still. Waiting.

He could see her through the frosted glass, a blurred silhouette. She dropped her keys. He heard a cute little exclamation of shit emitting from her lips. She bent down to pick them up, and then she eventually found the lock.

The door opens and in she comes. She's swaying a little and humming quietly to herself. Some tune he doesn't recognise. At first she doesn't see him, but then she becomes aware of his presence.

"Oh, hey, Daddy," she whispers, in an almost comically drunk fashion.

He doesn't say a word. He just stands and stares.

"You okay?" She asks.

"Where have you been?" He says, his voice icy cold.

"Um...well...we met these really cool girls at the club. So, when we left, we went to their place. They were super, super fun."

"And do you know what time it is?"

"Uh...gee...it is kind of late. I'm sorry Daddy. I didn't see what time it was."

"Do you know what time you were supposed to be back home?"

"Yeah, I know. I kind of let things get away from me there a little."

"Let things get away from you?"

"Yeah...sorry."

"Sorry? That's the best you can do? Sorry?"

"Okay. I'm very sorry."

"You're just unbelievable, Lola. I can't believe how selfish you are. You have such a good life here. Such an easy life. Your mother and I provide for you. And all we expect from you is a little respect."

"I do respect you," she exclaims.

"No you don't. You don't respect me. Or your mother. You don't respect yourself, for that matter."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, look at you."

"Look at me?"

"You're dressed up like a cheap whore."

"Daddy!" She shouts, sounding startled and more than a little scandalised.

"A cheap whore, flaunting your body. Going out dressed like a slut. You disgust me."

"Don't say that, Daddy. You're being cruel."

"What are you even supposed to be anyway?"

"I'm a witch," she whimpers, her hand going up to the cheap, plastic, pointed hat she's wearing; the only concession she's actually made to the night in question.

"Oh, a witch?" He barks. "Do witches normally wear fuck-me boots, black stockings and a mini-skirt so short it barely covers the crack of their arse? And does a witch go out with half her tits hanging out?"

By now she has stopped replying, and is simply staring at him. Staring and crying. Dark streaks of mascara running down her face.

"No, they don't," he continues, "but I know who does. Sluts do. Cheap fucking whores who go out, showing off their bodies and flirting with men. The kind of girls who suck cock in public toilets or spread their legs for strangers they've only just met. The kind of girls who come back hours later than they were told to. The kind of girls who treat their parents with contempt and don't do as they're told!"

"I'm not a cheap fucking whore," she whispers.

"What?"

"I said: I'm not a cheap fucking whore!" She screams at him now, her mood suddenly defiant, as opposed to tearful and defeated.

"What's going on?" Another voice suddenly interjects from above.

They both look up, to see Lola's mother stood at the top of the stairs, illuminated by the landing light.

"I'm just having words with our daughter," he says.

"You're going to wake up half the street."

"I'll deal with it. Go to bed."

"But, you're being so noisy..."

"I said: Go. To. Bed."

She pauses for a second, considering whether to continue with the conversation but deciding against it. Then she retreats, disappearing behind a closing bedroom door. Once she's gone, father and daughter turn their attentions back to one another.

"I am not a whore, Daddy. You shouldn't say that," she hisses.

"I say it as I see it. You've become a cheap little slut, dressed up like a fucking tart."

"So what if I am?" She says.

"What?" He replies, suddenly a little nonplussed by her reply. For the first time in the evening, he's on the back foot.

"So what if I am a slut? Or a whore? What business is it of yours?" She exclaims, a tone of pure defiance ringing out with every word. "You're right, Daddy. I was sucking and fucking my way round that nightclub. I blew every guy I could. I licked plenty of pussy too. I am an equal opportunities slut, after all. And I loved every minute of it!"

"Lola!"

"And not just at the club. I do it at sixth form too. I fuck pupils. Teachers. The school caretaker. I go to his little workroom and I let him fuck me up the arse! He's an old man, but I don't care. I love it! I love being a slut! A whore!"

"Lola, please..."

"And the pub where I work part-time? I'm fucking the landlord. And his wife. Together! They both have me in their bed after we've locked up. I'm eighteen years old and I'm beautiful and I've got big tits and everyone I meets wants to get into my knickers."

"Stop this. Stop now."

"Including you, Daddy."

"What?"

"I see the way you look at me. The way you look at my body. When I come down to kiss you goodnight, and I'm only wearing a little pair of shorts and a strappy top. I see the way you react. I feel the way you react. I make you get hard."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do. You want to fuck me, don't you? That's what this is about. You want to stick your dick in me. You see me dressed up, showing off plenty of skin, showing off my legs, my boobs, and you want to fuck me."

"Lola!"

"You want to bend me over and fuck me, like the little slut I am. Don't you, you dirty fucking cunt! You dirty old man!"

"Stop this! Stop this right now!"

"Making me your little fuck-toy. Your little cum-slut. That's what you want. You want to fuck m..."

He slaps her. Suddenly, without warning, before he even knows he's doing it, his hand comes up from his side and strikes her cheek. The loud sound of skin colliding with skin echoes round the room.

She looks at him, aghast. In complete shock. Her eyes wide open, a vision of pure disbelief.

"D...Daddy...you hit me," she whispers, her lips trembling.

He slaps her again. Harder. Then again. Harder still. She tries to defend herself, but he's too big, too powerful. She's crying her eyes out now, howling in pain. Sobbing, as her father attacks her.

"You are a fucking whore!" He roars. "A fucking whore who disrespects me and your mother! You go out, dressed like a slut! What were you doing, trick-or-treating? Well, how's this for a fucking trick?!?"

He slaps her again and then he grabs hold of her and shoves up against the wall. She makes an oof sound as she slams into the plasterboard. He towers over her, his hands at her shoulders. She looks so small and he looks so big.

"You deserve to be punished," he whispers, "you deserve to be spanked."

He spins her round, so she's facing the wall. He lifts up her hands and places them above her head. With his foot he kicks her legs apart, so she is stood there, leaning forward. Slowly, tentatively, he lifts up her short skirt. Inch by inch, her bounteous derrière is revealed, bouncing free. Milky-white buttocks, succulent flesh, perfect, soft, smooth skin.

But something is missing.

"Where are your knickers?" He gasps.

"I took them off at the club," she replies, her tone dead and monotone, "They got in the way."

Slap!

His hand comes down and makes contact with her skin. Her bum trembles and jiggles like jelly, as he spanks her for the first time. She yelps, crying out in pain. Then he spanks her again. Slap, slap, slap, his hand moves up and down, back and forth, pummelling her rear. She screams in agony with each slap, trying to squirm out of his control. But he is ruthless. Relentless. Uncaring.

Soon her buttocks are a vivid collage of red, raw hand-prints, the flushed skin contrasting with the creamy-pale tones of her legs and lower back. She's almost glowing, so thorough and brutal has his punishment for her been. She can barely stay on her feet, swaying and pulling, only his hand pressed against hers, is stopping her from collapsing on to the floor.

He stands there for a moment, panting and almost wheezing. He can't quite believe what he's done. His daughter is whimpering and moaning like a wounded puppy, cowering in the corner. An obedient animal that has been brutally and savagely whipped by its master.

"Lola, I'm...I..." He begins, his words faltering and uncertain.

But then he sees it. At first he barely notices it, but then, just out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. Glistening in the dark, like the finest of jewels.

Her cunt.

Her moist, wet cunt.

He can see the shiny glow of liquid. And not just on her cunt, the enflamed lips of her pussy; he can see it on her legs too. Stripes of moisture, like the trails from a snail or slug, stretching across her skin. Her juices have trickled down her thighs.

He can smell it now, too. The pungent aroma of female arousal. A gash that has burst into life, blooming like the finest and most vivid of flowers. A flower that emits a powerful scent. The excitement of a teenage girl.

He reaches out and touches her leg. His finger traces the patterns of her secretions. She feels sticky to the touch. He brings his hand to his nose and inhales sharply. Then, a little warily, he touches his finger with his tongue. He tastes her. And she tastes so sweet.

Those moans, those whimpers; the desperate noises she made as he administered her beating. They were not cries of pain. They were cries of arousal. She had enjoyed it. She had wanted to be punished. She had wanted to be hurt.

"That wasn't a trick," she whispers, her voice thick with passion, "that was a treat."

"You wanted me to hurt you?"

"Of course, why do you think I stayed out so late? I wanted you to get angry. I knew I could make you explode."

"You really are a little slut, aren't you?"

"You keep saying that as if it's a bad thing."

He looks down at her. She's still draped against the wall, her back to him. Her buttocks exposed, still red raw. For a second or more, he just stands there. Then, slowly, he reaches out, before pulling his hand back sharply, as if he's experienced an electric shock. But then he reaches out once more. Breathing heavily, he slips his hand between her legs and slides his fingers inside her.

She groans, her whole body swaying. He pushes deeper into her hot, wet hole. Her tight channel sucks at his digits, pulling them further inside her moist depths. Her hips sway, her muscles squeeze and tease. He begins to saw back and forth, as he finger-fucks his daughter.

"Oh fuuuck, Daddddddyyyy!" She squeals.

He begins to pick up the pace, his hand moving with a frenzied intensity between her legs. He can feel her cunt-juice splashing and splattering against his hand, as he masturbates her. He can see her rub her thighs together, squeezing him tight. She pushes back at him, meeting his thrusting, challenging arm with her enflamed groin.

Slowly, he sinks to the floor behind her, admiring the view as he descends to his knees. That sumptuous arse, those thick, shapely thighs. That scalding hot twat. He pulls his hand free and he stares closely at her cunt, his breath feeling cool against her skin. Then he leans forward and touches her with the tip of his tongue.

She tastes sweet and tart, a tangy flavour, yet earthy and deep. There's a rich texture to her fluids, the most natural and yet most magical taste he can imagine. And the most forbidden. His tongue burrows in, where his fingers have only just been. He rolls it round in a circle, as he devours her cunt, grabbing hold of her meaty buttocks, which are still sensitive and tender to the touch. He squeezes that rich flesh and carries on licking and slurping and slobbering all over her.

Her breath quickens, as her arousal deepens. Her father's mouth is performing miracles on her cunt; she can feel his tongue rubbing against her clitoris, and once more he stabs his fingers inside her. Her face is pressed flat against the wall, as her body sways and swings seductively. She moves in rhythm with his oral assault. She can feel him eating away at her, as the pressure builds up within her body.

She's seconds away from cumming, she can feel it in her bones. At the very centre of her core, the powerful energy of her own orgasm. It grows and grows with every lapping swipe of his tongue, with every thrust of his fingers. She begins to shake and tremor and shiver. Her panting becomes deeper and yet somehow quicker, making her sound like she's asthmatic and struggling for breath.

He's sucking on her clitoris now, chewing on it like it's a boiled sweet. With every lick, a fresh wave of energy surfs through her body, shooting out to her nipples, her fingers, her toes. She gets closer and closer to release...and then...she explodes.

With a howling scream, she cums all over his face. A gushing, squirting torrent of liquid, soaking his skin. She wails in ecstasy, her body contorting and bending, spasms of sexual energy rocking her petite frame.

He stands up and spins her round like a top, pushing her back against the wall.

"You're a whore," he hisses.

"Yes," she replies.

"You're my whore."

"Oh yes, Daddy."

He kisses her. It looks more like than an attack than a lustful advance, so sudden and forceful are his movements. He clamps his face onto hers, meeting her lips with his. Both of them open their mouths wide open, so their tongues can come together in a savage, incestuous union. She can taste herself on his lips, on his skin; savouring her own sexual juices.

They make out like horny teenagers, which is only true for one of them. Their bodies are pressed tight, he grinds his cock against her exposed cunt. Then he reaches down between her legs and begins fingering her once more. As his tongue pushes further into her mouth, his hand slides deeper into her pussy. He rubs and rubs, bringing her off again and again. Father and daughter, kissing with a forbidden fury.

He pulls back, strands of spittle stretching out between their faces. She gasps, desperate for air; then she smiles at him. He returns the greeting, before tearing open her blouse, buttons flying off into the darkness. Her breasts jiggle and bounce. Then he pulls them out of the cups of her bra and starts licking them. He chews on her nipples, the same way he had done to her clit a few moments before.

She brushes her hands through his hair, as he sucks on her tits. He stuffs more and more of that delicious flesh inside his mouth. Still he masturbates her with his hand. He bites down on her nipple, and she screams. A cry that is part pain, part pleasure. He times it so his fingers push further into her cunt, just as his teeth clamp harder on to her tit. He's like a dog with a chew-toy. He almost growls as he attacks her chest.

She wraps her arms round his head, pulling him tighter. She can feel his saliva run down her belly. She can feel her juices run down her legs. He stands up and stares into her eyes.

"Is it true?" He asks. "Is it true you were sucking cock and licking pussy all night?"

"Yes."

"Are you good at sucking cock?"

"Fuck, yes!"

"Show me."

She immediately drops to her knees and begins to frantically unzip his fly. He's rock hard and his dick is pushing forcefully against the material of his trousers. She fishes out his prick and it bounces free right in front of her. It's big and dark and beefy. It smells of piss and sweat. And she wraps her lips round it and begins to suck, as if her life depends on it.