Wet Dreams

My ponderous bosom bursts into view, wobbling energetically as I allow him to fondle and knead the bouncing mammaries. My pert nipples sprout to attention.

Then I hear the first command- or is it only my feverish brain leading my wishes to this taboo temptation. "Pull my shorts down babe, and suck my cock!" I don't question the summons. My hands are greedily in motion, fumbling at his zipper and tugging the thin material past his big thighs and to the floor. I reach tentatively for the half-erect piece of meat hanging mouth-high, right infront of my worried face. Could I ever go through with this? "Take it in your hands and stroke it, honey," he encourages. My will is weak, but his dominance is what makes it work. "That's it, get it hard and open your sexy mouth for me." The big thing is swaying in my face like a cobra, and I tremble at its approach.

In a telltale signal of submission and attraction, my tongue responds to the challenge. I wet my lips and swallow hard allowing for my saliva to prepare my mouth for the feast. A thin sheen of pre-cum has been layered along the length of his mighty rod as my small hands work the thick column between my sweaty palms. It unfurls lazily, the wrinkles seemingly being rapidly inflated to resemble smooth-sided tube of warm, raw power. It has a gentle bend that points it right under my nose, and my hand appears to be waxing it, as if shining it up for the challenge. He proudly takes it in hand and places it on the side of my face, it spans the distance from chin to hairline, and feel heavy just pressing against me. He wipes the wet sides of his cock along my cheeks and slaps it sharply on my chin to concentrate my attention, and to mark me as his plaything for his complete satisfaction. Then he teases open my lips with his fingers, and slowly inserts two fingers into my mouth, rubbing my gums and reaching the insides of my cheeks. He tempts me to close my mouth around his fingers and begin a slow suctioning action, drawing his fingers inside and then pulling them out, sloppy with my slobber. When I'm sufficiently prepared and aroused, he directs me to his throbbing cock.

And my lizard tongue darts out to paint the entire length and circumference of this firm organ, with the lubricating slobber that will ease its introduction into my gaping jaws. As he holds it to my gaze, my eyes notice the spidery trail of bluish veins that throb, from the wiry thatch of his dark pubic hairs, all the round way up to his bullet-tipped cap. One of his meaty hands covers mine, and begins a more firm and determined pumping action as his hips press into my face. I establish a quick, firm rhythm sliding my greased grip along the engorged pole. My eyes meet his, and with a leering smile, he nods to me to continue.

My dubious tongue is unsure at first, but then teasingly slurps along the pronounced ridges and slathers the flanged head of his domed knob. His other hand has wrestled a tight knot of my brunette mane in his hand and is forcing my lips farther apart by driving his tool between them. I taste the salty essence of his first few drops, and the spongey-solid surface of the helmet stretches my lips and cheeks, plunging straight through to my tonsils. My second hand works to rip the bottoms of my swim suit from my hips, so that I can sooth the tremendous build-up bubbling between my thighs. Just the idea of having his large cock in my mouth starts the tidal wave of fluids to rumble in my uterus. And now I have it. I feel the warm, silky moisture trickling through my labia and running down my leg, a gentle indicator of what's to follow.

I initially swirl the fleshy cap around in my cheeks, running my raspy tongue around the rubbery tip and up and down the smooth shaft. Its my attempt at a sensual turn-on but he just shoves it further into my gullet until I'm choking and coughing for air. He is busy with my swaying boobs. He roughly tweaks at my nipples and is measuring the hefty weight of my free-hanging tits as if his hands were scales designed for my flesh. He is free to maneuver now, since I have taken to voluntarily feeding the gigantic rod back and forth in my mouth, trying to milk the semen from its enlarged length. He grunts-out crude, explicit orders to me, describing in exact, obscene detail how I should pleasure his meaty tool. "Suck the head of it, my little slut," he demands. "Take it in your lips and run your tongue all over it." "I'm going to fill your mouth with my cum, swallow it all and lick my cock clean." "Stroke it faster, look at me while your sucking." Something about these degrading commands, makes me tingle. I am all too eager to oblige his wishes and my gift must be good, because his hands come up and take hold of my ears to steady my head on his formidable cylinder. His pelvis is pumping against my face, rocking me back on my heels as he slams into me. I feel the swelling pressure as his cock expands in my throat, forcing my sucking action to switch into high gear or else I'll drown in my own spit. My cheeks are working like a bellows and his leathery balls are banging sharply against my reddened chin.

The first taste of his discharge is comforting, and I am a little girl again licking an ice cream cone. I savor the rich fluid as it settles on to my tongue. It's warm and rich. Then there is a sudden explosive thrust and I knew that I was overmatched. It hits me with a gagging deluge, his first titanic jet fills my cheek and takes my breath away. I cannot swallow fast enough, my mouth fills with his sticky-sweet syrup. It chokes me so violently that I need to pull him out sputtering and permit it to drench me in the thick paste, and nearly wretch with the thunder of his flood. So much for seductive.

Then its like wrestling a firehose as the serpent spits its seed at my face. I'm doused with his whitish sauce. Stringy vines of cum dangle from my chin, nose and tits and the spurts continue to spew their liquid across my chest and into my hair. He finally shows some signs of easing and I am able to accept the semi-rigid hose back into my sloppy lips. Then I can safely suck him off, allowing him to deflate in my mouth and forget about it being erotic. My service to him was to be his wench. Just a cum-dumpster to fulfil his needs. He used me for his relief... and that's what makes me explode.

I can taste it now, alone in my room. That salty burst of warm cream. Even in my deepest, wildest fantasy with my right hand working like a blur, rubbing the hot pink nub of my straining clit, I imagine the forbidden flavor of my father's seed coating my throat and bathing my face and neck. I am unconsciously swallowing and in my perverted mind, I feel the sticky liquid hitting the back of my mouth and seeping down my throat.

Other women might find this demeaning and degrading, but not me. This is the stimulus that I need to make me feel complete. Only the absence of my Dom (I wish it were Daddy,) robs me of the supreme climax I know is available to me. At the height of this virtual assault, my fast-working fingers bring my perky little pleasure-point to a tremendous orgasmic thrill. My entire torso shakes as if my sticky fingers were stuck in an electrical socket instead of the jolting cavern of my hot pussy. The palm of my shaky hand draws back and briskly yet delicately, abrades the swollen, raw skin of my plump clit.

My arousal has mounted to a manic, stupefying moment of pure lust, as I can "feel" the remnants of his discharge as it washes down my throat. My own volcanic eruption is roiling my pelvis, shaking my lower half so that my bare toes tap crazily on the floor and my ass writhes in the seat. My eyes are squeezed tightly shut and tearing-up with eager, fanciful delight. My brazen mouth has formed a perfect "O" while I make "fish-lips," imagining the ghostly cock hot between my gums and plundering my desperate throat. This damp, limp shell of a body dances with an electric pulse while my fingers bring the closing notes to my orgasm as a musician plays his piano. The strained feeling rises to a crescendo.

When I withdraw my slippery digits from the fiery orifice, they play one last tune on the swollen, crimson nub of flesh poking under its protective hood. And then I'm sent into orbit. I can't speak, I can't see. I can barely breathe. Five full minutes of intense pressure as the entire liquid contents of my wrung-out anatomy drain from me. A full-body, jaw-dropping 9,000 volt blast to my system. Someone could be removing my teeth with pliers and I would feel nothing above the waist. All nerve centers are occupied with the cascading climax in my dripping cunt.

Gradually it eases. As the shaking cools and my vision returns, I find myself dizzily confused that there is not the dry, sticky remnants of my father's crusty cum flaked on my soft, plump tits. The images and tastes were so real, and heightened by the incestuous nature of this erotic rape episode, I feel myself slipping every minute into a more tortured, physical manifestation of this corrupt bargain. The indecent rush of a submissive sexual tryst is multiplied by the abnormal yearning of my fiendish personality. I watch the dirty movies, I have the creepy fantasies, awake or asleep, I want to be "man-handled" and taken against "my will," and I want my Daddy to own me.

I'll never comprehend where these illicit imaginings could have come from. I was raised in an upscale, church-going family. My parents were happily married for 25 years before my mother passed away, and they worked to put me through school. I am a twenty three-year old liberated woman, heterosexual and never been abused or abandoned. I have a younger brother serving in the Marine Corps and I have been teaching third grade for two years. But still, I get turned-on by viewing the most graphic porn. Especially the incest romps where families have an orgy or the father has a secretive affair with the daughter. And an ultimate orgasm-producer is when the dad forces the girl or holds some sort of blackmail over her.

Most days, and certainly around my father, I can harness my lewd illusions. I am a functioning adult ( I just possess a vivid, lurid imagination.) I have never made a "play" for my Daddy's attention, or been overtly sexually aggressive with him. Sometimes my casual clothing gets a bit flirtatious, but I am nearly a full D-cup, and boyfriends have told me that I'm "built for sex." I get a kick out of teasing my partners, though I have never let one of them dominate me, (I'm afraid to reveal my submissive tendency to anyone I don't know well.) But I won't hesitate to give a blowjob, especially if he returns the favor. I'm definitely not shy, and I can achieve an orgasm by fucking- if it's the right guy. But I've only had that toe-curling, breath-taking "Big-O" when I'm by myself and secure enough to let loose my "inner slut." Whether I'm watching porn, reading Literotica, or alone in bed with a toy, it's only when I picture that certain silhouette or feel the imaginary thrusting of a "special someone," while I'm massaging my swollen clit, that the freight train thunders through the tunnel. And I'm sure it could be even better if Daddy were here with me for real. But how would I ever manage that?

I think that if my dad ever got the idea that I had "the hots" for him, he would find it scandalous. I could just imagine the scene if I somehow let down my guard. It came close one day when he came to my apartment to lend a hand, and boy could it have gotten out of control. He was building shelves and hauling boxes, moving steadily from chore to chore. Sweat shone on broad shoulders after he peeled out of his shirt. He is built like the ex-steamfitter that he used to be. And his tired muscles still flex and ripple like an aged male lion on the prowl.

I have a few beers chilling for him as I watch- my meager offering to physical labor- since even with my hair in a scarf and wearing worn-out jean shorts and one of his old tees, my services are mostly directing traffic. But when the work is done and we crack-open the brews, and I produce a fifth of his favorite adult beverage, again the alcohol loosens my tongue. Simple expressions like "Gee Dad, you're so strong." And "When will I ever find a guy like you?" Or even "If you just show me what to do..." mix with the alcohol and my raunchy mind, causing my tongue to flap unchecked.

Eventually, my near-drunken sweet nothings become what should have remained private, crudely unintended double-entendres. Then worse. The small room fell silent when I noticed the way that he was studying me. I realized that I may have said too much. He reached for my arm and yanked me by the wrist. For a fleeting second, in my foggy state, I believed that one of my prurient, rape fantasies was about to come true. Did my filthy come-on, "that anytime he wanted to stop-in, I would be available for his sexual pleasure," make me sound alluring and sensuous? Or did it sound like, "I could repay you with a blowjob?"

Whatever I may actually have said in my horny, inebriated stupor, it must have shocked the sensibilities of my moral, blue-collar father. Because the remedy he provided for my illicit insolence, was a stern disapproving scowl. And then he propelled me across his lap and commenced to paddle my poor butt like he sometimes did when I was a little girl. Accompanied by the all-purpose sermon of why I was a selfish sinner, and at this moment, a terrible disappointment to the lessons on which I had been raised, and the memory of my departed mother.

It's funny how the crudeness and stimulation of my aberrant urges are heightened, when first I am forced to accept just how far I am straying from the "straight and narrow." When the contest of good vs. evil is explicitly emphasized in my fantasies, and I still am tempted by the stimulation of my carnal desires, then I must admit to myself that I am truly a slut! It isn't the missionary position with your lover while the lights are out, that I want. I'm a secret "sub" and I get a thrill out of rape fantasies... especially incestuous rape fantasies!

Well, the first few thwacks on my ass came with surprising authority and blinding rapidity. This was definitely not the educational spankings of youth, nor any sort of masochistic turn-on that I initially imagined it to be. He was taking baseball swings at my ass. The sound emanating from the solid contact on my damp denims, echoed like heavy books falling to the floor. And though his sudden burst of anger seemed to be mixed with semi-compassionate tears, he was still sharp enough to notice that the rough sound of corporal punishment was actually causing more grief to his sore hand, than to my denim encased bottom.

His embarrassment and confusion caused a brief halt in this more showy than bruising, form of discipline. What could have been a quick, possibly over-dramatic response to a misspoken quip from his drunken daughter, was turned into a more determined and seemingly justified answer to the breaking of an established moral code. I think possibly, his manhood was challenged. Not because he didn't hurt me, he never meant to physically torture me, but the spankings delivered to my protected butt, didn't land with the authority that he wanted to convey.

He allowed me to stand, where I thought that this elaborate and embarrassing display had ended. Then he would shame-facedly walk-out, leaving us both to dwell on this regrettably unhappy ending to a nice father/daughter experience. And laying whatever blame, to too much alcohol. There was a glassy, far away look when I searched his eyes, but an angry red countenance and his breaths came in ugly, labored gasps.

With a sadistic compulsion that I had never seen in him, he swiftly tugged my shorts past my squirming, resistant hips, followed immediately by my sheer, wet undies, that both tore beneath his violent seizure. They were both pulled down my legs, tugged over my feet which he harshly lifted one at a time, teetering me on to the couch, where I was left partially naked from my dusty and torn men's tee to my silly-looking pink flip-flops. These too, were soon jettisoned in my mule-kicking protest while he pulled me back down across his thighs to blister my now uncovered, and terribly contrite ass.

My head hung down nearly to the carpet, the disheveled ponytail becoming a veil of damp, brunette strands surrounding my face. And being sprawled across his lap like that allowed the oversized shirt to roll-up to my collar, where he brushed it over my head so that he could get a firm grip on my straggly chestnut mane. I'm not even sure if he realized that by removing my shirt, he was exposing my braless double-Ds. I was aware of it, because they alternately bounced against his rock-hard thighs while the pouty nipples were tickled by his coarse leg hairs. My boobs were mostly squished underneath me, pressing on his warm flesh. But once or twice, as I arched my back to face him, my big melons swayed freely with only the pointy tips scraping sensuously along his legs.

All the while, seemingly oblivious to my uncomfortable condition, he continued his lecture about "what an evil temptress and harlot," that I've become. And as his strong hand came down hard on my tender, reddening backside, he says that I have "disgraced the saintliness of your late mother," and insulted him by suggesting that he "would have incestuous desires over my little girl's body!" I winced with every slap administered to my squirming ass, and also to his stinging words, raining down on me. It started to douse the red-hot fire burning in both my sordid fantasies and on my quivering butt cheeks.

Then something strange and extremely sexual began to take place. With my twisting and trying to dodge the most severe of his spankings, my delicate skin was rubbing upon his firm leg, causing uneven waves of pleasure to mount in my groin and rise along my moist body to stiffen the pert nipples that were rebounding on top of him.

The exertion was raising my temperature but there was more than plain sweat dampening my bare crotch as it ground against his thigh. By then, he seemed to let-up on his beatings, even mentioning that he may have gone too far, and "did not want to mark-up this lovely bottom." In leaving a large, purplish handprint on my rosy cheeks, he now started to soothingly rub my tender ass and seemed to be rather free with the way his pudgy fingers explored the cleft and folds of my butt.

Then he grew silent and I thought that I felt his big, calloused hand starting to sensuously rub, and even caress the taut mounds of my butt. For a minute, the only sound was of his harsh, ragged exhales. Then his agitated mood, lightened. He was whispering that maybe what I needed "was not mere pain, but a little more direction." I was still trying artfully to maneuver my tingling ass out of the target area of his punishing mitts, when I caught the last words of his mysterious soliloquy. A tuning fork went-off in my pelvis, as I had often mumbled a phrase very much like that, when imagining my own seduction while petting my pretty pussy. These are the very sentiments that always triggered my submissive hunger. And was my rape fantasy being fed by a lewd, incestual Dom? How many times had I dreamed of this type of erotic foreplay coming from my Daddy?

When the punishing blows let-up, I perceived an uncomfortable hesitation. His breath came hard through an open mouth, like a steam engine belting-out bursts of choked air. He adjusted his legs under my splayed form, our bodies were now soaked where they met, then I detected a warm, obtrusive bulge poking at my midriff. A growing mountain in his pants nearly bent me in half. I began to grind my firm abdomen against the tip of this cloth-clad pyramid and listened intently as he started to grunt in a deep, hoarse tone.