Doing It with Daddy

Chapter One

Daddy's cock was bigger and harder than ever. He kept moaning things like "you should not be doing this" and "no, Blossom" but I took no notice of negatives. Instead I gripped the bottom half of his thick shaft and marvelled at him anew.

He had been impressive last weekend but surely it hadn't been as big as this!

'Blossom,' he groaned, 'don't do something we'll both regret.'

Right then the only thing I regretted was not watching him harden. He'd sprung out of his boxers fully erect, you see. I had to use my memory to picture his amazing manhood straightening as it suffused with blood, quickly developing a backbone, his foreskin magically retracting of its own volition.

Yes, all ten glorious inches of him, coming erect exclusively for me.

Not that I was there for happy memories. Using my right hand I began to masturbate him, keeping my strokes slow, steady and restricted to the area just above his balls. And, not wanting to be guilty of the slightest neglect, I simultaneously used my mouth, lips and tongue on the top half of him, kissing and licking and sucking.

That stopped the flow of negatives in its tracks.

'Oh Blossom,' Daddy sighed. 'My God, Blossom; that is so good!'

Being too much of a lady to speak with a gobful of cock, I said nothing. But I was enjoying myself too. My knickers were dampening by the second and my nipples were as rock-like as Daddy's dick.

And trust me; I'd never had my mouth round anything more rock-like than that!

It was Friday evening and our first chance to alone together since Sunday afternoon . . . and my first chance to get back into his pants. I took it as read that Daddy wasn't going to last very long and didn't mind in the slightest. Daddy was much more virile than any of my other male lovers. I knew he could keep it up all weekend and that not "very long" to him was a whole lot longer than the best offerings of anyone else.

It would be one relatively quick cum and then on with the show, so to speak.

No, on with the never-ending series of shows.

I cupped his balls in my left hand, my right still gliding along and rotating around him. Abandoning the kissing, I alternately tongue-lashed his cockhead and sucked on him, taking him in as deep as I could, until my lips came up against my so-active right hand.

'Oh Blossom,' Daddy sighed once more, 'Oh my God.'

He was squirming and humping himself up off the couch now. I took that as a good sign and kept on doing what I was doing. Well, maybe I sucked a little harder and masturbated a little faster; anything to help my daddy on his way.

As if he needed any help! He gave a (for him) ungentlemanly grunt and I avidly swallowed all he could shoot into my mouth. And yes, he did shoot copiously; five, maybe even six mighty squirts, every last one of them accompanied by a jerky upwards hump.

Brilliant, I thought sincerely. He must have been saving it all for me.

Sucking and swallowing duties completed, I licked him all over, starting with his swollen cockhead and then progressing down the topside of him before going back up the underside. I took care to squeeze him as well, coaxing out a final drop of white seed and greedily lapping it up.

'That was exquisite,' he said, his blue eyes sparkling below his clouded brow, 'although I'm not going to ask where exactly you learnt tricks like that.'

'A gentleman shouldn't ever ask such questions,' I replied primly.

'Then I definitely won't.'

'But bugger gentlemanly conduct,' I went on, removing my T-shirt and bra, letting loose my 34 double Ds. 'Let's be naughty.'

'Lotus,' Daddy said, suddenly uneasy again as I advanced on him. 'Blossom . . .'

Too late! I had him in my very generous cleavage.

'Here's another trick,' I crooned as I pressed my tits together, trapping him in there so escape was not a possibility.

'Lotus,' he gasped.

Still taking no notice of negatives, I began to move up and down, slowly but surely, liking the way his skin adhered to mine.

'I should have done this last weekend,' I whispered. 'I've been wishing I had ever since.

*****

Please do excuse me for not introducing myself sooner. As this story is more or less a confession, I'm going to go by the alias of "Nat" or "Natalie" and I'm also going to withhold lots of personal details. Call me cowardy-custard if you will but, as I understand it, the UK authorities still frown upon girls who fuck their daddies. And, as you are about to find out, I have fucked my daddy a lot of times.

Right then; what can I safely say about myself? I'm a final year student at a nameless uni in the south of England. I'm five weeks short of being twenty-one, five foot six with a well-developed body and very nice tits. I have a cheekily attractive face and quite lovely long auburn hair.

And, at the time of the blowjob I've just described, I'd been fucking my Daddy for almost a week.

Crazy, isn't it? I'm an only child and have always been a "daddy's girl" yet, up until recently I hadn't ever considered having sex with him. Now I can think of nothing else.

This is where I blame my wicked witch of a mother. She'd only gone and thrown Daddy out of his own house. Worse still, she'd been carrying on with strings of "workmates" for years and her latest toy boy had already moved in with her.

Hell, knowing her, she'd probably had him moving in round the back while poor old Daddy trudged off down the drive, all his worldly possessions bound up in a red and white spotted hanky.

'Home" is in West Yorkshire, by the way. Since going to university I'd rarely been back. The weekend before had been only the fifth time I'd visited in over two years. And believe it or not, I'd dashed home to console Mother, who'd phoned to tell me Daddy had walked out on her.

What a lying bitch!

Anyhow, that's enough of my family's predicament for the time being; let's get back to the sex.

Sorry, how Freudian of me! Let's get back to the story.

And, as added background, I'm going to begin shortly before the evening's first blowjob . . .

Chapter Two

As a born and bred Yorkshire lass I should have known better but, fooled by glorious Indian summer weather "down south", I'd caught my Friday afternoon train wearing a short black skirt, a skimpy white T-shirt and very little else . . . unless you count my black leather fuck-me boots.

(At this point please accept my apologies for repetitive use of the eff word. Normally I'm quite the well-spoken little madam. Confessing I've been screwing my Daddy has brought out a new me. I might be subconsciously hiding something from myself, but terms like "making love" do not seem appropriate anymore. No, "fucking" is the word that best fits the bill.)

Of course I should have known better than to trust the great British climate.

By the time we neared Peterborough conditions overhead had changed significantly for the worse. It had become more like a nuclear winter than any sort of summer. By the time we reached Wakefield it was raining heavily. And, by the time we reached my home town, the rainwater was coming down in stair-rods.

My intention had been to walk the mile between the railway station and that evening's pub, drawing a few admiring glances as I went . . . but not in that monsoon. Damning the expense, I piled into the first available taxi and, five minutes later, settled up right outside the front door.

'Call it a fiver,' my cabbie said.

I could see from the meter that the fare was over eight quid. But my Asian driver (who had introduced himself as "George" and had a much better Yorkshire accent than I did) just grinned at me.

'Call me direct anytime you need a cab,' he said, thrusting a personalized card at me. 'I guarantee to give the best ride in these parts.'

Because he looked like a young Omar Sharif, I returned his grin.

'Next time I need a good ride I'll think of you,' I assured him.

The dash into the pub took me all of a second, but still I got soaked. Hesitating a moment, sheltered in the entrance, I assessed the place. It was brand-spanking-new and, despite my extensive experience of local watering holes, it wasn't a venue I'd been in before. In fact it must have been built since I left home.

To be honest it wasn't the sort of place I'd normally be seen dead in. Patently themed, it catered for kids as well as old fogies. That is to say it catered for everyone apart from twenty-year-old students. But at least the kiddie play area was tacked on at the far end of the building (out of sight and sound) and the pensioners were tucked away in a designated dining room, towards the adjoining hotel.

I was prepared to bet there were dozens of identical establishments up and down the land, all selling the same range of drinks and offering the same meal deals. Prefabricated outlets or what!

On the positive side there was a large drinking section right in front of me, with Daddy holding court at the bar, half a dozen blokes round him, hanging on his every word.

That was Daddy all over There wasn't a homo bone in his body but fellow males adored him . . . and by that I mean straight fellow males. Tall, broad-shouldered and full of bonhomie, what wasn't there to like?

Yes, he was one of those lucky souls admired by men and women alike. Everyone wanted to be seen in his company.

Well, everyone apart from one specific wicked witch of a bitch.

It was possible that Daddy was entertaining complete strangers; he could do that effortlessly, even in a completely new environment. I reckoned he probably knew this audience though. He was after all in the nearest boozer to his new digs: a delightful penthouse-like pad "loaned" to him by a buddy in the wake of Mother's betrayal.

Under-dressed and rain-splattered, my entry into the bar caused some disruption. Every male eye in the barroom must have been on me and my slightly damp T-shirt. I felt somewhat conspicuous and was glad Daddy greeted me as a friend rather than a daughter; that made me feel like a saucy young tart, possibly one of the hired variety. And it made me feel good too.

No, it made me feel better than merely good . . .

'Lotus,' he said, holding his arms out wide, 'at last!'

'I'm bang on time,' I protested, kissing both his cheeks. 'Good old British Rail . . . or whatever they call themselves this week.'

Within two minutes we were armed with pints of Doom Bar (by far the best beer ever to come out of Cornwall, in my opinion) and sitting apart from his barfly mates.

Ten minutes after that we were eating a decent steak and chips, me flirting, him cautious.

And before we knew it we were calling another cab and heading for bed.

*****

That last statement is inaccurate, by the way. At that stage of the evening we didn't go anywhere near a bed. No, we made do with Daddy's exceptionally plush lounge and even plusher leather settee. And Daddy certainly did not have bed on his mind. Well, not for the same reasons as me, anyway.

While I swigged wine he toyed with a small Glenmorangie and tried to explain exactly why it wasn't a good idea for us to sleep together.

I told him I had no intention of sleeping anytime soon.

He reminded me that what we'd already done together was illegal.

I said it didn't matter if only the two of us knew and we weren't for telling.

He pointed out that if we had an "accident" our "offspring" might be terribly deformed.

I reminded him I was on the pill and other options were available if the worst came to the worst.

He observed that Mother would raise holy hell if she ever found out.

I felt he was starting to repeat himself and, instead of arguing, sucked him off. Then I put his still hard cock between my quivering breasts . . .

And that brings us back up to date once more.

Back up to date and delightfully so, I must admit.

*****

It was great having Daddy's exceptionally large cock burrowing a furrow in my squeezed-together tits; it possibly thrilled me even more than I was thrilling him.

Trust me; I really was happy in my work. If Daddy had lacked at all the previous weekend it was in not paying enough attention to my tits. Okay, it was partially my fault for not encouraging him enough, but it had been an opportunity missed for both of us as far as I was concerned.

And I wasn't going to miss it again.

'So good,' I said, moving on him, moving on him.

I wasn't exaggerating at all. His skin really was adhering. And the core of him was harder than hard. A distant bit of my brain recalled school. Some of the gobbiest lads had called the fundamental sex act "boning". It had been a crude and not very nice term . . . but not totally inaccurate.

Yes, those gobby lads (most of them probably still virgins themselves) had described the feeling quite precisely. Daddy did seem to have a big bone inside him; one that moved independently of flesh and skin and whatever else made up his rock-like cock.

As for me, I liked it. My tits always have been hypersensitive. Fucking my Daddy's cock with them was the experience of a lifetime. Leastways it was then, when I first broke the ice.

Me and that ten ton penguin!

*****

If I recall correctly I came three times with Daddy between my tits. Daddy came not at all but I hadn't really expected him to. As I said already, he was incredibly virile but, having cum once in my mouth, he was hardly likely to cum again in the near future. And, three orgasms in and as excited as heck, I began to believe he owed me.

Not that I'm a taker, understand. I would have happily rubbed him off in my cleavage forever and a day. But suddenly I needed more. And I was sure that more for me meant more for him.

Unclamping myself, freeing him from the tight channel made by my breasts, I stood and unzipped my skirt, letting it fall who knew where. Then, too impatient to take off my knickers, I pulled them aside as I straddled him.

You might not credit it, but that was when my wildest dreams were fulfilled. I'd fucked with my knickers pulled aside before without really thinking about what I was doing. Not that time! Thanks to what must have been an act of God, the wet seam of the flimsy fabric only rubbed harder and harder against my clit. That is to say the more I plunged on Daddy's cock, the more mind-boggling friction I got!

Don't get me wrong, Daddy's big cock ensured I always got a very deep penetration. He went deeper than mere boys by a mile. Yet me going on top made it deeper and better still. Call it a control thing if you will. I could cheerfully do deeper and deeper, knowing full well what I wanted . . .

But the feel of that soggy seam . . .

Put it this way: it really was miraculous. My most cunning planning could never have produced friction anything like that.

Move aside Blackadder, you've been eclipsed!

Omigod, if I could create a toy that replicated those sensations . . .

Well, Ann Summers would be pounding my door down.

Not to mention Lovehoney . . .

Chapter Three

I relished several cums before Daddy finally shot into me . . . triggering my biggest and best orgasm in years and years (well, in the two and a bit I'd been sexually active, anyway). Then, only too aware he might appreciate a break in proceedings, I spared him potential embarrassment.

'I need a pee,' I announced, deftly removing my soggier-than-ever knickers, 'and another glass of dry white wouldn't go amiss. What's the state of your fridge?'

'There's no pee in it,' he replied, surprising me with a mild dash of crudity. 'But I'm sure you'll find something to your taste. Unless I'm very much mistaken, that is.'

'Would you like another glass of Glenmorangie before I go?'

'Do I look like I can't help myself?'

I laughed at that. 'Okay, get your own flipping whisky. And you'd better make it a double. I will be after double rations when I return.'

I tossed my soaked panties to him as I spoke. 'Have a sniff of those if you doubt me.'

Catching them, he just stared at me.

'I know you'll smell them while I'm gone,' I added. 'And I'll be back hornier than ever.'

Daddy's laugh wasn't quite as hearty as mine. Still, I knew what he was capable of . . . double rations very much included.

I wiggled my bare ass as I went.

And I could feel his eyes on me every inch of the way.

*****

Call me easily distracted, but I took my mobile into the bathroom with me. Nothing pervy, understand, I'd switched it off while I was on the train (me being socially conscientious, of course) and I'd forgotten to switch it back on later.

Blame it on that monsoon and my dashes to and from taxis!

Not that I'd missed much. My flat-mate Jude had texted, advising me she was sleeping with Tom and Dick that night, saying a little DP was on the cards and hoping that I'd copped of with "some country bumpkin or other".

(My doing, I must admit; I generally told her every last detail about my sexual conquests, but I'd kept Daddy mum . . . if that's not a contradictory term!).

My other text was far more intriguing. Roger was easily the sexiest guy on my course. He was also by far the shyest guy in the whole university. Five thousand female students wanting to get into his pants and him unable to exchange two words with any of them!

Yet here he was, texting me, asking for a date on Saturday!!

With genuine regret I responded, saying I was away but back next week, and that I was most certainly up for Tuesday or Wednesday.

In less than thirty seconds he came back with "Tues 4 me!"

I confirmed with "OK - bring a toothbrush" and left the rest to chance.

So I'm a slut and Jude would whine forevermore but hey, fucking Roger would get me kudos as well as sexual satisfaction.

And again please excuse my very foul language. I really am usually not like this. It's a psychological thing, you see. "Fuck" is normally off my agenda.

At least it was before I started fucking my daddy.

I suppose I'm trying to distance myself between natural love for my father and the thrill of having that granite cock of his inside me.

I also suppose that "love" is a word I should be avoiding.

For Christ's sake, I can hardly even kiss Daddy. Fucking and sucking comes easy, but kissing . . .

Messed up or what!

Casually wiping myself with toilet roll, fully aware our night was by no means done I was disrupted by the urgent buzz of an incoming call. Not recognizing the number, I accepted it.

'Oh,' a familiar voice said, 'finally!'

Fuck ducks and shag a tree, it was Mother!

'You only went out for a beer and a burger,' she went on relentlessly, referring to the week before. 'Is it safe to say you're unmolested?'

I sniggered at that. 'Safer than you,' I replied snottily.

As usual Mother sailed over me. So far as ships went, she was unsinkable. The Belfast yard that built the Titanic should have used her as a model. Heaven help that poor iceberg if they had.

Heaven help all of us.

'You said you might be late,' she went on, 'but a week is pushing it, even by your standards. Where on earth are you, if it's not rude to ask?'

I dithered at that.

'You're with that bastard father of yours,' she pounced, 'how utterly predictable.'

'Daddy's devastated,' I countered, thinking of Mother's toy boy and his miserable daughter.

'Folk will be talking,' Mother persisted, 'a young girl like you, cohabiting with a man like him.'

Somehow I restrained myself.

'I've been back to uni,' I said. 'I've only come home tonight.'

'Home,' Mother scoffed. 'I'm ringing you from home. You're . . . Well where are you? Where's that bastard hiding away?'

'You kicked him out, Mother,' I said, beginning to boil inside. 'You kicked him out and took in frigging Lionel in his place. And that miserable cow, Emma.'

'She's called Amy.'

'Ask me if I'm bothered what she's called. She's still a miserable cow. And I bet she's still buggering up my scores on Mario 3.'