Daddy makes his daughter a woman - part 2

She doesn't move for a long moment. Just breathing, cheek on the cushion, my seed cooling on her thighs, one hand still resting loosely on her own belly like she's holding something in.

Then, quiet, almost sulky:

"So when does a woman drip cum, Dad?"

I'm still catching my own breath. "When she's too full."

She rolls her head and looks at me over her shoulder. "But you gave me a lot of baby seed. Loads. I'm not dripping, though."

"Not yet."

"Then when?"

I nod at the door. "Go fetch me an orange juice in the kitchen."

She blinks at me. Then she's up, grinning, pleased to be sent, pleased to please. She doesn't bother with her knickers — doesn't own the habit yet — just tugs her black shirt straight down over her hips, pads out, braids swinging, gold hoops catching the hall light, feet quick, flat on the stairs. I hear the cupboard, the fridge, and a glass knocking on the counter. I hear her humming.

I lie back and wait, hands behind my head.

When she comes back through the door, glass in hand, she's still smiling. She's got no idea. Then she sees my face.

"What?" she says.

"Come here."

She comes. Three steps in, the light from the landing catches the inside of her thighs.

Ropes of it. Thick, white, tacky, sliding slowly down the soft brown skin of her legs, one already halfway to her knee. My own work, Gravity's Handiwork, running out of her like she was tipped over and poured.

She follows my eyes. Looks down. Freezes.

Then she yelps. "Oh! Oh — yes! I'm dripping cum!" She lifts one leg, cranes, watching a fresh rope travel, absolutely delighted, mouth wide open in a grin that's half shock. "Dad, look! It's coming out of me! It's dripping!"

"There it is," I say, easy.

"Look how much!"

"I see it."

She's laughing now, giddy, one hand under herself like she might catch it, the other still holding my glass out at arm's length so it doesn't get splashed. "So what now, Daddy? What do we do now?"

"Come on to the bed, and I'll explain it to you." I hold my hand out. "Give me my juice first."

Her face falls. She looks at her empty other hand. Looks at the glass. "Oh. I — I forgot. Sorry, Daddy, I forgot my own. I was so excited—"

"One second, then. Go."

She's off again, down the stairs two at a time, hollering "sorry!" over her shoulder. I hear her rummaging — a cupboard door, a glass, water running.

When she comes back this time, she's got two glasses, a wet hand, and a look on her face like she's been caught out. The dripping's worse — she's been moving, she's been standing — the inside of both thighs striped with it now, fresh, glossy, with one long rope reaching her shin. She feels it before she sees it. Stops dead in the doorway.

"Oh — oh, cool — I'm dripping more, daddy!" She holds the glasses up like trophies. "Look! More!"

"So you are."

"It's so cool!"

"Gravity, honey." I take my juice, drink it, and set it on the floor by the bedpost. "Come here with me."

She crawls up onto the mattress quickly, knees and palms, still grinning, settling herself cross-legged in front of me with her thighs shameless and shining. She takes a long drink of her own orange juice and looks at me expectantly, waiting for the lesson.

"Right," I say. "It's very hard not to drip baby seed when you've been pumped full. That's just how it is. It runs out faster when you're up and about and slower when you lie still. So if you're going to be walking around after, you've got to expect it down your legs."

She nods, serious, taking this in like schoolwork.

"Monday, you come to my office," I go on, "and I'll set you a proper challenge. For now—a real woman doesn't waste it. A real woman scoops up what's lost and swallows it."

Her eyes go big. "Swallows it?"

"Slowly. Taste it first. Then tell me what it tastes like."

She sets her glass down, wipes her palm on the sheet, and looks at her own thigh. Then she dips two fingers into the thickest rope, gathers it, and lifts them — a bead hanging off her fingertips when she puts them in her mouth.

She closes her lips. Holds. Her brows pull together while she works it over her tongue, thinking about it properly, because I told her to think about it.

Then, muffled, around her fingers: "Mmmh. It's nice, Daddy." She pulls them out clean. "Like — salty. But sweet too."

"Mm."

She's already scooping another rope, quicker this time, eager. Into the mouth, no hesitation; she sucks her fingers after. "I want more."

"There's plenty."

"Actually—" she licks her palm—"it's more salty than sweet, Daddy. Way more salty. "She wrinkles her nose, still smiling. "Is it always like that?"

"Depends on what I eat. If I ate more sweet stuff, the sweetness would come through more."

"Then I'm making you pudding." She says it flatly, like a plan already half-made, goes back down for another rope. "With syrup. And honey. Loads of honey."

"That's the spirit."

She's licking her thumb clean when I ask. "You want to get knocked up, though. Don't you."

She stops. Fingers in her mouth. Nods, hard, eyes on mine. "Yes, Daddy."

"Then stop the dripping. Some women put a pillow under their backside when they're full — keeps it banked up, keeps all the baby swimmers where they belong instead of down their ankles."

"A pillow," she repeats. She looks over at the head of the bed. Then back at me, chin up, decided. "I'll do it. After you fill me again." She wipes her mouth with the back of her wrist. "I promise, Daddy. Pillow, straight after. Right up under me."

"Good girl."

"Will you fill me again now?"

I look at the clock on the nightstand. Twenty past five. Forty minutes before my wife returns.

"Lie down," I say. "Get the pillow."

The pillow goes under her hips. She settles back onto it, knees falling open, chin tucked, watching me, waiting to be told she's done well.

She is. Her whole cunt is lifted to me, swollen, pink, and wet down to the crease of her arse; she's holding herself open with her own hands like an offering.

"Now what," she says.

"Now we play a game." I sit back on my heels. "On all fours. Get rid of the pillow."

She blinks. "But the pillow—"

"Get rid of it."

She pouts, obeys, drags it out, and tosses it over the edge of the bed. It lands soft on the floor. Then she goes up onto her hands and knees — because she's learning, because she's quick — and arches her back, drops her shoulders, and pushes her arse high, presenting.

Both holes. High up in the air, tilted to me, wet and open and shameless. Arse still loose and pink from earlier, that ring winking faintly. Cunt below it, slick, hanging heavy with everything I already put in her.

"Like this, daddy?" She looks back over her shoulder, hair in her face.

"Very good."

She flushes with the praise and holds the pose, proud of it.

I come up behind her on my knees. Slow. Let her listen to the mattress give under my weight; let her feel the heat of me arrive before I touch her. Her thighs tremble. She's breathing through her mouth already.

This daughter of mine is a proper little slut. I think. Looking at her like this — ass up, holes offered, dripping my own load down her thighs. She's going to make some boys very happy one day. Then again, some boys are going to have a job living up to her first.

I take my cock in my hand and lay the head against her. Not in. Against. Right on the soft swollen mouth of her cunt. She goes still as a rabbit.

Then I drag it. Up through her folds, slowly, from the bottom where the wet pools to the top where her clit sits, back down again. The head slips through her slick like it's greased. A wet little sound each pass. She sighs, long and shaky; her hips follow the movement, rolling.

"Ah," she breathes.

Up and down. Up and down. I spread her with my thumb so the head drags right over the opening each time, catches, and doesn't enter. She whimpers every time it catches.

"Not fair," she says.

"Not fair, how?"

"You keep — you keep almost—" She pushes her hips back. The head dimples her, sinks a half inch; she gasps; I pull it out again.

"Ah! Not fair!"

"You want it?"

"You know I want it."

"Say it properly, then."

She drops her forehead to the sheet. "Oh please, Daddy, do my pussy. Please. This position's new to me; you know that." She wriggles, tries to line herself up again, and misses. "Please, please, be nice to me, do it—"

I smile and push.

Not all the way. A few inches, one long, slow slide; her cunt takes them like a mouth opening.

"Ah — yes —" Her head comes up. "Yes, Daddy, you're in me again, oh—"

She's so wet it's almost easy — the wetness is the only reason. The rest is all grip. Her cunt closes on me in a wet, hot wrap, folding around the shaft; I feel how young she is in it, how the canal gives, soft, springy, and pliable, folding to whatever shape I make of it. Amazing, the flexibility. Nothing rigid in her. She just yields, yields, and clings.

I take my time. Slow as I want. Half out, then back, an inch further each stroke; she moans every single inch of the way like I'm feeding her something she's been starving for.

"Daddy—" high and cracked, "so deep, you're going so deep, oh god—"

Her arms give out at the elbows. She goes down onto her forearms, arse still up, face in the sheet. She's pushing back into it now, working herself onto me; the noise she's making is continuous, shameless — ah, ah, ah — one for every push.

Deeper. Her back dips, her toes curl; she's babbling into the mattress — Good, so good, more, please, more.

Then the head reaches it. That soft firm was given at the very end of her. She feels it coming and starts to whimper before I'm even there — then I'm there, pressing, and she wails.

"Oh my god — oh god — right there, right there, don't stop, please don't stop—"

The end of her. The mouth of her womb. Young, unprotected, so wet it's dripping down my shaft. It's thirsty. That's the only word for it. It's got a grip on it, a want, like something at the bottom of her knows exactly what I've got and is reaching up for it.

I wonder when she ovulates. She never said. Might be today. Might be right now, this minute, with me nudged up against the door of it. I picture a little egg sitting there, waiting; I picture my swimmers shouldering through.

At least it wouldn't be a bastard. All in the family. Everything is kept under one roof, mine in mine.

She'd look gorgeous with it. That's the thought that gets me. Her small frame with a bump on it, tits gone full, heavy, tender, and arse widening out, all that young body doing what it's built for. Gorgeous.

I start to move faster. The picture won't leave me.

Months on. Same bed, same room, same girl on all fours — only now there's a pregnant belly hanging under her, low, round, tight as a drum. It swings. Every shove of mine swings. She can't hold it still, can't brace it, both hands full of sheet, just keeping her face off the mattress. So it just goes back and forth, heavy; the skin of it shines where the lamplight catches it.

She's wider now. Hips spread out, thighs thickened, all of her softened, filled in the way a body does when it's busy. The whole shape of her has changed. And the tits — Christ, the tits. I knew them before. Small, high, a handful each, the nipples pale and shy, only perking up when I got her going. Now they're full, low-slung, heavy, and dragging over the bed under her, swaying with the same rhythm as the belly. Dark as bruises. Big as a thumb.

Sore. Everything in her is sore. So when I reach under, get one in my palm, she groans like I've hurt her, and I thank her at the same time.

"Ah—careful, careful, they're so—oh god, gentle—"

I'm not gentle. I roll the nipple and pinch it. She wails.

"That's—oh—do it again, do it again, hard. They're so sensitive, they're so—" She grinds her hips back at me. "They leak when you do that, Daddy. Feel it, I'm leaking—"

I feel it. Wet on my thumb. She's dripping milk before there's even a baby to drink it. She knows I've felt it. She pushes back harder.

"Fuck me," she says. "Fuck the bump, Daddy. Come on, it's yours. You did this to me—"

The cunt's different too. Tight again in a way it never was, thick with blood, swollen all the way through, gripping like it's got something to protect. Squeezing on every pull. Wet, hot, so short-feeling. I'm hitting the end of her before I've half got going — every time I do, she screams, high, delighted, filthy.

"Oh—oh—right on it—right on my—ah, you're in my stomach, you're always so deep now, you're so deep—"

She looks back over her shoulder at me. Hair stuck to her cheek, face flushed, puffy, grinning through it.

"Bet you like it like this," she pants. "Bet you like me fat. Look at me. Look how big you made me. Is it better? Is this cunt better than it was?"

"Tighter."

"It's tighter because it's full, Daddy. It's—ah—it's full of your baby. That's why—oh—you're going to put another one in it, aren't you? You're going to fill the pregnant one—"

Her belly's swinging into my own gut on every drive. Soft thud, slap, soft thud. I get a hand under it and lift some of the weight. She sobs with relief. Then I'm holding her belly in my palm while I pound her — the best thing I've ever had in my hands, that firm round swell rolling against my fingers while her cunt milks me.

"Keep it up," she chants, "keep it up, keep—ah—don't you dare slow down, don't you dare, put it in deep, all the way in, right where the baby is—"

She comes. Whole back arching, belly shoving forward, cunt clamping down so hard it nearly shoves me out, then sucks me back in, over and over, long rolling pulls. She's wailing into the sheet, toes curled, ankles swollen, coming so hard she can't finish her sentence.

Then her orgasm breaks. She's gasping. Her knees start to go.

"That's it," I say. "Down. All the way down."

She goes flat, belly squashed under her; I go down with her; I keep going.

…

Now — back here. This room, this bed, my girl under me with nothing in her yet, but she's there now, in my head; it's changed the way I'm fucking her.

She feels it.

"Daddy—" sobbing it, "what are you— you're going harder—"

"Feel that?"

"Yes—oh—yes—"

"Right against it. Feel where I am."

She feels it. She comes with her face jammed into the mattress, arse shoved back hard into my hips, whole body locking, cunt clamping, fluttering in long pulls. She's still moaning when she starts to go limp.

I don't let her down. I hold her up by the hips and keep going.

"One more," I tell her. "One more, and then I'll fill you."

She nods into the sheet, weak, wrecked, trusting me completely.

"Pillow after," she mumbles.

"Pillow after."

She's squirming under me now. Can't help it. Shifting her knees, arching, dropping, and wriggling her hips in tight little circles, trying to work me somewhere else, somewhere deeper. Every circle drags her cunt round the shaft; she groans at her own body doing it.

"Ah—ah—like that, is that good? Do you like that—"

"Keep doing it."

"I'm doing it, Daddy. I'm being good. I'm—oh—I'm being so good for you—"

Her voice is going up, thin and cracking on the top of every word. She's babbling praise now, the way she does, half of it not even words.

"So big—you're so big—best cock, Daddy, best—nobody's ever going to—ah—I'll never want anyone else, I swear, I'll never—"

"Say it again."

"Never anyone else! Only yours! Only ever yours!" She's nearly crying with it. "Look at me, look at what you've got, look at me all open for you—I'm all open, Daddy, I'm all—oh god—I'm dripping down my own knees—"

I look. She is. It runs in strings off her thigh.

"Please—" her head drops, forehead to the sheet, "please, Daddy, please, right in me, all the way in, don't pull out, don't you dare pull out—"

"Where?"

"In my womb. In my womb, daddy, put it in my womb—"

"Whose?"

"Yours! Yours, all of it, every drop. I want every drop—" She's sobbing properly now, hips snapping back to meet me, wrecking herself on me. "Knock me up. Knock me up, Daddy, please, please, knock me up, do it, do it now—"

I feel it start. That pull low in my gut, the tightening, the drag at the base of my spine. My rhythm goes ragged, hard, sloppy, driving.

"So close," she gasps. "Oh—oh—you're close; I can feel you. You're so close—"

She feels the head swell. Fattening up inside her, wedging tight. She shrieks.

"That's it—that's it—you're going to—oh—yes, yes, NOW, do it now, Daddy, now—"

Then it rips out of me.

The first rope goes deep. Right against the mouth of her womb, hard enough to hurt. I feel her take it — a flinch, a long shudder, then her whole cunt clenches down. She's coming with me.

"Aaah—ah—ah—" High, broken, not a word in it.

I keep pumping. Every drive lays another one in. Thick, hot. Her sleeve grips, releases, and grips again, milking it out of me in time with her own spasms. She's still coming, still shaking, still sobbing "yes, yes, yes" into the mattress while I grunt over her like an animal.

"Take it." I get out. "All of it. All of it, girl—"

"Give me it—" she's gasping, "give me all of it, don't stop, don't you stop, fill me right up—"

Grunting. Both of us. Her high, rhythmic, punched out of her with every shot; mine low, ugly, from the chest. Skin slapping. The wet squelch of her, thick now, backing up around my shaft. Her hands knotted in the sheet, white-knuckled, hauling.

"More," she moans. "More, daddy, more—"

I give her more. Hips grinding, buried to the root, rocking rather than thrusting, shoving it up into her as deep as it'll go. There's nowhere for it to sit, so it seeps back around my base, down, warm, over my balls, over her clit, dripping off her in a slow line.

"That's it," I pant, "that's it, that's the lot—"

"Full—" she whimpers, "I'm so full—oh god, I'm so full, Daddy—"

One more. A long grinding push, the last of it goes. She comes again, weak and shuddery, a small helpless cry, her cunt fluttering in soft little pulls around me like it's drinking.

I hold there. Hips flush to her arse. Both of us heaving.

She's a mess — legs splayed, belly flat to the bed, seed running out of her in three slow lines. Her breaths. Then, muffled into the sheet, ruined:

"Don't move yet. Just — just stay. Please."

I stay.

"Was that a lot?" she whispers.

"A lot."

"Good." Her cheek turns on the sheet, one eye finding me. "Then get the pillow, daddy. And don't you dare pull out before it's under me."

"No," I say. "You get it."

"Me?"

"You. You've got the cum."

She grins. Then she realises what that means.

"That means you have to pull out."

"It does."

"I'll drip!"

"You will."

She pouts at me over her shoulder — lower lip out, the whole performance — but there's a grin underneath it. We both know it. She likes my games — a lot more than she lets on.

"I'm going to drip on the floor," she says.

"Then be quick."

She shifts, testing and working out her plan. Her knees come together. She's measuring the distance to the pillow with her eyes — five feet of open carpet. She knows exactly what's going to happen to her in those five feet.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Ready—"

I pull out.

Straight out, fast, no warning. Her cunt clenches shut on nothing; the whole load comes after me — "DAD!" — a hot flood down the inside of her thigh. She's up like a shot, off the bed in a whirlwind, bare feet slapping the floor.

Three strides. She's laughing the whole way, staggering, one hand clamped between her legs trying to hold it in, doing a terrible job. A line of me runs down her leg, spotting the carpet as she goes. She snatches the pillow off the floor and whirls.

"You bastard," she shouts, laughing. "You absolute bastard—"

Back on the bed in a scramble — knee up, pillow shoved under her hips, flopping down onto it, lifting her legs, clamping herself shut, going still. Chest heaving. Hair everywhere.

"You bastard," she says again, softer, grinning up at the ceiling.

"Did you make it?"

"Mostly." She lifts her head and looks down at her body in the state of herself — thighs slick, shining, and a wet smear on the pillowcase. "You made a mess of your carpet."

"Worth it."

"Was it?"

I come up over her. She's still laughing, still catching her breath. She reaches up, gets a hand in my hair, and hauls my mouth down to hers.

That's the end of the talking.

She kisses like she's still got something to prove — mouth open, tongue quick, pulling at my lip with her teeth. Her legs come up around my waist, cross at the ankles, and hold me in. My spent cock lies heavy on her thigh; she grinds up against it while she kisses me. I get a hand in her hair. She hums into my mouth, pleased.

Her mouth's busy now. So's mine. No more games, no more teasing — just the slow ease of it, the cooling sweat, her thumbs at my jaw, my weight coming down onto my elbows either side of her head.

She breaks off, breathless, and puts her forehead to mine.

"Monday," she says. "The challenge. What is it?"

"Monday."

"Tell me now."

"Monday," I say. She groans, kisses me again to shut me up.

Downstairs the clock chimes a quarter to.

To be continued.