World's Greatest Dad

The blood rushing through your veins and extremities, unbound and hot, did not burn through basic logic: no matter your preparations, ensnaring not one, but two AGS-suffering women would be almost impossible to get away with. Surely, you could already imagine a few premises where it would fool the victims; you have to admit you'd already thought of two routes before you even came to this pivotal decision. But none of them accounted for the enhanced scrutiny the non-AGS world would turn upon you, even if you were innocent, even if they weren't pregnant.

Even if they weren't *both* pregnant.

No, it's too risky... better that you focus on solidifying the original plan for Isabella, who even as she buries herself in the redhead's muff is probably harboring a fertilized surprise in her belly, growing cell-by-cell until its girth would swell her own. You never sired a child; you knew this for a fact. Your wife (former wife) hated the idea of you donating your seed to sperm banks for cash, even as she operated a donation box of her own, at which all deposits, save yours, were good. You never had scares with your exs, and none ever vanished for long enough to spirit away a pregnancy. Your first, if it indeed took root, was squirming inside an adult teenager no more ready for the world, or motherhood, or you than some normal adolescent child. She was - she still is - your victim, and there is a pleasure, perverse and suffusing your every stray thought of late, that buds and grows inside you, beyond the satisfied desire for **** on the dead, beyond the desire to harm that which was all your whore wife loved.

You're salivating. You wipe the drool away, embarrassed in the sullen darkness of your room, your hand glistening in the light of the video feed. The two lady lovers now canoodled in what they thought was the sacred, secret darkness, and immediately you find yourself jealous of that comfort which Isabella shows, a comfort she can't show her father after he "cleans" her, as if her instincts know she's being assaulted every day.

You wouldn't stop, of course. You would have to escalate.

The phone was away and you were laying in be when the door opens, revealing a weary, cleaned up - you heard the shower head working briefly in the hall bathroom - Isabella, now wearing her mother's silk, blue nightie. "Honey?" you pretend to moan sleepily. "Baby, is that you?"

"Shhh... yes, daddy," she mutters. Having stared at a screen for half an hour, your night vision is terrible; you can only make out the whites of her teeth as she grins in the muted moonlight from behind your curtains. "I just wanted to get cleaned up."

"Of course, sweetie... now take those jammies off, and let your father hold you."

Her smile vanishes, but she complies. If you have to guess, you'd think she's worried about raising a ruckus with Penelope so near and so energized; her lover's life could be lost if she grunted too loudly, or if you decided to get uncharacteristically boisterous about your orgasms. But you don't move to fuck her into sleep, not as she willingly sinks into the folds of your trap, not while her warmth glides over the sheets to just barely embrace your nude form, and not even when you feel her little twat near your belly, still radiating fire from her earlier affair and likely engorged and wet and prepared for a good-

She gasps as your manhood pokes into her meat, yearning for entry. Well, you really didn't intend to do this, honest. "Daddy, she'll-!"

"We'll be quiet, sweetie... I just love you so much. Sooo-" Your head coats itself in the feminine juice it finds, and inevitably finds the opening you can now almost seek out by muscle memory. You snake one arm under her writhing form and another over, holding her down until you sink your full length into her from her front. "-muuuuuuch," you sigh. Her body quakes in discomfort, but she doesn't dare resist; the shame of not returning her father's love continues to eat at her, even as her sore twat tries desperately to not encourage you. It gives it's misguided squeeze to expel you, which only encourages you. You roll like a gator with prey in your deadly hug, and use your hold on her to shove into her depths. She buries her face into your neck, sobbing quietly as she feels the new ache of your thrusts against her cervix, now made painful by your joyful aggression and the generous lubrication left by her prior lovemaking. Encouraged by this, you speed up your thrusts, your arms burning as you bounce her on your dick like a rag doll while crushing her body against yours.

"Daddy, please-"

"Quiet down, slut, I'm almost finished." Your words are harsh, but she takes them for what you told her they're worth: the doting words of a forgiving father, eager to share parental love. You half-imagine she's shuddering with an orgasm to match the pressure building in your core, but it's only a more violent crying; it does nothing to stop you from brushing away her hair, moaning into her ear, and using one hand to shove her ass down into your meat, planting your rod to the root, and starting your orgasm nestled against the moist opening of her womb. It gives ever so slightly, and she muffles her yell of agony into your chest. The sensation leaves you half-gasping, half-chuckling into her ear. You blast baby batter into that forbidding hole, eviscerating the tight hall of mucus there and letting your whole batch reign over her womb, her egg, and her life. If she wasn't pregnant before, there's no way she isn't now.

"I love you, Isabella," you repeat, kissing and probing her tongue with your ear.