— but she stopped him, her hand on his hip suddenly, pulling him back to her until he felt his throbbing length nestle in the trough between her buttocks. She pulled his hand around her and placed it on her tit firmly, writhing against his chest sensuously, letting her head fall back against his shoulder.
“Touch me,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”
Her words were like flames, enraging his mind, drowning his body in heat. He wrenched at her breast, digging his fingers into the soft, yielding flesh as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, kissing, licking, sucking. The animal sounds of his grunts and heavy breath mingled with the popping and smacking of his grasping lips on her delicate skin, the soft, quivering sighs that poured form her, tiny moans of pleasure. His cock felt gigantic, brutal, like a bludgeon — he ground against her ass, back and forth, and forward, until she twisted her body in his grasp and he was thrusting against her hip. Her right hand plunged into his hair, held the back of his head, encouraging him in his kissing, the shellacking of her neck and shoulder with his spit. He opened his eyes briefly to see her lips hanging open, trembling, muttering words he couldn’t hear — her left hand tugged urgently at the tie of her gown, plucking at the thin ribbons that locked away her breasts. The fabric of her gown was stretched thin and tight across them, her nipples creating hard, sharp points in the silky sheen.
He jammed his left hand beneath her to encircle her body, held her tightly against him, pressing her broad belly. His right hand ran circles rapidly around and over and under her breasts while she yanked ineffectually at the tie — furious with impatience he plunged his fingers between the ribbons and tore her gown open — she gasped — the sharp hissing sound of ripping cloth, popping stiches, bursting seams screamed out in the quiet room. Suddenly free of their confinement her large, taut breasts jumped out into his hands — he kneaded them until she groaned, her chest rising and falling rapidly. They were hot and smooth and succulent in his grasping hands — the nipples were solid, jutting stones between his fingers, and she loosed a stream of muttered curses and blasphemy when he pinched and pulled at them.
With a fierce jerk she twisted again in his arms, turning towards him even more, breasts bouncing, leaping in the light — her hip ground against him and ohhh the delicious friction, the warmth of her flesh burning through the satin, the sudden rubbing pressure was more than he could bear — his cock jerked and spasmed inside his shorts while he cried out in regret and despair, feeling the hot, viscous spurts slap against his pubis, pooling around his balls . . .
Neal fell back, frustrated, angry with himself — his heart thumped in his chest and in his temples, his breath escaped him in sobs. His daughter, her dark eyes soft and sympathetic, prodded him gently backward until he lay still; she hovered over him, close to his face, her bare breasts dangling over his chest, broad nipples brushing his shirtfront. He tried to speak; she shook her head, touched her fingertip to his lips.
“No — no, Dad — no words, shhhhhh,” she breathed, kissing his sweaty forehead.
For a long time he lay grieving and shaken, his mind vacant, like a dying warrior. As his daughter scooted forward on her knees to cradle his head, his brain whirled with frenzied emotions — he was utterly ashamed of what he had done, yet ashamed also that he had performed the act so poorly, so unlike a true lover. His shorts became cool with dampness as his prick slackened, and he began to count himself among the most decrepit and pathetic beings on the earth — lying in a pool of his own sperm, disappointed that he had not raped his own daughter . . . he was no better than an animal.
But Vanessa wiped the sweat from his head and stroked it, and held him to her breasts — those lovely, soft breasts, whose nipples even now were sharp and insistent, the aureoles wide as half-dollars. His body began to cool, his mind to lapse into a comforting haze, and when he was strong enough to brush his fingers against her exquisite orbs, and she turned to guide one swollen nipple to his lips, he did not refuse it. He pulled it willingly into his mouth and suckled it, though his penis was a deflated, soggy mess in his shorts. Though his urges were calmed, and his strength sapped, and his unholy desires for her body now the source of grievous confusion and guilt in his mind, he sucked lovingly on first the one nipple, then the other, allowing her to nurse him compliantly. He was surprised, yet somehow relieved, when a burst of sweetness filled his mouth, and he realized it was her milk.
She did not let him lie back until he was breathing easily, until he floated on a cool thoughtless wave. With his head flat against the cushions, then, he watched her smiling down at him as she stood beside him, slipping the sleeves of her nightgown off her shoulders, allowing the torn garment to drop noiselessly to the floor. He had seconds only to absorb the pristine beauty of her pregnant body — her long, rounded thighs, the mossy cleft between them, the dramatic swell of her belly — before she was kneeling beside him again, leaning over his middle and allowing her breasts to droop once more while she ran her finger inside the waistband of his shorts. She pulled them down slowly, her eyes roving curiously over his creamed, defeated prick.
What she did then cost him the most disordered and commingled emotions he had ever had. She proceeded, in an almost workmanlike, custodial fashion, to lap up and lick all of his cum into her mouth. Her tiny, narrow tongue dived again and again out of her mouth, its pointed tip diving into the goo while she touched and stroked his flaccid dick. She took her time with her task, seeming to forget he was even there, and what her tongue missed the first pass it gathered on the next. At one point, with smacks of his cream all around her lips, she held his wet cock against her cheek lovingly, as though it were an adored and precious pet. It was a performance of appalling lewdness, the sort of thing a porno girl would do — those overstuffed, overanxious women with their fake tits and faker moans, completely lacking in dignity or composure, they too lapped cum from their men’s cocks and balls, sighing all the while . . . just as his daughter did now. He would have been sorry to see her do it to any man; it was unthinkable that she was doing it to him.
And yet . . . and yet, she was still his daughter, his beloved, his Nessa. She was still graceful and sweet, and unspeakably lovely, even now. She might have been a fairy lapping nectar from a flower, a goddess drinking ambrosia. He knew on some level of consciousness that she wanted him hard again, could tell from her breathing and her expressions and her pulsing nipples that she was incredibly, painfully aroused. And he was bitterly reminded yet again, as he had been reminded every day since she had confessed her pregnancy, that she was no longer an innocent, that this was not the first cock she’d serviced, not the first serving of mancum she’d swallowed up.
Yet she was still his girl, indescribably beautiful, and he blessed the day she’d entered his life
Seeming to read his thoughts, she smiled at him again, just as adoringly as she had when a little girl, before throwing her leg across his lap to straddle him. He could only watch in awe as she lowered her pussy to his cock, and gasp in surprised pleasure as she touched her ovening tender lips against him. She leaned forward langorously, the solid flesh of her stomach pressing the air out of him, like a football was caught between them; her eyes were bright and happy, her lips yet retained a sticky frosting of cum. She dragged her fingernails across his chest and gripped his shoulders, stretching out her back, flexing the muscles in her arms, thrusting her tits out at him before she mashed them against his chest. He thrilled to feel the hot, hard kernels of her nipples bulging into him. Though his mental delapidation was not over, though he still felt ashamed and confused, his arms closed over her, his hands ran up and down her back and waist, and over the taut slopes of her ass cheeks. She closed her eyes, the lids trembling, and sighed to feel him touching her, and stroked her splayed fingers through the hair on his chest, and licked delicately at his hairy nipples, and — slowly, confidently — began to rock her hips back and forth, to slide her swollen lips against his crotch.
He wondered at her audacity, and at her optimism, until he felt his prick leap and stiffen, beginning its rise. Its hardening was unmistakable, and Neal’s desires were whetted all over again when he saw the gratified smile it brought to his daughter’s lovely face . . .
. . . Once Neal was inside his daughter for the first time, a peculiar calm stole over him. That first fuck was very much a spectator sport for him, as he was content to let her do the work, and find her pleasure her own way atop his inflexible prick. The first panicky cum against her leg, as well as Nessa’s sweet tending of him afterward, had settled his body down considerably, so that he was pleased to be able to provide her with a fat, firm erection that was a little desensitized, less edgy than it had been. With a little deep breathing, he was able to lie still and control himself while she got off on him, even though her pussy was amazingly tight — like a fleshy vice nipping at his cock.
Maintaining an erection — now that was no problem. Her protruding belly managed to conceal most of her pussy from his view, which was a shame as he had a particular fascination with watching himself disappear into a lovely snatch. But Vanessa provided plenty of eye candy for him to feast on besides that: her creamy skin, her firm, bouncing titties, the way she ran her hands all over her body while she fucked him. Her face alone was enough to inspire a dozen orgasms — the fluttering eyelids, the open lips, the occasional drowsy-eyed glance, the way she cocked her head from side to side. Neal had never been a pussyhound, but he had slept with enough women in his day to be able to pigeonhole them into broad, if crude, categories: the giggler, the animal, the statue, the victim. Sherry was a giggler, Melanie . . . more of a statue. But Nessa was something else — an enchantress, perhaps. She had the strange power of inspiring his lust with her very move, while yet retaining some indefinable mystique of unspoiled youth and innocence. He found himself wondering as he watched her, was this really some technique of hers, or did she effect him this way because she was his daughter . . .