The emotional haze that followed the passing of my wife lasted for three years. My intense melancholy left its taint on everything: my writing, my relationship with my daughter, and my adult social life. The last I discarded entirely, the middle I neglected, and the first I enveloped myself in. I spent almost every waking hour in my small office, nothing but a computer, dark thoughts, and a tiny window overlooking a fence and providing me with a clear view of the backyard of the unused house behind mine.
My reverie might have gone on forever had I not, one day, noticed that the yard behind my house was no longer vacant. Boredom and curiosity bid me move to the window and investigate, and so I did. I noticed a girl, apparently young, jumping up and down on a trampoline. Some time since I had last noticed the yard had been filled with signs of residence. A picnic bench, green paint peeling; a barbecue, new; two ten speed bicycles, well-used; a trampoline, currently very well used; and, finally, a girl, pretty and young.
Having seen little of my own daughter, Rose, lately, the girl on the trampoline came as a sudden breath of fresh air, a smack on the cheek, a wake up call of sorts. I padded down the hallway to my room, not consciously aware of what I was doing exactly. I opened the closet, looked through the belongings of my wife, boxed away to enable me to torture myself more acutely as I saw fit. I lifted some boxes, some clothes, and finally found her telescope.
I rushed it back to the office, now quite aware of my intentions. I opened the small window and set the telescope up on a file cabinet, directing the lens to encompass the young thing bouncing up and down. From the third floor height of my office, I knew that she would have difficulty making out the presence of a peeping-tom in a miniscule opening even if I could see her so clearly.
The girl was beautiful ... and young. Though it was hard to be sure due to the bouncing, she appeared to be fifteen or sixteen years old. That would have put her near to my own daughter’s age, for Rose was sixteen now. The girl was wearing a cheerleading outfit, red and white sleeveless blouse with the letters GHS emblazoned on the material tightly clasping her apparently ample chest. Her red skirt with white triangle stripes barely covered her ass when her upward movements pushed it down, and on her descents the light fabric sailed up and revealed tight, red, shiny panties. Her legs also shone, apparently covered in the transparent stockings often worn by cheerleaders. Her feet were covered in small white ankle socks, and her shoes, if she had any, had apparently been discarded for the act of jumping.
I watched the young beauty jump and flip and laugh and scream and simply have a marvelous time. Every now and then the sound of her glee glided up to greet my eager ears. I was growing hard, not for the first time since my wife’s death, but certainly more powerfully than any time after her departing. As I watched the nimble nymph jump and do the splits in the air, it occurred to me that the girl I was currently obsessing over may very well have been my daughter, she was so young. Never one to belabor any point, I simply ran through a bit of memory — Freud, what had he said? Ah, yes. That explains everything, doesn’t it? No? Then fuck it.
That’s exactly what I was imagining doing, tearing those bright red panties off and fucking her hot, tight twat, when suddenly she was not alone. An older man, probably my age, late forties, opened a sliding door in the back of their house and came out into the yard. Though for a couple days afterward I believed myself to be aurally hallucinating, I know now what I knew at that very moment: as the man came out to greet the girl, at a period of peak elevation for the little lassie, I heard her shout, “Hi, Daddy!”
And crash back down, only to be flung once again toward the sky.
The rest of their conversation was lost on me, for I had moved back a bit just to be careful, and now they were not shouting. I still watched, though angling my spying so as not to be visible to anyone who cared to look up to my window. And the man did, I noticed, look up. As suspected, he immediately looked away, his search — if that’s what it was — fruitless.
I watched the next few minutes in rapt lust and disbelief. The girl slowed her leaps, then ceased them, standing breathless as her father stepped up to the trampoline and the girl placed her hands on his shoulders. It appeared, from my vantage point, to be an unfeeling embrace. I saw his back, her torso as though growing out of his neck, and then more of her as he bent down further, as though tickling her feet or putting her shoes on or something. Then he straightened, the girl letting him go, and he turned to the side a bit, not much, but enough to reveal to the spying cyclops that he held her shiny red panties in his hands, put them to his nose, discarded them.
I was absolutely throbbing with jealousy.
The man backed away, retired to a lawn chair, and watched, as I watched, his little girl continue her trampoline routine. Now I looked more carefully at her descensions, examined as closely as I could the pretty cuteness of her ass, the tiny nakedness of her cunt, free even of the burden of pubic hair. That lack of nethergrass made my loins feels as though in a vice. She was young and yet shaved! So amazingly erotic, with brown ponytail bobbing, smooth legs splaying, and daddy’s cunt displaying.
She stopped her bouncing again, and her father joined her on the trampoline. She kicked her calves out from under her, plummeting to her knees, bouncing up a bit, her father holding her down by her shoulders, steadying her before him. She fumbled with his pants, pulling out his cock as a bead of sweat dripped down to my eye and blinded me for a moment. With a grunt of disgust I pulled away and wiped the offending tear to oblivion, rushing back to my voyeurism. The girl was swiftly sucking and licking the cock her father held before her. I couldn’t believe my eyes! This man must have been experiencing Heaven! And to think, he lived with it every day!
And to think, so did I!
I watched, enraptured, as the girl expertly sucked off her father, taking him all the way into her mouth, slurping (in my head, at least) loudly on his prick. Saliva strung between her tongue, lips, chin, and his red cock, she’d pull back to let the strands of spit splash her face or her uniform, then dive back down onto his pole, sometimes sucking as though to impale the back of her forehead, other times lifting his cock and gently licking the underside, the balls, then returning to let him grab her head and fuck her mouth.
I watched as the man tilted his head back as though to thank the heavens for his little cocksucking slut daughter, then shot loose his creamy white load onto the girl’s smiling, eager face. She opened her mouth, swallowing his cum, letting it drip onto her blouse, onto her cheeks, her forehead, into her dark hair, all over her red lips.
I ached as she licked him up, cleaning her father, then licked her lips, hands, consuming all the excess cum she could. Dad put himself away and walked back to the house. She said something, apparently without receiving a reply, then sadly skulked over to her panties and put them back on. She covered the trampoline, walked into the house.
I fell back into my desk chair, my normally loose fitting slacks squeezing my hard cock like an overzealous daughter might first do when giving a handjob, I imagined, smiling. I was thinking about going to my room and beating off to the memory of my new neighbor when I heard feet passing my closed office door. Rose was home from school.
I don’t know what I was thinking — check that, I do know that I wasn’t thinking. It hadn’t occurred to me that that man had probably spent many months, if not years, preparing his daughter for the fact of her eventual violation. He had probably prepared escapes, excuses, threats, bribes, or whatever else might be needed to safely continue in the molestation of his own flesh and blood. It especially hadn’t occurred to me yet that she might not have actually said ‘Daddy,’ and that he might just be an older lover, a secret tryst she had unbeknowst her parents. Or perhaps it was a secret lover, a ‘sugar-daddy,’ who was aroused by the nickname as his nymphette, girl-child, lover bounced around in a cute, cheerleading uniform.
But as I said, none of these things occurred to me yet.
As I poked my head into the hallway a breath of cool air hit my face, relaxing me. My office had grown warm as I had opened my window to the hot summer air. The door to Rose’s room was closing behind her. I strode down the hallway, opening it before it fully shut, my child spinning around, a startled look on her face, a hand over her heaving bosom.
“Jesus, Daddy, you scared me!” she said, smiling now at her childishness. I smiled, too, of course, though not as innocently. I pulled her to me, pressing her body against mine, rubbing her back. She returned the hug, sobbed.
“I love you, Daddy!” she exclaimed as I turned her around, pressing my firm crotch against her soft ass, through her blue shorts. I put my arms over her shoulders and clasped my hands in front of her chest. She sniffled, giggled. “What are you doing?”
“Would you do something for me, Rose?”
Rose, with hair as dark and long as the girl on the trampoline, cocked her head backwards and up, to look me in the face with her intense icy blue eyes. “Of course, Daddy.”
“Would you wear your cheering uniform for me?”
She laughed. “Why?”
“I just want to see you in it, that’s all,” I lied.
“Why?” she laughed again, apparently under the impression that this was just a game.
“Just do it ... please?”
“Alright,” she acquiesced, rummaging through her closet.
She found it and looked back at me. “Are you gonna watch me change?”
My heart skipped a beat at the proposition, but I didn’t want to frighten her out of the game before she even got the uniform on. “No,” I said. “Do it in the closet.”
She closed the door behind her in her walk-in closet and I heard fumbling and tossing and grunting, and finally a door being opened — behind it, a beautiful brunette cheerleader, GLS embroidered on the blouse, tight over her firm tits, skirt revealing long, smooth legs covered in stockings. Rose had worn the socks and her white tennis shoes. The picture was complete.
I sank down on her bed, my pants felt about to explode. I beckoned her nearer. She stood before me, courtseyed. I smiled. I tugged at her skirt, pulling her even nearer, spread my legs so she could stand between them.
“Are you alright, Daddy?” she asked.
I sighed. Reality was sinking in. I bowed my head, sobbed.
She ran her fingers through my hair, loving fingers. She bent down, kissed the top of my head, her breasts resting just over my forehead. I was weeping. I was about to do something unspeakable to my own daughter. Be sure: I was weeping for what I was about to do, not because I had been about to do it.
I caressed her legs at her knees, then up her thighs, gently rubbing with both hands, still weeping. She shushed me, put her arms around my neck, and ... I think ... bowed her legs slightly. My hands rode up her thighs, finding purchase on the smooth material of her panties. She froze as I began to pull them down her legs. I felt her breath in, the panties became visible, bright red and satin, then fell to her ankles.
She stood up straight, all feeling having left her touch. Her hands just resting on my shoulders, as though on a desk. I hugged her waist, pulling her closer to me, then unbuckled my pants, quickly swung them and my shorts down to my knees. She was looking off into the hallway.
I took her wrists and kissed her hands gently. “Baby?”
“Yes,” she said flatly, not looking at me.
I pulled her left hand down, slowly. She wasn’t fighting me, but wasn’t moving of her own accord. “Baby, Daddy ... needs you ... to put him in your ... mouth.”
I wrapped her little hand, red-nailed, around my aching love and pressed firmly, tight as the vice I had imagined, stressing: “Here.”
Finally she jerked her head straight, then down at me, at my eyes looking back at her, watery. She was beginning to cry, too.
“Okay,” she sobbed, moving to her knees.
She licked the head of my cock, gently, childishly, tasting it. She ran her tongue in longer strokes up and down my shaft, my balls, kissing me and licking me like a lollipop, like a thumb. Finally she took the head of my cock into her mouth, applied gentle pressure, kept her teeth back, sucking, licking, moving her head back and forth, slowly, with no apparent grace or rhythm. The amateur-ness of the blowjob made it all the more appealing, all the more fitting for the scenario that was playing out. The girl on the trampoline had done the job quickly, with all the moves that would make a man cum instantly, all the tried and tested methods to best please men who liked blowjobs best. In her expertise, the girl had seemed a tramp on a trampoline — yes, a goddess, certainly, but vastly different (not better or worse) than the juvenile choking and drooling on my rod right now. It didn’t take long. I had been building up too much to take long. I came in a sticky white load in her mouth, without even warning her. She flinched, gagged, choked, but finally swallowed what had not escaped her lips and dribbled down her chin and cheeks. Her hands were messy with the cum, and I watched her lick them clean. Not my doing, I assure the Reader, but entirely of her own volition. Has she seen a porno movie where this happened? Has she heard from friends about how many men enjoy seeing young women eat their seed? Has she simply assumed it would be my desire, in light of the fact that I chose to release myself in her soft wet lips? Or had she genuinely enjoyed the taste of my cum and now, seeing some of it wasted on her palms and fingers, eagerly consume the candy she had missed before?
I didn’t ask her these questions. I put on my pants, avoided making eye contact with my young daughter, now sitting on the floor, passively waiting. “Thank you, Rose,” I said, lamely. “Daddy really needed that, you know.”
She didn’t reply. She didn’t move. I got up from her bed and went back to my office. As lust withdrew, shame overcame me and I wept uncontrollably on my desk.
Time elapsed. It could have been days, weeks, or months for all I was paying attention. I divided my time between plodding through the necessary steps of existence (food, toilet, sleep), writing, and staring through my telescope in search of the girl on the trampoline. I wrote erotica, or, pornography, if you will. Scenarios, fantasies about incest with young daughters or the raping of juvenile babysitters. Fiction, all of it. It didn’t occur to me to write my own story until much later. Nothing publishable in the paid markets, I was sure. I posted on internet websites devoted to the pervert in all of us. I had to believe there was a pervert in all of us, or I feared I might pick up my .44 and permanently remove my guilt with a flash of gunpowder.
The girl used the trampoline now and then, sometimes even while wearing something as arousing as the cheerleading uniform, or, once, a bikini. But she never again took the man’s cock in her mouth — or anywhere else — within my sight. I even closely examined all the windows visible from this position, but could not find what looked like her room or any bedroom at all, and I never encountered any secret trysts. I had begun to believe that the man had not been her father at all. The thought of my mistake made me sink even further into depression, for, somehow, ridiculously, I had equated the incestuous violation of the girl on the trampoline with justification for my raping my own daughter. After all, I surmised, she seemed happy enough despite the sexual relations she had with her father.
Then one day time did not elapse, but froze. I reached Heaven that day, I know, for any other paradise would entail the speeding up of time as the bliss raced past; but that particular day Heaven was extended over eternity. So goes my reflection of it now, but the Reader may be more interested in the physical details of what transpired.
While spying one Saturday morning on the girl on the trampoline, I noticed Rose in her yard, talking to the young vixen. The beautiful brunettes laughed about something and came around the fence, onto the street, and into our yard. The sound of the door opening revealed the intended destination of the two girls. I left my office hurriedly, closing the door behind me. If I greeted them before they came upstairs, they would be sure to remain out of my office.