The summer sun rises over the Long Island Sound, penetrating a picture window in my daddy's bedroom, waking me up from deep restful slumber after another night full of incestuous lovemaking. I stretch out my fit naked body on a king-size mattress, feeling super-horny. I graduated from Greenwich High last week, and now I'm on summer vacation cruise control, going off on a crazy tangent with a billionaire stock jockey. Roger Keofferam took my virginity in our hot tub on my eighteenth birthday, and then he took complete control of me over the next five months. Body, mind, and soul.
I need another fix of rough sex, so I roll over to wake him up and get his big dick up . . . but he's not there. The luxurious master bedroom is empty except for me. I roll over again to check his alarm clock. 9:08.
"Aw fuck," I mutter, cursing myself for oversleeping. Daddy is long gone by now, taking the Metro North train down to Grand Central Station, heading toward his glitzy CEO office near the top of the iconic Rockefeller tower. Big time one-percenter 30 Rock bullshit. Oh well, I'll get plenty of action when he gets home tonight.
I hop out of bed, march into an equally luxurious living room, and step into a huge Carrera marble bathtub, imported from Italy. I turn on the shower, letting the hot water rain down all over my sexy 34-23-33 frame. I'm a raving aquaphile, having grown up on private beaches with all those silicone-enhanced rich bitches in Dolce and Gabbana bikinis. (No silicone on
this
busty blonde bitch.) I also love going on vacations with daddy at our private 500-acre resort in the Maine wilderness. Splashing about under a waterfall and swimming in a cool crystal-clear lake in the warm summer sun.
The steamy shower feels so good, plunging me deeper into fantasy mode. Mister Keofferam has fucked me hundreds of times in this bathroom, and fourteen other rooms in this swanky art-deco mansion. (I better remember to take a birth control pill today, and shove that little sponge up my snatch.)
Just two more months until I fly over to Oxford for my first semester, hitting the history books and leaving this illegal incest crap behind. In the meantime, I'm riding our amazing fetish porno vibe as hard as I possibly can. A fucked-up form of therapy for the pain of his recent divorce from my mother, before I get a real boyfriend in jolly ol' England.
I turn to the right, gazing out a small window with a view of the distant Manhattan skyline (when it's not all steamed-up.) Another ugly needle-like tower gets built every year, polluting the skyline with playboy pads for billionaire Elon Musk wannabes from around the globe. I masturbate slowly with soapy fingers, picturing that Tesla/Twitter tycoon ramming his X up my Space. Roger looks a lot better than Elon, so my mind quickly veers in daddy's direction, picturing him pounding my pussy in a public library. (The astronomy section?)
I grab a foot-long pink dildo from a soap dish and slide it all the way up my tight little vagina. Many small rounded knobs jut out from the shaft, massaging every millimeter. The hot water makes it feel even better, deep inside. Rocking that plastic rod back and forth in a slightly elliptical pattern, hitting my g-spot just right, like daddy taught me to. The best sex ed teacher a high school girl ever had.
A very naughty idea pops into my mind. I should go down to Rockefeller plaza today and "shake things up" by fucking daddy in his office! Oh my god, Katie, why didn't you think of that before?
My rational mind warns me it's a terrible idea. Way too risky, with billions of dollars and our entire future lives at stake. Thousands of wealthy investors trust in the integrity of his prestigious investment firm, including six major sports team owners and seven heads of state. But my overactive imagination screams, "go for it!"
I love reading incest and office sex stories on Literotica, to cleanse my pallate after all those boring history books. Most of the loser incel porn writers on that website will never live out their crazy fantasies. But I'm rich enough and slutty enough to make all of
my
crazy fantasies true. This one is too deliciously tempting to resist. I'm gonna suck and fuck my father real good in his corporate inner sanctum, like a wacked-out Wall Street Lewinsky. Go for it, bitch!
I step out of the shower and dry off with a luxurious Egyptian silk towel, admiring my tennis and Pilates-toned bod in a gilded Louis Quatorze mirror, giddy with anticipation for Roger to take this body in his fancy office, like one of his slutty interns. Then I go back to my own bedroom down the hall, where I used to sleep before I started "sleeping" with daddy. I shove a small sponge way up against my cervix, then I slide on some sexy black lace stockings with a garter belt, and a blue cocktail dress. No bra or panties. I always wear that dress to impress Roger's investing clients at his cocktail parties. Dazzling them with his blonde bombshell daughter; making them sign an unfair contract while ogling my perky d-cups. "Oldest trick in the book," as daddy always says.
I inherited my good looks from his blonde Austrian wife who flew the coop last year. Leni Keofferam signed on the dotted line at their lawyer's office in Cos Cob, and then she hauled ass to Chicago and banged another stock jockey in the Windy City. It's an hour earlier there, so she's probably spreading her hot milf legs for Peter Benson right now. A quick fuck before work, just like she always gave Roger.
I wolf down a plain bagel with sugar-free raspberry jam, then I swallow The Pill with a glass of orange juice, and stuff a few of our favorite things into my fabulous pink Coach purse. Leaving our awesome waterfront mansion, stepping out to a beautiful sunny morning in Old Greenwich. The summer breeze comes blowing in from across the Long Island Sound. I walk ten blocks to a train station, passing our favorite Italian restaurant and the elementary school I graduated from six years ago. I'm a woman now, but still a little girl at heart, sitting on my daddy's lap at any opportunity.
I hop on the Metro North and head south toward the Big Apple. Passing the usual graffiti-riddled trackside warehouses with my head in the clouds. Imagining Roger pounding my pussy in every possible position on top of his mahogany desk. Then I imagine getting down on my knees, deep-throating his huge cock, and taking his hot cum all over my pretty white face. (How sweet it is to be rich and un-famous.) This will be the first time we've committed incest away from home. Far from the regal suburban serenity of Fairfield county, deep in the crowded smoky lion's den of Gotham.
I pull out my smartphone, pop some buds into my ears, and watch a porn video to pass the time on the hour-long ride. "Online" starring Jesse Jane (a.k.a. Cindy Taylor.) A melodramatic hardcore flick about a blonde slut who meets a "self-made billionaire" on a dating website. He seems like "Mister Right" in cyberspace, but then he turns out to be a dominating misogynistic creep, playing her like the fool she is (or
was
.)
Cindy died of a drug overdose six months ago at age 43. Old enough to be my mother. I'd never heard of her until daddy said I was hotter than Jesse Jane back in March, during our first shower bang. It suddenly occurs to me that Roger might not be in his office when I get there, so I send him a text message:
Katie:
Hey daddy. I'm on my way to NYC to visit the MoMa. Can I stop by your office soon so you can, uh, give me a private stock tip?
Daddy's response comes a minute later, just as the train enters a long tunnel under Park Avenue:
Roger:
What kind of, uh, private stock tip?
Katie:
A big merger of two fireworks companies. More "bang" for your buck ;-)
Roger:
Ooh, yes please. I love shooting sparks with you. How about 11:00 in my office?
Katie:
11 is fine, big boss man!
Roger:
Great, I'll tell my secretary you're coming.
Katie:
Tell her you're cumming all over my face. Yet again!
Roger:
Careful Katie, coworkers might glance at my phone.
Katie:
Sorry daddy, I'm too excited.
Roger:
Me 2, C U soon.
Katie:
XOXO byeee
I burst out in girlish giggling. You can't make this shit up, but I am! The sense of danger is getting me wet already, with no panties to catch that love juice. I pull the Jesse Jane movie back up on my phone, watching her get fucked like a dog by that billionaire creep. Imagining Roger taking his place, and me taking Jesse's place. He grabs a black leather riding crop, and the camera zooms in on her face as he (supposedly) whips her hot ass. The sound effect is obviously fake; added in post-production by a hack porn editor. Jesse was the second-richest "actress" in the industry after Jenna Jameson, so her cute white ass was too valuable to kink up with red stripes.
The train finally arrives at Grand Central. I stroll past the famous golden clock in the main foyer, gazing up at the painted constellations on the ceiling. Thanking my lucky stars to be living the "high life," with so many other people teetering on the edge of oblivion. A bunch of Japanese tourists bump into me while taking selfies, knocking me back to the real world. I take a deep breath, gathering courage to carry out my perverted mission.
Out on 43rd street, New York City greets me with a cacophony of loud noises and foul odors. The once-glamorous Roosevelt Hotel closed a few years ago, and now it's a public shelter for the rising tide of illegal immigrants. I turn north on Fifth Avenue, passing upscale boutique stores for a dwindling number of rich New Yorkers. The historic architecture sends my spirit back to the glory days of Rockefeller, Morgan, and Vanderbilt.
Dozens of hot Manhattan guys turn their heads in my direction. Some of them are wearing thick sunglasses, which might indicate celebrity status. I'm a history geek who doesn't give a shit about pop culture, so I couldn't tell Chris Hemsworth from Joe Blow. I smile naughtily at all of those cute men, tossing my shiny blonde bangs to further engage their attention. Making the most of this supermodel beauty while I have it. There's no guarantee that I'll age gracefully like Mommy, becoming a hot cougar on the prowl.
Rockefeller Plaza never ceases to amaze me with art-deco splendor. The iconic fountain seems like a grand oasis in the middle of a concrete desert. The splashing water reminds me of the aquaphile fetish I've been indulging with daddy, getting me even hornier. (I'm gonna suck Mister Keofferam off under that waterfall next week, deep in the heart of Maine. And then I'll fuck his brains out under a brilliant starry sky in a hot tub full of spring water.)
I turn my head toward the pure blue sky, gazing way up at the 65th floor of 30 Rock. The window of his corner office glimmers in the summer sun.
"Go for it, bitch," I murmur, pumping myself up like a boxer before a title match. Make some more wild memories to dwell on during all those cold boring Oxford days.
"Fucking
go
for it," I grunt louder, ignoring a bunch of tourists who look at me like I'm crazy. I march into the ornate vintage lobby with a smug grin locked on my face. Stepping into an amazing art-deco elevator, feeling like Daniel entering the lion's den. An old-school analog dial gradually spins from 1 toward 65, with schmaltzy 1970's Muzak playing overhead.
The doors finally open on the last private floor before the public observation deck. I walk down a long hallway full of cheesy Fortune 500 decor. A gleaming brass sign at the end reads "Pinnacle Equity Management." I take another deep breath, and take the plunge.
"Good afternoon, Miss Keofferam!" beams Anne Hathaway, a cute twenty-something blonde receptionist who attended a big office cocktail party at Roger's mansion three days ago. She was named after a famous actress who was named after William Shakespeare's wife, so that explains her perpetually perky attitude. "Your father is waiting for you in his office."
"Thanks, Annie. We have some
really
important business to discuss."
"Ooh. Are you gonna be my new boss soon?" she remarked.
"No way. This hedge fund gambling crap ain't my style."
I march through an "open office" arrangement full of Wall Street wolves, yakking on phones and hunting down financial prey on computer monitors, near the NBC studio building where many primetime shows are filmed. I'm half-expecting Tina Fey and Alec Baldwin to jump out and say something witty.
A big brass plaque clearly indicates my father's office, and his brash egotism. "
Roger Keofferam, Head Honcho.
