Cassie's Tale (Pt 2)
It was a question that popped up twice a day:
where the hell does all this sperm come from?
Well, from my father, obviously. But why so much? Daddy had been fucking me for a week, and I was no nearer solving the mystery.
When I blow Dad, I swallow -- I don't know, a teaspoon or two of jism? But when he cums in my pussy, it seems to be at least a pint. It creates a huge wet patch in the bed and leaks out of me for hours. His greasy kid stuff gets everywhere. And that's just the sperm that doesn't make it into my womb. All that from a teaspoonful? A mystery indeed.
It had been a whirlwind week. Dad had taught me so much about sex in a few short days.
Amazingly, when he took my virginity, his super-thick cock punching through my 19-year-old hymen and bursting my bubble, he brought me to a gut-wrenching orgasm. I had been expecting the pain. I hadn't expected the pleasure.
The second time, there was less of the pain. With my cherry bomb exploded the previous night, I had found it easier stretching to take his girth. But there had been less of the pleasure too. It was fun, but it didn't make me climax.
"I can't understand why I didn't cum," I grumbled. "I want every time to be perfect. I want every time to be like the first time."
He kissed my stomach. "Cassie, you shouldn't be trying to recreate a perfect experience from the past. You have to make
this
experience, the one you're having
now,
perfect. Relax, enjoy what's happening, not what you think should be happening. I have one cock, two balls, an endless supply of sperm on tap. You have the juiciest cunt, a clitoris that knows what it wants, perfect breasts. We have hands and fingers and tongues, amazingly sensitive skin, and two fantastically inventive minds. There are millions of possibilities when we go to bed - why limit it to just one?"
He was right, of course. The next time we made love, I let myself go, revelled in Dad's hands on my ass, his mouth on my nipples, his strong tongue invading my mouth. He subdued me, pinned me down, brutally mounted me and held both my wrists in one hand above my head while he virtually raped me to a raging orgasm like something out of
The Ride of the Valkyries
.
And after that, sex seemed as natural and easy as on that first night, when he had carried me to his bed and expertly deflowered me, giving my unfucked pussy its first lesson in a lifelong education.
So here I was, his cum seeping out of me. A virgin no more. I had waited all this time for the right man, and it turned out to be the man who'd been there all along.
For years I had wondered how it was done, how it would feel. Being fucked. Having flesh inside me that was not my own finger. Doing what my mother was doing with my twin brother, Jack.
After a dozen or so fucks ... well, I wasn't going to declare myself an expert, but I had reached a few conclusions.
Sex doesn't make sense until you do it. After that first night with Dad, I understood. Cumming with someone pumping inside you. Somebody else's body in your body. It doesn't seem natural. It hardly seems possible that it could bring mutual pleasure, let alone the sort of orgasms my father was giving me.
There are easier ways for a girl to cum, but when you get it right (as Mom and Jack did, as Dad and I were beginning to), it is viscerally, earth-shakingly,
cosmically
right.
When Dad is fucking me, and I'm striving for my orgasm, tilting my pelvis, concentrating on his cock rubbing my clit and touching those areas inside, it's like nothing else.
Vaginal or clitoral? Every orgasm is clitoral, I'm sure of it. Whether it's on finger, tongue or dick. But, oh, the absolute best is your clit getting a working over by a cock. Nothing beats cumming with a big prick slamming into you.
And Dad knows what he's doing.
It's about preparation - his hands and his mouth all over me, licking, probing, exciting my skin, exhilarating my nipples, electrifying my clit, melting me down, ramping me up.
He knows when I need him to pull my hair, when to choke me - not too hard, just enough to emphasize his possession of me. I love it when he bites me hard at the back of my neck when we do it doggy-style, marking his mate, staking out his territory, leaving bruises and teethmarks. (
He bit me and it felt like a kiss!
) It just means I can't put my hair up it in a ponytail in hot weather.
It's about degrees - his cock entering me at the right angle to rub my clit as well as touching zones inside me that my purity-ring finger couldn't reach; zones I hadn't even known I had.
And above all, it's about love: I was so completely in love with the big beast riding me. That night, as my orgasm faded, and a hot glow radiated across my body, I thought of my mother.
She never really loved you, Daddy. She loves Jack, and that's what makes their sex so fabulous. She never loved you. I love you. And that's why this is forever.
There are things I will never understand about sex, though.
For instance, when I get that aching jungle throbbing deep up inside me, why is that only a hard pounding from my father's cock can silence it?
Why it is impossible to think nasty thoughts after an orgasm? There is so much pain and spite and hate going round, it's lovely to know there's a space, if only for a few minutes, when the world is good.
69? Sixty-Nein, more like! It sounds brilliant in theory, but it's so wrong in practice. Everything that makes perfect sense right way round is lost. I can't reach the sensitive underside of his cock. His tongue goes against the natural licking grain of my clit. It's like trying to ride a bicycle backwards. I don't need to do it 68 more times to know it doesn't work for us.
Breasts! Men are moths to the flame. Whole business empires have been built on those packets of fat on our chests. I'd seen how Jack is in thrall to Mom's breasts, and Dad is just the same. Cupping them, licking, suckling like a baby on them. And looking, always looking.
"You have serious breasts," he told me.
"What - big, you mean?"
"More than that. Big, round, symmetrical, high up on your chest. Powerful, intimidating. Porcelain skin, bright pink nipples. Large breasts on a thin body - do you know how rare that is? Plus, they're sensitive, they connect to your clit, so they have to be handled with care." He does -- he handles them beautifully. So I'm not complaining about the attention. But for organs that were designed to feed young children, I am fascinated by men's fascination.
Stiff cocks: How can something be so hard yet so soft?
And why do we know what the average penis length is, but no one tells you what the average girth is? (Jack is best in show in both departments. Dad isn't as long - seven pussy-pleasing inches; of
course
I've measured it! - but he is just as big as Jack width-wise, and gosh, can I feel it.) The obvious question: Does it hurt? The first time, yeah, sore as hell. And after a proper plowing, he still leaves me tender. But in a good way. Definitely a good way!
Also: faster doesn't always mean better. A good steady rhythm is the way to go for me. I love a good jack-hammering, and I've had some amazing cums that way, but sometimes I just can't synch with the rhythm and I lose my orgasm. Ah, The Lost Orgasm. It is so easy for a girl to lose it, even when she's on the brink. An itchy nose, the wrong word or mental image, the slightest change in her lover's tempo. Luckily, Dad is the clit hero every girl should have: if I don't get there when we fuck, he'll go down and finish the job.
But most puzzling of all:
where does all that sperm come from?
I was sitting in bed, knees under my chin, feeling his ejaculate ooze out of me.
"Dad, how much do you cum? It seems like a couple of teaspoons, but it makes such a mess."
"No idea, precious. I just deliver the stuff. It's up to you what you do with it after that."
I popped a finger in myself and licked it. It tasted like him, but not like him. That extra bit must be me. Perhaps that's why there's so much fluid - some of it is mine. I was pondering this cum-conundrum when he asked what clothes I had brought with me. It seemed a strange question. I hadn't worn anything for days.
"Jeans, casual frocks. That one slutty dress. Why?"
"We're going to have to get you something a little more upscale," he replied. "I have an industry dinner tomorrow and I want you to be my date."
Dad had built up one of the best PR agencies in New York in five short years. Nowhere near the biggest. No one outside the industry would know the name. But I took an interest in the business. I read the
Wall Street Journal
and the gossip columns (he appeared a lot in the gossip columns, rich, eligible man about town that he was) and I knew how well he was doing, how respected he was. With the sort of clients he was attracting, pretty soon he'd have to move it on up to the next level, take the firm public, or else accept the money and sell out to a bigger rival.
I thought of him in his tuxedo, me on his arm in an evening gown. What an image that stirred: a mature man and his teenage lover in public - so outrageously sexy! And a thousand times sexier knowing that they are father and daughter, fresh from their bed. I knew Mom had a thing about men in tuxes - not to mention fucks in tuxes -- and it had been passed down from mother to daughter. Although I had yet to master the art of knotting Dad's bow tie while I sat in his lap, sliding up and down on his tool.
But I knew I didn't belong at this dinner. It would be packed with luminaries from the PR and advertising and media worlds. "Oh, Dad, you don't want me there, with lots of industry bigwigs. You'll have all those important people to talk to."
"Cassie, I want you with me every waking and sleeping moment. That's why I've taken two weeks off work to be with you. I'm not going to this event without you. I'd rather stay home this evening, or we go out for a quiet supper. But we do it together."
I kissed him. "Darling, that's all I need to hear. Whatever you do, I want to be there with you."
That was the reason I had given my WarHammer ticket to Kelli - she could sell it or give it away. I had only two weeks in New York with Dad. I didn't want to waste a minute. The concert had seemed so important when I booked the ticket, but priorities change.
So we spent the next day shopping. When you're shopping with my father, money is no object. The dress he chose for me, I couldn't count the noughts on the price tag, and I just hoped there was a decimal point in there somewhere.
