The Sweetest Sin

I didn't have time to rub the sleep out of my eyes when the handcuffs clicked. "Huh? What? What's happening?"

Handcuffs? Is this a joke?

The room was dark. It soon got darker. Someone - it had to be Dad, didn't it?

Please let it be Dad

- was dragging a hood over my head.

This is no joke. No dream.

The first thing that went through my brain was that we were being raided. Burglars. Kidnappers. Worse.

Where was Dad?!?

Then he was lifting me. "Dad? Daddy?" I asked shakily, but he didn't answer.

Strong arms lifted me out of bed. It was all happening so fast. Whoever it was was carrying me, naked, down stairs now. To the garage? My mind screamed. It

was

kidnappers. Dad was rich and successful, a high-profile figure in this nasty town. He had rivals. Was this payback for something he had done?

I needed to try to escape, before it was too late. But there is nothing as disorientating as being forcibly wrenched out of deep sleep. He was too strong for me to struggle against as he crushed me tight to him, and my cuffed hands weren't able to reach to scratch at him. With the mask over my head, I couldn't even try to bite.

We had reached the bottom of the stairs. Turn right, and we would be in the garage, where doubtless a car would be waiting, engine running. I knew no one could hear my screams down here.

But he turned left -- it was hard to tell, but it

seemed

like left. To the gym?

He set me on my feet. Now was my chance to do something - but what? I was cuffed, blindfolded, disoriented, staggering. I tried to move, but my foot hit something and I stumbled. He caught me, and before I could react, I felt myself being strapped into a harness. Straps went over my shoulder and under my butt. Leather squeaked, metal chinked. It took only seconds.

Then I was being lifted off my feet, hanging in mid-air by a rope or chain attached to the harness through a ring at my stomach.

The chain must be running through the hook in the ceiling that usually supports Dad's punching bag.

Now I was being tilted back, suspended in the harness, my body facing the ceiling and parallel to the floor, legs dangling. Taking his time now, confident that I was secure, he rolled the mask up a little so I could breathe through my mouth. He took off the cuffs and crossed my arms over my breasts. More straps. Then he folded my legs, knees tight up against my chest.

More straps. He adjusted them, tightening, always tightening. It wasn't exactly comfortable, although it didn't actually hurt, but I couldn't move. Trussed and defenceless, knees up by my chin, I swung slightly at the end of the chain. The only thing that didn't seem to be tied down was my pussy. I knew I was done up like a chicken carcass ... a chicken with an exposed gash.

He tugged on the chain and I inched into the air.

At a perfect height to be fucked

, I realized.

I was 99% per cent sure it was Dad. His male smell, his strength. And when big hands on my hips held me still and a large cock-head nudged my hole, I was certain.

There was something wrong, though - his cock felt even wider than usual. My pussy was too taut in this extreme position, with my knees folded up tight. I felt like a virgin again as he tried to press into me. I let out a yelp of pain. The mask hid the tears as I pleaded: "It's too tight. It won't fit. Daddy, I know I said you could do anything to me, but you're hurting me."

He ignored me. Despite the tightness, despite my protests, he kept pushing at my hole. Lube. We had never needed lube, not even the first time, but now I genuinely thought we needed something, or he would split me.

"Stop, you'll tear me apart. I'm stretched too tight. Daddy, if you love me..."

There was nothing I could do. I couldn't struggle, I could only dangle there while his hands held me by the hips. With a grunt and a mighty effort, he managed to cram that big cock-head into my tight, dry hole. I was sobbing now, but he took no notice. That massive cock continued its excruciating passage up me, half-inch by relentless half-inch, forcing my poor tautened pussy wider and wider.

"Daddy, it's hurting. I'm breaking. You mustn't. You're too big. It's damaging me. Make it stop, Daddy, please," I cried.

He said nothing, just kept slowly invading me. Stretching me. Hurting me. Then the last thick inch - in some ways the most agonizing -- forced its way in, and I could feel that familiar silky body hair on my ass. Somehow, despite the impossible physics of his baseball-bat cock in my shot-glass pussy, my father had managed to force himself in me to the hilt. I was impossibly, painfully full.

His hands left my body. I began to sway. He must have grasped the chain and begun rocking me back and forth through the air onto his cock. The slow rhythm as he entered and withdrew was coarse and abrasive in my tight young hole. But after a few harsh minutes, it got easier. He must have felt that I was self-lubricating because he started fucking me with increasing force, swinging me harder onto his cock, slamming it into me.

It felt ... it still hurt, but it ... somehow it felt good. It shouldn't have, but it did. I could feel his rigidity up inside me. Like a steel rod in a concrete slab: inflexible, unyielding. And with every thrust and withdrawal, my clit was being pushed into my pussy and pulled out again. My mind was angry, confused. But the message hadn't gotten through to my clit. Despite myself, something was bubbling up.

No! No, I refused to cum. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Who did he think he was, treating his only daughter like a cut of meat, to be tied up and abused? I thought he loved me, respected me. Yet here I was, bound up and completely defenceless against his fat shaft.

No way was I going to let him make me cum.

No way, no way, oh God

...

Damn

.

The fear, the shock, the position, the tension, yes, even the pain, had aroused me, and his remorseless fucking rhythm was doing the rest as he swung me back and forth, in and out, long and hard.

I couldn't arch up. I couldn't rub and grind, I didn't have his mouth on my lips and my nipples. But my vulnerability, the sensation of being bound up and fucked in air, added a new dimension, and without warning, without meaning to, I was exploding, and my love channel was flexing around his cock in those molten ripples that always make him cum too.

My God, it's so damned good. I-love-you-I-hate-you. I can feel you right up in me, all the way inside. So big, so brutal, so good. Oh God. Just keep fucking, you bastard, keep pumping. Oh, yes, that's wonderful, we're cumming. That's it, you slide into me so much easier now with all that juice.

I thought all of that, but kept it to myself.

And so we came together, a savage orgasm, neither of us uttering a word. In some ways it made it more exciting, more taboo, that we hadn't said anything, hadn't acknowledged each other's climax.

He stood there for a while, panting. Making sure the last of his sperm got their chance at me. Then without warning, he abruptly pulled out. I couldn't help crying out as his cock-head withdrew and my abused lips could relax.

But he wasn't finished with me. As I swung there, dripping cum, something else was being inserted into me.

My God. My absolute fucking God! No way.

No fucking way

can he be doing this to me.

But he was doing it. I knew immediately what it was. He know how fascinated I had been by them: one of his Japanese beer bottles. Fisherman's Wife, the brand was called.

I flinched as the tip penetrated me. He left a few seconds for me to contemplate the enormity of what he was doing, then steadily he pushed the long neck in, feeding it up where his cock had just been. Hard and refrigerator-cold in my hot hole, it went in easily at first, lubricated by his semen. And the amazing thing was, I could feel every inch of its icy length up inside my vagina.

Then, something especially unexpected on this unexpected morning: he began slowly rotating it - a completely new feeling. I was being screwed, literally

screwed

, by an ... an

object

.

I was building up, but this time, I was doubly determined not to cum, just to spite him for what he was doing to me. Tied up, being sexually assaulted with a bottle, the only control I had was over my orgasm, and I was not going to surrender that to him.

But between rotating the bottle, then fucking me gently with it, in and out, the pressure was growing, and the more I told myself not to cum -

You're being raped with a piece of recyclable garbage

- the more unstoppably turned on I grew.

Now, he twisted the bottle one final time, and I instinctively knew

exactly

what he was doing. We had spoken of it just last night.

He was positioning the bottle so that the little carving on the surface halfway down, the beer company logo, was lined up with my clit. He began fucking me short and carefully, that little carved glass logo scraping my clit, which in this position must have looked huge, poking out of its hood way beyond normal.

I knew only too well what that logo was. An octopus.

Dad had shown me the picture it was based on:

Dream of a Japanese Fisherman's Wife.

A woman is lying supine, head flung back in ecstasy, long hair flowing loose, being pleasured by two octopuses. The smaller one sits by her head, inserting its beak into her mouth. Between her legs, a huge, bulbous octopus feasts at her hairy pussy, her labia swollen and welcoming.

Tentacles entwine, roving over her body, pinning her down, fondling her clit.

It took my breath away. The draftsmanship was exquisite. Any woman looking at it could feel what the Fisherman's Wife was experiencing. In my bear picture, the sex was implied. You had to use your imagination. Here, it couldn't have been more explicit.

We had been in bed when Dad handed me the picture and then slid from view, his own mouth replicating what the big octopus was doing to the Fisherman's Wife.

I didn't know if it was art or pornography, whether the octopus is an accomplice or a predator, if the woman is being defiled or whether she's the one in charge, but the image was intensely erotic. I couldn't conceive of any woman not getting instantly turned on by the image. The thought of that alien orifice feeding between her legs, and those tentacles caressing, inserting, possessing. The image, and my father's tongue, working up inside -- like a tentacle -- then on my clit -- like a sucker - had been too much. God forgive me, but it was the Fisherman's Wife and those tentacles I was thinking of as my father's tongue did its work and I had surrendered to my inevitable octo-gasm.

Of course, art or porn, a beer company couldn't very well brand itself with the image of an octopus fucking a woman; the logo was a stylized version of the creature, although quite a good resemblance.

The carved logo, raised up slightly from the glass surface, gently grazed my clit again and again. All I could think of was the Fisherman's Wife, tentacles penetrating her. I wondered what the creature's suckers felt like on her clit and nipples, creating an endless loop of pleasure as its strong, flexible arms unfurled inside her like nothing else could. Deep, deep inside her, into unseen areas that were never made to be touched, let alone caressed and stimulated, creating unknown illicit pleasures.

Out of curiosity, I'd measured one of the bottles: it tapered out from the tip until it was nearly 10 inches around. More than three inches wide. An inch thicker than Dad. And if an inch doesn't sound much, then you don't have a 19-year-old vagina.

As any girl does when inches are involved, I had idly imagined trying to get them into me -- 10-inch circumference, three-inch diameter -- and concluded: "There's no way that can happen. No woman could take that and live."

But as the bottle widened, it was stretching me. I bit my lip.

Three inches thick. If he keeps pushing ...

But he knew my limits better than I did myself. He kept sliding it in and out, keeping it in the half-inch zone between "more please" and "too much".

Even though I was trying not to, even though I had promised not to give in, I was cumming again as Dad slowed down, letting the cold glass octopus linger teasingly on my clit, which was ready to explode. He knew. The bastard, he damn well knew what I was thinking and what I was feeling. He knew, and he knew that I knew.

The effort it took not to scream as my sex muscles flexed around a cheap imported, mass-produced piece of hollow glass. I was cumming helplessly on an inanimate object, on the image of a sea creature that was inflicting sordid pleasure against my will. I felt dirty and abused and completely satisfied.

A bottle, a fucking bottle. Who knew being hurt and defiled and dishonored would feel this good.

I must have looked how I always look when I climax. Sweating. Flushed all over. Breathing hard. I imagined his smug grin, knowing I hadn't been able to stop myself cumming a second time. But I still wouldn't give him the satisfaction of telling him.

And that's how it finished. Me -- sweaty and exhausted, my poor abused pussy sore but doubly sated -- dangling in the air at the end of a chain.

And there I hung, swinging slightly in the silence. "Daddy?" I said tentatively. "Daddy?" No movement, no sound. He had left.

My face was wet with tears

. You fucker

, I thought.

You used me for your dirty, perverted, sick

... I stopped.

Come on, Cassie. Who are you trying to kid. This is what I told him to do. "Surprise me, treat me rough".

I practically spelled out to him what to do.

If he had asked me: "Would you like me to tie you up and rape you, then assault you with a bottle?" I would've replied: "Daddy, I would love nothing more. But now you've gone and spoiled my lovely surprise!"

Every detail, right down to the beer bottle, I had been craving. The adrenaline, the shock, the fright, every aching inch of his cock in my little pussy, the forbidden feel of fridge-fresh glass on inner flesh, penetrating my most sacred parts, the sensation of the hard logo on my clit -- I had wanted it all. Needed it. I had orgasmed on a carved octopus like some sick slut.

At what point had my fear turned to arousal? At what point had the pain become pleasure? That rigid, frigid glass, exciting me, pleasing me.

"I want you to give me what I want before I know I want it." How did he know?

I had just had two of the most intense orgasms, and both times I had technically been raped. And loved it.

No daughter could have wished for more.

The first time, he had taken me brutally, exercising his right -- the right that belongs to a father alone. The second time he had brought me to my pleasure tenderly, gently, as only an experienced and loving father can. Well, as tenderly and gently as one can with a beer bottle.

Now something was moving in me. "No," I whispered. "Not yet. I still need it. No, don't ..." I clenched my pussy muscles as hard as I could, but the bottle was too heavy. It slid out of me with a long

slurching

noise and fell to the floor with a dull thud. I closed my eyes on tears of frustration. Never had I felt emptier.

Physically and emotionally wiped out, I fell asleep in mid-air, revolving gently at the end of my chain, dreaming of tentacles unfolding up inside me. Of suckers on my rosebud. Of bottles and hard, well-oiled pieces of machinery.

My last thought was: "I hope to God he filmed this."

He

had

filmed the scene in the gym, of course, and when he had returned to release me and carried me to our bed and fed me champagne and strawberries, I confirmed what I had suspected at the time. The punching bag lay on the floor and I watched him truss me up, then haul me to a fucking height. I heard my weeping and my cries of pain as, after much effort, he bullied his way into me and settled into a steady fuck that lasted 20 minutes while he held the chain and rocked me back and forwards on his cock.

Then the weird-shaped bottle being carefully inserted into me, fucking me, making me cum on its little glass octopus. And finally my moan of regret as the bottle slipped slowly out of me and landed base-down on the gym mat, wet, erect and implacably hard.

+++

And then, all too soon, it was my last day. I was on the plane tomorrow. We had lunch at his favorite restaurant, and he took me clothes shopping. He could have afforded anything, but I settled on one simple summer dress. "I'll wear this all the time I'm away, my darling, and I'll think of you."

Dad also took me on a quick tour of his company. Sort of Take Your Fuck-Child to Work Day. His employees seemed nervous meeting the boss's daughter, perhaps wondering whether he would be creating some sort of bullshit job for his brat and foisting me on them. Relax, I wanted to tell them: I am doing on-the-job training for a career as a full-time baby-maker.

He showed me his office. So this was Papa Bear's den. All very anonymous and bright and impersonal. Nothing to see here. It looked like the set of documentary about a successful executive.

Finally he beckoned me down the corridor. I thought we were heading out, but he stopped at a nondescript door, produced a key and ushered me into a dingy little room. A dim light bulb, peeling paint, an old filing cabinet, boxes of photocopier paper and office supplies stacked up against the walls.

He led me across the floor, to a desk by a big window looking out over the office. We were right opposite the water cooler and coffee maker, which stood behind a row of filing cabinets. Beyond, people sat at their computers or chatted or wandered round.

Suddenly I was hoisted in the air: Dad picked me up at the waist and placed me on the desk on all fours, facing the window.

"Dad, what the ... what are you doing? The whole office can see!"

"One-way mirror," he grinned. "Go on, try to get their attention."

I waved. No one looked up, no one waved back. Nothing. That short-haired brunette from HR might have glanced at me momentarily as she did some photocopying, but she didn't react.

"Stay right there," he ordered. "Don't move."

I heard a drawer open. Something tugged at my dress.

I looked round. He had a big pair of scissors in his hand and was cutting my dress, starting at the hem, slicing the fabric in one smooth line up my back. I felt cold steel on my skin. The scissors reached my neckline and the dress peeled away at either side. He cut it again at each shoulder, and the dress fell to the desk.

Two snips at the sides, and my panties were gone too.

I knelt there. Growing wetter and wetter.

I could hear him undressing, but still he made me wait as my nipples hardened. Finally, he cut my bra straps at the back and the shoulders, and I gasped as my breasts fell free.

I glanced down at my huge dangling boobs, aching nipples already tingling, ripe and raspberry-pink. Then I looked up through the window. I knew I was about to perform in front of an audience - and it didn't excite me any less that they couldn't see me. My odor was heavy in the air.

He bent down between my legs and I heard him sniffing me. Sniffing like an animal, like the bear in my reveries. Not touching, just inhaling my scent for several minutes. The sound of him sniffing, so close to my fuck-hole, was an excruciating turn-on. I could feel his breath on my bare mound, tantalisingly cool on my moist, sensitive lady-lips. It was more than I could take. I was squirming, silently begging him to touch me.

Finally, without warning, he ran that powerful tongue, incredibly slowly and firmly, up the entire length of my slit. I almost came from that one lick.