Page 7 of Daddy’s Naughty Little Lesson

“You had damn well better be.”

He slides my thong off, and it takes everything in me to stifle the sound that wants to rise from the back of my throat, deep and desperate. The tip of one of his fingers traces lightly over my wet pussy, and I have to press my lips tight together and tip my head back, staring up at the ceiling, so I don’t see what he’s doing. I’m going to be quiet. I won’t make a sound.

When his finger dips inside me, I manage to keep myself quiet. When it slides up and down the slick inside of my pussy, I do nothing more than draw a slow breath through my nose and then let it slowly out in a sigh as he pulls his fingers away again. I don’t see him because I’ve closed my eyes, but I hear his trousers unzip and the soft, rustling sound of his pants dropping. Still, he makes me wait.

With my eyes still closed, one of his fingers touches lightly against my lips and then presses past them into my mouth, and I suddenly taste myself on his skin, salty and sweet and somehow familiar. My mouth waters around his finger, and when he pulls his hand away, it’s almost enough to distract me, as the tip of his cock finally presses between my legs and then inside me.

I don’t make a sound. I almost do, I almost forget that I’m supposed to be silent, and I almost let the feeling of pleasure and reward burst out of the back of my throat, but I catch myself and just gasp instead.

“That’s my baby. Good girl,” he says again, and I just about cum right then and there.

I’ve been fucked before. Plenty of times, I haven’t been a virgin since I was seventeen. But something about this is different. He moves inside me like he completes me somehow, and with each stroke of his cock I feel like I fall deeper within myself, down into a truth of my nature that I haven’t known before now. I want this. I want nothing but this.

It’s almost cruel, the way he brings me closer and closer to climax, the shaft of his cock moving just so against my clit, and me not able to make any noise about it. He fucks me in the same silence, leaning over the desk with his hands braced on either side of me, and though I hear him grunt softly once or twice, I get the feeling that the silence is part of it, and before I realize it, my own starts to slip. My clit swells against the assault, nerve endings firing faster than I can feel, and despite everything, one of the breaths I try to let out softly turns into a throaty moan.

His hand leaves the desk just long enough to slap me, once, sharply across the face. It’s at that moment that all sense of consequence fails me, and my body completes the betrayal; as my hips thrust upward, the angle of his stroke changes slightly, and I cum hard around his cock, squirting wet and warm. A moment later, I feel him tense, stifling a groan of his own, and then his orgasm fills me, and I lapse once again into breathless silence.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Epilogue

A year later finds I’m back in Oxford, where I belong, and where she’s slowly being tailored to fit in.

I sit in a leather armchair in a private salon off the high street. Meghan is having her measurements taken for her fall wardrobe in the dressing room, a sensible suite of skirts, blouses, and cardigans against the autumnal chill. I’ve taken a position at the college here, and she spends her days happily at home, waiting for me to return. We are not father and daughter, but no one who sees us about our daily routine would know it.

“Daddy?”

Her voice hasn’t lost its American accent, but I’ve worn away the worst of the brashness, the tarnish of the colonies brought sharply to heel. The tone of it has grown higher, more girlish, and she steps lightly out of the dressing room, in a tweed skirt and pale blue blouse, both pinned to her measurements by the tailor who’ll be cutting them to her measurements.

“My darling,” I say, generous now with my affection and approval, as she’s come so far and flourished so brilliantly with my careful guidance and care. “How lovely you look.”

She beams, flushing prettily, as her hands clasp the front of her skirt, and she spins slowly on the spot, seeking further praise. “Do you like it?” she asks, coquettish.

“It’s perfection, my dear. Very suitable.”

“I do, too. I think—oh! Ah, ow!”

She’s pricked one of her fingers on the pins and cries out softly as blood beads on her fingertip, one hand clasping the other. There’s a brief tremble of her lower lip, and I rise to my feet, already pulling my handkerchief from my pocket.

“There now, sweet girl, do be careful.” I wrap the cloth around her finger and then wrap my hand around hers. “I hate to see you hurt.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she apologizes and leans against me as I give her a brief hug and a gentle kiss on the forehead.

“Never mind about it. Change back into your clothes, and we’ll go home. My friend Bertie has sent me a beautifully bound volume of Gower that I want to read to you.”

Unlike a year ago, when a coarse, objectionable little whore would’ve cringed at this prospect, who would’ve found it boring instead of beautiful, dull instead of deep. I’ve fixed that now, and my sweet little girl gasps with delight and pleasure and scampers back into the changing room.

I fold my handkerchief, still stained with her blood, back into my breast pocket. My hand pats it twice, lightly, where it’s been returned for safekeeping.