Ann Griffin - Skin summer

When her mother found the violated pie, she did not require much time to discover the culprit. It was decided that her father would have to spank her with the hairbrush. It was the first time for her. She had seen – or, rather heard – her now dead siblings receiving it in time's past, had listened to the sharp slap of wood on flesh when her brother Peto had trespassed. She was frightened, but it was a trait of hers not to even seem cowardly. When her father led her into her parent's bedroom and closed the door, she did not snivel.

She wanted to.

How she wanted to!

Her father instructed her to lie across his knees while he sat on the bed. He was a big man, with arms like cords of wood, hands so large that one of them could completely conceal her tiny face. He held the standard hairbrush in one of those hands now, and waited for her to comply. She crawled up and stretched out, gritting her little, sharp teeth and waiting for the first explosion of pain.

Her father pulled up the dress she was wearing, rolled her cotton underpants down to her knees. She was surprised at this, for she had not known it was to be a bare spanking. She was confused and a little embarrassed.

Then the hairbrush bit into her flesh, and she had no room for embarrassment.

Only pain.

Crack!

Again and again, he slammed the wood home until she could no longer control herself, stoic though she was. She burst into tears and wailed loudly with the childish hope she could stir some sympathy in him. But she did not achieve that goal, of course. After a dozen more whacks, he finally did stop. There was a pause while she waited to see if there was more. Then she felt his big hands on her plump little behind. At first, she did not understand that this was not part of the punishment. But it felt good, soothed some of the pain, and she quieted while he massaged her cute flesh.

His fingers slid down between her ass cheeks, down the smooth crack of the fatty lips of her little sex. One finger entered the edges of it, and she felt a slow, pleasant tingling. He worked the finger until she was dizzy.

When he withdrew it, she put a hand back and pressed his fingers to the wetness again.

He tickled her more.

Then, there was a knock at the bedroom door, her mother. Her father pushed her off his lap, and she fell to the floor just as her mother came in. Her father lectured her severely, as did her mother. She knew, innately, that it was not wise to mention what he had done, where he had touched her – though she did not fully understand his actions. She thought about it that night and found she could achieve much the same feeling he had given her by using her own little finger on her second set of lips.

That night, two weeks before her eighth birthday, lying alone in the darkness of her tiny, stuffy bedroom, she experienced her first orgasm, though it was on a mild order compared to that a full grown woman could experience.

Still, it was a turning point in her life.

She fell asleep with her hand between her legs…

Two days later, on a Monday, after school, she was alone in the apartment again. Peto had gone out to meet friends, and her mother and father were downstairs in the store. She was reading, in the shadowy living room, when her father came in. He stood in the archway between the living room and kitchen, watching her. She asked him how the business was in the store. He did not answer her, but stood, staring intently, until she felt distinctly uncomfortable.

At last, he said, "Come here." He went to a chair, sat, waiting for her.

She knew better than to ask why or to refuse. She got up, put her book down, and went to him. He put his hands on her chest, but finding no breasts, he moved them to her bare legs. "Have any boys touched you here?" he asked her, moving a hand to the crotch of her panties.

"Only you!" she said.

He slapped her. She stumbled, fell onto the floor on her rump.

"You tell no one that!" he snarled. "If anyone asks, I have never touched you. You say nothing. You hear me? Hear me?"

"Yes," she said, holding her cheek where his hand had left a crimson stinging imprint.

"Stand up," he said.

She stood up.

"Come here."

She walked to him.

He put his hands on her legs again, caressed her small thighs. His fingers found the elastic of her cotton panties, and he pulled them down, made her step out of them. He unbuttoned the front of her dress, baring her. She had no breasts, and her gentle mound of venus was hairless. Still, he worked a finger into her tiny slit, watching her face.

She closed her eyes and clung to his shoulders while he fingered her. She shuddered and whimpered and bit at her lips.

He seemed to grow more excited. He came out of the chair and onto the floor with her. He kept his finger in her child's cunny, but used his free hand to take out his dark prick. It was bursting with the blood of his desire. "Touch it," he said.

She didn't mind. It was the first she had ever seen. She had thought men were like women down there. When she took it, it started like a frightened rabbit in her hands.

He took his hand out of her, dropped his pants and shorts to his ankles, and pushed her face down into his crotch. Without being told, she kissed his organ. When he shoved it at her, she managed to get the head in her mouth.

He directed her to lick it.

When she did, he spouted his cream against the side of her face, a great, gushing explosion of it. When he was finished, and she was curiously wiping the jelly stuff off her, he pushed her down and used the tip of his tongue to make her come.

After that, he avoided her for two months. She had enjoyed herself, and she wanted to make him spout again, have his tongue in her. But she knew she dared not broach the subject. Finally, he came to her again, and they had sex again. After that, he made love to her on an average of once every month for the next two years. It was gentle sex. Chiefly, he wanted to gratify his own lust – but he incidentally gratified her as well. He seemed to have no guilt whatsoever at having sex with his own little daughter. Later, she would find that he was not the sort of man to worry much about what was right or wrong. Statistics would have told her that eighty percent of all sex crimes are committed by immediate relatives; thus, she was no exception.

She was halfway to her eleventh birthday. Her breasts had now begun to bud slightly, though they were almost totally nipples. There were a few strands of dark hairs around the lips of her love box. She was proud of these things and hoped they made her father more happy with her body.

The trouble came on a Saturday, the same day it had started years ago…

She was naked in her room with her father. She was able to get more of his large organ into her mouth, and she had begun to milk and swallow what he gave her. He was stretched out, filling her bed, and she was between his hairy legs, hands on his massive thighs, his organ between her lips. He was grumbling as he always did just before ejaculation, and she was preparing herself for his liquid. Abruptly, her brother called her name and thrust open the bedroom door, back long before he should have been.

He stood in the doorway, mouth hanging open.

Her father tried to rise, but he only succeeded in driving his loaded prick further into Jenny's throat, as she had not let go of it.

Her brother smiled, recovered now. "Go on, sis," he said mockingly. "Eat him. I'll wait."

She had never known that what they did was considered wrong by some people. She had known that she was not to talk of it, but she had not necessarily made any connection between oral sex and other's judgment of evil. She saw nothing wrong with continuing to suck her father.

The old man moaned, tried to pull away. She took his actions for lunges, and doubled her sucking frenzy.