Jewel Breckenridge - Daddy_s little girls

She was steady and trustworthy and, unlike Ellen, was allowed to date freely, had in fact been doing so since Ellen's age. God, he wished she would spread her long shapely legs a bit more – she was sprawled back down on the rock and he could see the long narrow indentation of her cuntal slit where the black swim suit fitted snugly over the intriguing mystery of her covered mound. He put himself mentally into the scene; he was on top of her with his fingers creeping up inside the tight elastic leg band of her suit; he was teasing her softly curling pubic hair; he was separating the hot wet lips of her pussy and he was calling out to her: "Louise! Louise! Louise!"

Holy Christ, this he had not imagined – he had actually called out! She lifted her knee in surprise, giving a beautiful view of her large rounded buttocks peeking tantalizingly out of her suit, and then she came to her feet. She dived off the rock and then surfaced – head, arms, and firmly rounded buttocks – swimming towards him while his younger daughter Ellen and his wife on the blue blanket next to him paid no attention. Now she was on the beach walking towards him – dark, mysterious, jiggling succulently, dripping wet, her ripe voluptuous breasts swaying from side to side as she moved. She came up beside him and kneeled down at his side on the blanket, an innocent, inquiring look, on her cleanly sculpted face, Roger's eyes riveting guiltily on her fully hanging breasts, and the outline of her nipples while he counted, out of the corner of his eye, the wisps of soft black pubic hair curling from under the leg bands of her suit as she kneeled: one, two, three, four, five. Good God, how would he ever get himself out of this?

"Yes, Dad? What did you want? Is it time to go?"

"No, Louise. No, darling, I think we can stay awhile longer. At least if Ellen doesn't burn, if she has her sun-tan lotion on. She has very light skin you know."

"I know," Louise said.

"Her skin isn't dark like yours," he said forcibly shifting his eyes to the ocean. God, this was ridiculous. Why couldn't he think of something intelligent to say!

"I know," she said in a ripple of laughter. She paused. "I think Ellen's all right. She's got lotion on – in fact she's all greasy with it."

Roger swallowed audibly. Louise's provocatively hovering body was coming back into range of his eyes no matter how hard he tried to stare at the ocean. "The reason I called you, Louise, was just to say don't hurt each other out there on the rock. It's sharp, you could cut your… your skin. Don't be too rough."

"Okay, Dad. We'll be careful. Don't worry!" She smiled and left. Her attitude towards him had been maternal, consoling.

Roger glanced at his wife, relieved to find that she was reading a magazine and had paid no attention to the conversation. No one suspected anything, but Christ was it a close call! And now he was staring at Louise's full firm buttocks swinging invitingly left, right, left, in the bottom of the bathing suit as she walked away. God how he could knead those enticingly round ass-cheeks, jiggle them as they were jiggling now, clamp a firm grip on them one in each hand. If he could only stop this train of thought!

He lay flat on his back and watched the gulls, wondering how he had gotten himself into this. If only he hadn't weakened and lecherously pounded the hole in the wall that one time. And wait a minute – Louise's bedroom was on the other side of his study – he would only need to – no, stop, stop, stop!

Forty-one years old, he thought, forty-one years old and horny enough to ogle his own adolescent daughters. Yet he was in fact a responsible man, a good father until now, a sort of model in his community. When the neighbors had something they wanted done, they often came to Roger Johnston. His very manner, and his presence, incited respect and calm. And he was handsome, with a strong, athletically profiled face and a physique sturdy as that of a football lineman, though he was – he had to admit – putting on too much weight. He was anything the picture his friends and associates would have – or that he himself would have – of a desire of young teenage girls.

Still, after all, every man looked at women, even if they were his aunts, his mother, his daughters. It was only human – you had to notice when a tight little cunt like Louise's wagged before you on the beach. The important thing was not to let such thoughts cross into action; that line, above all, was firmly drawn and he would under no circumstances cross it, he vowed. Do not cross the line into action, he repeated to himself.

Louise, thank God, was out of the water again and now lying next to his wife on the same blanket reading the same magazine. Ellen too was gone from the rock, though he couldn't see where – probably she had gone for a walk. He felt better now, more braced up now than he'd realized that the important thing was in keeping his occasional thoughts, which might crudely be termed incestuous, only in the realm of thought and not in that of action.

Roger got up, pulled his stomach in as was automatic when he was on the beach, and strode proudly to the water. He plunged directly in and began pulling with swift, practiced strokes out into the ocean, and it felt good, the honest physical integrity of his still powerful muscles drawing him deftly through the deep water. He reached the rock, paused to tread water for a moment, and then took a dive straight to the bottom, about fifteen feet deep here. Interesting, he thought, the underwater world of plants waving in the current of bright-colored little crustaceans, of pressure, of bubbles. Next time he would bring his scuba outfit. Yes, he was all right now and he would put this whole business with his daughters into the past where it belonged. He blew out the last of his air and rose to the surface, taking in a full breath.

And he nearly choked on it.

Framed in the beach house – in the open side visible only from the water – was thirteen-year-old Ellen shamelessly removing the top of her tight bikini bathing suit. Not just removing, but tearing it off, and then twirling and discarding it over her shoulder, and then jiggling her firm naked breasts erotically side to side in a wild obscene gyration as she had when her boy friend Mark massaged them. Moreover – the biggest horror – she seemed to be looking Roger brazenly straight in the eye, though he was to far away to be sure, kneading her breasts, pulling the small pink tantalizing nipples out, tweaking them into excited erection. She cupped her nakedly white breasts from below, and began slowly, hauntingly, jiggling them. Her agonized father wanted to swim farther out to avoid this lust-arousing sight, yet he felt a compelling hardness in his swim trunks beneath the water and he had to keep watching if only to see what would follow.

Then turning her back to him, Ellen placed her hands on her curving hips, and slowly rolled the bikini panties of her swim suit down over her firm buttocks and then down her tapered young legs to her ankles. Stepping out of them, she picked up the trunks and sniffed lewdly at the loins as though it were exotic perfume. Where had she picked up this sort of thing, where had she learned it? She had certainly been doing some research.

Now she turned to face him again, put her arms up in the air, and stretched languidly. She bent backwards slightly, legs apart, massaging her invitingly curved legs upward from her knees to her well-rounded thighs, and – he was sure now that he had floated closer with the waves – looking him dead in the eye. She massaged her blonde, sparsely growing pubic hair and, bending her lithe golden body still farther back, with both hands spread the lips of her hair-lined cunt wide apart until he could see the moist pink cuntal flesh flashing between her parted thighs. Then – good God! She slowly, teasingly, wormed her own extended middle finger in, worked it way up inside the soft moist opening and began stroking in and out, flattening the palm of her hand against the hair of her pussy with each in-stroke. Her finger was wet and her excited cuntal secretions were flowing lustfully all over her inner thighs, as she finger-fucked herself harder and harder, twisting it and increasing it to the hungering pitch of five or six passion-incited strokes a second. She was being much more brutal to herself than Mark had ever been in the garage, almost as though she enjoyed masochistically punishing herself.