 G.C. Smith has published fiction in Northern Virginia Magazine. His novel, White Lightning, a NASCAR murder mystery, is currently with an agent. Smith once won honorable mention from Writer's Digest short story competition. His non-fiction writings in economics are extensive, and mostly published by the U.S. Department of Labor. E-mail G.C. Smith.
Little She was very little, actually tiny. Her skin was pink-tinted alabaster, her hair raven, her eyes violet. Her figure was a study in miniature perfection. Guys couldn't believe her. She could, however. She believed. Thought so well of herself she charged five hundred for an evening. Was she worth it? I went to her apartment. She called melodically through the intercom and told me the door was open and I should come in. I did. The foyer opened onto a huge living area. Window walls looked out over Manhattan across the Hudson to New Jersey. Lights sparkled like ten billion jewels in the night. Her sweet but adult voice came from another room. "Make yourself a drink. I'll be right out." I didn't want a drink. I didn't want anything that might distract me from her. I poured myself a diet tonic with a slice of lime, no alcohol. I put the five hundred on the bar and went across the room and sat on a plush leather couch. She came into the room a minute later. Her attire was a school girl's uniform, short plaid skirt and Westcott, starched cotton blouse, white cotton anklets with lace trim, and black patent leather Mary Jane's. She looked about fifteen, a tiny, young fifteen. "Hi, Daddy," she said her voice much different now, small, a young girl's voice. I was never into this little girl stuff, but I was beginning to believe that maybe she knew something about my dark side that I didn't. "Hi," I said. She picked up a remote control and pushed a button. Bubble gum rock, Spice Girls, came over tower speakers. She danced. "Noisy," I said, "turn it down." "Oh, please, Daddy. I like it." "I picked up the remote and hit the off button." "That was very mean." She came over and sat in my lap, grinding her bottom. "It's not nice being mean to your little girl," she said. "Not nice at all." She climbed off my lap. "I want a Coca-Cola," she said, pouting. "In a glass. Get me one. Now." I went to the kitchen, poured her a Coke, and brought it to her. She was sitting on the couch when I came into the room. The hem of her plaid uniform skirt was hiked up and she had pulled the crotch of her delicate cotton panties aside. As soon as she saw me she stopped, smoothed the skirt over her thighs, and smiled a little smile. She took the Coke from me making sure she raised her hand close enough for me to get a whiff of the natural womanly perfume that clung to her fingers. "Thank you, Daddy," she said. She stood and poured the cola down the bar sink. "I changed my mind. I don't want it. It's fattening," she said, pouting. "You don't mind, do you Daddy?" "Yes, I mind. You did that for spite." "You're angry." "Yes, I am." "Are you going to spank your little girl?" "I have a mind to." She came over to where I sat and turned her back to me. "I was naughty," she said. She bent forward and flipped her skirt up. She pulled the panties down around her knees, exposing herself. "Are you going to spank my pretty little bottom?" Pretty wasn't the word. Her ass was glorious. Lovely twin globes were cleft by a smooth crack, and a delicate pink bud. Her trim thighs parted slightly revealing her sex. She wiggled just a tiny bit and settled herself across my knees. "Does Daddy's little girl need a spanking?'' She asked in her tiny voice. "Yes, you do." "But, you'll hurt me, Daddy." "You were naughty." I gave her bottom a tentative slap. She wiggled, pressing against me. "I'm a good girl. Please don't hurt my pretty bottom." I slapped again, this time a little harder, a slight pink welt appeared on her buttocks. She wiggled. "Please," she whispered. I slapped her. "Ohhh. Please. Yes. Spank me harder," she said. "I was naughty." I began spanking in earnest, welts from my stinging fingers covering her ass. She wiggled harder. "Daddy's being naughty," she whispered. I slapped harder and she reached back and took my hand. She raised her ass to my fingers and pushed then upward into her wet hole. "Daddy's being very, very naughty," she whispered, pressing against my finger, driving it home. "Daddy is a very bad boy," she said, smiling. She knelt and unzipped my fly, reached in and freed my aching erection. "Bad, bad boy," she whispered, "Mmmm." "Yes, baby girl," I said, not believing my own words. Her hand pumped over my cock, bringing me to the brink of orgasm. She stopped and looked hard at my member. "It's angry," she said, and smiled her small, wicked smile. She leaned forward and took me into her mouth. I damn near exploded. She released me. She stood and stripped. Her delicate panties were matched by a cotton lace school-girl bra. I could see pronounced, hard nipples through the fine, see-through fabric. She unhooked the bra, released it, and dropped it to the floor. She stepped from her panties. Naked, she danced before me, swaying, touching her breasts, stroking herself. She stood and pressed her sex to my lips. "Do me now, Daddy. Or I'll tell Mommy what you've been doing." This was no little girl, but she had exposed a daddy-daughter fantasy I never before knew I harbored. And her threat was real. "Mommy" wasn't really a play-fantasy Mommy: "Mommy" was her best friend and my wife, Tara. I knew that she could easily tell Tara, and that my wife's wrath would come down not on her, but on me. Most likely she wouldn't tell, but I could never be sure. So, I did what she asked, but what she didn't have to know was that I'd do this without her asking, without her sexual blackmail. She straddled me laughing her naughty little girl laugh as she took me inside, but this was no little girl. "Bad boy, bad boy, bad boy," she chanted as she fucked me hard. "Daddy is a bad boy." "Ohhh, yes," she whispered, her sweet voice delighted. She quivered. "Oh yes, Daddy. Make me come and come and come." Her loveliness, her inventiveness, her threat, and her demands: all of these are what makes her so exciting. "Take a little nap," she said when it was done. "And when you wake, Daddy, when you're recovered, we'll explore some more." Is she worth the five hundred? You tell me. Copyright © 2001 G. C. Smith. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post. |