Hi, I’m Jennifer, and I appreciate your taking time to read about my life.

Up until the time I turned fifteen, it was a pretty ordinary life, from the standpoint of sex, anyway. I dated a lot of boys, had my share of romantic entanglements, and had more than my share of sex. I loved sex, and really couldn’t get enough. It wasn’t out of control or anything — far from it: I was always in control. Always. And I liked being the one in control. I loved it, in fact, right from the time I became sexual at age eleven.

The problem was, as the problem always is, I was dating boys. And none of them knew shit about sex. Oh, they were exceptionally gifted at taking care of their own sexual needs, but none of them had any ability to take care of a young girl’s needs, nor did any of them care about figuring it out. My girlfriends and I all hated them, and we ragged on them all the time. At school, at the mall, at parties, at church, on line, on the phone. Never to their faces, of course, for fear of inuring their fragile little egos and rendering them totally unable to provide us with any pleasure, or unwilling to take us out and take us shopping and buy us things. Boys had their uses, but not many, and not the important kinds that the bodies of young girls need.

Starting around fourteen, give or take, my group of girlfriends began discovering the pleasures of older men. Not college boys: they’re even worse than the younger ones. They really think highly of themselves, and they have bigger egos and a more grandiose sense of sexual entitlement, but not much bigger dicks and not much bigger brains than the high school boys. And, worst of all, they don’t have much more money: they all live off of daddy’s money, and so they aren’t much more of a prize than the high-schoolers my girlfriends and I had started dating in late elementary school and middle school. So, what’s a fourteen- or fifteen-year-old girl to do? I can see you’re already ahead of me here. Yes, we skipped the college-age boys altogether and we started dating the daddies.

The “we” I use here is the royal “we”, or the collective “we”: my girlfriends started dating mature men all at once, and went crazy for them. I was, it seems odd to say now, afraid. I was afraid of getting hurt, both physically and emotionally, afraid of getting raped, and even though I grew up in what we like to call an “enlightened” age, the word “homewrecker” still has some toxicity to it, and I don’t like ugly scenes, and I was afraid of wrecking homes. So I held back, and I lived my sex-life for that time vicariously, through my girlfriends, listening to them talk about their men, and how much their men had spent on them. One got diamonds for her fifteenth birthday, one got a full-length fur for Christmas, one got taken on a cruise by her man on Valentine’s Day weekend, and one got a car . . . just because, even though she wasn’t old enough to have a driver’s license! And they were all getting fucked like bunnies and going absolutely CRAZY for it. And what did I get? Jealous.

On my fifteenth birthday, I had a date with Bennett, my “boyfriend” from school. I was a freshman and he was a senior, so he had a car and we went to a nice restaurant, and then to a bar (we both had fake IDs: you know that story). We stayed out late, and we did the dirty for awhile (to the limited extent that Bennett knew how to do the dirty) at the apartment of his older brother (I even let them take turns on me, and STILL wasn’t satisfied). Can you see where this is headed? That’s right: destination, disappointment. I was fifteen years old! It was an incredibly important birthday, and I was already old, by all sexual standards. And I was getting inferior sex, and I was depressed about it, but still fearful of hooking up with older guys like my girls were doing.

Bennett dropped me off at home, absolutely certain that he had made my birthday super special, and having no clue how sad and unloved and unsatisfied and unhappy I was. Again: high school boys are just so totally clueless, and are of no use to young girls. None. Okay, you get the message: I’ll stopping bitching.

He left me at the curb so no one would hear a car coming up the driveway, and I snuck around to the backdoor of the house; two a.m., maybe two-thirty. More than three hours past curfew, and I figured my parents were sitting up in the family room, loaded for bear, and ready to fight. And I was not ready to fight. I was ready to cry, because my fifteenth birthday had been a Disaster, yes, with a capital “D”.

I eased open the door, and saw instantly that the entire house was dark. A lucky break, I thought: everyone’s asleep. I entered, closed the door quietly behind me, and tip-toed through the kitchen, toward the hall leading to the bedrooms. As I made the turn, certain that my passage was entirely unnoted and inaudible, I heard, from the family room, “What makes you think you can come home anytime you choose, young lady?” It was my dad, sitting in the dark. Immediately, I was struck dumb, not having realized he was there, and knowing that it was a bad sign my mother wasn’t up: her, I knew how to work, and her, I could bullshit and easily get away with it. My dad was the strict one, and a highly successful businessman who could detect bullshit even before it’s put on display for him. I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing, sure that my horrible night was about to get a LOT worse.

“Jennifer, you know this isn’t acceptable. And you know there’s going to be a price to pay for this.” My dad’s punishments were never of the “mild” variety, and unlike my mother, they always lasted for at least the length of time he said they’d last. My mom’s were, well, “negotiable” is the best way to put it: you suffered for a day, then you whined, and she relented. Not so, my dad.

I stood there, on the verge of tears, the physical dissatisfaction of Bennett still lingering in my nether regions, the ache of the unmet need still pinging the surface, looking for targets to attack, and the shock of my in-the-dark discovery still resonating through me attached to the fear of the certain punishment to come. Images flashed through my mind at warp speed, but they were too vague to grasp. I was beginning to feel faint. I couldn’t think. I’d had too much to drink earlier, but I wasn’t still totally drunk at this point, because Bennett had taken me and “fucked” me for awhile after we left the bar, so the alcohol had dissipated a bit. I was depressed, and I was scared, and I was confused, and somewhere in a dark corner of my mind, I knew I was extremely horny. And then in a flash, a phrase came to me, unexplained: “mercy of the court”.

With that impulse, and without thinking through even the first step of a plan, I launched myself — all five-foot-nothing, ninety-three pounds of myself — into my father’s lap.

And I immediately turned on the tears.

I have always had the ability to cry on demand. Not just tear-up, or sob: no. I can weep. Bawl. To the point of being unable to breathe evenly. And no one, not even my father, can tell whether or not I’m faking. I have always been a very, very convincing crier. And it has gotten me out of more trouble than I can tell you. You know the argument about nature versus nurture? My crying is all nature: I was born with it.

My dad didn’t see any of this coming and he didn’t react quickly enough to block me from reaching his lap, and so there I landed. Crying and crying and crying, cry-talking my way through a cooked-up explanation about a fight with Bennett (that didn’t happen), and about being around his drunk friends (which, naturally, included me, though I refrained from sharing that tidbit). And then, I tried to incorporate at least a little truth, about how my girlfriends had all abandoned me, and about me being so lonely, so very, very lonely, and I could sense this new information, the pseudo-truthful one, was getting through to him. How did I know this? Because he was listening, and not yelling. I was finding some footing. Maybe what they say about the truth setting you free is, well, true.

It is at this specific point that the arc of my life changed. Not only was my father listening to my plight that night, but something else was happening. Something that I’d felt in the back seats of cars, in the bedrooms of dozens of young boys when their parents weren’t home or thought we were studying, and pressed up against me on a hundred dance-floors. My father — my strict, Catholic, businessman father — was getting an erection. And the more I talked about my loneliness, my piss-poor boyfriend, my girlfriends leaving me behind to date older men, married men, the harder and the harder and the harder my father got. I started pouring on the heated facts related to me by my girlfriends about the joys of sex between a mature man and a teenaged girl, though I gave it a holier-than-they slant. That really flipped his switches. If it hadn’t been so arousing to realize what was happening just under me, it would have been uncomfortable to sit with that . . . thing . . . poking up against me.

He tried to shift me, and then him, so that it wasn’t obvious what was happening down there, between our bodies, but it was to no avail. He was getting harder, and bigger, and hotter, and it was getting clearer that he wanted me. Had I been drunker, I might well have just opened myself to him, and let him have his way. God knows, I wanted a good fucking from someone who knew how. And God knows, I needed a good fucking for a change.

He finally shifted himself again, and he did it in such a way that I was able to wedge my right hip down between his thighs, pressing his legs outward and against the armrests of his recliner. I made it seem like he’d pushed me into that position, but I saw the opportunity to stop him from moving and get myself closer to him and so I took it. He stopped moving, with the length of his shaft pressed along the outside of my upper leg, separated only by his terry-cloth robe and my skirt, both of us knowing that desire was filling the room, and that propriety, convention and decorum were being squeezed out.

When my dad wears his robe in the family room, about seven times out of ten he’s got nothing on under it: no shorts, no undies, no nothing. It’s a big robe, and he wraps it in such a way that none of the goods get exposed, but my mother and all the kids know he’s usually going commando underneath. Given the hour, I figured he had nothing under the robe. And I knew I had nothing under my skirt — I hadn’t yet started wearing underwear, upstairs or downstairs, if you get my drift, because I was quite small and didn’t need a bra (much to my teenaged chagrin) and couldn’t stand panties or even thongs — so there was no clothing to remove, if we ventured out into the rapids of passion: we only had to rearrange.

Thinking quickly and moving without a word or a warning, I pivoted my ass on his lap, twisted my torso clockwise so that I was facing him in the chair, swung my right leg over his head and raised my left leg up off the armrest. As a part of the same motion, I lifted my butt up and did two things simultaneously: hiked my skirt to my waist and pulled open my dad’s robe. I then dropped my ass and planted my feet on the chairback of the recliner, one on either side of his shoulders, and slammed the chair as far open as it would go, so that my father was laying almost prone, head back and feet up, and I was seated virtually on top of him.

My sex was wide open within three inches of his now-fully-erect cock. With nothing between us, except pure animal lust.

And I was sopping wet.

It took Daddy a few seconds to absorb what had happened, it having happened so fast. And by the time he’d absorbed it, his gaze was transfixed on my pussy and its proximity to his manhood. He was ready. I was ready. Neither of us seemed interested in discussing the relative merits of the father-daughter physical relationship, or debating the advisability of incestuous sex, or considering the future family dynamic, and so we said nothing. I was looking at him, and he was looking at my twat.

I knew he wanted “in”: his cock was screaming that word at my vulva, repeatedly. His cock was also twitching — beautifully, I have to tell you — in anticipation, and he was ready to go. I, on the other hand, started to think. No, not wondering about whether I should fuck my own father, or start an affair within the family, or allow my mother to be cheated on between my legs. No. I thought of ALL of that, but I was excited by it, not worried about it in the least. Suddenly, for reasons I will never understand, but which came shape my entire life, my father’s words came back to me: “You know there’s going to be a price to be paid for this.”
I had bargaining power. My father’s manhood was attempting to achieve separation from his body and enter my inner space. He’d lost control over his cock, his body, and his mind, wanting me so, so, so badly, and that had given ME the control. I loved it. As I told you before, I have, from my earliest sexual experiences, loved being in control of my partner.

I slid myself back about three more inches away from my father’s cock, eliciting both a groan from his throat and an effort to slide himself and his meat back toward my hole, an effort I parried by pressing my knees together against his body, pinning him to the recliner, but still affording him an unimpeded view of my arousal-scented sex: I could smell myself lathering, so I knew he could smell it.

My mind was racing through the possibilities of this new power, eliminating some as too feeble, others as too bold. Arriving at what I thought was an acceptable middle ground, I skipped the preamble, and went right to the constitution. “Daddy”, I began, “things are about to change around here, and you have to agree before we go any further.” He nodded, without taking his eyes from my glistening, pungent, young labia. He knew what that a coup was underway, but he didn’t care.

“First, there’ll be no punishment for tonight”, I said, and he nodded at once, still transfixed by the sight of his daughter’s slimy baby-hole barely two feet from his face and six inches from his blood-engorged dick, “or for any other night I decide to come in late”. “And”, I paused, while thinking of my girlfriends and their male lovers and their gifts, “whenever I want to go shopping, you’ll either take me yourself, or you’ll give me your Platinum Card, and you won’t ever say no.” He said nothing, still looking at the promised land.

“Do you want me?”, I asked. He nodded rapidly, eagerly, hungrily. I said, “Do you want me now?”, which brought precisely the same response. I cupped my hand under his chin and raised his face to mine: “Do we have an agreement?” It was then that I could see it: his eyes were teary. Teary and pleading. I hadn’t been able to see that before because the room was dark, but in the light drifting in from the streetlamps, I could now see he was in anguish about what he wanted to do to his daughter, what he already was doing to her, knowing it was wrong, but completely and utterly incapable of extracting himself from the situation because he wanted it so badly and, by this point, simply had to have it. For a very, very, very brief second, I felt bad about taking advantage of my own father’s rampaging desire, but I needed a good fucking, and I wanted him to give it to me so I wouldn’t have to wait or run the risks that my girlfriends were running with older men every day, and I felt a thrill that I’d never felt before, knowing that I could benefit in other ways by having this illicit relationship. Then that second passed, and I asked again, looking deep into his eyes: “Dad, do we have an agreement?”

As if hoping for enlightenment or divine intervention or reassurance or something, he glanced back at the filthy, lewd beaver that was continuing to blossom and moisten before him, paused, and nodded. “Say it”, I told him, “out loud”. He hesitated. It was just for a second, but that second was a second longer than I was willing to give. I slapped him. Hard, across the face. “SAY IT!”, I screamed, at a volume that I knew would worry him about Mom possibly hearing and being drawn to the family room to see what was wrong.

“We have an agreement, we have an agreement, dear God, we have a fucking agreement”, he said, as if begging.

To which I replied by snapping my knees wide apart, thrusting my pelvic bone downward and taking my father’s cock all the way up and into me in one powerful push. It was by far the biggest cock I’d had, at that point in my life, and it was far and away the best. The head was amazingly large and stretched out my insides in a way I had never experienced. Finally! Finally, I had a cock like I wanted, and it was in a safe environment, and I knew I could go back and get it again any time I wanted. And I was in control of everything. Yes, I was in total control of every-fucking-thing.

As soon as I’d engulfed his dick, he bucked once in his hips, pressed his dickhead up against the entry to my womb . . . and came. It was a stream of semen of a size and force very much like a kinked garden hose that suddenly comes unkinked: he exploded in me and then he kept cumming and cumming and cumming and cumming and cumming. I thought I’d been completely filled with cock, but the force of the repeated blasts seemed to expand me somehow, and I just kept taking on the semen, with all that meat still pulsing inside me, until he’d spent himself and emptied his sac. Eventually, small portions of his juice began to ooze out of me and puddle on the recliner seat, but I scooped all that up with my fingertips and licked it. All of it. While he watched. The rest of the cum stayed inside me. And it, and my father, thus became a part of my body.

I wish I could tell you it was a love experience we had that night, but it was a fulfillment of need more than anything. I needed safe, loving sex, and I needed — though I couldn’t have expressed this that night — to control my father by using my sexuality. I got both things, and I was happy for that. Over the next six months, we developed and deepened our relationship, surreptitiously of course, so as not to hurt my mother or my siblings, and I always got “things” for it, learning how to prance provocatively around the house nearly naked, with my long thick nipples (perched on my disappointingly small breasts) tenting out on my camisoles and teddies and tees, demanding and getting my <ahem> “allowance”. Whether those were rewards or blackmail, or a married lover’s gifts to his mistress, or just the expressions of certain very special feelings by a father for his daughter, I’ll leave for others to ponder and to decide for themselves.

After that six months, I began expanding those powers and abilities beyond our home: to school, to work, and beyond. I remained involved with my father — how could I not? I had the phrase “Daddy’s Little Girl” tattooed in large letters in a band around my right upper thigh (the one I swung across his head that first night before I impaled myself on him: I picked that one on purpose) — but I applied my increasing knowledge and skills to other men. And women.

You could call me bad names for this, for these things I do and expect a return for: I’ve been called ALL those names, and I reject each one. Why? Everybody pays. In one way or another, we are all involved in some kind of transaction, some kind of quid pro quo, whether or not it involves sex. I just recognize the reality of the world and put its facts of life into practice. Whether it’s a matter of Dad paying the price, or other people paying the price, for the privilege of being with me, seeing me, talking to me, traveling with me, dating me, flinging with me, or loving me, everybody pays. Everybody.