How Daddy’s Devil-Boy Became Daddy’s Little Girl

Me & my (still pre-op) gal have a wonderful life together, and when she saw a forum post by lustiges, she decided to write XNXX describing her own story. She used my account to post it in the forums. She makes me damn horny and I bet she makes you guys horny too. She says that if you want to just skip to the actual sex, you should skip to part 3 or part 4 below, but I think you might be confused if you don’t start from part 1. Here’s hoping she gets you as horny as she gets me!

How Daddy’s Devil-Boy Became Daddy’s Little Girl
– – 1 – –
Daddy was a rich stockbroker — tall, handsome, with short black hair offsetting his bright blue eyes, sort of skinny-but-fit as some nerds are — but he was a little too nerdy and quiet and not confident enough to pick up women. So when he met Mom, he was grateful just to have a woman who didn’t make demands on him, didn’t get offended when he accidentally misspoke. Mom was a no-drama kind of gal, and she built up his confidence for three months.

They had a ton of sex, and she said she was on the pill, but I guess she wasn’t being very regular about it, ’cause she got knocked up with me. When she found out, they talked it over and decided they’d get married. I sometimes look at her wedding photos: at six months pregnant, she’s got a noticeable bulge, but it’s not the absolute huge tummy that women develop in that last trimester. She still looked good in her beautiful white dress. I’m a redhead, and I definitely got that from Mom, though she was covered in freckles — I never got many, myself.

Mom was in it for the money.

I don’t know how much she got out with, but it was at least hundreds of thousands, when the divorce finally went through. To her, I was just a tool to get married, so she left me behind. Don’t cry for me — I got over it long ago, and she wasn’t all bad. I’ve talked with Daddy a lot about it, and Daddy says that she made him a lot more confident after that — brought out a lot of positive things in him. It’s just that after Mom, Daddy had trouble trusting women, is all. And Daddy had to raise me all by himself. It wasn’t so bad for him — stock trading companies don’t need to deal with customers anymore, so he found a cozy work-at-home job with his firm — figuring out new prediction formulas, scouring the news for possible leads on the Next Big Thing, stuff like that. So he always had time for me. I was very well-loved, and I didn’t really miss Mom much — didn’t really get to know her.

I took my loving father for granted as I got older, though. I was greedy, wanting all of his attention — I must have gotten that from Mom. It wasn’t enough that he always listened, that he took me on hikes to teach me delightful science, that he read me a story every night and kissed my forehead as I drifted to sleep. By the time I was eleven, I was actively trying to anger him, to get even more attention. It wasn’t that I was attention-starved, mind you — just that I was greedy. He was loving, but he wasn’t gentle — he would spank me and send me to my room without dinner, and I still kept trying to irritate him. Originally, it started with small things, to which he just said “Don’t be a bitch,” but the more Daddy punished me, the worse I became. That word — bitch — contained all of Daddy’s bad feelings about Mom. It was someone who was being evil, greedy, demonic. I was a little devil child. I threw food, made messes, screamed, anything.

I still remember that it was the summer of ’96 when it came to a crisis — when one day, Daddy came home from buying groceries, only to find me, with my crayons, scribbling over the entire living room wall — the biggest I had ever gone with my evil things. He grabbed me with one arm — I beat at that big, strong, arm, but there was no escaping its grip — and then he sat down on the couch, pushed me onto my tummy on his knees, and pulled down my pants — a position I was all too familiar with. SLAP! — and tears budded in my eyes, but I kept myself from crying. SLAP! another. And then another, and then another, and then another. Finally, he pulled my pants back up, stood me in front of him, and holding me by the shoulders, stared me straight in the eyes. “How long are you gonna be a bitch for?” he asked.

I spat in his face and, the moment he took his hand off my shoulder to wipe it off, I kicked him in the shins. I ran back over to the wall and started covering it with even more crayon coloring. But before I could do much more damage, I was unexpectedly pushed into the wall — Daddy had thrown a couch cushion at me — and bounced off of it, landing mostly on my ass — though my head was lucky enough to bang against the couch cushion on its way down. Then Daddy rolled me over and pinned me to the ground — he had grabbed the electrical cord from the TV, and was binding my hands behind me with it. It’s hard to describe what happened next, but he picked me up and bent me over the couch — the top of the part where your back rests over it, I mean. My head was pointing down at the hardwood floor, so my legs and waist had to grip the top of it — so that I didn’t fall headfirst onto the floor! Daddy left the room, just then, and I tried to wriggle my way sideways, so that I could straddle the couch and then roll down onto the softer side. I managed to do so just as Daddy came back from the garage.

I kicked at him as he turned me over — I think I even got a solid kick to his balls. He pressed my face into the couch and yelled at me again, “HOW LONG ARE YOU GONNA BE A BITCH FOR?!”

He undid the knot that he’d done with electrical tape, then methodically tied some bandannas around my wrists, to prevent me from chafing. He then bound my hands again behind me, this time with solid rope. I was still kicking him as much as I could, so he bound my ankles too.

“How long are you gonna be a bitch for, huh?” he asked. “How long?” He left me by the wood-fireplace and radiator that we had in the corner of our living room. Tied in the corner, I started screaming and yelling at him, trying to raise absolute hell.

Now, it’s not like we lived in an apartment building — like I said, Daddy was rich, so we had this big beautiful house with lots of space around it. I wasn’t yelling for the neighbors to hear; I was yelling to interrupt Daddy’s calm. But Daddy calmly stuffed a sock in my mouth, then tied it in with a bandanna, and then I couldn’t talk anymore. I had wriggled out of the corner a couple feet away from the radiator, too — so he took another length of rope, ran it from my wrists to my ankles, looped in the middle through the radiator pipe. Now I was absolutely stuck, and gagged, and tied.

– – 2 – –
He drove away, suddenly, and for an hour I was alone. But I was eleven, so even an hour with nothing to do — nothing to look at except for my crayon-defaced wall — was an eternity. I thought he’d abandoned me, just like Mom had. I tried to wriggle out from the corner, but I couldn’t get anywhere — I was tied up and tied up good. So I calmed down and whimpered inside to myself. One hour later, I hear Daddy’s car pull into the garage, and then he walked right past me, into the kitchen, with some big bags under his arms. I heard him shuffle the things in those bags around, and turned around so that I could look at that doorway.

After about five minutes, he comes back from the kitchen, and he’s holding a knife, gleaming in the dim light. As I saw the knife, terror shot through me. “I’m gonna ask you again,” he said as I stared at the knife, “even though you can’t answer. How long are you gonna be a bitch?” I figured I was going to be dead soon! So I flailed around, helplessly, as he bent over me with that knife — but he held me still, belly to the ground, and cut through the rope that bound me to the radiator. As the tension went slack and my legs fell to the ground, I suddenly breathed a sigh of relief into the dirty sock. Blood rushed into my legs, which had long gone asleep — he turned me over and sat me up straight, with my legs straight out, and daggers filled my legs as blood returned from them. He went over to the bathroom to take a piss, returned to find me shaking out my legs, which were just beginning to stop hurting. He still held the knife, but I wasn’t so afraid of it anymore.

He grabbed me by the chin and pointed my gaze straight up into his piercing blue eyes and said, “Are you still gonna be a bitch?” I shook my head “no.” But he slapped me in the face just then and said, “You’re a lying little bitch.