I can’t wait until I’m being stuffed full of that cock. Wetness floods my panties. I’m probably going to pass out the first time we have sex. I just know he’ll fuck me to the point of death. I inch up the bottom of my skirt, imagining that it’s Con’s hand clenching the white silk. His hands are so big, his fingers so long that he’d be able to finger my clit with his palm pressed halfway up my thigh.
I grow wetter and wetter. I rub myself through the soaked panel, easily finding my engorged clit. Even with the material to dull the sensation I’m incredibly sensitive, and after feeling aroused all day from just being around Con, I know it won’t take much to get me off.
I circle my clit slowly, pretending that I’m nestled in his lap, his huge cock pressed up between my butt cheeks as he slowly strokes my pussy with one hand and holds me firmly in place with the other. I know that struggling is futile, but I squirm anyway—not because I want to get away, but because I can’t contain my excitement. He mutters in my ear, “You’ve been a very naughty little girl today, and Daddy is going to punish you until you scream for mercy. And even then he won’t stop.”
I whimper, “Oh yes, Daddy, please,” and he growls in response. He proceeds to rub my clit with brutal strokes and I come hard, gasping, arching into my own hand. After a long moment of bliss, I slowly get up from the table and stumble up the stairs to my room. I glance at the clock to make sure I have time for a quick shower before the food arrives. If the delivery guy gets here before I’m done, then my father will just have to deal with it himself for once.
Under the hot stinging spray of water, I contemplate my next move. I know Tim is wavering, not sure whether to help me in my quest or to try to stop me. I appreciate his loyalty, but I need to convince him that helping me will be in Con’s best interests. Tim doesn’t realize yet that I know exactly what I’m doing—I may be young in years, but I grew up fast.
My father has used me to further his business interests for as long as I can remember. After my mom died, he started to trot me out in front of his colleagues, hoping my cuteness would soften them up. It’s amazing how well that worked—most people would take one look at adorable baby me and assume my dad couldn’t be all that bad if he was my father.
That’s how I first met “Uncle C”—Dad was hoping to secure Con as a client and I was the pièce de résistance.
Dad brought Con home after wining and dining him, hoping to seal the deal. I was cranky because it was late and I was forced out of bed to come downstairs. I don’t remember doing much except staring at the floor in a major snit after muttering “Hi” in his general direction. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t turning on the charm because I remember my father trying to get me to talk more and I stubbornly refused. That’s when Con stepped in—he told my dad that it was obvious that I was tired and I should go back to bed, and that he’d talk to my dad in the morning. After he left, my dad kept me up yelling at me for not being nicer and didn’t stop until I burst into tears.
The next morning my father was in a great mood when I came down for breakfast—Con had contacted him and agreed to retain my dad as his financial advisor. Dad called me his good luck charm—he was sure I had something to do with Con’s decision, which I highly doubted.
Now that I’m older I’m equally sure I had no influence whatsoever—Con is too intelligent to base any financial dealings on emotions, much less a short meeting with a bratty kid, which most likely tested his patience. But Dad was convinced I was his secret weapon and he continued to use me in his meetings. As I grew up and out the attention I received was not suitable for a kid.
I quickly learned how to handle the leers without being groped. Dad was no help—he turned a blind eye if it meant more business for him. Basically, Dad wasn’t much of a father beyond providing for me financially, not if it meant taking his attention away from the two B’s: business and bimbos. So I had to fend for myself as well as take care of him and the house.
The irony is that Con was never one of the men who treated me either as a pretty airhead or as a piece of meat. Until that memorable night at the Yuletide Ball when I was eighteen, he’d always treated me with kindness and unlike some other jerks, never crossed the line.