I AM SELIA MARCONIAE, A SHY, INNOCENT, 26 YEAR YOUNG WOMAN...
...with an average figure, perky 38c, 5'5, big brown eyes, and long, wavy brown hair that loves to curl around my fingers. I reluctantly agree to attend an upscale party with my loving father, Seanathan Marconiae, who just happens to be a hot shot attorney who must keep up his image. As much as I adore him, I would much rather be at home in my usual attire: a long t-shirt and a pair of loose jeans. This kind of crowd usually consists of rich snobs who just loves to size each other up and belittle those who just don't measure up to their own standards. Yet, here I am, in a short, black, curve-hugging, sleeveless cocktail dress, that leaves nothing to the imagination. (A present my father insisted that I wear). I am sitting at the bar of "Shaydes Of Paradise", an expensive, exclusive restaurant, sharing a couple of drinks with my tall, dark and handsome father, who is dressed to kill in his dark suit-of-armour, tailored specifically, and perfectly, for his large, bulky frame, and broad shoulders.
I can't help but to admire this place as we sit here, waiting for the maitre'D to usher us to our table. Sparkling china, white, crisp linen tableclothes, and lush tropical plants whose flowers gives off such amazing aromas. Theres a romantic ombience thats caused by the soft glow of a few candles and sconces scattered throughout. The flooring is pitch black tile, polished to a high gloss, and sprinkled with shiny gray specks, the few lights over head twinkling in its depths. On either side of the bar area are stairs that leads to the balcony that oversees the dining area.
I am enjoying a delightful conversation with my charming father, when one of his old colleagues, Michael McCutchen, approaches him, greets us both in that deep voice of his, and invites us to join him at his table. The moment I stand, my head starts spinning, and the room seems to turn upside down. This surprises me because I only drank a light wine, just a few sips at that. I grab a hold of my father's arm, wobbling a bit. When my father asks if I am alright, I respond, "Yes, I'm ok. Just a little hot", while fanning myself with my dress, "and my body is feeling a bit weak, and.. prickly", "tingly" is what I am thinking to myself. Missing the look that is exchanged between my father and Michael, I try to shake the fogginess from my mind, link my arm into my father's, and allow him to lead me as we follow his friend.
With every step I take, I can feel my vagina becoming sensitive, raw. My juices are starting to flow. What is going on with me?
I am surprised, when, rather than enter into the dining room, we are lead to the side of its entrance, behind a heavy, black, velvet curtain which hides a black, locked door which slides open after inserting a card in front of a device. Down a dim-lit, concrete hallway we go, before finally stopping before another locked door, this one red and unlocked the same way as the other, leading us into a dark, musical, establishment littered with patrons. Down the semi-circular, red brick steps, on the other side of the huge, concrete floored room, is a large stage. Above that stage is a sign that reads, "The Pub". Who knew that such a place existed in such an upscale establishment?
Scattered throughout the space are couples, laughing and talking, holding hands, kissing. Either standing in dark areas, or dinning at various tables. Above the stage are spotlights of various colors. I continue to tag along as Michael continues the lead. "Where are we going?", I ask. My question goes unanswered as our leader continues his journey. To the left, we walk up a few steps, along the wall of the pub, and finally through another similarly locked door that reads, "Private Showing".
Once inside, I notice this room is much smaller. It is dark, except for the dim lighting shining on the heavy curtains at the front of the room to the right, only a foot or two away from a couch, the only seating in the room, located on our left. I'm assuming that behind the curtains lies a stage. And with that thought comes the assumption that this is a private theater, and we are about to watch a private show of some sort.
My father and I have a seat on the cushioned, semi-circular couch, long enough to seat five comfortably. Michael excuses his self from the room. My father, wearing an odd smile, is seated on my right. When I ask about that smile, my father just places his arm behind me along the back of the couch, his hand gliding beneath my hair, making a circular pattern along the nap of my neck. He then whispers in a fatherly tone, "Shhhhh, no questions, Pumpkin. Just enjoy the show". "What..", Just as I am about to question him further, the lights begin to dim to pitch blackness. Surprising, a dim spotlight shines on us. Puzzled, I start to again question my father when I hear what sounds like curtains opening. What I see before me is, my father and I. In a mirror. "Daddy?" he leans towards me, "Shhhhh, watch" I remain silent, and tingly, again wondering what is going on.
I return focus to the image in the mirror, of my father and I and watch as my father, again, leans towards me and this time begins to knibble my left ear.. Confused, and extremely weak, I attempt to pull away. He pulls me onto his lap, my legs straddling him, his hands rubbing my behind, my breasts pressed against his chest, my head on his shoulder. I am breathless as I continue to protest, "Daddy please...", I sniffle.
He lifts my head, and what I see in his eyes scares me. It is no longer the look of a devoted, loving father, looking at his little girl with fatherly love. This is not my father staring back at me. No.. What I see in this man's eyes, is pure, raw, hunger. A primitive need going back to the days of time.
His hands lifting my dress, his lips to my ear, whispering, "My dear sweet, Pumpkin.. Let me be your first". Shaking my head, "Daddy we can't, we shouldn't!" He nibbles my neck, then my chin, ignoring my pleas, silencing me, drugging me, with slow, sensual kisses that reveals so much more than what a father should share with his daughter.
He places one hand behind my head, deepening his kiss, while the other strokes my vagina, "So hot", he says. Then, slipping his fingers inside, "And oh, so wet". He continues to drive them in and out of my vagina, while his tongue enters in and out of my mouth, doing crazy things to my already fuzzy mind.
I don't understand why my father is kissing me like this, stroking my private parts like that. And why his hand is slowly pulling down the zipper, pushing my dress down my limber arms, freeing my braless, sensitive breasts. Should a father love his daughter in this way? "No!", I cry out, begging him, "Daddy please. This isn't right!" My attempt to push my father away, to get up and stop this madness, is unsuccessful. Due to the laziness of my mind, the weakness of my body. Why am I so weak? Why can't I lift my arms? I feel so helpless as he continues his sexual manipulations. My father, cupping my naked breasts, gently kneading them and rubbing my nipples, his other hand rubbing my raw clit. These areas are so sensitive that I shiver at his every touch.
My father then takes a nipple into his mouth, "Mmmmm", he moans, greedily suckling my nipples. "Oh Daddy, please, no...!", I druggedly beg, tears falling. Hearing my sobs, my father lifts his head, gently holds my face in his hands, and begins kissing my tears away. "Shhhh...", father says to me, "Don't be scared, Pumpkin". He continues to nuzzle my neck, nipping love bites along my collar bones. "I'm going to make love to you all night long, and for the rest of your life for taking such good care of me all these years. I'm going to show you, my sweet little Pumpkin just how much Daddy appreciates his princess". I shake my head no, I have to make him understand how wrong this is. "But Daddy..", I begin. Ignoring my pleas, my father continues to drug me with his expert kisses, his hands returning to my vagina causing an overflow of cum. "Now now my wet Pumpkin, please don't fight me on this. You be a good little girl. Just lay down and let Daddy and his friends make love to you, ok Pumpkin? I promise you everything will be ok... I won't let anyone hurt you." "Oh Daddy, No!", I scream, my mind processing the words "Daddy and his friends...
Again, ignoring my pleas, my father places his hand behind my head, supporting me as he proceeds to gently lay me down on the couch. I begin to cry even more because I can't lift my arms to stop him, or my legs to push myself up off of this couch. "Why can't I move?", I ask, only to be shushed, "Shhhh, it'll wear off after a while..." Confused, I ask "What will, Daddy? Daddy, what do you mean?" He ignores my questions, and in that quiet, soothing, father's tone of his, assures me that everything will be ok. My father stands and begins removing his clothes....
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