0 comments/ 28287 views/ 4 favorites Punching Bag By: clinton09 [©2010 BY CLINTON09; ALL CHARACTERS OVER THE AGE OF 18; NO EVENTS DESCRIBED ARE TRUE; THIS STORY IS TOLD WITHOUT RESERVE OR POLITICAL CORRECTNESS; READER SHOULD TAKE CARE AND CONSIDER LOOKING ELSEWHERE; CONCLUSION HARD EDGED; READER MUST BE 21 OR ABOVE.] [THIS STORY CENTERS AROUND A MALE BULLY WHO GETS HIS COMEUPPANCE FROM HIS OWN DAUGHTER; HIS PUNISHMENT IS RICHLY DESERVED AND JUST, BUT MIGHT BE TOO HARSH FOR SOME READERS; CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED...] [THE MALE CHARACTER MISTREATS HIS WIFE PHYSICALLY WHILE MENTALLY ABUSING HIS INNOCENT DAUGHTER.] * I admit nothing, but confess that alcohol was my personal demon. When sober, I was a wonderful husband, great employee, and attentive and loving father. Ah, yes, when sober. If only.... Well Homer Simpson notwithstanding, drunks normally get ugly, real ugly. I have to continue the confession. When I came home after stopping at the local 'watering hole', I used to use my loyal, trusting, dedicated wife as a punching bag. All of the frustrations from work (and there were many, let me tell you) were taken out on her face (with a slap) or gut (with a punch or two). She took it because she was loyal to her marital vows and obsessed with protecting her daughter Heather. So she let the occasional abuse continue. It would be nice to say that I was different with Heather as she grew up. Maybe I was a doting father, spoiling her constantly. Well, that would have made a nice paragraph or two, but alas, it was not the case. The truth was, I constantly berated her for not being the son that I wanted. If I didn't hit her outright as I did with her long suffering mother, I still would harass Heather mentally till I had secured tears from her innocent eyes. I myself was sometimes puzzled that I would hound this beautiful and wonderful young woman mercilessly for no apparent reason except to re-build my own fragile and pathetic ego. The ironic thing was, as I tore down her pride in self, she would retreat to our basement to get away from me. The ironic part of that was, the only things in the basement were our old water heater, a pool table, a black and white TV, and my (unused) weight set. From sheer boredom or curiosity, little Heather started tinkering away at that set from the age of seven. It got to the point that she went down there even if I wasn't around to harass her. She was zealous about not letting me see her body as she grew. That was for two reasons: she didn't want me to enjoy seeing her grow up and develop, given my cruel and callous non-support. Also, she was secretly developing a physique, for lack of a better word. She didn't want me to be alarmed about it until the day I abused her once too often...and then! In the end, I had never so much as laid a hand upon Heather, nor seen her in an inappropriate manner before her 18th birthday. I should have had some warning when Heather asked me to sign a release as well as a complaint. I did not read it, since the NY Giants were on, versus the hated Cowboys. She could have given me a quitclaim and taken the house away, for all I knew. She got her mother to sign those things, too. Heather had just turned 18 and was a senior in high school. For two years, she had tried to play with the boy's football team in high school. They just laughed at her, leaving her only to take weight-lifting as a consolation. There, the instructress confided in Heather that she out-lifted all of the young men on the football team! On the day of her first game, I was actually upset about her playing against men, perhaps showing them up. I got really tanked up and drove that way, carting her mom. We had a terrible accident, all of it my fault. I was in relative care in the hospital, my wife in intensive care. Unfortunately, just before kickoff, Heather was told about her mom and told that she could certainly take that game off. Being the trooper that she was, it just made her all the more determined to show her 'girl power'. Heather was 18, blond, five foot seven, a slender 130 who added 20 pounds of solid muscle with weights to be a rock hard 150. Her legs were shapely and silky smooth at all times. Her thighs were both like a Sports Illustrated bikini model's AND like an NFL running back's, with those powerful muscles that provided dazzling speed and frightening power. A determined Heather, superpowered by adrenaline and the emotions of the day, just ran through the other team. She averaged eleven yards per carry, sometimes dragging two or three of the wimpy guys on the other team with her. She ran back kickoffs, taking two of the four for touchdowns. Before the game, all of her fellow players had ribbed her with varying degrees of hostility. None of them wanted her there. After the game, though, they all came over to compliment and support her (now that she didn't need it, of course). Her highest compliment was when the quarterback quietly asked for her to 'make a muscle for him'. She did, and her bicep didn't stop expanding until it reached a record twenty-inches. That was near champion size for a male Mr. Olympia; for a woman, it was a record. As the quarterback felt and caressed that beautiful mountain on her arm, he squeezed it in quiet admiration. He said: "God, that's as hard as a rock...no wonder you are so fucking strong!" After the game and two local reporters' questions, Heather bummed a ride and went to the hospital. She already knew her mom's fate but saw me. The accident had been so serious that we had to be rushed to the hospital without any accident inquiry. Heather could sense I had been drinking. Now she knew that her mom had passed away because of my being tanked up. Right then and there, she vowed that she would get revenge on this slob for my cruelties to herself and her mom, as well as revenge for my irresponsible drinking. After four days, I had returned from the hospital and continued my recovery at home. Heather came home and went directly to the basement to lift weights for a solid two hours, as she did every other night. Tonight was different. Instead of going directly to the shower, she came into her parents' (i.e. my) room. As I lay on the bed, she came to the side of it, within inches of me. I thought it was to offer comfort. Instead, Heather was going to perform the movie, Misery, Live, in person and in living color. Heather: "Well, daddy, you finally did it. It was one thing to have to put up with your abuse all of those years. It was yet another thing to slap and punch mom around because she was just a 'punching bag' as you told her once--her role to be a dutiful wife and absorb your punishment. All of that time, I was secretly pounding your own weights, building up my body. As I heard mom whimper from the wallop you drunkenly delivered to her mid-section, I would lay in bed, dreaming that my muscle cells were even now replicating at an incredible speed, making my muscles grow and grow and grow. Every time you slapped her around, I would secretly measure my progress, vowing revenge on you when my arms were big and strong enough. I was so surprised and relieved to see my body develop, this weak useless girlish body as you called it, insulting me for not being a boy. Well, let's both have a look-see, shall we?" Heather: [she came real close to me, wearing a skin tight cotton t-shirt. She flexed her muscles and you could hear that sound of material being stretched to its limit, then that sound as material gives way. Finally, her biceps bulged through the sleeves, tearing them into tatters hanging limply off her magnificent arms. Her broad but feminine shoulders burst out too. Her entire t-shirt hung limply about her waist as she presented her unbelievable upper body. I had seen bodybuilding shows on TV and even two in person; I had never ever seen a physique like that. Remember that this was the culmination of over 10 years of training by her. Heather's obsession with revenge and her vow to prove that 'girl power' could be as intimidating as guy power made her spend 30 or 40 hours a month doing hard core weight-lifting. And this was in addition to the weight training for football at school.] Heather: "According to your doctor, you were let out of the hospital early. He said you should be fine by next week. Of course, mom won't be fine, will she?" [For the first time, Heather grabbed me; she took my wrist and almost twisted it clean off; as it was, she gave me a terrible sprain and bruise. God, it's frightening how strong she was, especially if I had to bear the brunt of it.] To my shock and surprise, but most of all embarrassment, Heather opened the covers of my convalescence bed. With her determination, she had no problems about pulling my green hospital gown open, displaying my 'unit'. This was her first real bit of revenge. The truth was: I was really tiny down there. Heather: "Gosh, what a surprise. You are the typical bully. Sexually inadequate, you just had to hide in a liquor bottle and then hide your impotence by appearing tough. Of course, you weren't tough to other guys, only to your loyal, dedicated, trusting and relatively weak wife. But you could slap HER around, couldn't you...COULDN'T YOU?" [Heather took the opportunity of my revealed tiny unit to grab the entire 'package' and give it a terrific squeeze. She only used a fraction of her frightening power, or I would've been a eunuch. Ouch!] Me: [trying to distract her and defuse her rage, I tried something.] "Sweetheart, let me see those muscles again; let daddy see how big and strong his angel has gotten for her daddy!" [To my surprise, she apparently bought it and made a muscle, letting me feel that mountainous right arm. The only thing lacking on that swell was a ski lodge or a cartoon image of a nuclear power plant or atomic explosion, a la Popeye.] Heather: "Well, I hope that you enjoyed the floorshow. That will be the last time that you get to feel my twenty-inch guns. You will feel their POWER, though...oh God, will you feel their power. You see, my little loving daddy, I did something the night of your accident that you did not know. I whispered to the registered nurse attending you that I needed something done for future reference. She took two blood samples at different times, and had them time-stamped into inventory. So, my dear daddy, I only have to collect those at the hospital, filed under a secure password only I know. With those in hand, we go to a lab, then to the police. And then your insurance company sues you and the state gives you lovely free bracelets in silver, just for you. Ah yes, poetic justice, to see you put away for the cruelties to mom, especially the final cruelty, when you drove into that bridge abutment. Then you had so little conscience that you collected on mom's life insurance, never letting the company know that you were at fault and they were not liable to pay you. What a bad daddy you are! Boy, if I was to tell them about you. Anyway, I mentioned this to put the fear of God into you, but also to let you know that you will have to answer to a lesser god, i.e. me, for your sins. Every day, fresh from lifting weights, pumping new strength and power into my body, I will dole out a tiny fraction of the abuse that you gave mom and me. We are now going to have daily 'floor shows'. I will bring girlfriends, and yes, boyfriends over, just to see that pathetic two or three inch cockie you have, powered by those massive green pea-sized balls. Just think of the fun we will have. On most days, I'm sorry to say, I won't be able to be here or to have a full floor show, but be assured, even if I drag in at 4 am, I will always have time for this." She went to her room and brought in these small dumbbells. (small for HER, they were 50 pounds for each hand. Her normal ones downstairs were adjustable from 10 pounds to her personal best, 150 pounds in each arm.) This was going to be my daily experience unless she had even worse 'entertainment' arranged. She would come home from school, her arms looking feminine and like anyone else's. Then in my room she would use those dumbbells and I would watch in goggle-eyed amazement, with fear and dread, as her arms would transform. From her tanned, shapeless but thick arms, these Himalayan crests would emerge, like a severe ski slope, the peak of the curve, top and bottom, stretching the measuring tape to 20 inches, as she showed me. Those mountainous biceps would finally sport blue and green veining, which some people found ugly, others sexy. I was ashamed to admit to anyone, especially my tormentor, but seeing my little 'Mighty Mouse' was so exciting it almost made up for the abuse and humiliation. Well, things couldn't get worse, or could they? I should have known that someone like Heather, on a vendetta, would plow thru my room. She found my diary! Now I was really in for it. Talk about thorough...about going to ANY lengths to get back at me? One day I was in the shower before taking a nap. I got in and felt the oddest, coldest, clammiest thing I had ever felt. Worse, it had a hard shell. Much worse, it was moving! I opened the cover and my nightmare was crawling up my body! A damn horseshoe crab! I leaped out of bed, looking at it in horror. Who should be at the doorway, rolling in laughter, but my dominant one, Heather. Heather: "Oh that was rich! In your diary you mentioned going to the beach, laying on the blanket, and grabbing some rays. Then you looked down and saw a nightmare, in person, and walking on your blanket. You wrote you screamed like a 2 month old baby girl and ran crying into the Atlantic. God, I couldn't be there, but today was almost as good. You have to admit, this was a novel idea on my part. I had to drive an hour each way to find one of these damn things. I'm even going to take it back...they are endangered and all. But don't worry, I might stop in the big city and pick up some new entertainment for us." Sure enough, she went to the discount outlet for the nation's novelty and Halloween costume stores. She bought enough costumes to outfit a theatrical company. More floor shows were coming. One time, she started the week unimaginatively with about 30 reps with those heavy dumbbells before she used her right (or was it her left?) fist to give me yet another black eye. When she came home later that day, she would study my face to 'admire her work', pretending to be sympathetic, promising that she was not going to hit me again...at least for a day. One day, she brought her friend Alice over for tacos and to see her tiny dad in person: Heather: "Well did I tell you; have you ever seen a more pathetic unit in your life?" Alice: [She actually put Heather's magnifying glass near it to see, as Heather looked on in hilarity.] "Well, he's a tiny bit bigger than my brother; of course my brother Sean is only 3 months old." (They both cackled like the magpies they were.) "By the way, Heather, did you ever wonder if your sissy father actually got excited over you. I mean, when you are pumped even I get a little hot, and I'm not one of 'those' girls. But I wonder if this useless wimp wouldn't get excited over his daughter, running thru men on the football field like they weren't there, or lifting weights that he could never budge. I bet you $20 that he gets 'hard' over you!" Heather: "You're on, bitch. But how could we tell?" Alice: "God, that's easy. We measure him now, and then let you pump up. If he doesn't change, you win $20" Heather: "You've got a bet, girl." [She got the same measuring tape she used for her arms. The tape showed 2 ¼ inches. She started lifting those dumbbells, 50 pounds in each arm. Those magnificent biceps rose like volcanoes from the sea. Sure enough, to Alice's amusement, my tiny cockie twitched, lurched, and attained its full stature, some 3 ½ inches of rubbery white hose. Alice: "Face it girl-- that father of yours is not only a sissy wimp with baby equipment, but he's also a perv, getting off to the sheer musclepower of his superhero daughter." Heather conceded defeat. Furious, she bent over me and flicked my pathetic little things with her forefinger. As a parting 'gift', she squeezed my microscopic 'family jewels', making me wince and tear up. Wednesday and Thursday of that week were also non-events, with Heather simply beating the stuffing out of me. On Friday, she brought out the diary, noting that my entry said that I enjoyed abusing women more than my fantasy of living during slavery and getting to discipline black men. Heather: "Well, daddy, we have a great floor show for you today. Here is Tyrone, our star receiver on the team and my new boyfriend. Ty, come in here." This tall, maybe six foot four, exquisitely built black dude came in. I unfortunately had made many racist remarks in my diary, all of which Heather was anxious to show him. He was not smiling when he came in and didn't offer his hand. Heather: "Daddy, since I was nice enough to round up a black person AND a female for your enjoyment—since you wrote you liked the thought of roughing them up—I think the least you could do would be to sit there and be quiet." [Ty watched in almost religious silence and total awe at Heather as she pumped up with those weights. She came over to him once pumped, letting him feel, caress, and squeeze those bulging biceps of that petite and oh so sexy daughter of mine.] Heather: "Now daddy, since you mentioned blacks, and females, and beating up, I guess it would only be fair that we give you a beating. Now Ty here could give you a right powerful beating, but he said he's out on probation and can't do anything. But, he will watch as I give you more than a punch today; I won't hit as hard as usual, but I'm going to beat the shit out of you slowly, so you can think about mom as my fists pound you into hamburger." [To kick it off, she gave me a glancing blow with a right, an upper cut, a cross, and so on. By the end, her black boyfriend was cheering her on, imploring for her to 'hit him again...again...harder! Beat that white devil up...you go girl!'] Heather: "Now daddy, it says in your diary that you loved watching interracial porn on the web. You wrote that you were strangely fascinated by the specter of black breeding, of some sexy blonde white woman getting inseminated...knocked up...by some black stud. You wrote that the idea of some white woman heavy with black child made you ill, even though you were paying $29.95 a month of our money to watch it. Well, my pervert daddy, I am happy to tell you that you won't have to pay $30 a month anymore; today you will get to see a live presentation. Ty here (as all can see) is as black as they come. I, on the other hand, am blonde and as white as they come. Ty is going to black breed me, right in front of my racist daddy. I just want to re-assure you; I checked on my cycles and today is my peak fertility day. What about those 'pills' you put me on, 'just in case'? Well, look here (in my trash can were all of those pills, round blister packs completely unused.) OK, I think it's time for the show, don't you?" Heather turned to Ty. She got his clothes off in record time. He stripped Heather nude and laid her on the kingsize bed right next to me. He proceeded to black breed my little girl. His cock, precisely three times my size or a full ten inches, was plowing into my little princess. She moaned obscenely and writhed sensuously on the bed. He just sawed away in and out. Finally, at the key moment, he put his huge black hands around her athletically perfectly round, small, and steel hard behind, pushed hard, and proceeded to fill her womb directly with a tidal wave of African seed. Heather was seeded, bred, and filled to overflowing. As he quietly left, Heather remained, recovering on the bed, her cunt oozing out his excess spend, the sperm laden cum dripping out for the entire six hours that she slept on the bed, leaving a big puddle that eventually dripped down the side of the bed, in two directions. Punching Bag Ballsack She took ahold of my balls from behind me with a firm grip in her left hand. She had me on my hands and knees, my wrists tied together and legs spread a foot and a half apart, tied to either side of me so that I couldn't close them. I couldn't prevent her from accessing my cock, balls, ass, and even my backdoor from this vulnerable position. My limp penis was locked into a cb3000 chastity tube as well. "We're going to play a game," she said flatly as she tugged a little harder. "I have your balls. You can't get away. For each time you masturbated over the past two days while I was out of town, I'm going to spank your balls 5 times. That's a fair amount, because I ordered you not to cum at all while I was gone. I trusted you outside of the chastity belt but I clearly shouldn't have. Now, how many times did you come while I was away?" I racked my brain trying to figure out how she knew. I thought I cleared all the evidence away, the lotion, tissues...I even drove the trash to the landfill a mile away. Confused, I tried to get away with as much as I could. "Just once, mistress." "Liar!" she quickly interrupted. "Thanks to the hidden cameras I had installed in the house before I left, I know exactly how many times you came. You've been very busy with your plaything, masturbating no less than 9 times in the past 2 days!" She was right. Since being limited to very few orgasms under mistress' watchful eye, I had tried to take advantage of my perceived freedom. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that she had planned this whole setup knowing I couldn't control myself and delighting in torturing my manhood as punishment. "Now," she continued, "that means I'm going to spank your useless balls 45 times. Don't worry, there is hope for you still. You can stop me at any time if the pain becomes too much to bear. But for each spanking you are unable to take, you must go down on my pussy with your tongue and give me an orgasm orally." With that, she spanked my balls hard with her right hand. I squealed in pain. She came down hard again. My body tried to jerk away but couldn't. "Only 43 more!" she laughed as I groaned loudly. "This will teach you not to disobey your mistress." "Oh, and until you pay in full my spankings and orgasms, I won't unlock your little dick from that cock lock." This made me shudder. The longest I had gone without an orgasm while with mistress the past 2 months was 4 days, and that was hell. Thwack! Thump! Thwack! My body unsuccessfully tried to jerk away. "It's funny how you're presenting your balls to me so unwillingly," she laughed as she punched my ballsack with her fist twice in a row, hard. "My favorite punching bag!" I was in tears at this point, and uttering a noise that might be best described as a combination of groaning and sobbing. I felt like yelling out for her to stop already but I knew that would mean I would have to give her 38 orgasms before she allowed me one, and I don't think I could last that long. My balls were aching with pain. Slap! Thunk! Slap! "Aaahh!" I yelled. But I knew by now that the neighbors couldn't hear me from mistress's basement dungeon. She had this room specially built, soundproofed and everything. It resembled something just like a Spanish Inquisition dungeon - stone walls, two cells with steel bars along one wall that were too short to stand up in. Right now I was tied to a circular pedestal-like device in the middle of the room with some cushion for my knees. "Congratulations, you're almost 25% of the way there!" she snickered as she came down on my poor testicles once more. When she put it like this, I realized I wouldn't be able to last the whole 45. I had come to enjoy tonguing mistress's pussy, making her wet, pleasing her. But only if I didn't have to simultaneously endure the torture of owning a tight set of nuts about to burst with cum. "Oh, blast. I forgot about my appointment! Don't want to be late, now do I? I'll need to find a babysitter while I'm gone. Um..." she looked around her dungeon. "This will do." She grabbed a parachute ball stretcher and attached it to my balls. Then she added two 2 pound weights to it. "This parachute will babysit your balls while I'm gone. Now you finally have a real pair." "No! Please!" I sobbed as she walked away, her gorgeous butt wiggling in shiny black latex pants as she stepped, seeming to mock my predicament. The tap, tap, tap of her heels echoed in the dungeon as she scaled the staircase up, up, and away. And as my balls were slowly pulled towards the floor, I could do nothing but eagerly wait for my mistress. Punching Bag Weeks later, Heather ran in excitedly, showing me the blue color on the home pregnancy test. Heather: "Well, crank up the camcorders and a camera, Heather is going to be a sexy mommy! Aren't you proud, dad? Your little baby girl, blonde, fair, and white, will soon have a swollen belly. Growing inside will be at least one, though we can pray for two or three, strong black babies. Just think of that delivery room, where the doctor and nurse will stare at the black baby, the fertile white womb it emerged from, and her pathetic father cowering in the corner." (She didn't punch me for once, merely slapping me six times, each with increasing intensity. As usual, a daily occurrence, I was having a slight nose bleed.) Heather for her part had finished her senior year in high school. She had set records in football as well as weight-lifting in her weight class, for men or women. There was even talk of her going pro in the NFL. I had to admit, if I ever saw Heather line up and run in the NFL, I think I would really get off to that. Some months later, after dealing with me day after day, performing vignette after vignette, Heather kicked it up another notch. Each vignette was designed to mete out punishment to me. I would be an allied airman, being interrogated by Ilse Crotch, Nazi interrogator. If Ty was around, I was a cruel overseer on a plantation until a slave revolt put me under THEIR punishment. Whatever the scenario, it always culminated with a pumped up and excited Heather knocking the hell out of me. She'd conclude matters with hard slaps to the face, punches to the gut, and at least twice, a devastating full-power knee to the family jewels. It was the fifth anniversary of the car accident that took my wife's life. Heather promised a whole festival of events. Sure enough, she came in to the room and pumped up. God, her arms looked unusually huge, bulging, threatening, powerful, and damn sexy. My little 'wonder woman' was so fucking strong and healthy! It was almost worth taking the incredible pounding I took, day after day, to experience, to feel her power. But, there are costs to everything in life. Here I was on the fifth anniversary of my negligent accident where my blood count (about .016 or twice what was legal) locked away in those vials hung over me like a sword of Damocles. Heather came in and pumped up as always. With her arms sporting eye-popping veins and folds normal for such huge biceps, she opened a brief case and put a forest of papers on a breakfast table. Me: "Wait, what are all these?" Heather: "Oh, it's nothing. Just a quit claim on the house. Transfer of your bank accounts to me. Also, there's a title to the car, ownership of stock, and some other things. Today, on the anniversary of you 'getting rid' of that troublesome female, mommy, your other female is going to get rich. Coincidentally, on this important day, YOU are going to get poor." Me: [I laughed, pushing the tray table away] "You can't make me sign anything, you little tramp. I have put up with all of this for too long...I am putting an end to this, now!" I forgot that my little girl had already pumped up. Incensed that I was standing up to her, she told me to stand up and face her like a man. I did. Heather: "Which arm daddy? Which do you prefer? The one you choose will deliver a message from mommy!" [Heather flexed her mountainous biceps; it was like some live, 3D, adult Popeye cartoon. Only I wasn't Popeye but Bluto, about to feel the wrath of the pumped up hero, in righteous indignity.] I tapped the right arm. She nodded about the wisdom of my selection, flexing and unflexing it as I watched in quiet awe. But, then I felt that right fist plunging into my gut, like a baseball star had just hit me with a Louisville slugger. She came at me with a barrage of blows, putting me on my knees, both eyes blackened, three teeth lost, seven more loosened. She kept shrieking "for mommy!" as the blows rained down upon me. Finally, I lay on the floor. Me: "Please, Heather, stop. Did it occur to you that you might be killing me?" Heather: [breathing heavily, now smiling] "Well, the thought HAD occurred to me. Besides marking mom's anniversary, I just wanted you to sign those papers. Sign them, and I will stop doing this." [she couldn't resist and gave me one last pop in the nose, once again making it crooked.] I broke down and signed every single document, making my baby girl wealthy (for her age at least) and me officially penniless. I was now even more at her mercy, totally dependent on her. For a year, this clever young woman did a series of exchanges and transfers, disguising how and where she got the money so it could never be recovered. There was a reason for this. Once she contacted the law, if she ever did, she would have had to disguise the fact that she was the chief beneficiary of my funds, much of which was from the $1million policy I had on my wife. It was the sixth anniversary of my wife's passing, and one year since Heather used fear (of the law, and of her incredible hitting power) to make me sign everything I had over to her. I was sitting on my bed, expecting Heather to do her traditional pumping up. Sure enough, she came in the usual white leotard, and proceeded to clang clang her 'guns' into mile high atomic reactors, delivering frightening power in the form of titanic blows to my face and gut. Since it was a special holiday (my wife's passing anniversary) she was as usual kind enough to hit between the legs with her knee, using her running back speed and power to deliver a literally crushing blow. On this that fateful anniversary, with all of my assets transferred to her and safely sent down a labyrinth that no one could unravel, I lay on the floor. My loving little girl had kneed me into the next county, punched me till my face was swollen, eyes blackened, teeth down to eight original and 22 plastic replacements. I had my customary nose bleed as she walked over to me, wearing her sexy white leotard. She grabbed me by what few hairs I had left. With a snap, snap, her leotard bottom opened up. She grabbed me by the back of my head and compressed me flush with her feminine area. Heather: "Daddy, I don't want to hurt you, for the moment, so please open your mouth and do not close it until I say to. If you disobey, I will be forced to hit you, hard. I can feel the strength and power in my arms today. I just lifted 500 pounds on the barbells downstairs. I am superstrong today, so don't mess around, OK. Just open your mouth and I have a beverage I want you to try. Just think of it as British ale, served warm." To my horror, she held me tightly. Risking a beating that I might not survive at the hands of my super girl, I had no choice but to open wide and take whatever she gave me. Well, it wasn't long till she filled up my mouth to overflowing while relieving herself. I had no choice but to swallow that stuff, and then swallow gulp after gulp as it just kept coming. I fell over when she released my head, half of my hair remaining in her hand. I remained on the floor overnight, recovering. The next morning, bright and early, I saw the sexy bare feet of Heather, tormentor numero uno. As I looked up to her, awaiting her fresh punishment, she had an announcement and some introductions. First, I had to get decent. [She had me get some clothes on.] Heather: "Daddy, on the sixth anniversary of the accident that did in mommy, I remembered those vials taken from you the day of that horrible car crash. You know, the ones that might show that you were driving drunk. We had them tested before they degraded, certifying the BAC, as they say, as point oh one six, or double state law. So now, daddy, I will soon introduce Vernon, from our lovely state attorney general office. If you're wondering the statute of limitations is only five years for accidents, EXCEPT for ones this serious. Then it is twenty years. Oops, sorry about that. I guess you will be spending, what, ten years in the state prison outside the capital. But don't worry about me. I sold this house and got a newer and better one. I didn't want the insurance company to be able to show that that was your asset and should be theirs. So while you are safely put away for what you did to mommy and me over the years, and mommy on that eventful night, I will be in my own home, with my own car, my own bank accounts, stocks, bonds, and even mom's jewelry. All thanks to you. So I say, thank you daddy!" As a final sign of her appreciation for what I did to her as she was growing up and her loving mother, she came up to me, put a petite hand on my cheek, and brought her knee up to my family jewels with lightning speed and express train power. As I lay writhing on the floor, she put a beautiful smooth bare foot on top of my prostrate carcass, flexed her huge bulging biceps in conquest and triumph, and grabbed her cell phone. Hitting a pre-set button, my new friend Vernon came in. A nice black gentleman who had been enlightened by Heather about my diary entries, he promised her solemnly that there would be no probation, no bond, and some really hard time with hard cases in the state pen. Years later, on the tenth anniversary of the accident that took Heather's mom's life, I was amazed that Heather was coming to visit me. I didn't want to feel her wrath on this tenth anniversary of that sad day. I didn't want to drink her warm beer, or feel her love taps to my face, and gentle massage of my gut. Frankly, I was afraid of that musclebound daughter of mine. Her incredible physique, which was at the same time perfectly voluptuous but also contest-ready chiseled, defined, and massive, would be with me again. Would she be bringing me succor...or a powerful sucker punch? Heather: "Well daddy, it's the tenth anniversary. I just wanted to see you, in the privacy of this conjugal trailer, where we could be alone. I didn't think that you would still be here in jail by now." [I brightened at this...was she going to work to get me freed?] Heather: "Well, I'm here today to show you that I'm as strong as I ever was...even stronger." [She flexed her humongous biceps, just as mountainous as always. She noticed that part of the trailer roof structure had three inch thick solid re-bars in case of rollover. She pulled it out of the wall and bent it. It made a loud groaning sound in protest as the solid 3 inch steel was bent and twisted in the hands of my super strong little girl.] "I came here today to tell you about the eleventh anniversary celebration in this trailer. If I have to go to Vernon and offer to have ten babies for him, I will. But I will see you here next year on this very day. Don't worry, I will be super pumped up, my 'guns' at least 20 inches round, and hard as steel. I will start the festivities with a slap to that face of yours, then my first tribute to mommy with a powerful punch to your gut. A few hard slaps to that face. What then...oh I guess I would give you a little jab in the right eye...we'd wait till the lovely blue color emerges, then I would tastefully punch the other eye, hoping for a contrasting red tinge. Finally, I would serve you my favorite warm brew, fresh and hot. Once you swallowed it all down, without spilling a drop, I would let you absorb it all in. After we both rested, I'm sorry to say, I would have to switch directions and actually hurt you, just a little, to punish you for what you did to me and mommy of course. I would hit you with a left, a right, an uppercut, a right cross, and if you were still conscious, just to get your attention, a knee to your microscopic family jewels. Unlike our other little sessions, daddy, I wouldn't stop my celebration of that anniversary with you, until you were with mommy. If it took blow after blow, punch after punch, I would deliver it. And every time I hit you, I would think, 'this one is for mommy!' At the end of our little visit, your disgusting pathetic carcass would be on the trailer floor. The guard would come and I would cry about their failing to protect me and my having to fight you. Vernon would have already gotten to the guard; the investigation would start and end in an hour. Your remains would be cremated, with your loving daughter getting the urn. Tearful about your fate, I would honor your remains, putting them securely in a white porcelain holding tank. There, I would make my offering to those ashes. It might take me a few minutes to make that offering, but I would be reading the newspaper while I waited. After making two offerings to honor your ashes, what I would label number one and number two, I would make a final tribute, hitting the sparking chrome lever of that spotless white holding tank until everything, your ashes, tributes number one and number two, all were washed down the drain. I would wash my hands, appropriately, and leave that room, knowing that you ended up where you belonged. That's what will happen NEXT year IF you are still here, that is." Jim could take a hint, even one as unsubtle as that one. He made sure that she did not have a chance to torment him anymore. The day before that eleventh anniversary, he was found in his cell for the last time. Heather received the call while on top of Vernon and his huge, black, married cock. She had the biggest orgasm of her life when she heard the news. Just before he gushed a huge load of potent African seed deep inside Heather's unprotected, and very fertile white womb, Vernon promised her that she would get the remains. He was as good as his promise, and she got to give her beloved daddy the white porcelain tribute that Jim was trying to avoid. To balance out the world, Heather had been impregnated. It was by a black man, in tribute to her late father, and she would name the baby: Jim. Even though he was definitely male (and better equipped at birth than his namesake), she decided to treat him well. And she did. The End.