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East Texas Whore

By: TeresaJ



August 24th, 2006 -- Kenner, Louisiana

It was 4:30 p.m. and I had just got off the cell phone to Randy. Our talk put me in a good mood, a damn good mood.

I was standing in the kitchen of a 5th wheel mobile home. It was one of four that were leased by the project manager for the roofing crew a young prostitute and old friend, Ruby Trenton, was sent to service three months earlier.

* * *

Quick bio: At the time, I was 31, 5feet-7inches tall, 175 pounds, blonde and stocky Polish-American from East Texas with a 40D chest.

Back in the hell of my May, I didn't know how I was gonna to change her life around in my favor when I came by Katrina-fucked-me country, but I had faith -- had to have faith! -- that we would work something out.

I was motivated to be in this mosquito-infested, sweat land by the hope some assistant district attorney back home would make good on a deal sealed with a blowjob that the court would show mercy in my prostitution charge and let me see my children again. The assistant D.A., a friend of Ruby's family, made it a condition that I bring her home and get her out of whoring.

That seemed an awful tall order. Ruby loved whoring. My God, she was born for this. She was a die-hard, party morning girl who started fucking early in life and ... well, from what I'd seen of her recently she wasn't capable of even entertaining the thought of slutting, easy money and bad men.

But surprise! It turned out not to be that hard. 

Ruby, poor young thing, hated her assignment. Her idea of whoring was going to parties in the Houston area. It was a nightlife thing for her.

Cool, smokey clubs, air conditioned motels, brash players with wads of cash to throw around, their comfortable apartments, getting stoned, listening to music, and a whole lot of suckin'-n-fuckin' the night away - that was her style.

Servicing an illegal immigrant crew in hot, humid, bugged-out New Orleans country weren't what she had in mind. She hadn't been there but just over a week and she was homesick and woeful.

And heartening to me, she was sweetly sympathetic to my plight and jumpy for any excuse to weasel out of her situation. We got on our cell phones and tag-teamed her pimp Sam.

When I wasn't negotiating business in his one ear she was whining like a baby in his other.

What I worked out was she would go home and take a vacation. I would stay in Kenner in her place. She'd go spend quality time with her ma and pa, hopefully until my situation with Child Protective Services worked itself out.

Sam knew I was a good entertaining whore. His only concern after three hours of dickering around on the subject - with numerous hang-ups and dead air connections to aggravate my patience - was whether his client, Josh Felton, would be upset by what Sam called a "bait and switch."

I objected, and with some of my own feelings weighing hard on Sam's conniving head.

"Terry, I'm just sayin' you a big girl. These boys, they gotsa a taste a my Ruby. She all sweet and young and slim and she got that tight lil ass, is all I'm sayin."

"Sam, I'm curvy! I ain't fat! And you know, YOU KNOW, you done had a taste a me your own self, you know I deliver. I give it good, baby."

"Baby, baby! Hey hey now don't be ... aww, Terry let me just say."

"Fucking hell, and I can cook. These boys is out in the godforsaken fucking wasteland. Ruby can't boil water, you heard her say so herself. She's all outta sorts and givin' these men attitude, and they want her to be their fuckin' maid and she ain't up for that. Sammy, I can do it all. Ain't that the truth? You know what I'm saying."

Sam comes back, "It's just - you know baby, I know you stacked like the brickhouse. You is fine, but you know some men's idee of fine and stacked is another men's idee of plumpness."

"Oh no NO you did not! Sam, don't insult me. Don't fuckin' go there! Shit, what are you goin' on about, I'm giving you better than a fair swap. Better! You get me, you get experience and a maid, I'm sayin' I do it all and I ain't gonna give these boys no attitude. No shit, just sugar. You got Ruby over here whinin' on them all damn day. She ain't good for business."

Sam starts to turning on Ruby, "You think I need to give her a whuppin? Cuz I can come up there n remind the little bitch who she belong to!"

Hell, I don't want that, so ... "Sam, Sam, Sam. Nooooo. I'm not trying to get her in no trouble."

He says, "Sound to me like she is axin' for trouble."

So, I remind him, "Sam, you ain't that way with your women. You get what you want cuz you a charmer. You turn on the magic."

He picks up on the compliment.

"Yeah, you know I'm a sweetheart player n all, not like my brother but I will fuckin slap the bitch if she's bein' all ..."

"Sam! You know how she is back home. It's just she ain't used to this. This is too much. Don't be fucking with her head like this. She is freaking out here in this -- fuck, this place! This place is fucked. It's the fuckin' jungle. Sammy, baby, I'm just sayin' keep it real. You know what she can handle. You know I'm used to the shit. I am used to the fucking shit!"

I had Sammy's okay, long as I could smooth it over with the project manager, that Mr. Felton.

He was suspicious at first. He wanted a sample of my talents. So I went shopping. Came back with a bag of pasta, tomatoes, spices, hamburger, oil and cheese. I cooked up lunch for him and foreman.

While they was eating, I changed into something chambray blue babydoll in the bathroom.

And when they was done and I had them both stand in front of me, right there in the project site trailer of a shopping center they were fixin' up.

I knelt for those good ole boys and stroked two cocks, rubbing one to each cheek on my face. Then I turned my head and tongue into a wiper blade, swiping cocks left to right, right to left, swish, swish, swish. Stroking and licking two happy old white farts and receiving an occasional endearment.

"Mmmm mama," said one, "uhhhhh big bad baby," said the other.

I could tell early into the introductions that the thought of me being Ruby's mom appealed to their hotness meters. I was asked if I was her mom. I gave it a quick think and taking into count Felton's leering eyes.

I thought they'd have to think she is younger than she is and I'm older than I am for that to work, but what the hell.

"Yes, sir. She is my baby child. My very own sweet angel," I confessed with a wink.

Words to which they had a good laugh. And to that hearty laugh I offered a stiff lip, pretending mild offense.

I was there, I offered in my defense, to save what was left of my daughter's virtue. More laughs. More stiff lip.

The cocksucking was great. Why lie? I had not been in the mood for sex for a few weeks -- worried sick as I was over my children -- I needed to lick some bone as much as they needed a bitch wetting their stiff peckers.

It didn't take me long before I was begging them to fuck me in the raw. I tend to prefer whoring bareback.

I pulled off my sexy babydoll and offered a little drama when I hesitated to let it from from my upraised arm.

I led Mr. Felton to sit on his desk and lifted my naked heavy body onto his lap, sliding white old fart cock up my wet cunny. I encouraged the foreman not to stand around watching but to go ahead and invite himself to my asshole. I might have blurted out, "Fuck my ass!" in the head of riding on Felton's cock.

I rode with them both until each came inside me -- two dribble shooters with small cum loads. But I was happy.

Felton was happy with the sex and very happy with the cooking. It turned out no one else's opinion mattered.

So the next day, early in the morning, I drove Ruby to Baton Rouge, and put her on a bus home first thing.

The days went by slowly at first. I struggled a lot with depression. Doing all this whoring to get some kind of custody or visitation deal with my kids seemed a damn longshot.

But I had a domestic situation that appealed to me. There were four trailers, and four men to each trailer.

Of the ten immigrants that worked for Felton, eight were Mexican and two were Salvadorans. None of them knew a word of English, but I knew a little Mexican and more about Mexican cooking.

I made the 'huevos rancheros' or 'chilaquiles' every morning. And I was open arms for every hug, kiss and an ass pat they all offered before going off to work.

I spent the morning scavenging the few stores still in business for food and drink. I made sandwiches and hand delivered to the work site around noon each day. I didn't loiter. Felton said I was too much of a distraction.

So, it was a short, "Sorry muchachos! I'll see you later."

I went home -- home? Yeah, it didn't take long to feel like it. I was raised trailer trash, and these brand new leased 5th-wheelers were a few steps up in class from that ratty singlewide my husband kept me in.

I would work on dinner. That was catharatic. Keeping 12 men fed was a lot of work! It's a wonder Ruby didn't poison them ... uh-Oh, yeah. She did. Forgot to mention.

After dinner, I'd make the rounds to see who wanted companionship. There were two Mexicans in the group that were real religious. They had their Bibles close by and didn't much approve of me. 

They would get into small talk, try to convert me, but we didn't fuck.

With the others, there was a sexual pecking order of sorts. I always checked on Felton's cock and that of his foreman first. Neither was exactly bursting to go in the libido department, but each was in the mood for some pussy fuck once a week.

Mr. Felton always insisted on a blowjob first thing in the morning. That meant I did all the work, and his participation amounted to saying, "Brush your teeth first, Teresa," and grunting when he came in my mouth.

Most of my action was with the two Salvadorans and three of the Mexicans, all younger boys in their mid-20s to late teens.

I spent my nights in the Salvadorans' trailer, with them and the Mexicans gathered round me. That's where my bed was. I lived amongst them those nights naked. Why bother getting dressed?

We would play cards. They'd put on their music. I would dance cumbias and polkas naked and they would take turns with 'la mami puta' in bed. 

They preferred sex individually. An all-comers gangbang wasn't their style.

Oh, I would talk the Mexicans into an occassional threesome - hey, I love gangbangs! - but these immigrant boys were all homesick and getting alone time with a woman was important to them.

There was so much good sex! I remember my second night in camp, after Mr. Felton and his foreman passed on me, I went to the trailer where my Latinos were playing cards. I was still in tight blue shorts, a red thong and champaigne bra.

One of the Mexicans invited me to sit on his lap, so I did. When he wasn't handling his cards, he was fingering my pussy.

One by one, they all -- there was six men at the table -- started pulling on their zippers and stroking their cocks.

The man next to me, a skinny Salvadoran, would play with the strap on my bra. He pulled the strap off my right shoulder. I followed his playing by pulling my right tit out.

The man I was sitting on, he was getting hard. There was a lot of joking going on about me distracting them from their strategies. 

They got into a playful argument about the man whose lap I was on putting me up to this for his gain. He did have a nice pile of bottle caps at the time, that being their substitute for chips.

He pushed me off to protest his innocence, and I turned up the music and started dancing alone as I stripped off everything but my thong.

They would take turns leaving the game for a round to dance with me. It was a relief to their concentration whenever I got one of my dancers aroused enough to go to the other room.

When I came back, it was usually one of the losers willing to take a break and satisfy our mutual lust.

The boys with bottle cap piles would have to wait.

All these men had wives or girlfriends back home. They all talked about their girls, their children, their hopes and dreams. It was mostly gibberish to me, but I got to know every family picture in the camp.

And they had family! Family was a big topic. They'd ask me about mine and I'd avoid that topic like it was the plague, at least in the beginning.

But one night while visiting one of the Bible thumpers, my mind went to my innocent days as a church-going mom, singing hymns with my little ones and I broke into tears.

I made them to understand my past through bits of words and sign 

The Bible thumpers passed my tale of woe around to the others during the workshift the next day. By then, we were all best friends of sorts.

I got a lot of sympathetic hugs and fanny pats at dinner the next evening.

One Mexican in particular, a boy of 20 named Oscar -- he never passed a chance to have me suck his cock.

He liked to sit at the feet-end corner of my mattress, have me on my knees in front of him, me on the floor slurping softly, and he would caress my hair with one hand and call me, "Mami," and hold onto the corner bed post with his other hand and heave his shoulders and head back and forth like a happy blind man.

He told me his mother was a puta. She provided for him by bringing men into their one-room house. She'd draw a hanging bedsheet across a wire in the room and have sex while he was sent outside or made to sit in the 'kitchen' when the rains came down too hard. He often imagined his mother sucking his own cock, but she never really did.

That night while I had his nuts floating in my mouth he tried to tell me that my children would always love me no matter what. What did he know? What did I know? Maybe it was true. 

But having sex like that, with a sweet boy who still loves his whore of a mother, it gave me hope. And my heart was warm with motherly love for him when he came on my 40D white tits and rubbed his sticky cockhead in the white shellac he spread there.

I felt like an angel and I felt like this was a good thing happening in a good place, and that everything would heal.

Even New Orleans.

Once a month, I took a day trip back home to take my drug test. Pee in a cup. Staying clean wasn't hard, being as I was isolated most of the time in an immigrant work camp on the edge of a wrecked city.

But one sorry day in the late afternoon of long July I sat in court and heard my name called and went up to a judge and admitted to the world that I was a whore. It was all on paper, all official. I was guilty.

"I plead guilty, your honor," I said, confessing out loud to my burning ears to my act of prostitution in my own home, this being the very reason CPS held my whoring ways against me.

And just to seal the deal, the assistant D.A. that was Ruby's cousin had me make a side trip after I saw the judge.

In the privacy of his office, the sneering D.A., his head power mad, made me squat and undo his belt and zipper.

"It's just another fuck for you, isn't it, Terry? Fucking whore," he said as he made me look at the yellow copy sheet in his hand with the typed-out words of my status in society - 'Prostitution - First Offense, Class B misdemeanor.'

He insulted me as I swallowed his arrogant cock back to my throat. Then he put me over his desk, my stomach resting my weight with the desk top, my dress pulled up across my back and his cock plowing into my fertile furrow from behind. "I knew you was a whore even in high school. Mmmm! Mmm! You hot nasty bitch."

I'm from a small East Texas town, so my fall into slutting and whoring and all the more scandalous. Yes, he knew me. Everybody knew me, or thought they did.

His cock pounded into me as he spewed self-righteous justifications for treating me in a way he never would have any other girl he knew in high school. He made me seeth with anger under him, feeling his every thrusting effort to make it humiliating for me.

"How many boys have you fucked, whore? Huh? Shiiiit, must've been hundreds of whites boys and coloreds used this nasty hole!"

I grunted and moaned. As upset as I was, I still had to put on a good act. I needed the bastard, or at least his influence with the courts. And it was not altogether unpleasant having a hard and long-enduring cock. I am, after all, a slut at heart.

"Uhh, you such a whore, Terry, you don't even have to say it. It's a fucking fact. On the court record, you fine hot slut! Nnn, you loving how I give it to you? Huh, bitch?"

I would nod and yes with my head and moan for him, "Ohhh uh-huhh. Mmmmm, yea. Oh, give it to me!"

As he persisted in fucking me, I would have flashes of how my life was, of everything I lost. I wanted to feel penance.

I wanted to feel like doing this, with this asshole, was penance. I told myself that I deserved this for being such a damn fool as to let my rotten husband push me toward this existence, that I deserved this for letting the temptations of sex lead me into doing everything my parents and my former community had worked so hard to warn me against.

The assistant D.A. grabbed my hair and pulled hard, forcing my head up. He brought his other hand around and waved the court paper in my face and fucked me with renewed force. "What does it say, Terry? Read it!"

"Uhhhh!" I moaned, and now a rush of tears filled me eyes and watery black words on pastel yellow paper burned into my rotten soul.

"Prostitution ... first offense ... Class B ... misdemeanor .... plead guilty," I read it back, I read it back again, and again.

He growled and fucked and pulled hair, "You gonna keep whoring, Terry?"

I moaned and swore I would not.

"Liar," he said. "Once a whore, always a whore!"

He sped up his pace. He pulled harder. He growled like a parrot on steroids.

White collar cock doesn't feel like any other cock. There's an extra dash of cheesy bullshit to it. White collar cock might move the same inside my pussy, but it throbs different in the heart. It poisons the soul. While he was fucking me, I found myself preferring my Latinos and their blue collar white bosses back in Kenner.

And I wondered, not for the first time, if I would ever wannt to leave Kenner. What if I was to never get a chance to see my babies again? Why go back?

"Know where I'm gonna cum? I'm gonna pull out and cum all over your fat white ass, Terry. And you're gonna wipe my cum with the back of your dress, you dirty whore. And then you're gonna lick my cock clean. You got that, you dirty bitch?"

He fucked on. He had me wet. He plowed into me a long while. He made me cum. I resented him for that. I didn't wanna cum on his cock. Fucking prick. And true to his word, I had to wipe the sleazeball's cum off my ass and the small of my back with my dress, then kneel before His Righteousness and lick his cock and balls clean.

"Mmmmmm! That's a good slut. Yeah. Lick my staff whore."

When we were done, I asked if I could see my kids. He laughed and sent me on my way with no regard for my needs, "Get the fuck out of here, whore. You'll get what you deserve and nothing more."

I drove east with a pint of rum in my purse. I sipped, raged occasionally, flipped radio channels obsessively, looking for a song that was never going to be there, never going to take the judge and the D.A. off my mind.

Only Felton knew why I left. And it was only to Felton I talked about it that night.

He made me spend the night with him. He didn't ask for sex. He treated me like a daddy consoling his daughter.

I hugged him close. He brought me a small measure of peace.

While all this was going on, my errant husband was not idle. He got us a lawyer. We pooled resources raising cash for a fight with CPS and the social workers. He stayed out of trouble and jumped through his own set of hoops.

And then I got his call on the 24th of the hottest month in Louisiana. CPS would give custody to my parents.


East Texas Whore Ch. 02



March, 2008 

My son was born in September of 2007. I had lost custody of my two other children the previous year.

So, he was all I had.

I named him Kenner, because I had fond memories of my time in Kenner, Louisiana.

I didn't know who his father was. He was conceived during a gang bang over the Christmas holidays of 2007. And I have no more to say about that; I was really fucked up.

People would ask me who the father was. I was always honest about it. I just said I don't know.

You have to understand. I started slutting around in early June of 2005, and I only got started because my husband kept pressuring me to have sex with his friends.

I tried to keep it secret, but his fantasy fulfilled turning into my vice. It only took several months of messing around with other men for my sense of morality dissolved into sexual chaos. And swinging soon progressed into prostituting.

And my old life, my church-based social network, was shut from me forever by the scandal.

I went from a 29-year-old church-going, well-respected mom to a 30-year-old slut so fast I was dizzy at the transformation.

But by March of 2008, four months short of my 33rd birthday, I was a has-been whore. I was fat and depressed and drinking too much.

I live in a small town community. Most of the fellers around here that wanted to fuck me had done so more than once.

Everybody knew my business and nobody much cared, except for my family.

When I was respectable, I worked in a diner. But I wasn't respectable anymore. And the only honest work I could get was waiting tables in a country tavern where the management made it clear I needed to be a sportin' girl. That meant if a customer offered comments of a personal nature that a lady might object to, I had no business pretending I was a lady.

And if a customer wanted to pinch my ass while I was taking his order, so be it.

I put up with that nonsense, but I wasn't so desperate as to let men from the tavern invite themselves into my apartment.

From the birth of my son onward, I hardly ever heard from my husband. Randy had finally lost interest in me altogether. We had been separated about 15 months by the time Kenner popped into this world.

But my father, that was a different story.

Morton, who was 55, and much leaner in physique than his no-count son, had been divorced for years. He was divorced for the common offense of being a cheating bastard. He was always fucking around with younger women. But he never fucked

around with me.

In fact, I never saw much of Morton until I was six months pregnant. He showed up a month after Oscar and the Salvadorans moved out of my apartment. I was deep into the blues at the time. I wasn't getting any sex, I was too heavy to work and getting no government assistance. 

I was seriously considering sucking cock at the truck stop just to pay the rent and utilities.

I was bitching at Randy for help and he was blowing me off. Then one day Morton knocks on my door, said he'd heard from Randy that I was in need.

I let him in. We talked. He was sympathetic and offered to cover my rent until I got back on my feet. I was surprised.

What happened next deeply touched me. I had become very casual at this point in my life about sex. 

Well, I just assumed no man did something for me for nothing. Wouldn't you assume the same?

When he put $840 on the kitchen table to cover the back rent, that month's rent and the light bill, I just assumed he wanted sex, even if I was his daughter.

So I got on my knees to thank him and started massaging his crotch.

He looked shocked, and he pushed my hand away and said I didn't need to do that.

I didn't know what to think. And then my next thought was, "Oh God, he thinks I'm a fat ugly skank!"

Mind you, I was six months pregnant, moody as hell and up to 210 pounds. I'm 5 feet and 7 inches tall and I can carry some weight and look sexy. But not that much weight!

I blushed. And I don't blush easy. I apologized and said, "I don't blame ya for not wanting me. I must by a sight."

He tried to say something, but the situation was so awkward that it all came out in mumbles and I waved him off.

"You don't need to explain nothin.' I can't imagine what it must be like for you in the community, having to deal with having a fat whore for a daughter, and what all you must hear from folk. I'm sorry I offended you. I just don't know how to thank you for this."

I was talking to his shoes because I was ashamed enough of myself not to look him in the eye, and I closed with, "God will repay you."

He left quiet and I felt the fool. I kept telling myself what a dumb-ass I was to make that move. I figured that was the last I'd see of him.

But Morton kept coming by. He brought food. He kept noticing things that needed fixing. The front screen door, the window latch in the kitchen, the clothes hanger pole in the closet.

We got to be friends and he became more talkative. I learned that he was not dating anyone of late. I encouraged him to see someone, but he didn't seem interested.

He kept looking at me during our visits. And it made me wonder.

I wasn't having sex. He wasn't having sex. What was the harm in the two of us hooking up? Then I'd tell myself, "He's your father, dumb shit! No wonder he's hesitant. Besides, he probably thinks he'll catch some god-awful disease."

I knew he was interested. He was there for me when the baby came. He was there for me afterward.

Meanwhile, I breastfed my boy every chance I got. And I started taking long walks. I was determined to bring my weight down.

If Morton wasn't gonna tap my pussy, I wanted to be attractive to somebody.

By March of 2008, I was down to 180 pounds, and my muscle tone was better. I stopped wearing fat girl gowns and started putting on tight skirts and tops to work. I was back in the tavern serving beers and feeling sexy.

But I just couldn't bring myself to take any man serious enough to get in his truck. Truth tell, I still had whore fatigue.

I didn't wanna be one, even if everybody thought I was one.

I kept telling myself, "Okay, I can't go back to the life I had before all this slutting around, but there must be some in-between lifestyle that I can be comfortable with."

During the pregnancy, Morton came by at all hours. But after I got back to work, and I was working nights and Morton worked odd hours of the day, well we got to seeing less of each other.

I noticed the absences made our hearts grow fonder toward each other. I missed his company. And it was plain to me that he missed mine.

I started feeling like the impossible could happen. Could it be? Could I fall in love with my father? Could he fall in love with me?

And I was always needing consoling. I missed my first two children terrible. The visitations through my sister, who remained a custodial trustee of sorts, became less frequent. It was my parents' fault. They were the primary custodial guardians and they poisoned my children against me.

It finally got to the point where I hardly ever exercised my visitation rights because I couldn't bear to see the hate in their eyes. They were never comfortable visiting with me. What was the point?

Well, all that tumbled out when Morton and a bottle of tequila was around. The consoling words started turning into hand-holding. And then hugs.

Then there would be that look -- just a man and a woman looking into each other's eyes, and that familiar pull of desire holding us to each other. He always broke the look first. I didn't want to push him. I felt like I had to wait.

If it was meant to be, he would have to make the first move.

But time passed. And he didn't make that move. And I couldn't understand what was holding him back. Did he think of incest? Was it so terrible? I rationalized all that away. We weren't blood kin. I just happened to be married to his son. He was the grandfather of two children I no longer had.

I started to think, "Why the fuck ain't we divorced yet?" The subject never came up between me and Randy. I had to admit, I liked being able to tell people I still had a husband, even if it didn't mean a damn thing in any practical terms.

But I got to thinking, "If I'm divorced, then Morton isn't really my father anymore and he'll put his hand on my pussy."

I am not a very disciplined thinker. When I get my mind fixated on a subject, it do tend to wander.

I mention this because I was so angry at my father. It was him more than my mom that turned my kids against me. And thinking about incest sex with my father turned during one night of heavy drinking into a fantasy about an incestuous confrontation with my dad.

My daughter's birthday was coming up in a few weeks, and I wasn't going to be able to have anything to do with her birthday party. That just stoked up my daddy hate.

So one night, while inebriated, I recorded video of myself naked, fucking myself with a dildo and talking dirty at my daddy into the camera, begging him to fuck his whore daughter because I was so horny for his cock.

I burned a dvd and mailed it to his attention under false pretenses in the hopes he'd put it into the dvd player before he realized my ruse. The package was disguised as religious promotional material from an out-of-town church that I knew he had a passing acquaintance with.

I knew he would be fooled long enough to at least see the beginning of my homemade porn. How far into it he would go, I had no idea.

Days passed and I did not get a call from daddy, not that I expected one. But the day of my daughter's birthday arrived and I was in a bad way when Morton came by the house. It was a Saturday afternoon and we talked about her and the birthday.

And between shots of tequila, I confessed to Morton what I had done to my father. I didn't expect him to do anything more than maybe scold me for being a bad girl.

But he put his hand on my thigh and started stroking and asked me if I needed a daddy so bad I would do such a wicked thing as that.

I was wearing a tight bluejean skirt and a plaid red and white blouse. I was wearing a black thong. I was in bare feet.

It was 2 p.m. and I was supposed to be at work by 3 p.m. I was a little drunk. As soon as he touched me in that way and said what he said, I started thinking I was in no condition to go to work, and maybe I should call in sick.

My feelings for Morton were too strong. I had been holding deep feelings from him longer than I could stand and I said the stupidest thing any woman can say. I grabbed his hand tight and pulled it up to my pussy and I said as serious as a heart attack, "Morton, I wanna have a baby with you soooo bad."

His jaw dropped. He pulled his hand away. And he said, "I ... I ... I .... uhhhh!"

I stood up, and realizing my insane response tried to make like it was a joke. "I'm kidding! Morton, I'm kidding!"

He let out a nervous, "Whew!"

And I thought, 'Fuck! I just made his dick shrivel.' I took a gamble and sat on his lap and hugged him.

"Mmmmmmmm, Morton. You been so good to me. I wouldn' mind one damn bit if you was my sexy daddy. In fact, I'm really sweet on you."

"You are?" he said.

We smiled at each other and that broke the ice. Of course, he knew I was sweet for him!

I pulled my head away from over his shoulder and looked at him and smiled and said, "I am. Oh, I am!"

"You shouldna' taunted yore daddy like that, Teresa. You got another daddy that would have loved to see that dvd."

I looked at him quizzically, "Morton, are you jealous?"

"I am," he said in all seriousness.

His right hand slid up from my knee across my thigh and patted my big white butt. Then he squeezed the flesh and I knew we were gonna do it.

I offered my mouth to his lips. He played with my tongue. I moved his hand from my ass to my pussy, my thighs parting where I sat.

"You a dirty girl, provoking your flesh and blood daddy like that, such a dirty girl," he said. "What would you do if he was to get so excited as to come looking for you?"

I felt his thumb swirled around my clit as he spoke to me.

"I'd tell him to go to hell," I answered. "I'd tell him I was just showin' him what he been missing for being such a bastard with me. I'd tell him I got me a new daddy."

I felt his dick hard against under my butt.

"Why would you tell him that?" he asked as his middle finger hooked into my pussy.

"Cuz I got a daddy here. You my daddy now," I said, now feeling the rush of blood into my pounding head.

Morton grabbed my hair and pulled me into a kiss. When we broke it, he said, "I'm a be yore nasty daddy?"

"Uh huh," I responded.

"You gonna be my nasty daughter?"

"Yes, daddy!," I responded.

He pulled me into a kiss. His left hand let loose my hair and wandered to my right breast. I undid my blouse, then I undid my bra.

It was fresh to my mind at this point that my father had never seen me naked. All the men in town that had fucked me, and here was this sweet man that had never even seen my bare chest.

It was his first time with me, and I felt such a warm and loving urge to offer myself.

"Does daddy wanna suck his widdle girl's nipple?" I asked in a girlish accent as I gently pushed my 40-D fleshy white tit into his face.

"Daddy wants," he said with a smile.

He sucked and drew milk. I was feeding him. The sensation of finally being able to give back to him something for all he had done for me, the sense of gratefulness - it was overpowering. I felt flooded with a healing power, and his mouth suckled at my dribbling nipple, and the four fingers of his right hand fucked with this driving need into my wet, fleshy pussy.

I thought it predictable that my sharing with him the story of my provocation against my own father should excite him. I thought, 'I should have done that sooner!'

He kept sucking milk from me and finger fucking my horny cunt. I dived into the role of the incestuous and horny daughter.

"Oh, daddy! Yes. Oh, daddy! Yes! Mmmmm! Is your baby girl's milk sweet, daddy?"

Maybe it was all the shit that I had been through, but this was the most loving I had felt with anyone, ever. It was never like this with his son. It was never like this with anyone. I wanted so desperately to tell him that I loved him, that I really did want his child, but I didn't dare.

When he had his fill from my right breast. He asked for the left. And I gave it to him. And he sucked milk. When he had his fill of that, he commanded me to my knees.

I went there gladly. I took out his cock. I licked his member slowly. I licked with long languid strokes. I was so grateful that I had the experience with men to be patient with an older gent. He was semi-hard and it took him a lot of daughter licks to get hard enough to stab some pussy.

I felt one with him. I closed my eyes and pumped on his cock, my palms flat against the fabric of his jeans at the knees.

He would moan softly and every once in awhile say, "Dirty girl, oooo you dirty girl!"

He didn't grab my hair. But he would rub his thumb up and down the bridge of my nose while I sucked his cock. That made me feel like a kitten being petted.

When he was good and hard, I pulled his cock out of my mouth with a wet smack and stroked it while we talked.

"What do you want, Morton? I'll do it any way you like."

"Oh, baby girl," my father said. "Why don'tcha get out of the skirt and dance for your daddy."

I smiled and stood, bent over, still stroking his cock with one hand. I used my other hand and wiggling hips to shake down my skirt to the floor.

Then I toyed with my thong, pulling it tight against my vagina as I wiggled my hips.

"Big girl butt," Morton said, "gorgeous thighs, baby."

I let go of his cock and he took over the wanking chores while I danced like a skank and worked that tortured thong down to my ankles. I turned and squatted and shook my junk, running my fingers over my cracks while my daddy by law jerked at his cock.

I was trying to be playful. I didn't want to blow our play by sending him any more 'love you madly' telegrams. And I was being very attentive now, making eye contact frequently, smiling lasciviously.

My father was definitely enjoying himself. And getting braver about expressing his needs.

"Oh Terry, you dirty whore!" he said.

And there it was, that part of me that was on his mind.

"Yesssss, daddy. Yor baby'z a dirty, nasty whore!" I replied, but my heart got just a little cold. He had been so supportive. How many times had he told me I didn't have to be that kind of woman anymore?

"Come down here 'n suck it, bitch!" he said, his soul now flooding with lust.

"Yes, daddy," I said obediently.

I knelt and resumed the act of oral sex on my father.

No more rubbing my nose like I was his kitten. Now he was grabbing hair and calling me a "good whore."

"You such a good whore, baby. I can't believe I waited so long to put you on my cock. Nnnnn! You nasty bitch!"

As I sucked him, I told myself it's just talk. He really does love me. I just know he does!

The second round of oral only lasted a couple of minutes because I stopped and looked up at him while I pinched the cock-head.

"Morton, I want you to come to my bed now."

I needed to be firm with him, to get out of the dirty talk and get real. I stood up in my nakedness and walked away. I went to my bed and lay there on my back and waited. It didn't take but a few moments for him to follow and press his knees into the far end of the mattress.

"I'm gonna ask you not to call me a whore or a bitch again, Morton. I know you just playin' and you don't mean it, but I don't want to be in that mindset. Can you make love to me?"

Morton smiled and stroked my calves and thighs and parted my legs.

"I believe I can, Theresa. I believe I can," he said confidently. "And that ain't no simple thing for me at my age. But you make me feel young again."

He put the weight of his stomach on mine and we kissed and I stroked his cock like a pro. I pressed a hard cock-head to my wet hole.

He pushed in and we kissed again.

I grabbed his face and made him look at me. Our eyes locked as he fucked.

"I need you with me, Morton," I said. "I need you so much!"

"You're good for me, Therrr!" he came back.

I wouldn't let go of his face. And when he began to tire and broke his gaze, I growled, "Don't you stop looking at me. Be real with me, Morton. Don't look at a whore. Look past that. Please, daddy, can you look past that!"

And I realized in that moment that I -- uh -- had daddy issues.

"Yes, baby," he replied. "I see you, baby. I see you. I'm making love to you. Is this how you need it, baby?"

"Yes, daddy. Yessss!"

Blissful moments passed. He moved inside me. He moved steady and we only broke our stares to kiss. He told me my lips were so sweet. I told him I loved him. I truly loved him. I had to say it. I couldn't hold it back anymore.

He didn't say he loved me back. But he did say, "You're not a whore to me, baby. Not to me."

It didn't sound convincing. I felt like that was the best he could do in so far as he was trying to tell me what I wanted to hear.

He spent himself inside me. He let his weight fall on me. Then he rolled to his left onto the mattress.

I shifted my weight to face him and wrapped a leg over his hip. We stared at each other and smiled. He took my head in his hand and kissed me.

I asked him, "Morton, how long have you wanted to do it with me? Make love, have sex?"

He looked away and left a silence between us. I poked him in the rib.

"Teresa, I been imagining lying down with you since before you married. You was a damn hot youngster back in yor high school days. And you just kept getting hotter in my eyes," he said.

"Go on!" I said back with another finger poke at his ribs. "You wanted to love me up that far back?"




East Texas Whore Ch. 02



"I did!" he said.

"Well, you never let on," I said. "Is that why you started coming round to help me?"

"It was in my mind that we might, maybe could," he said, now looking at me serious. "I don't mean to keep bringing it up, but after you got into the whoring, well, I couldn't help but see you in a different light and imagine all those men taking advantage of a ... "

"Whore," I offered.

"Yes. That," he said, looking away as he confirmed it.

"Do you have feelings for me, Morton, I mean beyond me helping your cock feel young again?"

He stroked my hair, he smiled sweet, his old eyes twinkled, his hand slid down to my butt. And I knew he did. And I kissed him, and he kissed me back strong.

I felt so strong for him that I got on top and licked down his chest to his balls. I licked his sack and nosed into the flesh of his groin.

I came up for air to ask, "Do you mind me telling you I love you all the time, Mort? Cuz I feel like saying it lots! I love you so!"

He grinned and said, "You love me all you please, Terry."

I licked and sucked at his balls and cock for awhile, but sat up on my butt and rested my head on his chest. "You ain't gonna say it back, are you? That you love me?"

He let another pause drag between us. Then he said, "Terry, if things was different. If I weren't your father. If everybody wasn't thinking of you the way they do, well, who knows where this mighta gone. But I am what I am and you are ..."

"You don't have to be my father! If I divorce Randy ... well, then you ain't."

"Terry. Wouldn't matter none if you got some court papers saying you and Randy were no longer man and wife. You always gonna be my daughter."

I let that sink in. I didn't want to see his point, but he had one. I'm not very good about being honest with myself. I lie to myself often about my circumstances, and about my personal character. 

It's not easy looking in the mirror.

But Morton spent the night with me. I had him to cling to until the morning sun woke him and took him away.

I had high hopes that our relationship would progress, that we would settle into a domestic routine. I had hopes that we would be a couple, even if it was just in a clandestine way. 

But Morton didn't want to change the way things were. He started having sex with me on a regular basis. And once in awhile, he'd spend the night. I could keep him with me long enough in the morning to make him breakfast. But then he'd disappear for a few days.

I was always inviting him to stay longer. He would always find some reason to leave. 

I was always suggesting we go out on a date. He never would. Being seen in public with me, as physically forward as I was with him - that was something he would not do.

But what we did have, I liked. I was trying not to be too pushy. I didn't want to scare him off. 

Meanwhile, I did go through the motions in the late spring of 2008 of filing for a divorce. It was time to make a clean break with Randy.

In the first week of July, 2008, I celebrated two things. The first was the judges decree that permanently dissolved my marriage, and the second was my 34th birthday. I decided to celebrate by giving into temptation.

There was an old customer of mine that had been frequenting the bar for months. He always flashed money at me and I always refused. But on my 34th birthday, I felt entitled to a little lapse in willpower.

I left the bar with him and let him take me to a motel where I prostituted myself for $200. It wasn't anything special. I just wanted to be a whore for a night - like old times.

But I had to admit, there was something about getting a taste of whoring that had a strong pull on me.

When I got back to my apartment the next morning, my father - my real father- was sitting behind the wheel of his car in the parking lot. He stepped out of his car when he saw me.

We stared at each other across the parking lot. He stepped forward until he was close enough to touch my shoulder. He said, "I rang the bell, but you weren't home."

We had not seen or spoken to each other in nearly a year. I could not imagine why he needed to be camping out in front of my apartment the morning after my 34th birthday.

"Is there something wrong with my babies?" I asked him.

"No ... no, nothing wrong there," he said.

Then he looked me over, top to bottom. He asked, "Where you been? It don't look like you came home last night."

I didn't see any reason to lie. In fact, it appealed to my senses to offend him by being graphic about what had just happened.

"I went out with a customer last night. I whored myself for $200. Do you want the details?"

I opened my purse and showed my father the cash - the ten $20s I got for sucking and fucking some man that just wanted me for my body.

But my father sneered at me and reached for his own penis. He pinched himself and said, "Yeah, I figured as much."

It wasn't until then that I remembered the dvd, the one I burned for him of myself masturbating with a dildo. And I thought, "Oh, dear god."

"Why don't we go inside your apartment and discuss your total lack of decency?" he said.

"Uh-uh!" I said. "Last time I got alone inside a house with you, you beat the living shit outta me. I had to go to the hospital."

"What did you expect?" he asked. "I had just found out that my daughter was a prostitute!"

I started feeling nervous. 

"Daddy, I don't think this is a good idea. You coming here."

He shook his head no and said, "Why did you send that porn of you begging your own father to have sexual relations with you? What sickness in you drives decent men to madness? You are Satan's plaything, aren't you?"

"Daddy, I was just mad is all, with you for all the things you told my kids about me," I said.

"And did I lie? Did I tell them an untruth? Did I not do what any responsible guardian should do, to warn young innocents away from, from what you've become?"

I looked around and not at him. I felt an uncomfortable warmth. I felt the dread of judgment day climb up my spine like a demon coming for my head.

"I'm sorry, daddy. I'm sorry about the porn thing. I'm sorry about everything."

"It's too late for sorry, you unrepentant, filthy slut!"

I could see he was all worked up, but I wasn't about to invite him in my apartment.

"Leave, daddy. Leave now," I said as firm as I could.

"No. I'm not going anywhere," he said, and just as insistent to stay as I was for him to go. "How would you like things to change? I want things to change. How would you like to see your babies again? How would you like it if daddy was to put in some kinds words to your children, to help you mend those relations that are so dear to you?"

And with his proposition plain to me, he raised his hand to my hip and placed it there. He meant to take possession of my body.

I cringed. I missed my children. But was it worth it? Could I bear taking my own father to my bed?



East Texas Whore Ch. 03



My father had rudely interrupted my morning.

I had just returned from having sex with a client. It was my first act of prostitution in what felt like ages, and I was totally satisfied with the experience. In fact, on the drive back that morning I was thinking it wouldn't be such a terrible idea to make a little extra money whoring on a more regular basis, as long as I didn't overdo it.

Let's face it, I was no spring chicken and whoring was not an option that would be available to me much longer. I might make decent money at it for another five years, but I in no way saw myself whoring into my 40s.

But with my father there in the parking lot, nursing a hard-on for me and admiring my tight outfit more than a daddy should, all those thoughts evaporated, and I thought to myself that it was a good thing I took a shower before I left my client's residence.

"Daddy, you don't want to do this," I insisted. "This isn't you. You're just all worked up because I taunted you, and I'm sorry for that. I really am."

He moved his hand from my hip to my bottom, squeezing my broad butt cheek. He leaned into me enough that I felt the knuckles of his other hand moving against my abdomen; the other side of that hand was squeezing his penis.

Ewww! I thought, This isn't even remotely exciting me. Fucking my father is one thing, but my own father?

"What do you say, Terri?" daddy asked. "Your papa puts in a good word with your children, smooths over those hard feelings, and you show your papa what a nasty girl you are."

"Daddy, stop it!" I was feeling guilty for inciting him to this. "This isn't you talking. You're a good man. Mama, she's the only woman you ever had sex with in your whole life!"

"That may be true, yes, ... " he started.

"Not maybe. Not maybe. It's a fact," I insisted.

"But we haven't been intimate in six years," he said.

"Uhhh, too much information! And don't you need to work that out with her?" I reached down and pulled his hand away from my butt and took a step back.

He frowned and his expression transformed to agitation.

"Why are you being hard to get? Aren't you the one who can't get enough of this?" he asked as he shook his hand on his penis. "How is it you can open your legs for every other man in this county but you get all righteous with your own father who has needs too!"

I was feeling sorry for him, but I still didn't want to fuck - not even remotely interested.

"Pa, all this talk about making my babies like me again, it's bullshit. You can't take back what you said to them. You can't turn them on and off like they are toys. They hate me! They hate me! That's, that's a thing that will take years to change, if it ever does change. So, don't come round here telling me you NEED to fuck me! I'm not the only whore in Liberty County."

"You, YOU! are the only whore that I want!" he shouted as he shook a finger at me. And tears welled up in the eyes of his contorted face.

It made sense that he would fantasize about me, after all the crap that I had pulled. I wanted to be understanding, but this whole situation was so fucking weird. I felt like our little parking lot drama was stuck in black and white. I was some dark, malignant she-devil and he was this poor, mortally wounded old white knight. 

I remembered the beating he gave me when he found out that I was whoring. It was so vivid in my mind. The weeks that passed when it was so hard to get out of bed because of the broken ribs he gave me. I remember the expression on his face when he beat me. 

He was so hurt, so completely devastated. And now he needed me, in a sick way, but he had come to me seeking relief.

That look in his eyes now, it was years in the making, and it was my doing. I broke down. I felt a resignation to at least make an effort at providing my daddy a mercy fuck.

I sighed and nodded my head to one side, "Come innnnn!" I groaned.

I turned and walked toward my lonely apartment. I stepped inside and the loneliness of it wrapped around me. For the thousandth and umpteenth time I was reminded of the happy noise that was not there because my parents had custody of my two older children.

Father followed me inside as I stared at the carpet around his shoes and chewed at the corner of my bottom lip.

"Where is your son," he asked. "Where do you leave your baby when you go whoring?"

"He's with a friend," I said defensively. "I take good care of him."

"And whose father does he come from?" he asked, already knowing the answer; it wasn't as if we had not had this conversation before.

"Let it go, daddy!" I complained.

"Are you still filthy from that man you sold your body to last night?"

"Jeez!" I retorted. "You know, you're not exactly putting me in the mood for this ... and no! I'm not still filthy. I took a shower daddy. I'm a cleaned up whore! Do you want me to take another shower? Would that make me more fuckable?"

"Yes, please," he said, unable apparently to keep from insulting me. "Take another shower. You look dirty to me."

I rolled my eyes and thought about saying something smart, but I bit my tongue and said, "I'll take another shower. I'll clean out all of his cum, not there is any left!"

I went alone into the bath and undressed there. I showered for 30 minutes, not being in any hurry to get out. I figured - wishful thinking - that he might lose his nerve or his patience and just leave. 

But when I stepped out of the bathroom with a big yellow towel wrapped around me, enough to cover my breasts and bottom, he was sitting patiently at my little dining room table, reading an old newspaper that Morton had left behind.

I pulled up a chair and sat next to him close enough for my knees to press against this left thigh. He raised his head and looked into my eyes. They were mournful eyes. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't say anything.

I began to unwrap the top and let it fall so daddy could see my bare breasts. I watched him and his eyes moved up and down from my face to my chest to my legs and up again.

Then I decided to speak my honest mind.

"Daddy, it's not like this is the creepiest thing I have ever done. Lord knows, some of the men I have been with are the god-damndest pigs to ever get up on two legs; they belong in a swamp. If you really, really want to do this, I'll help you through it. But it's liable to mess your head up more than it will mine."

I reached out and held his hand. He squeezed mine and said, 'I miss my little girl. Where did she go? Why must you be this, this kind of woman?'

I didn't answer. It seemed like a rhetorical question, anyway. I lifted his hand to my bare breast and pressed his palm against it, spreading his fingers across the surface of my fleshy white melon with my finger tips.

"Have you no shame? It is so easy for you to behave this way?" he said, his voice inflecting a little anger.

"This is what you came here for, isn't it?" I said.

After all, wasn't I -- just as much as he -- in a position to question motives and character? I looked at him and he looked old, older than I remembered. It occurred to me that I had not really taken a good look at him even on those occasions where we had most recently been in eye contact.

His brown hair had turned almost all white. He was 56 now, and the sun had beaten wrinkles and blemishes all into his face. It occurred to me that I could not remember the last time I saw him smile. I didn't think I would be able to make him smile now, either. He had clearly come here on a mission to have himself some kind of misogynist revenge fuck, but his heart wasn't really in it.

His 'fuck-my-whoring-daughter' fantasy seemed to have run its course while I was taking my shower. I just didn't sense the same tension in him that was there when he first stepped into my apartment. But he had questions. He wanted answers.

"What I am, it disturbs you. It disturbs you as my father," I said. "But it disturbs you as a man, too. And I know all about that kind of disturbance," I said.

I pulled myself up enough to get out of my seat, but not nearly enough to stand straight. I was stooped toward him and I stepped forward, and with my bath towel still wrapped around my waist I slid my thick, white inner thighs over his knee and pressed my washed pussy down on the muscle of his thigh.

"Remember how I used to sit on your lap pa?" I said.

He nodded a yes but did not speak. 

The heat of my pussy expanded, radiating heat into his thigh. We sat together quietly, looking at each other intently.

"You did not sit on my like this, when you were my girl," he said.

We kept looking at each other intently. My breasts heaved as I took a deeper breath. He glanced down at my chest. I had my left forearm resting casually on the edge of the table, I let it slide to his lap and my fingernails scratched at his penis like a cat clawing a scratching post, or the form of it within his pants.

Our eyes were locked down on each other, and I said, "I'm still your girl, papa."

I took his hand again, and again placed it on my bare breast. He allowed his hand to rest there, unmoving at first. Then he squeezed at it slightly.

I moved in for the kill. I pressed my lips against his ear, "Don't think about the others. You're the only here now. It's just you and me."

All this time, these long moments with his hand on my breast, and my right hand holding it there. My father seemed frozen, an old stone unable to break free of his petrified state.

"When I made that dvd, of me FUCKING my hole with that dildo, begging you to put your COCK in me, I wanted to feel YOU - uhhhh! - FUCKING ME soooooo hard, mmmmmmmm."

His hand moved, it squeezed harder at my breast. I felt motion in his crotch with my left hand. His old penis was finally twitching to life.

"Were you always so nasty?" he asked.

"Mmmmm, yes daddy. I wanted to be with the bad boys. I wanted them to teach me how to be a slut."

I licked at his neck. He pawed at my breast. I found the zipper tab and tugged. His cock twitched.

"Tell me all about it," he said.

I pulled the zipper down. I moved my right hand away from his wrist - he was doing fine working the tit now. I used my right hand to pull at my bath towel, I lifted myself just enough to yank the towel away from my waist and let it fall to the floor. I sat down again, keeping the heat of my pussy on my father's thigh.

"I would tease men behind Randy's back, even when we were dating in high school," I said.

"I thought Randy was the one, that he was the evil influence in your life." he said.

"No, daddy. He found out I was cheating on him. He was the saint. He forgave me. I was fucking black men and Randy forgave me. I wanted to see what it was like to give my body to a black man. And I did. And Randy found out."

"Ahhh! So he treated you like a whore because you were already acting like one," my father said.

"Yess, daddy. Your little girl was very, very bad."

My hand went inside, my fingers slipped around his penis. It was semi-hard. Our eyes never broke contact. 

I was beginning to feel arousal. I was in control. I was seducing my father. I was feeling the tension of anticipation. I knew I could have talked him out of it. I could have made him leave.

But I'm a bad girl. And even though the idea of fucking my father did not turn me on. The idea of twisting him around my little finger did. That was my sexual high in this.

My papa was in an erotic trance. He was into this in a way that was over his head. He was not used to sinning, to letting the devil ride him like a bitch. He was panting hard, like an old man running up stairs.

"And you still delight in your wickedness?" he asked as he began to perspire from sheer lust.

"Oh yesss, papa. I love being the whore."

His cock twitched hard in my hand. I pulled it free of his pants and stroked it, rubbing the head against my upper mid-thigh.

"You are so ... able ... with the ... you KNOW these things ... so well," he said, observing now with some amazement my abilities at applying pressure and motion on his old penis.

"Old cocks, young cocks, white cocks, brown and black cocks ... I've handled hundreds of cocks, papa," I said in a sensual, husky soft voice.

"Whores belong to the Devil. Is that what you want? Eternal damnation?" he asked.

"Yess, papa. That'sss what I want," I said with a lascivious grin.

I began to rock my hips, humping my bare, hot, pussy on his thigh.

"Shameless!" he said.

"Yes, papa. Your little girl is shameless," I said, and the tension between our eyes became so taut I half expected to hear a thunderbolt. Something had to give.

His organ grew hard in my hand. It was hard, and I was a little surprised. I wasn't sure that I would be able to get him that solid without a pill - not that I didn't have plenty lying around. Morton used them frequently.

I had a moment of inspiration. I thought of the perfect move to break our eye contact. I stood up and turned, showing him my back. I went to my knees and rested my arms and head on the seat of my chair. I pulled my hair over my shoulder to give him an unobstructed view, and I said, "See, I belong to him."

There was one very large tattoo on my back. It had been there for a few years now and the colors were not as vivid. But the image was shocking in its vulgarity.

It was a hoof-legged red devil. His beastly legs straddled wide and the hooves were resting on my kidneys. A donkey-sized dark cock hung across the lower third of my spine and dripped cum drops on the dimpled triangle Y at the top of my big white ass.

The horned devil smiled with slanted firey. His face was situated between my shoulder blades. He had one, long-fingered hand with claw nails holding his huge cock, and the other hand was scratching into my rib cage and drawing rivulets of inky blood.

The whore mongers that fucked me loved taking me from behind, doggy-style, to watch the devil dance as their thrusting cocks shoved in and out of me, shaking my backside, my whole body in a slutty ass-slapping fuck frenzy.

How hard would it be for my father to envision those whore mongers, this constant stream of wicked men - who having paid a small price for their piece of whore meat - happily fulfilling their desires, pleasure themselves, thrusting themselves inside this white trash bitch.

I heard loud breathing. I closed my eyes and smiled. I knew he was masturbating.

"You ...." he said in the course of interrupting his heavy breathing. "You chose to give your soul to Satan! I did not have anything to do with this. It was .... uh! ... not my doing."

I opened my eyes and looked over my shoulder, I smiled and said, "Want to cum on my back, papa?"

"Don't look at me!" he hissed. "You are trash, you are garbage!"

I shrugged my shoulders. I closed my eyes and again I rested. This was too easy.

I arched my back, raised my thighs away from my calves, and I began to tease him with a slow fucking motion with my hips. The devil started dancing on my back, taunting my father to fuck his whore daughter.

"Stop!" he said. "Don't!"

I smiled and looked, not at him, but at his penis and jerking hand. I opened my mouth and swirled my tongue around my lips.

"Oooo, papa. Your cock looks sooo good to me now!" 

"You are trash!" he protested. He was resisting. He wanted to put it in me, but he didn't want to. He knew what a terrible sin it was, what a terrible victory for the Devil if this God-fearing man should take his daughter's pussy - even if she was just a common whore.

I reached behind me, and with my fingers I parted the lips of my labia as I continued to shake my hips and make the Devil dance on my back.

He leaned in and grabbed my hair. He pulled my head back. 

"Stop moving like a dirty bitch!" he said, the tension in his voice rising to a low growl.

But I kept shaking my hips, and fondling my vagina.

"What's the matter papa, not man enough to stick it in me?"

He dropped to one knee, he let go of my hair to undo his buckle while he kept his other hand jerking the cock.

I turned and looked at him, wagging my tongue, my eyelids dropped low, then my eyelids flipping up, and then my eyeballs rolled up into my skull and I said, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck me! Fuck me, papa, fuck your little bitch! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck that hole, fuck that pussy hole, fuck it!"

"Nnnnnn!" he moaned. "Huhhhhh!"

He pushed the head in. The head of his - my daddy's hard cock - pushed it in, pushed in more, pushed it in.

He moaned like a horny girl: "Nnnn, uhhh, ooooo!"

Emotionally, it felt like role reversal. I was clearly fucking him. I was the dirty talker and he was the bitch taking it. He was under my spell, moaning for my pussy. He was the one saying, "No, nooo, noooo oh don't stop. You shameless .... nnnn! oh god forgive me!"

"Yeahhhh, yes papa. Oh, he's gonna forgive you. Cuzzzzz itsssss all my fault, all my doing. I made you come here. I tempted you into this, into committing incest. Uhhh, yeah! How does it feel, papa? How does it feel? All this incestuous FUCKING!"

"Ahhh! Nnnn! Stop! Stop your filthy talk! You whore! You plaything of the devil. Damn you to Hell!" he cursed as he pumped his hard, hot, white daddy cock up into my wet and willing hole.

My restraint was gone. My initial aversion to having sex with my father had blossomed into the sick and twisted thing it was meant to be.

This was one of those rare moments in life where I stopped lying to myself. I stopped trying to tell myself that I was or could be a decent and good woman. This was all my doing. It really was. I knew when I made the dvd, that if my father actually saw it, it would be too much for him. It would lead to further corruption and possibly this.

And if he had not fucked me, he would have fucked another whore - also, for the first time in his life. And he would have imagined her to be me. He was now a good man gone bad because of the disgrace and temptation his daughter had brought on him. 

How hard must it be for a father to know - to have all doubts pushed aside - to know without reservation that his daughter has become a prostitute, and that she did so willingly, and that she is devoted to committing every sin he had dreaded, every sin that he had hoped with all his heart she would avoid.

I pushed back in the parking lot to make him lust after me more. I felt sweet wickedness. I felt the glow of a wicked deed accomplished. I felt the transcending satisfaction of victory, of my power of papa. I felt him thrust inside me like a tortured beast trying to get rid of something it can never quite get out completely.

"You will never be rid of me," I said in triumph.

He grunted. He ejaculated. He panted and whined, "eee-nough! eee-nough!"

He rested his hairy round belly into the small of my back while his cock was wracked in the last of its ejaculating twitches. 

I declared the obvious.

"I have in me my father's semen."

He moaned a low, hurtful, "ooooohhh ooohhh!"

"Yes, daddy! You came inside your whore daughter! Mmmmm!

I felt like I had taken a boy's cherry. What must it be like, I wondered, for a boy to lose his cherry to a whore?

I pushed away the chair that I had been leaning on. I scooted around on the floor to look him over. He had his pants down to his knees. He was on both knees. His head was hung low and his eyes closed. His pecker was not shrinking but it was limp.

His breathing was beginning to calm down. I had a vicious urge to interrupt his rest. I stood up, straddled his knees, grabbed his head and pressed my pussy against his face. I found my clit rubbing on the tip of his nose.

"Lick my clit!" I demanded with a full-throated bark. He shivered, then he obeyed.

His tongue expertly worked the nub - my pink and fleshy little pleasure zone. 




East Texas Whore Ch. 03



"You better do it for me better than you do it for mama!"

He fiddled at the nub with more passion. He groaned and sputtered and I saw him reach for his penis and stroke it was he ate me.

"Eat me! Eat the whore you made - yes you did, yes you did, yes you did! You brought me into this world!"

His brow contorted into a tortured frown. He uttered muffled groans that just accentuated the pleasure of his humming, wriggling tongue.

He sucked loudly into the soft, cum-oozing fleshy folds of my cunt, passionately sucking at my cunt like a torn man doing penance. He sucked and moaned into the crevice of his slutty child.

I held his head and rocked my hips and pressed my pussy hard against his lips and tongue. I felt good! I felt hot!

"Yesss, daddy! Oh, papa! Eat baby's pussy, love my clit, daddy!"

I had him where I wanted him. I felt such power. I felt like a million-dollar whore. It was fucking amazing making my daddy go ape-shit, trying so hard to make his daughter squirt all over his tongue-fucker face.

"Uhhhhh!" I let out. 

I held his head tight and fucked that daddy mouth and squirted all over him. The little bitch!

I pushed his head away, took a step back, fell into the chair with my ass slapping on wood. I laughed and made lewd gestures with my hand on my pussy and my tongue circling the air.

"Stand up!" I barked.

He stood up. What a big, easy cunt he was, I thought.

"Come to me," I said, my finger wagging at him. He stepped into range of my hands and head. 

I lifted his semi-hard cock and licked it for the first time. I swallowed it into my mouth and sucked on my daddy's penis while he watched. He was in a kind of tortured, submissive stupor.

I took his cock out of my mouth and laughed. I dipped my face under it while I held it up and squeezed on it like it was a stress ball, and I kissed and licked my father's testicles.

"You bad daddy!" I said. "You shot your semen up my pussy. To your own daughter, you did that."

And I suckled on a nut, then let it go, still squeezing his cock.

"What are you trying to do, papa? Hmmm?"

I licked that shaft, and sucked on the head, then let it go with a lip-smacking pop.

"Want to get me pregnant? I'm still fertile, you know ... how would that look, knocking up your own daughter?"

I squeezed the cock and licked his semen and my pussy juices clean of the shaft, head, balls and pubic hairs.

Then I sucked him in earnest until I got him hard. That took awhile, but he was in no hurry to stop me. I looked up from time to time, and as his cock grew stiffer his expression gradually changed from one of shame and haggard defeat to one of grimacing lust. He was coming around, letting the full measure of his lust take hold.

I stood up, held him by his penis and towed him out of the dining area, step by step, into the bedroom. I lay on my back and I didn't have to give any more orders.

He got on top, knees between my wicked white thighs. I straightened my legs up straight into the air and tapped his ears with my big toes. He grabbed my ankles, I guided his penis to the soiled treasure.

He thrust into me. Our eyes locked again, for the second, long sexual stare-down. We fucked.

We fucked for a sweet and wicked, twisted eternity.

Some thirty minutes into the act, other than groans and moans, the only words that passed between us were him saying, "I want to cum inside you!"

And me saying, "Do it, papa!"

This is what he came for. This was what he needed me to give him.

And when he came inside me, I felt giving - not selfish. Lust helps get the sex act started, but somewhere toward the completion of the act, it's just two human beings desperate to be a part of something incredible.

When he came, I arched my back up, I raised my ass up, I arched into his thrusts. I pulled my ankles free of his grip, and dug my heels into his lower back. I let down the facade of the she-devil. For that one stupid moment, I totally let my guard down.

I said, "I'm sorry .... I'm sorry ... I'm sorry I made you ... do me. I'm sorry."

But he grew stern. He didn't have anything to say to me, and I thought the moment required some sort of mutual confession. 

He walked silently to the bath and took a shower. After a few minutes, I got up and went in with him. I helped clean him as I washed myself. Once we were rinsed and the water shut off, I asked, 'Papa? Daddy? Are we okay with each other?"

He shook his head in a gesture of No!, stepped out, dried himself off and put on his clothes.

"You tempted me. I could not resist. That is all this is about," he said. "But there are boundaries that must be maintained. I came here to get serviced by a whore. How much do I owe you?"

That stung. I dropped my jaw and looked away. "Just get the fuck out!"

He took out his wallet and threw four fifties on the bed. "That should take care of it," he said.

And he left.



East Texas Whore Ch. 04



June, 2008

In June of 2008, I was coming up on my 33rd birthday. I was struggling with depression more than usual. I know. Women are moody and emotional, but this was different.

Three months earlier, I had sex with my father. And in the days following that sick act, I withdrew. I started avoiding Morton (my father), not taking his calls. He called three or four times a day. At first, I took his calls just to say that I wasn't feeling well. He asked about symptoms, as if I had some physical illness. I said it wasn't like that. I just needed some time alone.

I would spend hours in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to put on makeup. And I couldn't get it right. I hated my face. I hated the war paint. Every look was the wrong look. I didn't know what I wanted to look like.

I was out of pot to smoke and with no desire to look for any. I was drinking hard liquor to the point of being a stumbling, mumbling idiot. I was calling in sick, not wanting to work, not wanting to face the men at the bar who wanted to see if they could get their waitress to sneak into their car in the parking lot for a blow job.

Not that I did that. But they asked. They knew me and they asked and I had to expect it.

I was full of regret. Fucking papa was the bitch of all psychological hangovers. And I dreaded him calling me, looking to me to relieve himself again. I knew he would. Now that he had his taste, he'd be back. It was just a matter of time.

But he did not. The days passed, and there was no call. And somehow they just made it all worse. I'd sit in front of the mirror, drunk, tearing up, my makeup all smeared up, and tell myself, 'Daddy killed his little girl. He just wanted to rub out any sweet sentiment he might have had of me as his Little Angel. He killed off that image of me as his Sweet Baby. And I let him! I encouraged him!"

So, I would stay drunk. And when I went to work, I went to work drunk. And when men at the bar hit on me, I would insult them. Not very imaginatively, either. I'd just say, 'Fuck off!' or something else as lame.

My assessment of myself was that I was one fucked up, stupid cow. The only man that showed me any love was my father, and I was avoiding him because he did not want it known in public that we were lovers. He had every fucking right to not want that get around. Morton was a good, kind man. How pathetic was I to want him to acknowledge that he was banging his daughter-in-law, and that he actually had feelings for her? Her, a known whore?

March and April passed with me in this deep funk. And it wasn't even a artsy kind of cool, bluesy kind of suffering funk. I was just being a bitch when I wasn't holed away somewhere on a whiny, pitiful crying jag.

I had moments of self-destructive impulses where I told myself I would go back to Roland, that evil pimp and be his slave. 'I'll join his stable and let him hook me on crack. Why the fuck not? what have I got to live for?' But I didn't.

I had a son, I told myself. I lost two children, but I had one. I tended to leave him with my babysitter too much, though. I didn't trust myself around him, didn't think of myself as a good enough mother for him. But I had him to live for. Trouble was, he would grow up and what would he learn about me? What would he think of me?

In the middle of May, my father still had not called. I couldn't believe his moral strength. I thought, surely by now he would give in to his lust and call me, even if it was to get into a nasty conversation and tell me what a disappointment I was to him. I got angry enough about this that one Sunday morning I got up early and went to church. 

Oh, I didn't go in. I knew I was not welcome - forbidden, in fact, from stepping inside. But I sat in my car in the parking lot, waiting for service to end, just so he would see me when he came out with my mother.

I waited. I told myself, 'You are going to see my face, papa. You are at least going to have to face me.' And the time came, and the congregation began to exit. He came out with mom and my son and daughter, the babies taken from me by CPS. I was violating a restraining order doing this, but I didn't care.

I stepped out of my car and leaned against the car door. I was dressed in a short, tight navy blue skirt, wearing a light purple blouse with a low V-neck, hose and heels.

He saw me and froze in his steps. My children saw me next. My mother last. I didn't want to confront them any further. I just waved high at them all and tried not to show any expression on my face.

Then I got back in my car and left. The next morning, I called my daddy at his place of work. 

"What do you want," he asked.

I meant to provoke him into fucking me again. I didn't care if that was the only way to have contact with him. I would rather that than this long, miserable vacuum. I felt like a criminal banished to some desert where there was no life and there was no light and there was no warmth of any kind.

"Why don't you call me, papa?" I asked.

"Why should I," he said.

"Because you want me. I know you want me," I said.

There was a pause and his voice was full of tension when he did reply, "I don't ... I don't want you nor do I want anything to do with you."

"That is not true. I can tell, in your voice. You want to fuck me right now. You want to stick your cock in my pussy and fuck me right now."

"Shut up with that," he said.

"Come on, papa. Admit it. You want me. Don't you?"

"No, no I do not. I am done with you," he said, but he did not hang up the phone and I did not respond. I let the silence build between us. Then I said, "I think about us fucking. I think about what you did to me."

"You mean what you made me do!" he said.

"I didn't put a gun to your head. You wanted to fuck me. Oh, and you fucked me good. You fucked my mouth. And you fucked my pussy and you put your sperm in my pussy. And you ate my pussy. I made you do all that? I forced you? Are you saying I raped you, papa?"

"Shut up. You evil bitch!" he said in a low, disturbed voice.

"Yes, papa. I'm an evil bitch. But you still want to fuck me."

"Why did you go to church yesterday? I should have reported you to CPS. Do you want that? Leave us alone!"

"I don't care what you do. Call CPS. Why don't you tell them you fucked your daughter while you're at it. Huh? Bet they'd love to hear about that," I said.

There was a click. He had hung up on me. I got angry at that, and called him back. He did not answer, it went to voice mail and I left a three-minute recording describing me sucking my daddy's cock until I got him to cum all over my face.

But he didn't call me. He didn't call me and I wanted him to call me. That just made me feel worse about myself.

I had been toying with the idea of getting back into prostitution for some time. But except for one client I took on the night before I had sex with my father, I had not followed through.

I had been ignoring Morton enough by now that he was not trying to reach me anymore. I was alone. And not having sex, not even with strangers. I was horny and obsessed with getting papa to fuck me and just generally hating myself for getting my head stuck in this box.

I didn't want to be picking up guys from the bar. Word would get around pretty quick and I would get overwhelmed with offers, or so I thought. I decided I needed a weekend out of town. 

So, I drove into Coushatta, Louisiana that last weekend in May to visit the casino and mingle with the gamblers. There were plenty of strangers there looking for some female company. 

I had a lot of pent-up sexual energy. And that made me work the casino hard. I was getting from $150 to $300 a pop. I just wanted to fuck.

I got there on a Friday evening with three club dresses to wear and no underwear. I bag full of condoms and a makeup organizer. I got my face paint on and dropped by the black jack table first. Admiring the players and scouting for men in need of company. 

Between the time spotting my mark, the warm-up conversation, the walk by to my room, the sex and the clean up afterward, I was getting a fuck every two and a half hours. I had two dates Friday night, six on Saturday and four Sunday.

I made $2,700 and after expenses drove home with $2,200. That was about what I made working one month at the bar. I left with one more thing. I got three of my dates to agree to video. I went home and burned another dvd and mailed it to my dad, so he would see what his girl did for a living.

A week after I mailed he, he called me. "Filthy whore," were the first words out of his mouth. Well, I thought, now he's all worked up and probably with a hard on.

"Yes, papa. I'm a filthy whore. Mmmmm, did you jerk off to me sucking another man's hard cock until he came in my mouth, daddy? Did you like that?"

"You're a slut! A shameless cock-sucking, filthy whore. You are not my daughter. I disown you."

"I will always be your daughter, but that's okay, papa. Go on. Disown me, like you haven't done everything already that you could to cut me off from everything I ever loved."

"You are not worthy of love, you piece of filth! You're a disease. You are trash."

"Is that so, papa? Yes, yes I'm trash. But men need to fuck with trash, don't they. Even decent men. Do you want to fuck with your trashy ex-daughter, daddy, huh? Feel like using me, abusing me?"

"You disrespectful, shameless deviant, sending me filth like that to watch, to your own father," he complained.

"My own father? Oh. I'm sorry. I thought I wasn't your daughter anymore. Now I'm confused. So, do you want to fuck your daughter, or do you want to fuck your whore ex-daughter?"

There was a silence. No answer. So, I said, "What's the matter, daddy dear? No answer? .... I want your cock, papa. I want it. I want you to fuck my hot, shameless, whoring pussy. Think about my wet pussy, papa. Think about how goood it feels when you stick your hard, hard cock in me."

And still there was no answer. He was getting off to me!

"Yesss, yes daddy. Fuck me. Fuck your dirty girl. Fuck me, fuck it to me. Fuck my pussy. Wanna fuck my throat? You can. I'll let you. Mmmmm, your cock is so sweet, papa. It is the sweetest cock of all, because it's yours and I want yours more than I want any other. Fuck my throat, papa."

He was so quiet.

"Mmmm, are you stroking your cock, daddy? Are you? Tell me you are stroking your cock. I'm touching my pussy, and my pussy is wet and wishing you were up inside me, sticking it to me deep and hard. Yes, oh yeeaa. Mmmm, stroke your cock papa, and think about pounding it to your whore daughter. Yess, papa, you think about that and come and see me."

I stopped and listened and heard the faint sound of breathing. 

"Do you want to see me now, papa? .... Do you want to see me now?"

More silence, and then a soft, "Yes."

"I'm waiting for you. I'm waiting for you. I'll be naked, papa. Naked at the door. Want to see your whore daughter naked, waiting for you, horny for you and that sweet, hard cock?"

Silence, and then a soft, "Yes."

"Come over, daddy. Come over now. Come over now and fuck me, and cum inside me. Do you want to fuck me until you cum inside me?"

This time there was no silence or hesitation, he just said, "Yes, yes I do."

I hung up the phone. Twenty minutes later there was a ring at my apartment door. I was already naked.

I opened the door wide, with no concern someone might walk behind him and see me. He stood there like stone. "Come in, papa," I said, but he didn't move.

So, I walked up to him and walked around him, standing outside naked. "Want everybody to see us like this," I asked. 

He let slip a look of shock. He stepped inside and I followed him in. I walked past him from the living room straight to my bedroom.

He followed me on wooden legs, all stiff and awkward. He was clearly not comfortable with giving in to his lust. Not comfortable with the situation.

I sat on my bed and he came to stand before me. He would let me lead. I immediately sat with my thighs open wide and started fingering my clit. My big tits sagging, My slightly plump belly compressed and exaggerated by my sitting position.

I played with a nipple and I played with my clit and I watched my daddy watch me. He smiled.

I opened my mouth and smiled as I extended my tongue.

He said, "Slut!"

I said, "Yessss."

I knew we could not discuss it. I knew I couldn't say it. But despite everything, I loved him. And it would be my pleasure, after all I had done to ruin the family name, to help my daddy release some of his tension by using me in this way.

"See how wet I am, papa?" My fingers on my clit and slit were glistening.

"Horny slut," he said. He reached out and caressed my hair and I melted, my heart felt comfort in that. I leaned my head against his tough. I closed my eyes.

"I need you, papa," I said.

"You mean you need this," he said as a statement of fact as he reached for his penis and squeezed it, allowed its form to be visible then within his slacks.

"Yes, papa. I need that. And I need yours the most," I said, truthfully.

I unzipped his pants. And saw to my amazement that my hands were shaking. I pulled myself together. I didn't want to show too much vulnerability. But I didn't want this to end like our first sex act did.

I slipped my fat ass off the bed and knelt knees into the carpet. I looked up at him and extended my tongue, flicking the tip against the helmet of my papa's penis.

"Don't be made at me, papa. Please don't be mad at me."

My lips swarmed over his cock. I pumped mouth on it. I sucked him. I sucked papa's penis and watched his face for any sign that I might break down his ice cold heart.

He sneered at me, "Mad at you? If I were an Old Testament man, I would have you stoned to death. You filthy, Godless cunt!"

That was okay, I thought. I sucked him sweetly. Moaning and letting the head reach my throat. I took it out and rubbed it on my chin as I answered, "But you're not an Old Testament man, are you?"

And I took papa's penis into my mouth again. I looked away from his eyes and sucked in earnest. Making him harder, keeping him hard.

I heard exhalations. I sucked his penis. I heard a whimper. I looked up and bobbed cock into me. He said, "I'm weak. I'm a fool to let you get to me."

I watched his lips mutter as I sucked his cock. I took it out and rubbed it all over my face. I licked his testicles and sniffed at the odor of his organs. I took in the musk and heard him ask, "Where did you make that video? Who were those men?"

I looked up at him and stroked his cock. "I met them in Coushatta, at the casino."

"How many men did you have sex with there?"

I kissed his cock. I licked it and kissed it again, and then answered, "An even dozen. I sold myself to twelve men over a weekend."

He closed his eyes and turned his head up to the ceiling. He grabbed my hair, not looking at me, and pulled hard. He pulled so hard that I had to let go of him and rise to me feet.

"Uhhhh!" I said. 

He brought his other hand across in a swift motion and slapped my face with a loud SMACK! I fell back on the bed.

"Whore!" he said.

The blow stung and caught me unawares. I decided not to taunt him again. I knew him capable of giving me a severe beating.

"I'm sorry, papa! I'm sorry!"

I pretended to cry, covering my face with my hands.

I felt him grab both of my calves and lift them to his hips. Once my calves were there, I pressed them into his torso. I hooked my heels into his hips and tugged him to me.

"Shameless whore," he grunted.

I felt him fumble with his hands, putting his penis into position. He arched forward. I felt his back in motion before I felt his cock touch the labia of my vagina.

And then he was inside me.

As he began to thrust, I moved my hands away from my face to reveal and smile and no tears.

"You devil, you have no remorse. You lying slut!" he said in staccato syllables.

I smiled and toyed with my tongue, flicking it at him. Daddy fucked me and I was pleased with myself from bringing him once again down to my level.

His thrusts made my ample white flesh jiggle. And my tattoos danced. And his cock was unlike any other simply because it was his and I need his to make me feel like I still mattered to him. In some sick way, I was still consequential. I could still reach some part of him.

I don't know what other people think about incest. I never thought of it as an act to get off on. I never once growing up had a sexual fantasy about me with my papa. And if the subject came up, my first reaction was, yuk, how sick is that.

But now. On this day. I was almost 33. And there was no eligible bachelor in this town that would think me marriage material. Now, on this day, my daddy fucking me was the closest thing I could get emotionally to intimacy. The other men, they were just casual encounters that only momentarily filled a hole in me - that was lust.

My papa fucking me, well it wasn't love for him. And maybe it wasn't love for me. But at least it was validation. It made me feel like I was still a part of a life that I had all but lost.

My feet and calves pressed tight into his sides. I watched his EVERY move. I let myself whimper and moan with every pleasurable feeling of the flesh and heart.

"Don't stop, papa. Don't ever stop fucking me. Please tell me you'll come back. Please, please don't stop!"

He would not answer. But he did not stop or hesitate to thrust himself into me. He wanted this. He wanted to complete the act. He wanted to fuck his whore daughter and release his seed inside me.

"Uhhh," I moaned with pleasure.

"Nnnn," he grunted back.

I let out a little happy laugh, nothing insolent. Just the laugh of an old girl who is happy.

He smiled. The ice was broken. Maybe it was just for a moment. But there was a break. Maybe now he would hate me just a little bit less.

He soon replaced the smile with a grimace, then he bit into his bottom lip and I thought he would soon ejaculated.

"Do you want to cum, papa?"

He thrust into me, quickening his pace. Then he nodded a yes. He grunted.

"Cum papa," I said softly. I was close to an orgasm, but not close enough. He would cum first, and maybe only he would cum, but I didn't care if it was only him and not me as well.

"Ahhhh!" he let out, his mouth fully open. His thrusts began to stagger and break rhythm and his throat convulsed and coughed into a cry and there were tears welling in his eyes. He had one more curse in him.

"Y y you goddamn you, goddamn you!"

He slowed his pace, but did not stop. I apologized sincerely, "I'm sorry, daddy. I'm sorry, I'm so bad. I'm sorry. I really am."

He pulled out. I sat up. I asked for permission to suck his cock clean. He stepped away and said no.

He stepped sideways and sat on the corner of the bed, his back to me. I walked around to be in front of him and knelt. I took his cock in hand and asked again, "Please, papa. Let me clean it. This is my way. This is how I take care of men. Please let me. Don't be mad."

He nodded his acceptance and watched me lick. I wanted him to see how tender I could be with a cock. How much I loved it. And after a few minutes of living his shriveling organ, he caressed my hair.

I looked up and I could see pain in his eyes. He gulped down his pain and stuffed it somewhere in his chest. And I had to ask.

"Is it so bad, papa? Is it so terrible, what I am?"

He stroked my sweaty blond hair and said, "You really love this, don't you? This is your calling?"

I let go of his penis. I let if fall. I brought my hands to his knees and stroked forward on his thighs.

"I thought it was. when I first, when it started. I loved it so much, daddy! But, sometimes, I guess it's like anything you do in life. Sometimes, I feel like I've lost my way, and it's just another job."




East Texas Whore Ch. 04



I stood up. And I tried to hug him. And he let me. Then he hugged me back. I moved to his side and lay on the bed. And he lay with me.

There were moments where we stared into each others' eyes. I was tempted to ask him what was on his mind, but I know men hate that question. They never want to share. Not with me.

That's not what I am to them. Not even my father.

After several minutes, he grew restless. He said he was going to shower. I let him shower alone, not wanting to be too clingy.

He came out and dressed. I asked him to let me put on his shirt for him. He let me work the sleeves of his shirt onto his arms and I don't know why but that little act tugged at my heart so fucking hard that I had to fight back tears.

I buried my face in his back between his shoulder blades. I felt a breakthrough. I felt like things would get better. Baby steps, but better.

And I was right. He made no offer to pay me for my services. This time, even though he said a lot of mean things, he didn't fuck a whore. He fucked his daughter, and he was loving her. But I didn't brag, I didn't try to expose to him his own feelings.

We hugged at the door, me still naked and stinking of sex. And he left.

And I was at peace for the first time in years.

And I think this is the end. I don't want to write about my life anymore.



East Texas Whore



But my parents didn't want me near their home, ever. Okay, that smarted but I expected it.

Randy's sister would have some kind of trustee role. I could visit the kids there twice a month, as long as I proceeded with the terms of my probation on the prostitution charges. I already knew I wasn't getting jailtime. It was a first offense, after all.

"Eeeeeeeeeeeee!" I howled.

I was giddy after the call. I was alone and halfway through fixing dinner, but I turned down the heat on the stove and ran out, jumped in the car and drove to the construction site and hollered out the good news to everybody.

After the good cheer waned, Felton asked if this meant I had ideas about leaving. He and his crew had at least another three months on the job they were on and would probably start another one nearby immediately after.

I told him I had counseling and stuff I needed to get to. It couldn't wait any more and I should've started already.

During dinner we explained I was leaving. Everybody was sad and no one passed on pussy that night. Not even the Bible thumpers. I just fucked steady for five hours from 8 p.m. to 1 a.m. It came to 14 trips to the shower to wash the kitty and several other defiled places.

Everybody was in a good mood and I came so much. They were all my sweetest lovers and I wanted to cum for everybody. I had to pretend on a few, but the way I was squirting, only I would ever know.

The next day, I checked in with Sam and we had an argument. He said I was breaking the contract. He said he'd have to send Ruby back. I told him I didn't care, "Send her."

But I had to wait until my replacement arrived. A week passed with me pestering Sam every day before he had news of a replacement.

It turned out not to be Ruby. Sam had a conversation with Felton and he didn't want her.

"That skinny bitch can't cook," Felton complained.

Sam complained he wasn't in the cook business, but to no account. Sam found himself a Mexican whore in south Houston and sent her instead.

I met her briefly. She was real short, about 5 feet, and skinny, maybe 100 pounds, and real dark with a splotchy complexion. But I took one look at her and knew she was a skank through and through.

When she opened her little suitcase, there was nothing to impress. A bunch of tight little shorts and tube tops, one pair of high heels and one pair of blue stockings. This was a girl that used to work in some stinking Red Zone district in some northern Mexican city. Probably spent her nights in Houston hanging out in low-class cantinas.

I took her shopping for food, left in charge of picking out the meal. She went for a bag of flour, sausage, eggs, rice and a case of soda pop. Okay, I figured they would eat less healthy but it would be tasty.

As for the sex. What did I care? It wasn't my pussy.

During our one day together, I told her all I could about the men. Her English was functional so we communicated okay. And she really enjoyed talking about each man's sexual habits. She laughed easy and I figured my boys were in good hands.

I'd like to say I totally turned my life around. But people don't change much, do they?

Me and my husband Randy still keep in touch, but we keep separate residences. He stays at the trailer, I live in a low-rent apartment. That keeps the social workers satisified.

I managed to cut ties with my sometime pimp Roland. No more prostitution sex.

Oscar and the Salvadoran boys kept in touch. They wanted me to help them find work in Houston so they could come visit.

I got reacquainted with Billy Johnson, the older gentleman that owned a tree nursery who went to the church I got kicked out of. I had foolish hopes of rekindling a romance, but he had a change of heart about me.

It was one thing stealing in a younger man's wife. That appealed to him.

It was quite another thing stealing everybody's whore. No treasure there, and that was my own fault. Wasn't it?

But he did find value in three hardworking immigrants, so Oscar and the Salvadorans moved into my apartment for awhile. They've since move out.

For the most part, my lifestyle has been lay low, have fun but don't get crazy and don't let men be abusive.

I swore off gangbanging, but over the Christmas weekend of 2006, I was the honored host to a gangbang. Making that one exception, I got pregnant. Had a boy in September of 2007 and this one I got to keep.

I don't know who the father is.

After I delivered my baby boy, my sex life pretty much went into deep freeze. It didn't help that my weight shot up to 200 pounds and I was ignoring men to take extra care with my baby.

But during this time, my father started taking more of an interest in me. He was coming by, visiting all the time, checking up on things. He made sure I had plenty of diapers and food. Not formula, though. I was breastfeeding every chance I got.

My father is a handyman. He's always fixing stuff. Door hinges, faucets, fans. All his son was good for was keeping the car running. 

As attentive as he was being, and me having been a promiscuous woman, I had to wonder if fucking the daughter was on his mind. I just figure every man wants to try a whore he is personally acquainted with at least once, even if she has gotten fat. But if she's your daughter-in-law?

Well, that's a story for another day.