10 comments/ 117302 views/ 35 favorites Twas the Night By: Rob_mDear The fat slob sat, his face sweaty and ruddy, as the soft flesh of the scantily clad black girl gyrated on his lap, pressing rhythmically against his engorged cock. She straddled his thigh, the heat of her pussy leaving a damp patch on his suit pant where she rubbed him. Whenever he could get away with it, he shyly bucked against her, pressing the ridge of his cock against the top of her own thigh. His eyes were torn between her beautiful black face, with coal black almond eyes and full, beckoning lips, and her delightfully firm, round breasts, with the tempting crescents of the edges of dark nipples peeking out above the lacy lavender bra she wore, with nothing more than that and matching lavender lace panties to cover her smooth, creamy coffee skin. His eyes settled on those nipples for a long moment, as another bead of sweat rolled down his temple. A moan from the girl to his right, giving a lap dance to his business partner Sal, elicited an unexpected and embarrassing grunt of his own. He almost came then. He licked his lips, imagining the tender feel of those bittersweet, dark chocolate nipples against his tongue. The girl placed a long, delicate finger gently under his chin, lifting his eyes to meet hers. Once she held his gaze, she reached behind her with both hands, while arching her back, thrusting her pert, full breasts forward towards him. There was a snap as the clasp of her bra came free. She curved her shoulders forward, letting the bra sag down, not off, but far enough. He looked down, salivating, to see the protruding nubs of long, hard nipples poking out above the purple lace. She gyrated slowly and sensuously again, while pushing her breasts almost into his face. One delicate coffee hand drifted down to firmly brush the fabric covering the length of his shaft. With a barely stifled moan, the fat man came in his pants, as Sal, having come already himself, laughed heartily. He looked at his friend, his own face burning with embarrassment. He nervously, ashamedly laughed with him. "She's always good, every time she's so fucking good. But you won't do more, sweetie? Just for Uncle Harry, for just a little more cash? No? I have to keep asking. You're too sweet to not even ask." She smiled down at him in silence. He gave the girl a very healthy tip. She was his favorite. His only constant disappointment was that, unlike most of the other girls, she wouldn't take the lap dance a step further, into the back room. He pay anything to put his mouth on those nipples, and his cock in where it belonged. Still, a lap dance with her was better than an hour of privacy with any of the other girls. * * * Al sat on the bus, staring blankly, straight ahead and unseeing, as blackness drifted by outside, decorated by the yellow orange lights of apartment windows and street lamps. If the bus didn't rock and jerk and growl and wheeze, he could think that it was the world that was moving by, instead of him moving through it. He never seemed to be getting anywhere, while the world always seemed to be moving on. He very definitely did not look at the two small black children across the aisle, staring wide eyed at him in calm silence. They didn't see him anyway, he thought. They just saw the bright red and white suit, and the fake beard, and his own massive bulk, and whatever it was they expected was underneath it all. They flanked their overweight mother, leaning tightly into her as if they were all conjoined triplets. The woman's thick thighs, covered by taut, brown, sweat pants, spread out over her plastic seat like double chocolate chip cookies spreading on a baking sheet. Al grimaced, then looked away, just as the bus lurched to an abrupt halt. He rose slowly, wearily, and lazily, his back aching from the strain of getting his own overlarge belly up, and then upright, and then steady under tired legs. The late hour didn't help matters, after a morning of walking blocks and blocks looking for odd jobs with no result, followed by a double shift of sitting with miscreant children crushing his lap and begging for things. The four stale donuts he'd had for dinner, scavenged from the trash can in the employee's cafeteria, settled deeply into his stomach and taunted him from there. He half stumbled out of the bus into the dirty slush covering the sidewalk. He hated that part of city life. The most beautiful white blanket of snow was quickly churned into a frozen chocolate murk by feet and cars and buses, into something cold and solid enough to sit uncomfortably in the seam of a shoe or boot, yet fluid enough to get in there, and then penetrate more deeply. The high, black Santa boots would have served him well here, had the store manager allowed him to wear them outside the store. Instead, the cold wet slush quickly infiltrated the holes in his torn, old sneakers. Al trudged on, wondering if Dahlia was home yet. She should be, but you never knew. The girl was always out and about. She said she was working three jobs, and she probably was. She was a good kid. He wished she were out looking for a man, someone better to spend her sparse free time with than her burnt out failure of a father, but their lifestyle probably didn't leave her any chance to meet someone of interest. He kept hoping, for her sake, but it never seemed to happen. She was certainly good looking enough, better than good looking enough. She'd been gawky and rather homely in high school, and her psyche bore the scars from how she'd been treated. But somehow, somewhen the girl had suddenly and unexpectedly blossomed with age. Now, at twenty five, she had mysteriously grown into a sensuous beauty that would have embarrassed her mother, had her mother stuck around. Al wondered where she'd gotten her looks. Not from him, certainly, and not from the tortured shrew that left him, and her, to fend for themselves. Her mother had had her charms, and was a wild, unrelenting animal in bed, but she was not the most attractive of women, even during any too rare pleasant moods. He stopped to look at his dim reflection in a storefront window. His face was old, and fat, and haggard, and tired. He could just make out the five o'clock shadow, too thick and unkempt, peppered with black and gray, peaking out around the fake gray beard. There were canyons and crevices around his eyes, and in his jowls. He realized that if he weren't a hundred pounds overweight, he'd probably look like he was ninety. His face looked pale and colorless in the dark reflection, masking what he knew were cheeks that were an insultingly apropos Santa rosy red, from the cold and the extreme exertion of hauling his useless bulk along just three blocks of sidewalk. Nine more blocks to go. Fifty seven years had not been kind to him, and he hadn't been kind to himself. Al moved on, burrowing through snow that thickened as he moved further from the main thoroughfare. He worked his way, panting and wheezing, past small old houses, proudly decorated with strings of glowing colored lights and three foot high plastic candy canes and toy solders, and with wire reindeer that bobbed their heads robotically up and down as if snacking on mouthfuls of snow. * * * He got to the top of the fifth flight, where he had to sit and catch his breath again. He'd already stopped once, on the third floor, both to rest, and to hide part of the cash. He'd been paid today, but he couldn't let his daughter see it all. She'd want to spend it on something they needed, like food, or proper clothes, or a real apartment or, God forbid, Christmas presents. He had other plans for the money. He was sweating profusely beneath the Santa suit. He wished he could have gotten the electricity and the heat working in an apartment on a lower floor, but he was lucky to have found this, and done what he had. When he'd lost their last real apartment, finding a place to squat had been frightening. He and Dahlia had spent three long nights on the streets. Thank God it had been summer. Al heard the door open. Dahlia came out, and down to meet him, her black hair shining, her brown eyes gleaming, with a bright white smile behind her dark, caramel colored skin. She looked nothing like her mother. Her mother had had skin almost as black as coal, and the only expression he could remember on her face was one of scorn and dismissal. Not that Al hadn't earned it. He'd never been good enough at anything. He was handy with things, with plumbing and electricity, but never with people. No one ever seemed to notice how good he was with things. Someone else always took the credit for what he did, while he eventually took the blame for something someone else had done. Sooner or later, no matter what he did, he lost a job, and then the next, and then the next. The day came when there were no more jobs. Department store Santa was now the best that he could do, and in three weeks that would end, too. Dahlia kissed him on the forehead. "Merry Christmas, Santa," she said. Her voice was soft, almost the whisper of a frightened child. She helped him up. "Let's get you inside, Santa. It's time for you to take a load off of those weary feet." He tried not to let her help him. He was far too big. She wasn't petite, but she wasn't a big girl, either, and she wasn't strong. The fact that she had marvelous curves didn't translate into muscle and strength. There wasn't an ounce of extra weight on her, except for the delightfully perfect padding she enjoyed on her full,perky breasts and smooth, round butt. That was his fault, he knew. Between the two of them, they made enough money now to get by, but he couldn't be accused of fattening her up. He wondered, for a moment, how he'd gained so much weight himself. Trash can donuts, he thought sourly, and trash can Chinese food and trash can pizza. * * * Dahlia did her best to help him up the stairs. "How was work?" he asked. "Did those tight clothes earn you some good tips?" She smiled at him. He knew it came out wrong, but she didn't have to hear it wrong. She knew he didn't at all mean it the way it sounded. They both knew they needed any edge they could get. There was no harm in providing the customer with a little show of sex appeal while waiting tables. That was the least of it, actually. He didn't know that she'd quit one of her waitressing jobs to work at the club, doing considerably more than just wearing tight pants. "It was good, the tips were good," she said. She felt guilty about the unspoken lie. The tips were good, better than good. That part was true. Tips for giving lap dances were very, very good. She had so many secrets she kept from him now. That was okay, she told herself. She wasn't a kid anymore. She didn't have to tell him everything. But she felt guilty none the less. "How was the store?" she asked. He rolled his eyes as he wheezed out his response. "Same. Whiny, spoiled brats, cute as can be, but spoiled and whiny. And they ask me for things, and I tell them they'll get them, when I have really no idea. I must be breaking a hundred hearts a day. It sucks." "You used to like doing Santa. You're good at it, and you said it made you feel good." "Not much feels good these days," he said as they staggered up the next two flights together. He looked so tired. Dahlia felt like crying, but she kept the joy and smile in her face, for him. She knew he had nothing left to live for but her. If she left him, if she weren't there for him, she was certain that he would simply stop. As it was, even for her, she wasn't sure how much further the man could go. She thought back to the happy days. They'd never been well off, but they once had one side of an old two family on Elm St. They even had a small yard, and Dad had religiously kept the meager grass cut and the one lone hedge well trimmed. She rode a small bicycle up and down the street with Gonzi, her buddy Alberto Gonzales, while he watched from the stairs, a tall, powerful figure of a father watching over her all the time. Her dad always said that they lived inside a rainbow. They had every race and nationality on their street, Brazilians and Jamaicans and Vietnamese, hispanic and black and asian, all scraping to get by, hoping some day to make more of themselves. In fact, her dad was the only white person on the street, something that Dahlia never really even recognized until later in life. Then her mother would come out and shrilly demand something else of him, as if he never gave enough. She tore him down, day after day, except the only way you could see it was by the weight he gained. The more she ripped him up, the bigger and slower he got, and the more things went wrong. She looked down at her small hand in his, pinkish white and meaty, almost puffy. His hands were huge compared to hers. Her fingers were delicate and smooth, perfect, caramel flesh against his cragged, calloused pasty skin. His fingers were cold. She squeezed his hand tightly, then brought it up to cup it in both of hers, rubbing vigorously. She smiled at him again, hoping to give him warmth in any way she could, inside and out. * * * When he got inside, Al noticed it immediately. They didn't have much to begin with, only what they could scavenge from what others had tried to throw away, that they could get to before the trash collectors got there. A low table, a torn couch, a torn easy chair with a broken foot rest, a mattress on the bare floor in Dahlia's room for her. Al usually slept on the couch or the easy chair, depending on which he suspected would hurt his back less that particular night. Sitting on the table was a glass, and a quarter of a bottle of brandy. Al never drank. He said they couldn't afford it, either the money spent, or the time wasted. Anyone else in the world, everyone else in the world, if put into their position would drink themselves silly. Not Al. He knew they just couldn't afford it. He stared at the bottle, and the already poured glass beside it. "It's an early Christmas present," she said. "From me, to Santa." Al smiled at her uncomfortably. He didn't want to make her feel bad, but they just couldn't afford this. "Where?" "A guy gave it to me, at work. He said he wasn't going to finish it, and he couldn't bring it home. He said his wife would have a shit fit." Al let her lead him to his chair, where he plopped down, really too tired to even lean forward to pick up the glass. As if she sensed it, she bent over to pick up the glass for him. * * * She could feel him glancing at her ass. He did that some times. It wasn't lecherous or anything. He'd never given any signs that she inspired sexual urges in him. He was nothing like the rich scum at the Tiger Club, like the guy she gave the special to earlier in the day. He was a good father, a great father, and he'd sacrificed so much for her. But he thought she was beautiful, and he hadn't had a woman in his life for ten years. So when she could, she put a show on for him. Tonight, she wore tight fitting black stirrup pants, below a tight knit red turtleneck covering her almost completely while still pronouncing her curves. She bent just so, to accentuate the curve of her ass, then stood up and arched her back, turning at the waist, to accentuate the profile of her breasts. On a whim, she spun and fell into his lap, holding the glass just out of his reach. She took a sip of it herself. "Which list am I on this year, Santa? Have I been naughty or nice? Or a little of both?" "Only nice, Dahlia. You don't know how to be naughty." To that she stuck one full lip out in a pout. "I do, too, Santa. I can be very naught. Very." With that said, she took another, deeper swig of the brandy. It burned in her mouth, and then her throat, filling her with warmth, as she smiled into her father's twinkling eyes. * * * He'd unconsciously placed a hand on the curve of her hip, almost on her ass, when he felt his cock begin to stir. It shocked him into confused self recrimination, so that he removed the hand with a jerk. With both hands he reached out to take the glass, while hoping that she didn't notice his growing reaction to her beauty. Liar. Sex appeal, he told himself. Not just beauty, but sex appeal. The girl had it all. He'd tried not to notice when she was younger, and he tried to ignore it now, but it was undeniable, and unavoidable. He'd never known such a desirable woman, but he never once let himself even think about those desires, not even to play them out in fantasy. She was everything to him, everything but that. He was her father. He took the glass from her unresisting hands. She stared at him, dark eyes twinkling. Her gaze dropped to his lips as he took a deep swig of the brandy himself, while he kept his own eyes locked on hers. He closed them to enjoy the warmth that filled his body. Once his eyes closed, they were hard to open again. Blindly, he took another long sip. As he rolled the liquid within his mouth, savoring it, he felt Dahlia place a soft kiss on his nose. "I love you, Dad." The words floated into his blind consciousness, forcing a tight lipped, easy smile instantly to his face. She was a good kid. * * * Dahlia tried to study, but she couldn't concentrate. She'd changed into her flannel pajamas and slippers. The top was white and too big, the bottoms forrest green and a size too small, and both had assorted tears and holes. The slippers fit well enough, and were simple and warm. All in all, they were comfortable, and granted her some level of modesty at night around her father. But comfort now turned toward sleepiness, as her own long day, another in a string of many, seeped into her bones and muscles. She stifled a yawn, struggling to make herself read more. She glanced at her father, then forced her eyes back to the page. It was hard to keep the books hidden, and to squeeze the studying in so that he wouldn't know. She needed to do it whenever she could, but she couldn't tonight. She felt funny. Maybe it was the brandy, or how worked up she'd gotten at the Tiger Club. She almost enjoyed the dances she gave tonight. A part, a big part of her had wanted to give in to their extended advances, and not only for the extra money. She glanced at her father again. He'd fallen asleep in the chair after barely more than a glass. The poor man was at his end. He'd worked ceaselessly when she was young, but never getting ahead, only the have her mother abandon them and leave him with even more to do. Still, he put everything out there, every penny he'd saved, to send her to college, where she'd blown it. She hadn't studied hard enough, she enjoyed the parties and boys too much, even though she knew they couldn't afford it. In the end she'd flunked out, and too late she'd realized that she'd ruined both of their lives. And still he worked. Still, as they lost first the house, then their apartment, and one job after another. He got sick, and that cost them a bunch more. It was a lot of the reason that he didn't drink often, because he couldn't. His body couldn't take it. Finally, too late, she'd realized how much help he needed. She got one job, and then another, but it wasn't enough. She kept one waitressing job, but left the job at the Q-Mart for the sleazy club, moving from erotic dancing to lap dances, to let lonely, needy, salivating men gawk and paw at her, for the extra cash it brought in. It disgusted her, usually, but she did it. She'd been refusing to go the next step, to spread her legs for them and get that last, great payoff. She feared that she had to. If she didn't do something soon, her father would fail, totally and completely. She moved to the easy chair, where she balanced on the arm beside him, feeling like a little girl next to his substantial girth. She leaned forward to kiss him on the nose. He'd fallen asleep in the silly costume, hat, beard and all, taking time only to undo the suspenders and loosen the uncomfortably constricting, confining belt that held in his belly. Twas the Night He sinfully hooked his thumbs into her waistband and pulled it down. His fingers reached in and around to feel the smooth, bare flesh of her perfect ass. He'd admired it so many times, not lusting, not wanting, just admiring, sort of proud that he'd brought that ass into the world. Now he felt it, as he watched her literally explode on him with pleasure. His face held and expression of shock, and fear, he was sure, but inside he was grinning. He lost himself in the feel of her pussy grabbing his cock, and the smooth, tender young flesh of her ass in his hands. He clawed at her ass, enjoying the soft, yielding feel of her. She reached back with one hand to meet his. She held his fingers as she screamed and rocked, her eyes clenched shut, her face a picture of feminine beauty and ecstasy. He panicked as she fought to pull his hand free of her ass. He didn't resist. A lump formed in his throat, keeping him from speaking. He'd gone too far, he was sure. He needn't have worried. As quickly as she'd pulled his hand free, she place it on her breast. He felt her soft, full, firm breast through the cotton. Her nipple, hard and resisting, poked into his palm like a nail. Her hand released his to quickly tear the snaps open at the front of her top. As quickly as she could, she scrabbled for his hand on her breast, and moved it inside, to touch her forbidden flesh with his sinful flesh. She screamed more loudly, still, as he kneaded and massaged that perfect breast. Her other hand scrabbled for his, still on her waist. He didn't wait for her direction, but hurriedly moved that to her other breast. He squeezed them separately, then together. "Fuck, yes, Santa, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck yes." She leaned forward, increasing his pressure on her, moaning and screaming in unending rapture. Her hands fell on his, helping him to squeeze and fondle her tits, making him more forceful, and willing, and eager. Her tits felt magnificent, like nothing on earth. They were so full, so smooth, so soft, and it gave her so much pleasure. It had been decades since he'd felt such exhilaration, giving a woman such pleasure with his hands, and his cock. He felt extreme shame at an overpowering urge to look at them, to see his daughter's lovely, magnificent tits, exposed in all of their glory. He had, from time to time as she'd gotten older, and developed so perfectly, tried to steal a peek here and there. The little minx had teased him, giving him more than enough opportunities, but his own sense of duty, and a form of cowardice, he supposed, kept him from indulging the whim, even when she had made it not only easy, but hard to avoid. He always caught a wry little smile on her face afterward, as if she enjoyed teasing him. She enjoyed the fact that he wanted to look. With his cock buried inside her, with her flailing about and squealing with delight, he was sure as hell going to see her tits now. He let his hands drift to the outsides of her breasts, then he used his arms to push the fabric of her top aside, opening it wide. He let his hands drift up to her shoulders, to push the top part way down her arms. They were magnificent. They jiggled perfectly, not flopping, not formlessly soft, but firm, rounded at the sides and pointed at the nipples, jutting out at him with black, hard, engorged nipples amidst glistening, smooth, coffee cream skin. He let his hands slip back down to explore and massage them, not roughly, but gently. They were so fucking magnificently beautiful. She rode his cock, and stared at him and squealed and panted, as he looked longingly and lovingly at her perfect breasts. * * * His gaze, locked on her breasts, was overwhelmingly erotic. She'd never felt more loved in her life, as much as she always knew that he loved her. But he'd never loved her that way, and the thought of it, the feel of it, was intoxicating. The fat slobs at the club stared at her tits and her nipples with a drunken longing. She despised it. But this was different. She'd tried so many times to get him to look, and now he was, now he had a look of entranced admiration that was focused totally and completely on her tits. The fat slobs wanted to kiss them. They wanted to suck and taste them. Now she wanted her father to enjoy what they never could. It pained her, but she slipped forward off of his cock. She guided herself up across his wide, round belly, dragging her dripping pussy over his suit, getting as much pleasure as she could from pressing her clit against him as she moved slowly upward, determined to let him taste her dark chocolate nipples. * * * The moment she left his cock, and the cold apartment air hit it, magnified by the wet juices that she'd left covering him, as soon as that blast of cold hit his cock, he felt ashamed. In seeing him stare with vulgar lust at her tits, she had come to her senses, when it should have been him. She was putting an end to it, and it hurt two fold. It hurt because he should have had the strength to end it himself, and it hurt that it was over, that the fantastically erotic experience of fucking this most beautiful and admirable of women, the only woman in his life, had come to an end. He was ready to apologize when her neck passed over his face, and then her collar bone, and then her tit was there, with a broad, round, rich brown nipple right before him. She pressed the nipple into his face. He felt the hard poke of hit, with smooth, hot, yielding flesh all around it. He shifted his head as she guided that tasty, sweet morsel of flesh into his waiting mouth. He opened wide to take as much of her tit in as he could, reveling in the high pitched squeal with which she rewarded him. Her hips gyrated against her belly, pressing herself against him in an unending quest for satisfaction. He slipped his hands inside her pajama bottoms again, to hold her sweet ass and drive her pussy harder against his belly, to help her find the climax she so deserved. All the while he savored and teased and almost inhaled first one tit, then the other. As she moaned for him, he moaned for her, while he ached to feel himself inside of her again. * * * His fake beard tickled her skin, while his real growth scratched the skin of her tits in a delightful way. His mouth was so hot and hungry, suckling and torturing her nipples in amazing ways. When his hands held her ass, and pressed her powerfully down into his belly, she came in a torrent of screams. She fought him, at first, when his powerful hands grabbed her hips and pushed her down, taking his mouth from her tits. She fought him, but it was useless. He was too strong, and it was what she wanted, anyway, too. She let him push her down, and then she wiggled until his cock popped easily back into her slick, wet pussy again. The moment he entered her, with his face beside hers, with his fake beard tickling her neck and his real whiskers scratching her cheek, she came yet again, with a force that almost drove her to unconsciousness. The the most crushing waves of ecstasy had passed, she found her voice. "Oh, fuck, Santa. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, yes." His large, meaty hands dug into her ass, moving her on him with a wild, random lust. She let her father control her. She let him move her and drive her pussy down onto his magical, fatherly cock however he pleased. While he did so, she moved turned her face and kissed his cheek. The covered him with a flurry of soft, wet kisses, gently at first, but soon growing more eager and more rapid and more wet. She opened her mouth wide, letting him feel the hungry wetness of her tongue slavering over him. As he drove her down onto his thick, stiff cock, she slipped her face over his, kissing every inch of skin that she passed, until she was hovering over his lips, breathing straight into his mouth. She stayed there, poised, staring into his eyes. Paradoxically, while their hips writhed and pounded against each other with an animal frenzy, their faces were calm and perfectly still, just staring, a father gazing with love into the eyes of his daughter, and a daughter showing him that same love, mixed with an unexpected, irresistible lust. He lips brushed against his, pressing softly, at first, and then with more force, more passion. * * * She was so fucking beautiful, it pained him to close his eyes, but he couldn't watch her as she kissed him. He felt like he was betraying her, even though she'd started this, and she wanted this, and he had been almost helpless in letting it continue. He closed his eyes in fear and shock as her lips pressed against his, and in fear and shock she kissed him as he thought no woman ever had, or might. Her thick, full lips marauded over his, brushing and pressing, hunting and searching, probing and taking. Her tongue forced its way into his mouth, where it wandered and explored ceaselessly, penetrating him in an agonizingly sinful, pleasurable way. He tried to imagine that she wasn't his daughter, his perfect, beautiful, sexy daughter. He tried to imagine she was another woman, one that he could have with abandon. He tried, and he failed. She was his daughter. He was fucking his perfect, beautiful, sexy daughter. He was fucking her, and she was kissing him, and he was touching her marvelous body, and she was loving every moment of it. He was fucking her to an unending string of unexpected, frighteningly powerful orgasms. He felt shame and guilt, because he loved it. * * * He barely responded as her lips moved over his. She couldn't stop. She couldn't worry about how scared, or concerned, he was. This was for him. She had to make it wonderful, for both of them. She kissed him furiously. Her lips raged over his. Her tongue sought his out. She wiggled and moved on his cock. She pressed her tits into his huge, powerful hands. She kissed him wantonly and feverishly. His staying power was unbelievable, she thought, in a brief moment of clarity. His cock had stayed hard inside her for so long, and he showed no sign of coming himself. She could ride him for hours she thought. She hoped. "I'm so fucking naughty, Santa. Put me on the naughty list. Put me on the fucking nicely naughty list. Just fuck me more, Santa, fuck my naughty little pussy more and more and more." She yelled it as loudly as she could, straight into his ear. "Roll me over, Santa. Roll me over and fuck me hard." * * * She begged him to mount her, to fuck her properly, as hard as he could. She begged and begged. "No, baby, I can't," he told her. "Please, Santa, please. Fuck me hard." "Baby, no, I'll hurt you. I'm too big." She kissed him hard again, on the lips. He tried not to kiss her back, but he didn't resist. It was too wonderful. She broke the kiss to stare into his face. "You won't hurt me, you'll never hurt me." She kissed him again, deeply but briefly. "Fuck me hard, Daddy. Fucking fuck me hard." * * * She hadn't meant to say that, to call him "Daddy." She'd tried to hide what they were doing behind the game of seducing Santa. They were both pretending that this wasn't what it seemed. She didn't want to call attention to the truth, to actually say who he was to her. But when she did, it thrilled her beyond imagining. He was her daddy. She loved her daddy. She was fucking her daddy. She was fucking him, and she loved him. Why shouldn't she say it? It was who he was, to her and to no one else. He loved her, and he protected her, and she loved him. He was her father, the only man in the world that she trusted. He was the only man that could be her father. He was the only man in the world that she wanted to fuck her, now, and maybe forever. "Please, Santa. Please, Daddy, please. Please, Daddy-Santa," she said. She looked into his eyes, knowing her own were smoldering with a frightening, shameful lust. It was the first time they'd look at each other since they started, since he entered her, since she felt him inside of her. She stared at him, silently pleading. He had to see how much she wanted him, totally and completely. * * * He couldn't resist her, even in something as wicked and wrong as this. He never could. He lifted her easily as he rose from the chair. The weariness seemed to be gone from his body. There was certainly none in his cock. He knew that only fear, and apprehension, and concern had kept him at bay. It had kept him from coming inside his beautiful little girl. But he couldn't resist her pleas. He lifted her. She straddled his girth and full belly as best she could, coffee colored legs wrapped around his waste, coffee colored arms locked around his neck, and coal black eyes locked on his. He spun quickly, then lowered her gently into the recliner. They stayed locked at the hips, his cock firmly implanted inside of her, the whole time. His bulk covered her. He strained to hold himself up above her. "No, Santa. Don't be afraid. Smother me. Cover me. Fuck me." She pulled him toward her, and he didn't resist. As easily as he could, he relaxed and put his weight on her. Her form disappeared under his mass, except for arms and legs wrapped around him, grasping and clawing and holding him close. "Hammer me, Santa. Fucking hammer me into the fucking chair." He forced her down into the recliner with his weight. "Yes, Santa, yes, yes." He pressed her harder into the cushions. "Fuck, yes, Santa." He thrust into her. He pulled out, then thrust back in. He fucked her, slowly and carefully at first, but deeply, pressing into her as hard as he could. She begged for more. Her hands reached into his pants from behind, where her long fingernails dug into his ass. He fucked her harder, and harder still. As much as he worried about hurting her, she screamed and begged for more, and he gave it to her. He gave her everything she asked for. Her pussy was so tight, so hot and wet and tight. His cock was in a fiery heaven. Her body and face were so exotically beautiful. Her figure was so wonderfully full and soft and perfect. He felt the cum building in his balls. He felt an uncontrollable urge, a need, to fill her, his beautiful daughter, his perfect woman, with his cock and his seed and his love. He hammered his little girl into the recliner with all of his bulk and strength and power and will. * * * She felt his excitement grow. She felt him lose control. He was so massive, she could barely breath. She had to time her breaths with his strokes, within that brief moment when he withdrew, just before he plunged back into her. "Fuck me, Santa. Fuck me, Daddy. Fucking fuck me good, Daddy. Fuck your naughty little nice girl so fucking good." At first she feared that her pleas would inhibit him, that he would stop and abandon her. She was afraid that calling him "daddy" would end their adventure. But it didn't. Quite the opposite, her cries excited him. Her begging spurred him on. As she called him "daddy," as she begged for more of his cock, he gave it to her with unbridled passion. "Fuck, yes, Daddy. Fuck, yes. Fuck, yes." "My beautiful little girl," he answered. "My perfect, beautiful little darling." "Oh, fuck, Daddy, yes. Fucking yes, Daddy, fucking, fucking yes." She had him, now. Like a customer in a lap dance, she knew she had him. He would tip over the edge at any moment. "I fucking love you, Daddy," she whispered. "I fucking love you so fucking much." "I love you, too, Baby, I love you too." "I fucking love you, Daddy," she screamed into his neck. "I fucking, fucking love my daddy." She pulled his lips down to hers, and for the first time since they started, he kissed her back. She kissed him, hard, and he kissed her, hard, and their tongues tangled and danced. His body went crazy. He plunged into her with an unbelievable ferocity and power. He was so big, so strong, and now unstoppable. He hammered into her as he kissed her, driving his thick cock deep inside her, stretching her pussy to its limits. * * * He felt an uncontrollable power swelling in him. He hammered the magnificently sexual creature beneath him with all of his might, holding nothing back, crushing her beneath him. For her part, as massive as he was, as thoroughly as he pressed her into the recliner, she still moved. She bucked and wriggled, legs and arms clawing and grasping, as her throat screamed in high pitched, agonized squeals. But he knew it wasn't agony he was causing her. He hadn't felt this in control, this powerful and confident, in years and years. He pumped her with the ferocity of a lion. He felt like the greatest lover any woman had ever known. She was beautiful, and she could have anyone she chose, but it was he that brought her to heights of pleasure few women had ever known. He hammered out years of misfortune and frustration. His confidence swelled, as his own pleasure grew, and his own balls, and cock, swelled as they filled with cum. His own cock seemed to him to grow to an inhuman size as the shaft stiffened and filled with cum. She felt it, too. He knew she felt it grow. Her frantic clawing stopped. She virtually froze beneath him, but her scream intensified into a horrible sound that could only be made by a battalion of whores being tortured to death. A wave of guilt rushed over him. He was going to come inside his beautiful, perfect baby girl, but he couldn't stop himself. She wanted it. He wanted to do it. He was the most powerful lover in the world, and he was going to empty years and years of his built up power and love into the sweet, exotic, sensual creature that he held pinned beneath him. * * * She felt him shiver, but it was more than a shiver. She felt him heave, like a new continent rising up from the ocean. He shuddered, clutching painfully at her shoulders as he held himself deeply inside of her. He tried to say something, but nothing coherent came out. He groaned, and crushed her beneath him without restraint, as he emptied himself into her. Her covered her and filled her, as she clutched him tightly, pleased to have him, and to have been there for him. Dahlia smiled happily under his massive weight as his strong, familiar lips closed on hers again. * * * She didn't know how long had passed, how long he had lain atop her as they both panted and recovered. Her father rose up, to stand, staring at her. She looked at him dreamily, still lost in a fog of sensations and post orgasmic joy. He was sweating profusely from his exertions. It was all for her, his energy, his sweat, everything he'd done was for her. He'd given her an unmatched and unmatchable pleasure. She didn't think any man could ever do that to her again, except for him. His own face was panicked, though. He was fighting with himself. She could see it. She recognized guilt. He reached down to pull up the Santa suit. He refastened the suspenders and the belt, then without a word he hustled to the door and out of the apartment, leaving her alone, feeling panicked and uncertain, afraid, confused and now regretful. * * * Once he was in the hall, and had shut the door behind him, he raced as quickly as he could down to the third floor, third apartment on the left, kitchen, third cabinet from the right. He swung open the door, then stared at the cookie tin and the plastic bottle. The cookie tin held several thousand dollars, ones and fives, scrapped and scraped and squirreled away over the years. Soon, maybe with a few more months of scrounging meals from trash cans, it would be enough. The bottle held sleeping pills. When the time came, his plan had been to give her the cash, for school, then to disappear, to find some quiet abandoned building somewhere, and take the pills, and take himself out of her life. He'd leave a note, saying goodbye, asking her not to look for him, telling her he was heading west. She could go to school, and move on, without him dragging her down and holding her back. She would be free, and happy. Twas the Night That had been the plan, if he could have found the courage. He wasn't sure that he could, when the time came, but that had been the plan. But now he couldn't do it. If he did, she'd blame herself. She'd blame it on what they'd just done. She'd blame it on the incest, and her part in it. So now the plan had to change. He may not have had the courage to end is life, but now he had to have the courage to continue it. Now he had to have the courage to be honest with her, to tell her what he'd done, and what he'd been planning, at least as far as her education. He had to be honest with her. She deserved that much. He grabbed the cookie tin and strode with determination back up to the apartment. * * * As soon she saw the money, and he told her what it was for, and she realized what it must have cost him to save that much, she'd started to cry. The tears poured down, while her father looked embarrassed, and frightened, and confused. He probably thought they were tears of joy, not guilt. He knew something was wrong when she sobbed. He moved to hold her, then froze. That was the incest, she thought with recrimination. Her own father couldn't even touch her now because of what she'd done. She looked at him imploringly, and he melted before her eyes. He softened, and the fear left him, and he moved to hold her. She buried herself in his embrace. She buried her tears in his expansive chest. She moved a hand, mindlessly, ceaselessly, over and back across the curve of his large belly as she sobbed. "I'm so sorry, Daddy. I'm so sorry." "Sh, sh, it's okay. Nothing to be sorry about, sweetheart. Things happen. It happened. It was good. You're not a bad girl. You're not." That wasn't it, she thought to herself. He didn't know. He didn't get it. "No, Daddy, no. I am bad. I'm horrible." "Sweetheart, no. You're generous. You're giving. You gave me the most wonderful experience I can remember." He kissed the top of her head, and her heart raced. Somehow she felt joy, even amidst her fear and guilt and sorrow. It gave her the courage to continue. "No, Daddy, not that. I mean, yes, that. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, but I did, and it's done. But there's more." He held her, saying nothing, patiently letting her do things in her own good time. He was always patient. He had flaws and weaknesses, but he was patient, and strong in his own way. He definitely had strength. She held him more tightly. She couldn't look into his eyes as she confessed. She stared over his chest at the wall. She told him about school. He asked where she got the money, and through her sobs she told him about the Tiger Club, and her job as a Tigress. "Is that what we did? What you do?" he asked. "No! No, not like that, not with them. I never let them touch me. I never touched them, not more than I had to, not flesh on flesh. I never whored myself, not completely." "Shush!" He barked it at her, so that she froze. When he spoke again, his voice was more calm, but still firm. "Don't use that word with yourself, sweetheart. That's not who you are. I understand what you did. It took courage, and strength. I know you're good. I know it. You have nothing to be ashamed of, nothing at all. And you're not that. You'll never be that." She held him, and she cried, until she worked it out of her system. In time, she pushed her self up. She looked into his tired, worn face, and planted a kiss on his nose, and his forehead. She wanted to kiss him on the lips, but didn't think she should. Abruptly, she stood. She forced herself to take a deep breath, and to stand upright, and to be strong, like he was. "I have studying to do. I have a big test on Wednesday. If I do well, I'll have a solid B in the class." "Good for you! You go, girl," he said, as he reached up and, without looking at her body, snapped her pajama bottoms and tops tightly closed. Dahlia grinned at him. She felt her heart lighten. She felt everything, every care and fear, slipping away. She pranced, almost floated, to the table, feeling silly, and light, and foolishly happy. She looked back at him, smiling, watching him watching her. She saw a strange expression on his face, one she didn't remember having seen there for years. She had very infrequently seen hope, and happiness. She'd seen admiration, and love. She'd seen a lot more fear, and exhaustion, and resignation, but most often determination. But this was different. This was pride. For the first time in many years, she saw pride in his face. She smiled, as she committed herself to her studies. A "B" wouldn't be good enough, not for him. She'd get an "A" if it killed her. * * * The rooms were hot. Dad had scavenged a fan. It was noisy, with the bent blades grating against the grill, but it gave them some relief from the summer heat. Dahlia needed it, to be able to study for her summer course load. She wanted to quit her job as a Tigress, but Al wouldn't let her. The money was too good. They had to be practical. He made her quit her waitressing job instead, to have time to study, but she kept the job lap dancing, but only lap dancing. He'd gotten lucky, too, for a change. He'd found a part time job as an assistant building engineer. The building owner was cheap, and Al had a knack for finding cheap workarounds to expensive problems. That the owner greatly appreciated. Someone more principled might have objected, but in this case, it was valued. Soon, Dahlia would be able to quit her job as a Tigress, and go to school full time. They might even get an apartment in the building where Al was working, if his luck held. As a full time student, Dahlia might even get a boyfriend. Her father kept pushing her to, more than ever after that night. He said she clearly had needs, and she couldn't let them drive her to make a mistake. Dahlia wanted a man, and she would find one in time, but she'd never trust anyone the way she trusted her father. She almost couldn't imagine being with another man. He hadn't tried to be with her again, and that disappointed her, a bit, but it made her proud, too. She hoped, at least, that they might get together come Christmas. She was sure that he'd do a store Santa gig again. He'd wear the suit. Maybe it could be their own special, new holiday tradition. She could always hope. She let him catch some peeks from time to time. She wore her Tiger Club outfits around the house. Not too often, not shamelessly, but enough. He was always the perfect gentleman, the perfect, respectful father, trying hard not to notice, or at least, not to let his eyes linger. She thought it was the cutest thing. Now she was already shopping for enticing holiday clothing to give her hopes some extra help when the season came, things for her to wear when he wore his read suit. Things to get him in the mood, and to make sure he accepted this year's Christmas present when she offered it. After all, Santa helps those that help themselves.