2 comments/ 44474 views/ 24 favorites Daughter's Panties By: rikkitampa2014 The silky, lavender microfiber, with its band of lace, now completely enshrouded his erect penis. He stroked himself with it, the pleasurable sensation causing him to emit a long, low sigh. The sigh closed his eyes. He opened them momentarily, and focused on me. "These are your wife's?" "My daughter's." "Oh, that's right. You said that in your email. I got so many responses..." He was referring to his Craigslist ad. This time the pleasure of his panty stroking caused his head to tilt back. He lowered it, lips parted. "How old's your daughter?" "Twentyseven. Next month." "Oh." He sounded disappointed. As if he was hoping to hear "seventeen." Or perhaps "eleven." "What size is she?" he asked. "Hunh?" "Her panties," nodding at the other two pair laid out on the foot of his bed. "Oh. Seven. Or eight." "My ex wore a size eight. She was on the chubby side. Is your daughter chubby?" "A little." I quickly corrected myself: "Not chubby. Thick. A little. Big-boned like her mother. But she has great tits. Also like her mother." His eyes reopened again. He returned from his masturbation reverie. "You've seen her tits?" "Of course I've seen her tits." "No, I mean...not as a little girl. NOW. Have you seen them...LATELY?" "Sure," I shrugged. "Dozens of times." "Have you ever felt her up?" I hesitated. Now we were getting into really personal, taboo stuff. A door was opening and the staircase led into total darkness. An unlit cellar full of hazards. "Y-yes," I stuttered. Then, clearing my throat: "Yes." "Fucked her?" Another pause. "Yes. Three times." "Why three?" His pantied hand was working overtime now. "It worked out that way. The first time...there was this horrific thunderstorm. My daughter hates thunderstorms. She climbed into bed with me. Her mother was away on business, or something." "How old was she?" "When?" "That night." I thought for a moment. "Nineteen? I think. She was home from college." "Daddy's little girl." "Something like that." The lavender microfiber covering the head of his thick cock was starting to grey over. With pre-cum. "I woke up a few hours later," I explained, "and found my hard-on pressed against her ass. We were lying on our sides. It was totally involuntary. I had no control over it. I was also holding her breasts. She was naked. I don't know how she got naked, she didn't come to bed that way. But she was naked now and our bodies were pressed together." "Oh!" he exclaimed, masturbating furiously. "You're killing me with this!" "I tried to extract myself but...she wouldn't have it. She reached around and held me close. Then she-I still don't know how she did this-she managed to bend my hard cock down between her legs, in her crotch, and insert it into her vagina. The head of my cock was inside my own daughter! In her wet pussy!" "Jesus. Fuck..." "The position was awkward to say the least. Then, next thing I knew, she was riding me." "On top?" "Like a horse. I tried to hold back, but...I reached up and squeezed her tits. They were full and firm and wonderful. Then I rose up and sucked her nipples. It was just like sucking her mother's tits. They were exactly the same size. It was...wonderful!" "Holy Christ...," he moaned. The grey spot, on lavender, now covered his entire head. It was only a question of time now. "We had sex again in the morning," I admitted. "Then we had a long talk, father to daughter, and I explained why this could never happen again. Then, two days later, I lost control and we had sex again. After that I was so mortified I took to locking my bedroom door at night. Besides, her mother came back home after whatever she'd been up to, and that pretty much put the kabash on things. My daughter got pissed-at me-and went back to school early. She didn't speak to me for, like, six months after that. She felt betrayed, I guess." "She wanted the two of you to be lovers," he observed. "Maybe." "That's so fucking hot I can't even..." His head rolled back again. He was on the verge... Or so I thought. He added, sounding quite level-headed: "But the important thing is, she was the instigator." "Hunh?" "It was consensual. She started it." "It was consensual but...I blame myself for what happened, not her. It was 100% my fault. I was the adult in the house, the parent. I-" "So did your wife ever find out?" "Oh, hell no." "You sure?" "Of course." "Your daughter? When she was pissed at you?" "Not a chance. No way." "So where's your wife now?" "She ran off with a colonel in the Air Force. He's stationed in Utah now, or someplace. She went with him. My daughter's still pissed at her. Hates her guts. Claims she never wants to speak to her again." "Your daughter's living with you now, I gather?" "Yes. Back home. After college, and an internship, she spent a few years 'finding herself.' Not that she ever did. New York, Atlanta, Dallas of all places...Then she showed up at home one day, broke. A quarter-life crisis, she calls it. Now she's sleeping in the same bedroom where she slept as a little kid. She's come full circle." "Before you pull your pants down..." The father-daughter discussion had gotten to me-especially given that a guy not four feet away was jacking off into a pair of her panties. I'd unbuckled my belt. There were two pair of panties for the taking, after all... "Do you have a pic of her?" "My daughter?" "What's her name?" "Angela," I said. "An angel," he purred, close to shooting his load into her panties. "I wouldn't say that." I opened my wallet and held it out to him. "Cute!" he exclaimed. "I like her hair. Anything nude?" "Don't be ridiculous." "Just asking. Can I have that picture of her?" "No!" "I'll put it on the table beside my bed, and her panties under my pillow. Then I'll jack off in them while I'm looking at her. What a cutie she is!" I sighed, extracted the photo and tossed it on the bed, north of the laid-out panties. "Fine," I said. "I have more photos at home." I dropped my pants, and briefs, picked up one of the other silky pair of lace panties and wrapped them around my own cock. These were powder-blue in color, and the sensation of the soft fabric against my hard-on caused me to exhale, audibly. Like a burning pain had just been extinguished. "Nice," he observed. Although I wasn't sure if he was referring to my cock or my act of joining in on the semi-incestuous masturbation party. He issued a challenge. "Let's see if we can have simultaneous orgasms. That would be beyond cool." "I'm a quick cummer," I explained, already having trouble keeping my juice inside, after just a few strokes. "I can go for hours," he grinned. "Surprised you're not married then." He laughed. "Naw. I prefer this perverted type of stuff." The word stung. What we were doing WAS perverted. I'd facilitated his masturbatory pleasure by supplying to him my daughter's panties-which I'd stolen from her bedroom. And now I'd even given him-a complete stranger-her picture. I was playing the role of procurer, pimp. Had I not violated some kind of sacred trust? He was right. How perverted can you get! "Have you ever done this kind of thing before?" he asked. "What?" back from my private thoughts. "Masturbated in her panties?" "No. Well that too. But given her panties to another guy?" "Hell no!" I softened my tone. "No one's ever asked before." "But you've jacked off in them?" I gave a half-shrug. "Once...I was doing the laundry. Angela was gone for a few days. Her panties-dirty panties-were on top of her laundry in the basket. I took them out and sorta did this with them. And I sniffed them. Then I tossed them back in and...just went wild on them." "What do you mean?" "Came all over them. In the basket. I completely lost control." "Wow. Cool." "They were going in the wash anyway...," I added, as if it were a justification. "You do your daughter's laundry?" "Not usually. Like I say, she was away for a few days and..." "That would be so cool," he said, "if you could bring her DIRTY panties next time." Next time? Oh god, I thought. He's already planning on a NEXT time. More stolen panties. Dirty ones. This could get really complicated... The room filled with the soft sound our fast-stroking right hands were making. I observed we were stroking in rhythm, as if we'd planned it that way. "Let's do that," he said, breaking the near-silence. "What?" "Put her panties on the bed, in a heap, like in the laundry basket, and jack off onto them. Both of us at once." He stopped stroking, removed the lavender panties with their ever-spreading, greyish wet-spot, and tossed them on the foot of the bed next to the third pair, which was virginal white, and laceless. Reluctantly, I did the same. His cock was bigger than mine-the story of my life-and the sight of his bare member made me self-conscious. The trio of microfiber panties now lay overlapping below us. We moved closer. I scrupulously avoided touching him. We stroked our bare cocks above the lavender-white-powder-blue melange. "How come your wife left you? And your daughter." "Sex, I assume." His stroking hand missed a beat. "See? I TOLD you she found out about the father-daughter incest." "No, no, no, no. Sex for her. Sexual satisfaction. Fulfillment. She claimed I didn't fit the bill anymore, you know? Didn't satisfy her in bed. Came too..." "What?" "I...Oh!" "What's the...?" "I..." Drops of sperm hit the panties. They fell like random raindrops. A shower not a storm. "I'm gonna...!" "Go it for it, man. I'll..." As his stroking hand accelerated a thin rope of sperm arced out of my penis and hit the microfiber target. Another followed. Then another. "Oh god," I said, watching the flight. His thicker shots arrived with a violent shout. They overshot the mark, initially, before landing in thick streams, and then globs, on Angela's tricolor panties. He stroked out a big load, until spent, tried to turn, and sit, forward of the target panties, but slipped to the floor with a thud. "Jesus, that was..." I was mortified. With each successive spurt of my own seed I experienced more guilt over what had just transpired. A complete stranger and I had just masturbated on my daughter's panties! What was I thinking? What was I doing? Meanwhile... "Oh Jesus," he said from the carpet. "Christ. That was like the...best orgasm ever. Man!" He looked around, over his left shoulder. "Gotta get a pic of this." And with that he jumped to his bare feet and ran off. He returned, banging an elbow on the doorway, with his smart phone. "Gotta get a pic of this," he repeated, focusing on the still-fresh cum-spill on the trio of panties. The phone made a shutter click each time. He must've taken 16 photos. I was still holding my flaccid cock in my hand. "I'll email them to you, OK? I will. Same email, right. Want me to email them to HER?" "NO!" "Just kidding, man. Be cool OK? I don't have her email. Though I'd like to. She's cute as hell! And sexy!" "I'm..." "This is like the best ever." I was pulling my pants up, wiping my fingers on my white cotton briefs. "I feel...I can't even tell you, guilty as shit." "Why? This is nothing. You fuck your own daughter three times and then you feel guilty about jacking off on her panties? Your priorities are fucked up, man." "I...No." I was confused. I had to get out of this crazy place. "Dirty panties next time," he said, following me to his apartment door, as I buckled up. "Promise?" I ignored him. I was beyond mortified by now. "Thanks, man. Your daughter's beautiful!" A vodka martini at a nearby Chili's helped. It was Happy Hour. That meant two rounds. Or should I say four? By the time I left I had such a buzz on it all started to make sense. Well, sort of. I was almost pleased with myself. Hadn't I gone through with it? I imagined the emails that would be awaiting me when I got home: close ups of gobs and streaks of fresh semen on the panties on the bed. My daughter's panties. On the other hand, she was sexually open-minded. She was cool. She might even approve of it all... Or, she might stand over me with her hands on her hips: "You stole my panties and then you and some horny pervert jacked off all over them? What's the matter with you? You're sick! I'm moving out! I hate you!..." In the privacy of my own truck, I shuddered. What have I done? I asked myself for the fortieth time in the last hour. Comforted only by the fact that, well, she never has to know... When I arrived home I was surprised to find my daughter's Corolla in the driveway. Wasn't she supposed to be out on a date? The TV was blaring. Some made-for-TV movie on the Syfy channel. I found my daughter on the couch, with her knees raised. She was wearing flesh-colored bikini panties and a braless stretch top. Looking over the top of the couch I could see four inches of beautiful, sumptuous cleavage. Her legs and feet were bare and her toenails were freshly lacquered a shade of aquamarine. "I thought you had a date," I enquired. "He crapped out on me," she replied. "Well...he doesn't know what he's missing. The asshole." Angela looked up. "Are you drunk?" "Course not!" She lowered the volume on the remote. "They keep having advisories," Angela said. "Have you heard about this? Intense thunderstorms are moving in. There's a tornado warning in effect till midnight. It's freaking me out..." I moved around to the front of the couch and urged my sexy daughter to scoot forward. I slid in behind her and she leaned back against me. I put my loving arms around her thick body. I kissed her freshly washed hair, her left ear. I said into it: "Don't worry, I'll take care of you." "Oh daddy," she said. "Thank you. It's just you and me tonight." I kissed her cheek. It was soft as butter. I regretted now, at this moment, that I'd wasted my load on her panties, in a stranger's apartment. My hands found her loose breasts. I kneaded them. She twisted her head around. I kissed her on the lips, awkwardly. I was hard again... Daughter's Panties Ch. 02 I creamed my daughter's panties while she was away at camp. Corporate "camp," that is. With its undertones of "concentration," forced labor and mental, if not physical, torture. A weeklong extravaganza, in other words, devoted to team-building, problem-solving, role-playing and the heavy drinking that followed nine straight hours of this daily drivel. All of which would be forgotten within two weeks of returning to the corporate "campus" where anxiety would alternate with the mind-numbing boredom of routine until someone on the 37th floor, probably in a distant country, decided that higher profits dictated thousands of redundancies and just like that you would be out on your ass. Unless, of course, that ass was being screwed by someone on the 37th floor. "Oh dad," my 23-year-old daughter Brittany sometimes bemoaned me these days, now that she was no longer a latter-day hippy grad student, and had been recruited by said company, "you're such an anarchist." "Not anarchist," I would reply. "Cynic. Derived from the Greek for dog. A species I generally admire much more than our much-vaunted own." "Last time I checked dogs haven't built any bridges, or skyscrapers, or orbited any satellites." "No, their ambitions end with giving love and receiving love. And would you put some clothes on please? You're driving me crazy." "I'm dressed." "I mean besides a teeshirt and panties? Which I can see your pubic hair through by the way." "I don't have any pubic hair." "Oh." "And would you keep your eyes to yourself?" "It's hard, dear." "I bet it is!" In addition to her recent corporate recruitment, my daughter has brought her shaved pubes home from off-campus apartment life, with the stated intention of being "back out on my own" by age 25. Or so. "Besides," she likes to rationalize, "with mom having left you and all you need a woman in the house." Indeed. So there you stood on Day 1 of camp, alone in her bedroom, at her dresser, in front of the mirror, top drawer open, with its mouth-watering panoply of every color and style of panty on the planet, perhaps the most enticing one being not the silkiest or the laciest or the skimpiest but...that good old pink Japanese cotton throwback: Hello Kitty. And it was this one you wrapped around your already-stiff cock and went to work on. In, I mean. The seat of it greying over quickly, uncontrollably, while you stared open-mouthed, somewhat in disbelief, at your soggy-sticky mirrored self. Your moans, all the while, having turned to whimper and finally: "Oh Christ. What have I done?" That's OK. Minutes later you were hard at work in the kitchen sink. Thank god for Woolite! A few turns in the dryer on delicate cycle and Hello Kitty would be as good as new. And tucked away in the back of the drawer. Did Brittany even wear them anymore? Had they passed into status as a collector's item? Like a vintage game program a guy keeps in the bottom of his sock drawer? That was, as I say, Day 1. Five orgasms to go. The spilliest being Thursday's attempt to cum in one of Britt's many thongs. That was a mistake. For these dubious purposes bigger was better. High-waist "granny panties" would've been ideal, not that there were any in your daughter's top drawer. Friday you went back to lace-trimmed, French-cut microfiber. Dreamy, man. In fact, taking the same size (7) as your daughter, you wore them around the house for awhile first before succumbing to their siren song of male pleasure. Screamy, man. Come Saturday morning, you picked Brittany up at the airport. It was just as well. You were pretty well spent. Besides, you missed her antagonisms. "How'd it go?" "Oh, fantastic! I feel like a new human being. I really learned a lot." "Like what?" "Well...Why are you driving so fast?" "I always drive fast." "This car—this is your midlife crisis?" "Living at home. This is your quarter-life crisis?" Brittany folded her arms. Just like her mother. "I could be out in a week, believe me. Just say the word. I have, like, twelve girlfriends looking for roommates." "Any lesbians? You should invite them over." "You wish!" "Like what?" "What? Could we stop for a cheeseburger? I'm fucking starving." "Sure. Like what did you learn at summer camp?" "Well...It wasn't summer camp, OK? Medium Corp. is like the biggest quasi-military tactical support and derivative infrastructure company in the country." "What else did you learn?" "Um...the seven steps to problem-solving?" "I thought it was a twelve-step program." Brittany rolled brown eyes. She was wearing shorts. Short-shorts. I looked down at her thickish thighs thinking: no pubic hair. "You're such a wise-ass. Would you slow down?" "It's a curve. I always speed up for curves." "God you're an asshole." "Burger King or McDonalds?" "Could we, like, do something a little more upscale? Big Horns Buffalo Burgers or someplace?" "I thought they were extinct." "No way," Britt said, examining a nail. "Their stock is through the roof." "True, Big Horns has great shakes." "I thought you were lactose-intolerant," her laser-glance aimed my way. "That was a joke, Britt," re-envisioning my daughter's pendant breasts tantalizing me from above a few days prior to "camp.". "What? Well, Day 5 was interesting..." Was that the Day of the Thong? The dripping semen? "How so?" "We had an enemy drone alert and had to evacuate the playground. The campground I mean." "Anybody hurt?" "Well this one woman, Kristin I think her name was, or Christine...she twisted her knee when she tripped over the cabin door thingamajig." "As in log cabins?" "Cabins, OK? It was rustic. Beautiful. Deer. Birds. "Drones." "Day 5 was like...total lockdown. Turn in here." "I know how to drive, Brittany. So what's Step 1 of Problem Solving if I may ask?" "Um...Identify the Problem?" "Profound. Could we have two—make it three—double half-pounder Buffalo burgers with extra cheese, kosher-salt fries, two orders, and two lactose-free chocolate shakes with extra whipped cream?" "I'm not lactose-intolerant," a frowning Brittany muttered. "And can I get a cherry on top?" "Chock what?" the tinny voice in the drive-up speaker asked. My daughter Brittany and I had welcome-home sex within 40 minutes of her arriving at the house. I hadn't intended it that way. It just, well, happened. After stepping out of the shower she shrieked: "Dad? Where are all my towels?" Oops. The downstairs bathroom door was open and there she stood, thick, naked body dripping. And looking like she'd put on a few pounds during lethargic camp-week. All the more to love... "God I'm horny," she said, C-cup breasts jiggling as she toweled her shower-dark hair. "Can you give me, like, thirty?" I asked, somewhat sheepishly. Five orgasms in five days! Help! "Hours?" "Minutes, wise-ass." Brittany was smiling now, below the body-drying towel. "Does that include licking time?" "No, dear. Licking time will commence in, like, three minutes if you want. Let me run upstairs." "Oooo goody," she said, towel falling. Her pale hip flesh still dotted with shower droplets. It was too much for me. Fuck the Viagra. I sank to my knees. My daughter's pussy tasted fresh and warm and sweet and succulent. When my tongue licked upwards, beyond her lips, it encountered the slight stubble of her shaved pubic hair. I would shave it anew for her, if not today then tomorrow. Lather it up with Barbasol and gently tug razor down, and down again. Until it was as silky smooth as a baby's bottom. "Oh, darling!" I said, as we bounced, moments later, on her bed. Her thick legs circled my back. My balls ached, from all the previous days' panty masturbation, but by some miracle my cock was hard again. Was it the super high-protein Buffalo burger? "Oh daddy!" Britt exclaimed as I penetrated her. "I wanted this so much!" "You got it, baby." "Did you fantasize about me while I was gone?" "Every day, baby." "Do you have a big load for me?" "Um..." The next morning, around 11, a sleepy Britt staggered down the hall and dumped her dirty clothes from the trip on the floor outside the washer. "I'll do those for you," I volunteered, feeling perky after swallowing about eight cups of morning coffee. More particularly I was observing the half-dozen pair of dirty daughter panties atop the pile. "Why?" Britt yawned. "I don't know. Help you out?" "Whatever..." And with that, Britt thumped bare feet back to her bedroom. "Want breakfast?" I asked. "No." "Coffee?" "No." Her bedroom door slammed. Was she sore—frustrated—because once again yesterday I hadn't satisfied her? Not completely, anyway? Just like her mother... Whatever, indeed! In her wake she'd left behind a treasure trove of soiled panties. I went to the pile, picked each up in its turn, and sniffed the glory. They contained the full gamut of female bodily experience: sweat, blood, urine, cum, shit... Cum? Had she made a friend? Obviously. Hopefully he was an executive. I loaded five of the panties into the washer and took the sixth—the dirtiest of the half-dozen—upstairs. For now I'd hide the panty in a bedside drawer; but its ultimate destination would be under my pillow. Sniff-sniff. I came back downstairs. My heart was racing. Too much coffee. And yet, I desired another cup. I— "Dad?" a still groggy Britt said as she padded down the hallway again. She was holding something pink and vaguely familiar up at loose breast-level. Was she panty-less under her oversized teeshirt? Lickable? "How come there's, like, a hole in my, like, favorite panties?" "A leghole?" I was sweating. It was the coffee. "No not a leghole!" Britt declared. "In the ass of my favorite panty! Look!" Indeed. Hello fucking Kitty! "Have you been, like, jerking off into my panties again? Cause if you have..." "Britt, no! I..." I was sweating. It was the coffee. She tossed the misused panty in my face. "This is, like, my favorite panty," my adult daughter declared, close to tears. "It's like...a collector's item! I have fond memories! You better find a replacement on X-bay or wherever. I've had a very trying week. And why are you such a...ASSHOLE!" Her door slammed. I fondled the vintage pink cotton panty. With the inadvertent penis hole in the ass. I sniffed it. Woolite!