One day as I rode the streets I sensed the thoughts of a girl of about
three. She was locked in a damp basement, half starved. There was an
ancient drain she used for a toilet, but it didn't flush and it stank.
She had some rags to huddle in but was chilly most of the time. Her
memory was that when the man came in to drop off a little food and
drink, he beat her. Her misery was profound.
I had never felt so angry in my life.
But underneath, her soul was alive. She also knew her name. Sophie.
I gnashed my teeth but drove around to calm down, then went back to
wait for the man. I never carried my gun during my day-to-day travels
for fear of an ill-considered crime of passion. I waited with
increasing impatience for two days until he finally arrived. His name
was Doug, and he had a couple Big Mac meals, though on the way over the
smell had been irresistible and he had eaten half of one.
He had been a boyfriend of the girl's mother, but things had gone sour.
Doug's mind retained the image of a man leaving her apartment followed
by a surge of tremendous rage. He stole the girl, two years old at the
time, and stashed her away in this out-of-the-way basement room. He
stole her to punish the mother. Now he didn't want to kill the girl and
he didn't want to let her go, so she was increasingly a drag.
I followed his thoughts as he unlocked the outer and then the inner
door to deliver Sophie her Big Mac rations. He saw her and felt hatred
again for the girl's mother, so he kicked her a couple times. Waiting
outside in my car I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles turned
white and gritted my teeth. He then held out the food bag, and as she
slowly started to reach for it he stepped on her hand and ground his
heel back and forth. Only after Doug had left did she dare open the
food bag and wolf down the contents.
As I considered the situation, Doug was dead already -- it was just a
question of when my bullets would rip him apart.
But what could I do with the girl? I knew from Doug's mind that the
girl's mother had died in the interim at the hand of another violent
boyfriend. The legal thing to do was to hand her over to social
services. However, in my wandering of the streets I had sensed plenty
of thoughts connected with social services and they were not pleasant
ones, especially regarding the office that covered this area.
But I loved Sophie's tender soul, and I had a crazy idea. I decided to
take her myself, at least for a little while, and see if I could do
better than social services. I cleaned up my spare room and furnished
it with the minimum of what a girl would need.
First the man, Doug. I followed him to an isolated spot late at night.
I pulled the gun on him and started to tell him what a despicable turd
he was for keeping a little girl prisoner and beating her, but I didn't
get far before I sensed him planning to jump me. Fine. I shot him in
the stomach twice and he fell. I kicked him in the balls a couple times
and stomped on his head. He had a pleading look as I put the gun to his
temple, but I just spit in his face before blowing his brains out.
I took his keys. In the middle of the night I went back to Sophie's
dungeon and let myself in. The reek of sewage hit me. I found her
naked, asleep in the pile of rags. I shook her lightly and she woke,
terrified. I did my best. "Sophie," I said softly. "Come with me, it's
going to be OK". I took her by the hand, but she stayed put. Then I
picked her up with a little trepidation, but nothing in her thoughts
indicated she would kick or bite.
She had no anchor in the world and had no idea whether she was headed
for a better fate or a worse one. But little kids have to trust
grown-ups, and except for the Dougs of the world it usually serves them
well. She was shaking as she hung on to me. I carried her out of the
building.
I took the little foul-smelling waif to my car and stuck her in the
back seat where I had set the child locks to keep her from trying to
escape. No, I did not worry about fastening her seatbelt. I had brought
along a quart of chocolate milk, thinking that would be a welcome
treat. She tasted it, then started guzzling it as hunger overcame fear.
It was a half hour's ride to my place. After a few minutes I smelled a
new odor and simultaneously caught her thought that she had had
diarrhea. Apparently her system couldn't handle all that milk at once.
Well, I would have had to have the car cleaned anyway. So far in our
brief time together I had sensed in her some hope and a great deal of
fear. With this development came terror at what I might do. I told her,
"It's fine, Sophie. Don't worry about it. I shouldn't have given you so
much at once." She felt a little relief and within her the glimmer of
hope grew.
When we got to my place I took her in my arms again, although she was
even more fetid than before. She was tense and anxious as I started
cleaning her up in the bathroom, but I could sense that my reassuring
tone was helping.
First the bathtub. I got the diarrhea and the worst of the dirt off
her. In good light for the first time, I could see sores on her body,
but that would have to wait. For my next phase I hacked her hair pretty
short because it was hopelessly matted, then helped her take a real
bath.
She was very thin. I had bought lots of food for her, but remembering
the chocolate milk I didn't let her have very much at once. First some
buttered toast and banana, which she wolfed down. Twenty minutes later
some more, twenty minutes later oatmeal. I told her I would give her
more in the morning but didn't want to risk making her sick again. She
didn't complain, having been hungry for months. I showed her my room
and bed, then her room and bed, and kept the doors open. I didn't know
when or if she would want the warm comfort of another human being, but
I would give her the choice. She was exhausted from the anxiety and
novelty of the last few hours and fell asleep shortly.
In the morning I heard her padding about and thought I would give her a
little time to explore on her own. She had to go. From her time before
Doug kidnapped her she remembered the toilet and what it was for, she
didn't want to anger me by maybe doing it in the wrong place. Another
option from her point of view was the drain in the tub, which was
similar to what she had been using. So I got up and pointed her to the
toilet.
She liked the clothes I had gotten for her, but my apartment felt
deliciously warm to her and she didn't feel much interest in wearing
them. She had a delightful little body and I didn't need to teach her
to be ashamed of it in her own home. She liked books and music and
videos. Most of all, she liked eating. For days she remained hungrier
than I had ever been in my life.
We got along great, partly because I could tell what she was uncertain
about and reassure her. No social service agency could have been as
attuned to her needs.
After a week, when she didn't look totally emaciated, I took her to a
clinic that serves undocumented aliens, since of course I had no papers
for her. I got her the treatments for her sores and other minor
ailments. Fortunately she had no serious health issues.
From the first time I had read her thoughts I had sensed her tender
soul alive under her abuse. Like any human being, she needed love. On
the second day she leaned cautiously against me, and a few hours later
matter-of-factly sat in my lap as I read her a story.
On the third night I woke up to her shrieking. I rushed in to comfort
her. "It's OK, Sophie, it's just a dream. It's OK." Her terror
gradually subsided. She had been dreaming of her dungeon: the man
grinding his heel on her hand when she reached for food. After I sat
with her for a few minutes she fell back to sleep.
The next night she awoke crying from another nightmare, but before I
could get up I heard the sound of little feet as they approached my
bed. She hesitated. "It's OK, Sophie, come on in," which she did
eagerly. I felt a new tenderness as she fell asleep snuggled against
me, but after she was soundly asleep I carried her back to her own bed.
The same thing happened the next night. That night she was back within
an hour.
I decided to let her stay in my bed. I wondered briefly whether I
should have her wear something when she slept with me, but didn't see
any point in it. People usually sleep with fewer clothes than they wear
during the day. I decided to keep briefs on at night as I always had.
From that night on she slept with me.
A few nights later I woke to her softly crying against my chest, and as
I opened my mind to her on awakening, I received a flood of her pain.
And as I gently stroked her hair and let her hug me, she sobbed long
and hard before falling asleep again. The trust she felt in me at those
times made me eyes tear over. This happened every few nights for weeks.
It tapered off, but still happened occasionally for years.
I bonded to Sophie the way any decent adult will bond with a child in
his or her care. I enjoyed all her little happy noises, her delight at
new things, her energy and innocence. The bond was strengthened because
she loved me and needed me, and redoubled because I could sense
directly those feelings of hers. I was in love with her in the way a
mother is in love with her infant.
I cut back my sex life dramatically after I got Sophie. I wanted to be
there for her every night, so I could get away for daytime trysts only,
and those only when I could get a babysitter.
Getting her used to a babysitter was a major undertaking. I first left
her screaming for five minutes before coming back. Then I left for
fifteen minutes, then an hour. Each time she would scream when I left,
though the sitters reported that lasted ten minutes or so. Yet she
never seemed happy and kept asking when I was coming back. Tempting as
it was at times, I never just walked out without saying goodbye. She
trusted that I would never disappear without warning.
Each babysitter began wondering why I as a single man was raising a
young girl. When she did I stopped engaging her services and found
another one, so there was little continuity for Sophie.
I still got horny, so I would often relieve myself with a hand job in
the bathroom before retiring. Yet sex is more fun and relaxing in a
horizontal mode, in bed. I started masturbating while lying next to
Sophie but thinking of one of my favorite lovers. By reading her mind I
could tell if she was in danger of waking up and on those rare
occasions I could stop so she would suspect nothing.
I wasn't sexually attracted to Sophie, certainly, but she was a warm
bundle with that delicious smell small children have, and sex is
naturally an activity between bodies. I found myself masturbating with
my nose in Sophie's hair, soaking in her child smell. Then I found
myself looking at her perfect body relaxed in sleep, chest rising and
falling gently as I massaged my penis to orgasm.
I was aware especially of her labia, symbol of her essential female
nature. They were mere buds at the moment but would in time mature as
would the vagina within. They would become the adult female sexual
apparatus that excited me so much. I still thought of my lovers as I
masturbated but my thoughts also stayed on Sophie herself, and my eyes
often wandered to those symbolic labia.
Since I could tell when Sophie was in danger of awakening I figured
involving her body in my masturbation could do no harm. One night I
aimed my penis onto her belly when I came, and found it especially
exciting to see my gooey white semen splat onto her perfect little
belly. When I had recovered from my ecstasy I could easily clean her up
with a damp cloth and she would be none the wiser. Watching my globs of
cum surge onto her chest, neck, and face was also very appealing. Most
appealing of all was splatting the stuff onto her labia.
I had the occasional thought as to whether I was attracted to Sophie
herself sexually, but figured that was preposterous. Hers was just the
little body right next to mine that reminded me of the women's bodies I
did find so attractive.
I started exploring my next desire with a feasibility study. If I
lubricated my finger and rubbed it back and forth along Sophie's belly,
would she notice? She did stir and came close to waking sometimes. But
I found that I could sense when she entered the very deepest stages of
sleep, and at those times I could do quite a bit with her body and she
wouldn't react at all.
I was excited the first time I lubricated my penis and then gently
stuck it into her armpit as I held her arm close to her side. It didn't
take many small, gentle strokes before I plastered her armpit with my
sperm -- and enjoyed it immensely.
Situated behind her and holding her thighs together, I slid my penis
between them and could imagine entering a grown woman from the rear. I
poked my penis further between her thighs until it ended up right by
her little girl's labia. My spurts seemed especially copious when I
could watch them surge straight from my penis into the little crack
between her labia. Then I found I could gently hold them open just
before I came and then watch the semen flood into her tiny vagina.
Afterwards I washed the area carefully with a washcloth to remove the
semen, though I couldn't get all of what I shot into her vagina.
It was so exciting I often found myself doing this twice each night,
once within an hour of Sophie's falling asleep, but then once more
towards morning when she was again in a deep sleep phase.
One night I was feeling very aroused but Sophie wasn't going into her
deep sleep in her usual pattern. Maybe if I was especially gentle and
slow she wouldn't wake up. I felt her on the verge of waking but I kept
going, my need for release clouding my judgment. And as I let my spurts
go against her labia I saw a surprised-looking Sophie staring at me. I
rebuked myself for losing my self-control, but then held my breath as I
listened very carefully to Sophie's thoughts. I smiled and hugged her,
trying to shroud what I had been doing by more innocent affection. I
cleaned up the goopy mess between her legs and hummed her a lullaby.
Her thoughts showed she was puzzled, but basking in the warmth of my
usual affection she soon drifted back to sleep. Yet something lingered
in her mind, something less pleasant.
I lay in bed for hours, staring at her as she slept. As late morning
rolled around I felt this overwhelming desire to do it again. Not with
her body, though. Quietly masturbating and letting the spurts land on
my own chest felt deeply unsatisfying.
Slowly I had to face what I had been somehow managing to deny: I was
sexually attracted to the little thing, not just using her body as a
convenient stand-in for grown women. That made me a certified pervert.
And I found myself worse than attracted -- I was addicted to her.
I reflected on what kind of life Sophie had. We went to informal play
groups together sometimes, but she didn't usually experience the other
children in a positive way. Sophie was shy and clingy.
So Sophie was growing up with few friends, no siblings, and a very
inexperienced foster father. She was attached to me, and I sensed it
was too strong to be healthy. I could also read her mind, which was
good for her in many respects but also meant she was getting
unrealistic expectations for how to relate to people. No one else would
understand her desires unless she formulated them and communicated them
with words.
I had already been sexually abusing her without her knowledge for
months, and my need to do it made me ashamed. On reflection I decided
that couldn't actually be harmful to her. But now I was on the verge of
sexually abusing her in a way she would experience.
Even if I somehow controlled myself, I had profound doubts about my
character that extended beyond what happened in bed. I was a pervert.
She needed a normal person for a father.
I realized I had to give her away. She would be distressed for a while,
but she was resilient and her tender soul would shine through again.
There was no way I could give Sophie away via an adoption agency or
friends, because she had no official status. My only option was to take
her to the police station and give her up under the no-questions-asked
policy, the policy designed to keep mothers from dumping their newborns
in the river. It was also designed for children whose parents were
abusing them and wanted to stop -- parents like me.
From there she would end up in the social service system. It was not a
great option, but children did come out the other end to lead happy
lives.
I had played a positive role for her. She at least had had a loving
parent for a year after her horrific year in the dungeon, a parent who
let her express her grief as often and as deeply as she needed.
It was time to give her away. I took a pill to calm me down. An hour
before leaving the apartment I told Sophie I had to give her away for
her own good. At first she didn't believe me, and painful as it was for
me I kept explaining until she got it -- and became terrified. Rational
arguments were of course useless. She screamed and squirmed as I
brought her in. Two policemen at the station pried her off me and I
left poor Sophie in hysterics. I waited until I was back in the privacy
of my home to fall into my own hysterics.
I visited a few of my lovers whom I had not seen in ages, and while the
sex and overnight snuggling were of some comfort, I was distracted and
dissatisfied.
I couldn't resist tracking Sophie through the system. Her first set of
foster parents were actually nice, but she was so difficult they
couldn't handle her. The second set were much more brusque and
business-like. They had experience with impossible children. Under
threat of punishment Sophie became minimally civilized, though the
anger and grief remained just below the surface. She thought of me all
day long. Sometimes she thought of killing me in gruesome fashion, but
at the next moment her overwhelming love and attachment came through.
There are no end of childless couples who will jump at the chance to
adopt a young, healthy, Caucasian girl. But while her physical health
was excellent her mental health was open to question. She flew into a
rage at unpredictable moments. She didn't understand that the others
couldn't read her mind, and the resulting strange behavior led to
extensive psychiatric evaluation.
The first parents on the list who were willing to adopt her were a
well-off childless couple. They seemed nice on the surface, but reading
their minds as they came to and from appointments I felt their inner
pain. I dreaded how past hurt would express itself when they had to
deal with a real child, and a very difficult one at that.
Their anger at her built to fury. They did not lash out at her. But
during the evening of the third day they finished converting a room to
what was essentially a padded cell. I held my breath. The mother in
exasperation locked her there late the next morning. Clawing at the
door, Sophie was terrified as her memories flooded back at her.
That very afternoon the mother was understandably terrified to find a
masked man breaking into her house with a gun. She dutifully lay on the
floor trembling as I set Sophie free. I did not shoot the woman, of
course. She was not evil, just living out her own pain the best way she
knew how.
Sophie was alternately furious at me and ecstatic to see me, but she
did a decent job of heeding my orders to keep her cool until I got her
home again.
I held her endlessly while she sobbed. Sometimes her fury erupted and I
let her scream at me and pummel me. Mostly she glued herself to me, and
it seemed to go on for days at time.
A child had been kidnapped and I needed to see how the police were
handling it. With Sophie safely in her car seat I drove by police
headquarters repeatedly.
Forensic investigation found fibers and some biological marker from my
body -- I couldn't figure out what -- linking several recent mysteries.
The same fibers were found at the site of two of my vigilante killings.
The biological footprint was found at one of those sites and also
preserved from the time when I dropped her off at the police station.
They could tell that the same person stole her back again.
Of more immediate concern to me was that they gleaned information from
my tire treads at the scene of the kidnapping. They had a good hunch as
to what part of town the perpetrator might live in.
Quickly and quietly we slipped out of town. In Cleveland I had to make
a few expeditions without Sophie to change my identity again. Although
it made me feel a little guilty, I drugged little Sophie so she
wouldn't feel abandoned again so soon.
Finding that Sophie was going to be locked up again by her adoptive
parents spurred me to rescue her. I had had no hesitation about that.
But if that had been the only issue I might have tried to find some
other home for her -- maybe some kind people who lived in an isolated
commune would take her in without worrying about her paperwork.
For hours at a time I sat on the bed watching Sophie sleep.
I knew that if I kept her I would be sexual with her. She was more
alluring being a year older, and I knew I would be powerless to resist.
A clever blend of valid reasoning and rationalization worked its way
through me.
She hadn't been dealt a very good hand in this life. I had no idea what
her life had been like before age two, but it probably hadn't been
great. She had spent her third year in a dungeon, half-starved and
beaten. Her year with me had been happy in many ways, though I had then
abandoned her. Her fifth year spent working her way through the social
service system had also been unhappy.
What had made me give her away was my pedophilia. I had thought of
myself as a monster, but now I reconsidered. Maybe pedophilia was
another side effect of the Zoloft. Being able to explore her mind at
any time gave rise to an unprecedented intimacy; perhaps that would
induce strong sexual attachments in normal men too, not just perverts.
No one knew.
One important factor was that I could monitor harm. The usual pedophile
doesn't know what goes on in the mind of his victim. I would know
everything, both what she consciously concluded but also other thoughts
that she might not be able to digest right away. I could moderate my
behavior to avoid anything she found especially distressing.
I would love Sophie deeply, and that would be good for her. I would be
sexual with her, but that wouldn't hurt her much, would it? Maybe a bit
too much love was the best option she had in her life just then.
Sophie was about to turn five. She now understood that I could go away
for a couple hours and she could count on my coming back. Having had
bad luck with babysitters, I left her home alone during those periods,
though she knew she could usually reach me on my cell.
I went out to do shopping and earn my fees for estimating construction
bids now and then, but mostly I stayed home because that was where I
wanted to be.
I was obsessed with my little dear. I did with her and for her just
about anything a father and daughter could do.
We went to playgrounds a lot, and sometimes she played with the other
kids. But mostly tended to be shy around them because they seemed very
rude to her. She thought of what she wanted, which was all it took to
communicate with me. They just ignored her thoughts and did as they
pleased.
We went to the movies and museums and theme parks. We took nature hikes.
I bought her all the toys she wanted. I read her stories and we played
on the computer a lot. We played endless make believe, often with
materials as simple as cardboard boxes, blankets and furniture to make
forts and castles. We played cards and baked cookies.
I bought her all the clothes that caught her fantasy, but she used them
almost entirely for dress-up. Around the house she usually went naked.
I brushed her hair for half an hour at a time and lovingly braided it.
I gave her backrubs. I also gave her all her baths.
But there was more, as I knew there would be.
A week after I decided to keep her I could resist no longer. "Sophie,
this is my cock," I said, taking off my briefs as we settled down to
bed one night. She had seen it before. But this time, as I looked at
the charming naked girl in front of me, it lengthened and stiffened.
I could hear her thoughts range from "Strange!" to "Cool!" to "Yeah, so
what?"
"This is what daddies use to make babies with mommies. But I am a
different kind of man. I feel like using this to make babies with you,
not just grown up women, even though we can't really."
"What do you mean?" she thought.
"First let me show you how it works. As my eyes raced from her curious
face down her chest to her labia I stroked myself. Within a minute my
strokes got faster and then I spurted semen all over my stomach. She
had a keen curiosity about what she was seeing, why I was breathing
faster, and how I felt when I scrunched up my face in orgasm. So I
answered the implicit questions.
"It feels really good, and I want to do it a lot, especially when I see
you. No, it's not pee. It's the stuff daddies put in mommies to make
babies. I feel like putting my cock in you, but it won't fit."
"Where does it go?"
"Open your peepee place. Those flaps are called labia officially, but
I'm going to call them pussy lips." As she opened, I gently put my
finger right at her vaginal opening. "That's the opening to a small
tube that goes up into your body. When you are a big girl, that tube
grows a lot bigger so my cock would fit."
"Yuck. That must be a very long time from now," she thought.
"Less than you might think. It's officially called a vagina," I said,
and then after a brief pause, "but we're going to call it your cunt,"
and I thrilled at using that word to label part of such a young girl.
"Are you willing to help daddy feel good?"
She was.
We lay on our sides facing each other. "OK, take my cock in your hand,
the way you saw me do. Now rub up and down ... Oh that's so nice,
Sophie. This time I'm going to spurt the stuff on your stomach, not
mine, OK? A little faster ... Don't squeeze quite so hard ... That's so
nice, Sophie, I love you so much. Just like that! ... yes, yes, Sophie,
Oooohhhh!" My first splat of sperm landed above her belly button, the
second pretty much right on it, the third dribbled onto the sheet
between us. She giggled.
I hugged her to me with my penis pressed between us, the goop oozing
between us and coating our bellies. I shed a few tears of joy before
separating to clean up.
Our lives went on, and I delighted in Sophie as the exuberant child she
was. Sex was part of our lives too, and I found those episodes the
highlight of our times together.
A standard position when reading or looking at the computer together
was for her to sit on my lap with her legs spread wide so I could
finger her private parts. She would often idly finger my penis as well.
"Sophie, I want to kiss your pussy lips, OK?"
Hearing no objection, I spread her legs wide and settled my face
between them. I licked all around, including her vaginal opening. Most
of all I focused on her little clit. It gradually started feeling good
to her down there. I could sense a mild warmth. She liked how my tongue
made her feel, but she didn't exactly love it. That built up gradually
over many months.
She thought with a trace of annoyance that now I was going to want to
shoot sperm onto her, and she was right. "Thank you, Sophie, I know
this isn't your favorite thing, but I really want to, OK?" I raised
myself up and with a dozen quick strokes I splatted my semen right on
her labia where I had been licking.
Sophie and I sat facing each other, both with legs spread wide. I
stroked her labia gently. She bent down to suck the tip of my penis
pretty well, fondling my balls with one hand and stroking my shaft with
the other. "Oh, Sophie, that's so great, I love you so much, mmmmm,
here it comes ... almost ... uuuuuffffff!" She didn't mind the cum so
much, though she wasn't thrilled. She swallowed it but then got her
reward of a raspberry Lindt ball, her favorite.
During the night I had my penis between her legs, poking against her
vaginal opening. I poked a little harder and she woke up.
I couldn't control myself and poked her even a little harder as my tip
swelled and I spurted into her little vagina.
"Ouch!" she cried, not leaving this one to thought alone.
"Sorry, sweetie, I got carried away. But I want to get into you so
much."
The pain didn't last and she forgave me quickly.
The next morning I said, "Can we make believe I'm putting my cock in
your cunt, but as close to real as we can get?"
I showed her how to lube up her hands and form a little tunnel that
ended right at her vaginal opening.
When we first did that a little thrill went through her as she noted
just how happy I looked as I spurted against her. She could also
control just how hard I bumped against her vaginal opening. She didn't
mind a pretty hard bump if she could control it.
I could tell when Sophie just didn't want to be sexual at all, and at
those times I refrained, getting my release in the bathroom with my own
hand. I think the fact that she could veto sex when she really wasn't
interested was a big factor in its not harming her.
Sophie was lying on the floor on her stomach at the computer watching a
movie, and I walked up behind her. "Have you studied your math yet
today?"
She looked a little sheepish, but had no need to tell me she hadn't.
"This is the third time I've asked you!" I said with some annoyance.
She then gave me a sly smile. She rose to a kneeling position and
pulled my briefs down. After showing me inside her labia she took the
tip of my penis into her mouth.
"Now, Sophie, you're trying to change the subject. You should..."
My penis pulsed to life rapidly.
"You need to..."
I closed my eyes with pleasure and within a minute I was reduced to,
"Oh, Sophie!" and spurted in her mouth. The math was forgotten for the
moment.
Sophie got me that time, but I did enforce some order in her life.
I made her talk sometimes to hone that skill. She learned her
arithmetic and reading and social studies. She had chores to do.
I was glum. The contractor I was spying on had changed his bid
considerably at the very last minute after I had already read his mind,
and my client was not pleased. The traffic had been bad on the way
home. The weather had been cold and damp.
"What's the matter, daddy?" my little one asked.
"Oh, nothing much. Stuff at work, the weather..."
She wanted me to be happy, and she thought of a way she knew would
work. "You wanna spurt your cock on me?"
"Oh, that's OK, sweetie."
She started dancing. After skipping around with her hand on her labia,
she stopped in front of me with her rear towards me and wiggled it back
and forth, looking over her shoulder mischievously. She saw my cock
rising, but I still didn't feel really very sexy.
But my loving little girl went for it, gently. "Come on, daddy, you
always feel so good." She pushed me back on the sofa, cradled my hard
cock and began licking it. I was feeling better in spite of myself.
As I lay on my back she licked and sucked, gently fondling my balls and
stroking up and down on my shaft. As I got very excited she changed
position and lowered herself so my cock was right at her vaginal lips,
then she started stroking again.
"Oh, Sophie, that's so nice!"
"Goody! Spurt your stuff in my cunt, OK? I know it makes you feel
really good ... There you go," she said as she saw me on the brink. "In
my cuntie, cuntie, cock, cock, cock!"
I surged upwards and splatted her with my sperm. I had to admit I felt
better. Sophie lowered herself into a hug. Partly it felt very good,
and partly I was touched that my girl had suggested sex just because
she knew I liked it.
I could tell from Sophie's mind how she reacted to my being sexual with
her. On the worst days we didn't have sex at all. Other days I pressed
the issue. How did it feel to her? On not-so-good days it was in the
same category as cleaning up her room or eating her vegetables. And
rarely when my desire reached frantic proportions and clashed with her
reluctance, it felt actively bad to her. But I reflected that even then
it felt no worse than when I had to brush snarls out of her hair.
She did see how very happy it made me, and that part of it in turn gave
her satisfaction.
Isolated from other kids, she did not understand that our sexual
relationship was unusual. She was only dimly aware that my ability to
read her mind was unusual.
On the whole, despite her very unusual situation Sophie was a very
happy little girl.
As Sophie turned eight I started noticing a change. When I licked her
clit she responded more strongly. She sometimes asked me to do it -- or
rather formulated the thought, which was the same thing. I eagerly
complied. She had her first little orgasm at eight and a half.
I always encouraged her to play with herself as much as she wanted, but
now she sometimes experimented with putting a little finger in her
vagina. She wiggled it and felt a bit of pleasure from it, then found
herself stretching it a little. Before long her middle finger fit.
As I saw the very first signs of sexual development, I decided to take
a series of photographs so we could track the changes. Her nipples
changed noticeably around age nine and I began honoring them much more
with my tongue. She liked it.
For years now, Sophie had been having semen spurted in her hair, on her
face, on her chest or belly, and between her butt cheeks, but
especially in her mouth and right at her vaginal opening. I don't know
if this constant attention from male fluids hurried her body's
development or not, but at nine and a half began the change I had been
dreaming of most.
As she held her hands to form the tunnel to her vagina, she let me push
my penis in a little more. Her vaginal tissues stretched back more, and
I felt her inner labia start to surround my penis. In the right mood
she was not just willing but excited to let me push in farther.
Somewhere in those sessions her hymen broke. For some reason she became
well lubricated with very little stimulation.
One fine day we both were startled and then thrilled to realize that
the tip of my penis had gone inside of her outer ring of muscles. I
almost instantly delivered a load of sperm that for the first time was
fully inside of her. As the days went on, deeper penetration proceeded
rapidly, and at nine years and nine months I finally bottomed out at
the end of her vagina. She no longer needed to use her hands as a fake
vagina. I had buried myself in the real thing. To put it crudely, I was
finally fucking my little Sophie, love of my life.
We still did other things for variety, but now what we mostly did was
plain old intercourse. I penetrated my little Sophie, thrust for a
short or long while, depending on her and my inclinations. The pleasure
built up to what I craved above else in life: letting loose my sperm
inside dear Sophie. Any time she was at all interested I was delighted
to use my tongue to bring her to orgasm, or use my fingers on her clit
as I thrust in and out with my penis. She tended to be actively
interested every other day or so, but that wasn't often enough for me.
I retained my insatiable desire for sex with her and came inside her
twice a day on average, though I still fingered her briefly at other
times as well.
When her period started I brought her to a gynecologist who was known
for not asking too many questions. She inserted an IUD into my Sophie.
I still occasionally used my mind-reading to combat evil. If the news
reported some crime or series of crimes that was especially horrendous,
I would see what I could do to solve them. I was often successful. I
didn't own a weapon any more. But I had devised ways to give anonymous
tips to the police without revealing myself.
I worked hardest on child abduction cases, and once Sophie and I spent
five weeks on the road in our van tracking down little Carla. I let the
police rescue her. Having one little girl feeling eternally grateful to
me was enough. During our travels I found wrongdoers everywhere, and if
the crime offended me especially, I gave the police a clue that let
them put an end to it one way or another.
But I realized that the world was too big for me to solve all the
crimes. Mostly I wanted a quiet life at home with my Sophie.
When she got to be 14 or so, Sophie developed increasingly strong
desires to get out into the world and relate to others. She wanted to
go to high school.
I first had to get her to agree not to hint at our sexual relationship
or my mind-reading. She agreed readily enough, but I kept going over it
day after day until it sank into her at all levels.
I decided it was time for a conversation I had been musing about for
some time.
"Sophie, now that you are older, what do you think of my being sexual
with you all these years?"
"I like it." I could feel a little surge in her loins just thinking
about it.
"Do you remember before, when you didn't?"
"It was OK. I have these memories of your moans and sighs, and it felt
great to make you feel good." She paused, then smiled. "You've been in
my mind all these years; why not be in my body too?"
I was startled to pick up something that was more part of the
background than a specific thought: To her I felt more like a husband
than a father at that point. Her feelings about it had been slowly
shifting for years, I now realized.
She did OK in school, though it was tiring for her to consider at every
moment how the others couldn't read her mind and to act accordingly.
She developed a few friendships, acted in a few plays, and played
intramural soccer.
She also went on a few dates. She found making out with other boys to
be a little exciting, but nothing like what she experienced with me.
I sent her off to college. When she came home for Thanksgiving break I
got the image of two different boys having sex with her. I contained my
fierce jealousy and dealt with it later when Sophie was not around.
For her the novelty had been exciting, but it didn't last. The problem
was that no man seemed kind and loving because he couldn't read her
mind. Having to frame her thoughts in language and speak them out loud
seemed laborious and vaguely like having to shout to a man who was hard
of hearing. Nor could she relax because she always had to consider the
implications of his not reading her thoughts. She also couldn't explain
that her father could read her thoughts.
With her experimentation done, she transferred to a local college and
came home to me every night. Every night and ever morning she was
delighted with sex. Without much sweat she had two or three orgasms
each time.
Our sexual dance was graceful and always harmonious. I could give her
what she wanted. I wanted to do things that weren't her favorite, but
without conversation I could trade off her hesitations with my desires
and found a good balance. I mounted her from the rear every two weeks
or so.
I'm no genius, and she's not either, but her education brought her up
to my level and we found lots to talk about together. We became best
friends. An observer would have heard me doing all the talking, but
inside our heads, where it counted, it was not at all a monolog.
Sophie had come to me as a daughter. I started being sexual with her,
and eventually she turned into my wife. We formalized that in a small
civil ceremony when she turned 21.
The baby bug hit Sophie a year later. One was not enough, nor were two.
She is pregnant with her fifth as I write this and is not sure she is
through. We have some extra hired help, but we are both with the kids a
lot. I have this knack for knowing what they need and want, of course.
If I have any sexual feelings for my own daughters I haven't discovered
them yet, and in any event I swore to Sophie that I would never do
anything with them no matter what.
I think I fell in love with Sophie as a person. It awakened sexual
feelings in me while she was still quite young. But the pedophilia
sprang from the love of a particular individual. Other girls aren't
Sophie, and I'm not attracted to them.
I had a boring life working at a call center, with few friends and few
romantic prospects. The doctor prescribed Zoloft, and that has made all
the difference. I have my soul-mate Sophie and we are raising our brood
of vibrant, healthy offspring.
Sophie was tired. But as I joined her in bed she knew I would be
interested in sex, and I could read from her thoughts that this night,
as most nights, she was up for it if I would do the work. With my
fingers I got her excited enough that she was physically and
emotionally ready for my penis. Then as we lay on our sides with her
pregnant belly away from me I slid into her from the rear. Knowing
exactly what she needed I guided her to a fine orgasm, and just as she
was coming down from it I fulfilled my deepest nature as I let loose
and shot sperm all over her inner vagina. She was asleep before I
finished spurting, and I held myself against her backside until my
penis shriveled and slid out.
"I love you, Sophie," I whispered to her sleeping form as I lay back
and drifted off to sleep myself. "I love you."