My secret desires are at a crossroads with my moral compass and for a good reason. Crossing the line with this in any manner should be unthinkable. I know that and understand it entirely, but the fact is, I do think. In my waking hours I think, I wish, and I imagine.
Even in my slumber, I dream about it. My psyche wrestles with the matter both day and night breaking my concentration at the most inconvenient times. So, while my conscience is continually weighing on me to put the inconceivable out of my mind once and for all, I am struggling.
I’m always telling myself that it’s the last time when my mind strays off to areas that it ought not. It’s always the last time but it never is, and it doesn’t help matters that I cannot get away from the one thing that provokes these forbidden notions. She appears, or I enter her vicinity out of necessity, our eyes lock, and something happens. At least for me, because her icy blue eyes have always been a weakness for me. On her end, it’s probably nothing more than a normative acknowledgment of my presence in most cases.
For me, it feels like the world stops, and before I know it my mind is flooded with perverse images of myself doing wickedness to her body that I should be ashamed of for a bevy of reasons. Many times, I have looked at her in wonder as she’s seemingly so naive to my twisted mind while I perpetually obsess. In my mind’s eye, I’ve seen myself coercing her into depravity, such things that would no doubt shock her and have absolutely shocked me. I’ve made every attempt to silence my desires to no avail because of the serpentine beast inside my head is ever whispering in my subconscious ear temptations of the flesh.
Inconspicuously, I sneak glances at her, utterly overwhelmed by feelings that I can’t seem to shake that compel me to taste and touch because the looking is frustratingly not enough. My eyes often zoom in on areas of the forbidden fruit that they shouldn’t if I am to tell the truth. On that, I cut myself a modicum of slack because I don’t believe for one second that any heterosexual man could look at her and never have at least one improper thought.
Her appeal is captivating in such a striking way, but at the same time, it appears so natural and effortless. This only fuels my fixations on her, and I surmise that she has that kind of impact on most men who get within a few feet of her. Maybe that’s why I’m inexplicably drawn to her in the first place, the sincerity of her demeanor with something mysterious behind those stunning eyes that I can’t quite figure out.
Is she really that oblivious to the effect that she has on me? I suppose it’s plausible as she’s never given me any apparent reason to presume anything else. So, perhaps it’s just my corrupt mind which has these thoughts between the two of us. Granted, I acknowledge that on many levels I could be fooling myself. She could be a deadly little demon behind those sweet smiles formed by a mouth shimmering with pink lip gloss, those lingering touches by fingers with sparkly nail tips, or the twinkle in those arresting eyes.
When she makes eye contact with me a few seconds longer than is comfortable, it awakens the beast residing inside my mind, and it takes everything in me to keep it at bay. Caged by the confines of my imagination, it charges forward to the figurative bars hitting them with full force only to be knocked back by the reality of this predicament.
That part of me is dark, and I give nothing away by returning her smiles which don’t quite reach my eyes before pretending that I’m preoccupied with something else. Doesn’t matter what else just anything else. What can I do? Certainly not what I want to do which is to grab her, rip her clothes, and plunder her little body against any and every object that could withstand it.
When we are sitting at breakfast, I imagine throwing her on the table, cereal and toast hitting the floor. I have sick fantasies about forcing her up against the front door the moment she walks inside. I daydream about shoving her down over the armrest of the living room couch and fucking her up the ass. It has even crossed my mind, as she’s on her way up to bed, to grab her wrist and ravage her on the damn stairs. It’s a never-ending list of places, times, and scenarios that my mind conjures to placate my filthy, taboo obsession.
None of those are possibilities, but nothing can seem to stop my imagination from forming these sinful scenarios, and inane images of us engaged in an all-out, wanton fuck-fest. Her touch always appears to have no adverse agenda and technically, it is all very suitable considering my role in her life. It is embarrassing to admit that I love for those small moments to happen when she touches me even in the slightest way. Hell, I ache for them.
There are times when she places her delicate hand on my arm or needs to get passed and grazes up against me as she makes her way around my body that set my mind into a frenzy. I get a whiff of her, and she smells like what I envision walking through Heaven might, or I guess in this case, the Garden of Eden is apt.
Her fragrance is a light, sweet honeysuckle infused with jasmine, and fresh morning dew with just a hint of airy citrus which leaves me intoxicated by it every single time. I’ve never been able to distinguish if it’s her shampoo, body wash, some perfume, or just her. Whatever it is, if I could smell nothing else on earth besides that scent for the rest of my life, I’d never need to smell anything more. As enchanting as that sounds, make no mistake about it, sometimes I’m terrified of losing the battle with the hidden beast dwelling inside me. Interestingly, I had been winning that ongoing fight for a few weeks until she came to ask me for some guidance recently.
I have an office on the lower level of my house which allows me to work from home from time to time when I don’t need to be at my law firm. Not to mention the clandestine opportunities that it provides me to fantasize while jerking off as I view online porn clips featuring women who have a similar aesthetic to hers: petite but curvy, full natural looking breasts, long brunette hair, and light eyes. Yes, I know I’m a despicable snake for such a thing, but I need to release the tension somehow. I did endeavor to stop by trying to dissuade the thoughts, restricting myself to blondes.
At first, it wasn’t as effective as I’d hoped because it seemed like every girl looked like her, but I know the truth is because I want to perceive her there looking back at me. Eventually, I was able to find a few redheads that I thought were hot which distracted me for a time and foolishly, I thought maybe I had things under control.
Her visit was one of the countless times that she’d been down to my office. She has come down to chat about any number of subjects, to ask for a favor or for no reason other than she wanted to check on me. This latest fantasy of mine started a week ago when she entered my office wearing a short, flouncy cream-colored skirt and a floral off the shoulder top. Why that outfit hurled me off the wagon, I’m not entirely sure, but the initial thing I noticed was her bare legs. My traitorous dick stood at attention the minute she walked in seeking my counsel.
Those pretty stems were lightly tanned, beautifully shaped, and incredibly alluring but I didn’t linger on them long because I had no desire for her to catch me doing it even though I had eyed her legs many times in the past. Her walk is runway model precise, and I don’t know if women practice that shit in their youth or what, but she had it mastered in the flesh-colored pumps which adorned her petite feet that day.
After she sauntered over to where I was, she plopped down in one of the two chairs in front of my desk, her breasts bounced, and her skirt flounced which caused my erection to strain against my boxer briefs uncomfortably. I cleared my throat and managed my way through our customary warm pleasantries before she went into her spiel.
She had come to me for an objective opinion about a matter between herself, her best friend, and some other individual who had allegedly spread rumors on social media. I think she said, “on The Gram”, a reference to Instagram which everyone seems to be using these days, except for me. I never mind listening to her because she isn’t an excessive complainer, she’s quite articulate, and her melodious, sweet voice moves me in a way like no other. However, she tends to go on and on without me having to say much initially.
As she related her account of the events, I kept watching some of her dark hair skim along her collarbone as she spoke. The skin on her rounded, small shoulders gave a creamy, soft and flawless appearance. That was no real surprise as I assume, she is precisely that way everywhere, the places I’ve had the privilege to see and touch do indicate it. While she proceeded, my eyes shifted back to her delicate clavicle. I tried to push the fact that I desired to kiss and lick my way across it, then all the way up her slender, exquisitely sculpted neck out of my head to focus on what she was telling me.
Unfortunately, I looked up and saw her gorgeous lips, then zoned entirely out. I watched and no longer heard as my mind specifically focused on their movement. They have a lovely, pouty shape to them with a dip right above called the cupid’s bow. I’ve often wondered what my cum would look like displayed there and painted on her sweet lips. She usually wears a pinkish or peachy lipstick or gloss which accentuates her mouth and that day, she had on a cotton-candy pink hue which drove me wild. While those lips opened and closed showing a little hint of perfectly straight white teeth and floating over various syllables, I had begun to visualize her on her knees right in front of me.
Every word she pronounced created a vision in my mind as to how they would look and feel enclosed around my throbbing cock. I wanted to feel those candy-colored lips on my manhood and watch them inhale it like a python would its prey. In my fantasy, my left hand was balled up in her long, thick hair and I tugged on it each time she went down a little too far for her slender throat and choked on my shaft. Frankly, I loved the idea of watching her gag on it while I fucked her throat until I dispersed hot seed on her tonsils. Of course, she swigged down every drop of my ejaculate like a good girl in my thoughts.
There she was in my office, door shut, and alone with me as I conjured up these nasty deeds in my demented brain. She was talking away unsuspectingly, while I sat behind my antique walnut desk as firm as fuck wishing she was deep throating me. The fantasy didn’t end there though because once Pandora’s box is open, it simply is.
Not only did I want to blast my load down her throat and watch her swallow it, I wanted to taste her young slit even more. The scenario was astonishingly vivid in my head of me hoisting her up to her feet after she licked me clean. My left arm shot out, and I swiped everything within proximity off the desk. Not giving a fuck what hit the floor as I sat her up on it, placed a steady hand to her midsection, and pushed her back flush with the hardwood.
I scooted my chair up and tossed those evenly tanned legs over each of my shoulders, anxiously pushed that little skirt up to her tummy, and buried my whole damn face between her thighs. My hands clutched her hips firmly, and my mouth went to work planting hot kisses against whatever fabric concealed that vee between them. In my mind, it was merely pristine white cotton with tiny stitched edges. My greedy tongue was out and trying to taste her right through them. I licked and sucked on the material so hungrily it was hard to tell if it was her pussy or my salivating that made them so wet.
I ate her like that up to a point where she was moaning, whimpering, and saying she was about to cum. When I knew she was close, my tongue slid around to the edge of those panties and darted into her drenched youthful core. I tongue fucked the hell out of her until she was bucking, trembling, crying out while climaxing all over my tongue, lips, and bearded chin. I didn’t stop until she was pleading with me because she couldn’t take anymore. Then and only then did I withdraw from her succulent slit to give her a reprieve. My cock was so rigid that it desperately ached to split her tight, nubile sex in this twisted daydream of mine which wasn’t any different than how I felt sitting there as she spoke to me.
There were no tender thoughts about making love at all despite my feelings for her otherwise. The lust was too built up for that all together, and my manhood was out, ready within an instant. What I wanted was to subdue, conquer, and pillage. I yearned to defile every orifice she had that would accept my cock. A thick seven inches was available to give her, and I aspired to train her inexperienced, adolescent holes to accommodate it.
It was like it had a mind of its own to get all up in her from the front, the back, and the side on top of my desk. Up against my office door, the windows to the walls, and on the damn floor. I wanted to make her kneel on all fours, jerk that luscious brunette mane back, and make her plead for my seed while I fucked her like a deserted dog in heat from behind until she collapsed in a quivering heap.
Indeed, I craved to submit her fully to my will, and I wanted her to desire it and beg me for it. In my soul, I need to be the only person in the world able to make her ache for those things. The beast inside me wants to drag her down the road to perdition no matter the consequences but I want more than only that with her. I want her to want it just as much as I do. Yes, I know that it is forbidden. Yes, I know that it is taboo.
Yes, I know it is wicked and immoral in most eyes. Hell, it is in my own eyes, but that’s why it has a label: cognitive dissonance. At least, that’s what my therapist called it. Yep, I have a therapist, and I’ve told him my dirty little secrets, but I made it clear that I have absolutely no intention of ever acting on any of it, which he believed. Whether that was the truth or not, I am not completely sure, and that troubles me on many levels.
This matter is my problem though, and I need to deal with it because she has no responsibility in this at all. And even if she did, I’m the one who needs to handle it, not her. And well, I was trying as I had resolved myself to stop obsessing over her, to stop looking at her longer than I should, and to deter these toxic fantasies. I was successful for a while until she came into my office wearing that outfit. Again, which unquestionably wasn’t her fault because she has every right to wear what she likes without being objectified in a way she does not desire.
I fully understand that even as piggish and shameful as I am. That’s the thing about an obsession; you need to recognize for it what it is, an addiction. It’s a deep-rooted psychological hold over your mind and the only way to beat it; you can’t be around it. You can’t be around people who tempt or enable you, and you certainly shouldn’t be putting yourself in situations which could lead you to regress. I recognize all those things but am guilty of them for various reasons, but the most significant is because I have no choice. The obsession in question, in this case, is my daughter.
Yes, I’ll let that sink in for a moment, but surely during this story, you had some indication. Before you condemn me to the depths of Hell, I should clarify. I am legally her father and for all intents and purposes, in every way that counts via adoption. But biologically, we do not share DNA. I’m not in any way suggesting that excuses me morally, but technically if something ever did happen between us, then there would be no blood ties.
Furthermore, she’s seventeen which means she is above the age of consent and could have sexual relations with anyone she wanted within the confines of the law. I’m not trying to justify, and I’m thoroughly evaluating myself on the matter. I have plenty of receipts from therapy bills prove it. I’m merely sharing my own experience from my perspective.
Turning off what I feel for her has shown to be impossible, and it isn’t something that I can just get over because I want it to be so due to the moral implications of it. Attraction cannot be helped, and it’s probably even worse when you feel love for the object of your affections. And yes, I do love her. I’ve loved her for years, so, that’s nothing new but what is new? It’s the discovery of being in love and lust with her.
I just realized something. I’ve not introduced myself and I probably should at this point since we’ve come this far. I am a forty-two-year-old American man who resides on the northeast coast of the USA. My profession is, get this: Family Law. Yep, I’m the guy you come to when you need representation for prenups, divorce, spousal support, and or child custody issues. How’s that for irony? It would be laughable if it weren’t so strangely and absurdly coincidental for reasons you’ll learn in time. While the law is not an issue here, morality is the case, and I know the taboo nature of this will garner me condemnation. You are probably judging me harshly right now, but the fact is I’ve done nothing but fantasize, and can anyone truly control every thought that pops into their head?
Oh, before I forget, My name is Seth Klein. Easy enough to remember, right? I’m sure there are many other questions and I’d like to answer them. Maybe even ask some myself but I do need to end this here for now. It is movie night at the Klein household and Eden will be expecting the pizza that I’m supposed to order in the next fifteen minutes. Yes, we have movie nights.
What? Did you think all I do is sit around having dirty thoughts about her and lamenting about it? No, I know how to multi-task.
To be continued.
Please be aware that the contents of this storyline may contain potentially distressing material for certain individuals. This story is best to avoid if you have a sensitivity to taboo sexual matters as this story features that type of content. All content in this story is completely fictional and cannot be utilized for any reason besides reading for entertainment purposes. Please read the red link above which features the blog’s disclaimer. Thank you.
Author’s notes: I recognize this subject matter could be very sensitive for some people and it is not my intention to upset or disturb anyone hence why there is a trigger warning. Please note that all the characters, scenarios, and situations in this story are one hundred percent fictional. Nothing about this story should be seen as a recounting of anything real. This is a story inspired by Adrian Lyne’s 1997 film, Lolita.
© 2019 Salacious Storyteller All rights reserved.
No parts of this work may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author in accordance with International and Federal Copyright laws and treaties. All names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters portrayed in this work are at least sixteen years of age.