Daddys little girl
- 3 years ago
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Daddy's Girl free porn video
Most mornings, we would pass each other in the lobby of our building, and I would smile and offer her a greeting. But she would avert her eyes, merely nod and hurry away.
A young professional woman, I guessed, no older than twenty-five. Maybe a solicitor, accountant, medic or academic. Her fiery hair was invariably gathered tightly back into a tucked-in-braid. She never wore a skirt, always a suit, those butt-hugging tailored pants. One morning I noticed the impeccability of her attire diminished: one button too many of her crisp, starched white blouse left unfastened. I wondered what had delayed her, interrupted her clock-work punctuality and caused her to leave her home so dishevelled. I must have been staring; her scowl accused me, and I was guilty as charged. The draw of her cleavage was irresistible, achingly unobtainable.
One time when I was running late and she had already left the building, I took in a package from the postman addressed to her. That's how I learned her name was Caitlin, Dr Caitlin Medlock. When she knocked on my door that evening to pick up her delivery, she offered not so much as a thank-you when she took it from my hands. The departing click of her heels on the tiled stairs mocked my illusions, the hope I might finally get to chat with her, say to her, "No it's okay; no problem at all. I'm sure you'd do the same. Are you free Saturday?"
It was hopeless. Caitlin Meadows had no interest in me. I stopped rising an hour before I needed to. Instead, I would sit at my breakfast bar in my dressing gown and listen to her apartment door closing, the familiar rat-a-tat of her heels on the tiles as she passed by my door. Only when I had heard her car engine start would I get my coat and leave for work.
By the time I stumbled upon Channel-X, Caitlin no longer plagued my thoughts. Let's get this straight. Channel-X is not some late-night cable porn service. It's the name I gave to my very own peep into Caitlin's world.
I discovered the streamed images when I brought my new monster TV home from Curry's one evening in July. I'd connected all the leads and was setting up the wi-fi when I stumbled on the rogue broadcast.
I thought it was one of those pay-per-view house spy camera-things you often get offered on porn sites. The video quality was as good, the interiors streamed to my screen in glorious crisp 4K. There were four rooms to view: kitchen, bedroom, bathroom and lounge. I quickly flicked through them all. The lounge area had a picture window set in the wall directly opposite the camera through which I could make out a vista of distant hills. It took me only a second to realise what lay beyond the glass. I knew that panorama like the back of my hand; the familiar silhouette of a hillside, the transmitting station mast at Winter Hill pointing skyward.
It was the same view I had from my flat through an identical window. I could only imagine I'd tuned into the security system of the apartment directly above mine, which was Caitlin's apartment.
I flicked through the rooms again and saw no sign of life. And then in the bedroom, she walked into camera-shot. Even though I knew what I was looking at, my brain refused to compute the information. The reality of Caitlin in her natural habitat, walking back and forth, was profoundly disconcerting.
Even when wandering around in the privacy of her spacious bedroom, she had the air of someone afraid to let their guard down, and I wondered if she was aware the cameras were capturing her every breath. I asked myself, was this her little money-spinner?
But the lenses were fixed. They did not follow her. In the bedroom, a king-sized mattress was the sole focus of the prying lens. Whoever had installed the device had a perfect view of her bed, from its unboarded foot-end on up over its rich and scattered cushions, its gilded Jacquard quilt cover, its pillows and tall, golded plush headboard.
From time to time, Caitlin would pass between the camera and the bed. A game of now you see her, now you don't. Her clothes suggested she was preparing to leave for a night out clubbing. Or maybe she had come home early.
Whenever she came close to the camera, I expected her to turn and face me and confront me, hold me responsible. But the technology was beyond my comprehension. I mentally conjured something nano, undetectable to all but the savviest of sleuths.
It was hard to read her. Eventually, I decide her night had been a failure. And when she did finally look directly at the camera, into her dresser mirror, her weary, mascaraed eyes were devoid of purpose.
I watched her come and go until my stomach went into free-fall when a man entered the room. He appeared suddenly, as if out of nowhere when he passed in front of the camera. And then he was gone, and I could hear his deep, smooth voice say her name: "Caitlin."
And then her quickly replying, "Yes?" Such a distant voice, as if from the en-suite or maybe the dressing room.
A horrible rush of conscience, the realisation I had become the voyeur, the despised peeping Tom. A nascent excitement began to spread throughout my body on realising I was breaking some delicious taboo. It was so sordid, wrong beyond excuses. But I no longer cared, the adrenalin rush was worth my self-opprobrium. It thrilled me like little else ever had.
I did not know the man — this older man, her oh-so distinguished guest. I had never passed him in the hall, never seen him walk the path to our building's front door. He was well dressed — no, he was impeccably dressed. Every article of his attire looked expensive, chosen with care to give the illusion of the casual.
"Caitlin! Are you ready?"
She returned to the room in only her lingerie, her bra and black briefs all lace and stretch. At last, her fiercely shocking hair was free of clips and murdering chignon, its roar of fabulous brightness utterly compelling. The camera had become a heat-seeking device. But of course, it did not move. How could it! It was my eyes that did the seeking.
She stood at the foot of the bed, her back to the lens as she asked, "Must I?"
"You promised."
His voice off-screen was heavy with expectation. I imagined him quite settled, at ease and watching from a bedroom chair. In my mind, I conjured the decadence of a chasse-lounge.
She sat herself down at the end of the bed and stared ahead, seeing herself through a mirror I surmised. Her hands were lost to view when she reached behind herself to undo her bra. It fell away, and I was left astonished by the fleeting beauty of her well-formed breasts before they became lost to sight beneath her cascading hair.
My cock was rampant, straining against heavy denim as it shouted its absurd need to have her. Even though there was no hope of satisfaction, it demanded I pay attention, expected that maybe by my staring I could magic Caitlin into the room. But all I could do was appease the beast by undoing my belt buckle. My cock sprang free, and my palm became its friend.
"You are a gorgeous creature," the voice from the screen told Dr Caitlin Meadows. "Touch your breasts."
She gathered her hair from her chest, sending swathes backwards over her shoulders. Both her knuckles skimmed the surface of her upper chest, then on down twice. Her nipples responded instantly, proud and pleased. Soon, each hand's long, silver nails had come into play, lightly teasing before passing on down, scoring her belly flesh as they went, traversing her smooth abdomen and quickly disappearing into the stretch of her panties. Her fingers went deep, rummaging, and I expected them to emerge clutching a prize.
But they didn't. There was an uproar going on down there, a wild thrashing beneath scant material.
"what do you imagine when you touch yourself?" he asked.
"Do I have to say?"
"You still imagine her, don't you?"
"Sometimes."
"Are thinking of her now?"
"Yes," exhaled, not a word, mere breath.
"Say her name."
"Chloe."
He came and stood beside her, his arm reaching for her. I saw only his shoulder and arm caught by the lens to be framed and hung like a surreal exhibition piece.
"Tell me your secrets."
"You know all of my secrets."
"A secret of Chloe's, then."
"They're not mine to tell."
"Do you love me?"
"Of course I do."
"The Chloe you loved... She will never know."
Almost a whisper as his hand stroked her shoulder, then her breast. So lightly, so casually: "Sometimes, I would hurt her. I never wanted to. She insisted."
"Take off your panties."
Caitlin stood up, and with languid fingers drew down her knickers, stretching the fabric absurdly, her tugging hands outpacing the material's willingness to follow.
She handed the garment over, and I heard him inhale. He told her to move further up the mattress, and she eased herself among the scattered cushions to the top where she propped herself up with bunched pillows, her back pushing them against the towering headboard.
"Open your legs, Caitlin. I want to see your pussy when you cum. That's my girl. Not like that. Wider!
She parted her legs further than comfort, arched them ostentatiously to display a cunt all smoulder and embers in the rose-hued lamplight that ignited her fiery down, her sodden raw tissue that glistened and begged.
"Touch yourself while you betray her."
I tried to imagine Chloe, hoped she was the petite dark girl who often visited Caitlin; a girl prettier than chintz.
"Where should I start?" Caitlin asked.
"The very first time."
"Chloe was thirty, I just nineteen, when she confessed to me, painted a picture of the person she imagined she was. It took me months to understand how she had become that way.
"'A wretched thing,' she would call herself. I was her friend, but when she "shared", told me of her nature, she made me complicit in her perversity, the cure for her wretched need to make amends for what Daddy had done. A base faultline bestowed by the father she had never known stained her soul. His trial had been a national sensation. Before it's conclusions, already certain of his guilt, her mother had moved away, changed all of their names."
In my flat, my cock was truncheon-hard in my hand as I watched Caitlin's fingers explore the folds of her pussy, words spilling from between her lips. The steady action of her fingers mesmerised me. Oh, how they rotated, going round and round stirring the brew, all those words mixed up with touching. Slowly, slowly. No end to their stirring.
"Chloe and I. Our first holidays together in that remote cottage on the Llŷn Peninsula. During the early days away she would prep me, feed me my lines and map out her need until I knew the script by heart. After that fourth day, each night I would bind her ankles and wrists with stockings, stretching the nylon taut as spiders silk, until she was a pale and monstrous starfish laid flat out on the mattress. Each evening after a long day at the beach, I would begin with her pussy. After our days of basking and bathing, its rock-pool in summer sun redolence became a sweet entre to the meal of pain I would soon serve up. There would be one dish and then another.
"How spiteful my pinching fingers could be! How callously my painted nails would scour her skin, leaving parallel tracks in their wake to every tender place, every cranny. It was a revelation to find how easily I took to my new role. How pleased I was to hear her say I was born to it.
"She saved the pins until our last night. They were her pets, housed in a silver box and laid out sleeping side by side, each one's head inlaid and golden. She told me they were ancient, a family heirloom that had once had belonged to a Witch-finder, used to locate the devil's dug. She had convinced herself she was demon blighted. Now I was to find Lucifer's teat by mapping her flesh with pin-pricks, inch by inch. She promised it would be exquisite, detailed work."
As Caitlin spoke, her voice became less her own. Soon it was as if she were speaking in tongues while her wrist and fingers began thrashing out a beat, prompting her memory to give up more secrets.
"I remember holding up one of those atrocious but simple implements for the very first time, examining it before putting it to use, hating myself for my eagerness to witness her response when it pierced her flesh. I found it such easy work, quickly learned I was born to it. Such a thrill to sense her skin's resistance to precious metal, the piercing of epidermis, the slightest of silver stems sinking deep into the dermis, its papillary layer,
"After the fourth piercing, she begged me to stop, screamed her innocence. But she never once said the word that would rescue her from torment. Her pain would make amends. And so I continued to examine her, inch by inch, limb by limb. After drawing a blank at belly, abdomen, shoulders and chest, I had no choice but to attend to her breasts. I tried to be gentle, limited myself to a rat-a-tat pricking, slowing when only her nipples remained untested. How time became stretched during the skewering, her silence."
And it was that word — 'skewering' — that flipped Caitlin's body into an orgasm so profound that her torso began twisting and turning until her self induced bliss doubled her over, knees to her chest expelling the name of her lost lover, her, "Chloe!"
I stretched out on the sofa in front of my seventy-inch screen and shared in her bliss, my ejaculation fierce and all-consuming as Imagined the younger Caitlin and her witch-finder's pins. The sweet, long-insane Chloe.
The body blow of what came next is as visceral now as it was in that moment of realisation. Reaching for tissue and cleaning myself while on-screen his disembodied arm reaching out, his hand at the bedside table. Only then did I notice the silver box nested in sheaths of tanged nylon. His eager hands began sorting stockings like yarn, choosing and stretching, appropriating each to its corner, each to its limb.
By the time he lifted the box and opened its lid, I was already hard again.
Aeryn
- 27.03.2020
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- BDSM
