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David’s Dad

By Cindy Larie

License Notes

Thank you for purchasing this e-book. This work is the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously. All characters are adults, 18+ in this story and no one is blood related.

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Copyright © 2017 C Cowles

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I came home early on Valentine’s Day, wanting to clean up and make myself presentable before David showed up. He always takes me out to classy restaurants and gives me the best gifts on holidays, anniversaries, my birthday. None of my friends can believe I’m not fucking him, but although I care about him and have fun with him, he just doesn’t do it for me that way. He has about as much experience as I do—and I’m still carrying my V-card, so that should say something. I hear it can hurt, and maybe it makes me sound bad but I’m a big chicken when it comes to pain, so if something’s gonna hurt, I want someone experienced in charge—someone who can make me not mind if it hurts. That definitely isn’t David. The one and only time I ever touched his cock—through his jeans—he detonated early. He had jizz all over his lower stomach and looked like he pissed himself.

I tiptoed through the house, not wanting to get caught and questioned by my mom. She’s been a real bitch lately, since she and her boyfriend decided to part ways—since he dumped her, if I’m honest. I swear I’m so tempted to buy her a dildo. I saw the perfect one online—a huge ebony King Kong dong. That thing was close to a foot and a half long and bigger around than my arm, and came attached to a ball the size of those you see women exercising on. I guess that’s so you can grease it up, wedge it into a corner, and back that ass up on it, bouncing your way to nirvana.

I heard noises as I slipped past Mom’s door. Whispers, giggles, and slapping noises that made me wonder if she’d reunited with Dan. I promised myself I’d check up on her on my way out the door, just to be sure a burglar hadn’t found a way inside and got himself tied to her bed, and hurried past.

In my room, I locked the door and stripped before picking out an outfit to wear after my shower, enjoying the cool air from the ceiling fan as it swirled around my body, pebbling my pale pink nips into tiny hard nubs. Absentmindedly brushing my fingers back and forth across them, I searched through my closet for the perfect dress. As my actions set off tiny tingles in my clit, I pushed it further, pinching and tugging on them and shivering as the crotch of my panties grew damp.

I laid my clothes out on the bed—ultra-feminine sundress with delicate straps and lacy pink bikini panties that almost matched the pink of my nipples. I debated the matching bra, but decided against it since the straps would ruin the look of the outfit. I glanced down at the twins, hefted them in my hands, and shrugged. I’m only a C cup. At eighteen, the occasional braless evening isn’t going to hurt me. It’s not like I’m old—like my mom. I snickered and headed for the shower.

Adjusting the water to the temperature range I like—warm enough to steam up the room, but not so hot that it reddens my skin—I climbed in, wet my entire body, sudsed up my hair with my favorite Dumb Blond shampoo, and worked my shower pouf into a nice coconut scented lather. I systematically cleaned from the neck down, saving my waxed and groomed kitty for last. Then, covered in lather from head to toe, I poured a dime-size dot of Vanilla Pussycat in the palm of one hand, rubbed both hands together, and soaped up my slit, letting my head fall back against the wall of the shower as my fingers explored the familiar folds, nooks and crannies between my legs.

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