The New Girl

This is a work of erotic fiction, and is not intended for reading by anyone under the age of 18. All characters and events portrayed in this story are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental. Do not read further if you are under 18 or if pornography is illegal in the area in which you live.

Disclaimer: This is a fictional work which mentions and describes episodes from a fictional version of the show "Buffy: the Vampire Slayer," and from a fictional Star Trek show, and I make no money from this. These fictional versions of these shows and their described episodes in no way reflect the attitudes of the actors, owners, and staff of any show that I know of. "Buffy: the Vampire Slayer" and all characters from the show belong to Warner Bros and Joss Whedon. "Star Trek" belongs to Paramount. I know nothing about the actual sex lives of any real celebrity mentioned in this work.

Comments may be sent to kendall.hart40@gmail.com -- No flames please, I shouldn't have to deal with that after posting here. More to come -- I just don't know when.

The New Girl

By and copyright Kendall Hart, 2008 (with an assist from my wishes-to-remain-nameless lady!)

(TG, ped, MF, FG, G-solo, MFF, MF, FF, Mg, Gg, Mg, cons, oral, incest-play)

WARNING: Slow starter! Much background!

Part One

One minute I was a thirty-five year old male reporter with a very secret taste for very young girls, and the next, I was pretty much stuck in the Twilight Zone -- though if it was meant to be one of those Twilight Zone episodes with some ironic lesson, it really didn't work, because I ended up loving what happened to me -- though I didn't expect to, that's for damn sure.

I worked for a paper in a moderately big city in Montana -- well, big by Montana standards, not by anyone else's -- and we had a surprisingly well-rated college about two miles outside of town, one of those small, private colleges that cost two fortunes to attend, but that pack a ton of prestige behind their degrees. I was out there the day everything got turned around and upside down in my personal world because they were having a press conference about their Alternative Energy Sources program, and I got the assignment.

I went, and I stood around with the people from the big papers and the TV networks, and I disengaged my mind while my hands took notes on the nifty-neato-super-keen things these super-scientists had come up with to get us off of the oil-teat.

I wasn't paying a lot of attention, I was reliving the vacation I'd taken to Germany the month before, going to a very private nudist resort there, one that you simply could not get into without a recommendation from a person who was already a member. I'd met a female member online, and we'd slowly come to trust each other over a year-long period, then started trading child porn. Eventually, I'd actually met the woman -- and been surprised to find that 1) she really was a woman, 2) really was as hot as the pictures she'd sent me, 3) which really were of her, and 4) that she really was the widowed mother of two girls, ten and eight, 5) who really were her lovers, and 6) who really wanted to try a man. I'd gotten to have sex with both girls and their mother, loved it . . . and earned myself an invite to the resort in Germany, which turned out to be a place for pedophiles to meet and get together -- and where families really did let their kids have sex, if they wanted.

I'd fucked myself half to death, doing some seventeen girls from six to fourteen, and a couple of women who liked to share men with their little girls. I was a member, now, and could go back any time I liked, though I couldn't invite people -- you had to have kids of your own to do that, and I never had been married, even.

So I wasn't paying a lot of attention to the geeks as they discussed their accomplishments, was just taking notes on autopilot, to supplement the tape recorder I had going. Then I heard something that snapped me out of my reverie, and paid attention.

" . . . and thus we are able to reach into other dimensions, and, in the case of those which have a higher energy potential than ours, to drain that energy off for our own use."

I raised my hand, and the scientist, a Doctor Paulson, called on me.

"Doctor Paulson, I'm Stephen Thompkins from the local Times," I said. "You say that you're able to reach other dimensions, plural -- how many have you reached?"

"We've catalogued some one hundred and fifteen other dimensions -- or perhaps `other universes' would be a better term -- as of this date." He polished his glasses. "Unfortunately, we've had some difficulty in latching onto the same place twice -- the frequencies of the device have proven very difficult to control, due to the vibrations of the matter strings we're accessing for tuning. Still, within a very few years -- five at the most -- we expect to be able to latch onto a specific other universe at will, and tap those near their beginning for untold energy."

"Any chance of a demonstration?" I asked, fully expecting to be told no.

"Of course," he said, smiling at my shocked expression. "Gentlemen, will you bring the apparatus in, please?"

Six big men wheeled in a science-fiction worthy gizmo that looked like someone had mated a small electrical substation with a mad scientist's lab, and those six started plugging in power cables and doing things while we all watched in a mixture of skepticism and hopeful awe.

Five minutes later, the doctor flipped a switch, and between two big poles, a hole started to open in space. All we could see, at first, was a dim star-field -- then the hole expanded, and we found ourselves looking at a big damned planet -- had to be a gas giant of some sort -- with more moons than I could count, as well as a set of brilliantly sparkling rings around it. The planet was banded with blue, green and gray stripes, and here and there they swirled together.

We stared, Doctor Paulson lectured -- and all hell broke loose.

I don't know what happened. I suspect that I never will, as I've no idea how to get back to where I came from -- and no desire to try, not any more. But when it happened? Yeah, I was scared shitless.

The lights in the room got dim, and the various lights on the device got brighter. Doctor Paulson immediately said, "What the hell -- Willis, check on the power station! Corbett, shut the device down!"

A man, presumably Corbett, reached for the control panel -- and the overhead lights went out, while the lights on the device grew even brighter, and the control console started throwing off sparks. Corbett tried to do . . . something, and for his trouble he ended up getting hit with what appeared to be a serious jolt of electricity, and he collapsed on the raised platform on which the platform stood, even as the hole in space started expanding -- and the view started changing, showing an empty star-field, no planet, then a cluster of boulders and plants in a thick, steamy mist, then a different star-field, then a medieval village with a bunch of red-furred, vaguely bear-like peasants milling around, a star-field, a solar system, a star-field, a cluster of galaxies, a view of a planet that looked a lot like Earth, etc, so forth and so on.

Paulson was busy trying to shut the device down, and he didn't notice the expanding field or hole, or whatever it was, as it headed for Corbett's unconscious form. I did, and I -- well, I guess, I decided to play hero, though I wasn't thinking about being a hero, just about getting that poor guy out of the way. I vaulted up on the stage, tried to lift him -- I was a big enough guy, and in good shape. Unfortunately, Corbett was a big guy in every way, over six-six, and fat -- he must have weighed close to four hundred pounds.

I had him half up, sitting up, and was trying to get him into a fireman's carry when Doctor Paulson yelled, "Thompkins, LOOK OUT!"

I straightened up, spun around, saw the hole in space right behind me -- and tripped over Corbett's feet, fell forward even as the view changed to a normal looking highway in a woodsy area somewhere -- and then fell through that hole in space, and felt a monstrous sort of . . . wrenching, I guess is the only word for it, like I was being twisted and pulled and compressed to fit the new space I was falling into.

I staggered forward as my balance went to hell and the view shifted sharply, tripped over something, and fell, my last sight the gravel beside the small highway, and the rock sitting in the gravel -- which seemed to be coming straight at my head.

Then pain, and the world went black.

I awoke on a thin mattress over a steel frame, and I knew three things immediately; I was in a jail cell, I wasn't badly hurt, and something was, despite my lack of injury, seriously wrong. I couldn't put my finger on exactly what was out of whack, but I knew that something was massively not right.

I sat up, swung my legs off of the cot in the cell -- I was alone in here, at least -- and then I very nearly fainted.

My feet didn't reach the ground. When I glanced down to see why the hell not . . . well, I saw a dirty blue dress, slender, almost-thin little legs poking out from under the dress, and tiny little feet in once-white socks. Little hands gripped the edge of the cot, pale little hands under the dirt, but recognizably the hands -- hell the hands, legs and feet -- of a little girl.

The problem being, of course, that the little girl in question was ME!

I didn't faint. I raised one of those little hands to my mouth, bit hard, and the pain stopped the fainting.

No mirror, of course, but I ran my hands over my face, pulled my (much longer) hair around in front of me to look at it -- same glossy black as before, minus the few flecks of gray -- and decided that I might even look a little bit like I had before, just . . . smaller. And, you know, feminized. I'd need to see a mirror, first, but . . . it felt that way.

Of course, I needed to pee. Pretty much right away. This (and maybe this alone) kept me from just . . . fainting. Or maybe having screaming hysterics. One of those.

Fortunately, the cells around me were empty, and more fortunately, maybe, certain precepts remain the same. I got up, went to the toilet (which, unlike all others I'd seen in jail cells, had a seat), pulled my (also dirty, once pink, now grimy) panties down, and sat down. The same mental triggers to start peeing that I'd always used worked now, and never mind the plumbing changes. I started to stand, felt a trickle, remembered to wipe -- and got a shock at the sheer pleasantness of that sensation.

I wanted to look at the -- at my pussy, but didn't dare, not now. I had to figure out what to do. No time to get distracted by what I apparently was.

I sat back on the cot, and thought. After a very short time, I decided that there was only one story that would work. (What was I supposed to say, "Hi, I'm from another universe, and I used to be a man, so can we figure out a way for me not to be treated like a little girl, please?" I didn't see that going over well at all.)

So I would go with the one story that, according to a cop in a book I'd read, was the one that could never be broken, if you stuck to it; "I don't remember."

I sat for half an hour or so, waiting, and finally a woman came in, wearing a uniform that, to my surprise, I could read the insignia on. According to the patch on her shoulder, she was a deputy sheriff in Ridge County, Tennessee, and the nametag on her chest said "Loomis." I stared for a moment -- she was pretty, about thirty-five, blond hair, nice figure -- and she smiled.

"Hello, Stephanie," she said, unlocking the door. "I'm Deputy Loomis, but you can call me Kate, okay?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and she opened the door and held out a hand. "Come on, sweetie, we're going to give you a chance to get clean -- won't that be nice?"

I nodded again, took her hand, and let myself be led to a big, empty shower room.

"Here you go, Stephanie," Kate said. "Now, do you want me to help, or are you a big girl who can shower by yourself? I have to stay here and watch, but if you don't want help, I'll just stay over here."

"By myself," I said, and almost freaked at the high, piping voice that came from my mouth.

"Okay," she said. "Put your clothes in this bag, and we'll wash them. We've found some things you can wear until they're clean."

I stripped, blushing to my waist, not wanting my first shower, my first time dealing with this new body, to be under the eyes of someone else, even a pretty and apparently nice lady like Deputy Kate Loomis. No choice, though, and I didn't even like the way I smelled, so . . . I did it.

I found that one of the shower heads had a bottle of shampoo, a bottle of liquid soap, a mesh sponge and a back-brush on the shelf under it, and went there. I started the water, got the temperature right, and started getting clean.

It took half an hour just to get clean, and never mind any lounging I might have done under other circumstances. I was filthy. Finally, though, I felt clean, and I shut off the water and looked around to find a towel. Kate was holding one out towards me, poised to wrap it around me, and I gave in to the inevitable -- the woman obviously wanted to help, and I let her dry me. She did it impersonally, but not like I was a slab of meat or anything -- just didn't get invasive or handsy. Then she took me to another room next door -- and I got a look at myself in the full-length mirror opposite the entrance to the room.

I decided that I was five. I looked to be a few inches over three feet tall, and I was slender, even skinny, so probably weighed around thirty-five pounds or so -- maybe less, I was pretty skinny. My hair was long, black, and a little wavy, even wet. The face . . . I was pale, had a few pale freckles sprinkled across my nose and upper cheeks, and the face, aside from the freckles, was mine -- just made into a little girl's face, instead of an adult man's. Oval, gently rounded jaw and chin, cheekbones that were a little too visible -- I needed to put on a few pounds -- and a nice little mouth. My eyes were the same green they'd always been, shaped as before, though my lashes were longer and more noticeable, now. There was a bump on my head, above one eye, but no blood, and it didn't look at all serious. I figured that I'd passed out more from the shock of 1) being suddenly moved into another universe, and 2) either having my body radically rebuilt or having my consciousness shoved into a new body.

The body . . . skinny, no breasts, of course, and a tiny, undeveloped pussy that made my mouth water -- yes, even in the body, I drooled over it.

"You really are a pretty girl, Stephanie," Kate said. "Here you go, sweetie, put these on."

She handed me a pile of clothes that turned out to be underwear (pink), socks, and a simple pullover dress that had apparently been bought according to the size of the one I'd been wearing, as it fit, hung to just above my knees.

"Sit down here, Stephanie, and I'll help with your hair," Kate said after I was dressed.

I sat between her legs, let her brush my hair, found that I liked the feelings of having it brushed quite a lot -- it was very relaxing. She then put it into a ponytail for me, and led me to a small interview room, though this one was better lit than most, and the chair for me was a higher stool, a stepstool, so that I could see the table more easily.

"A doctor's going to come talk to you, Stephanie," Kate said. "He'll be along in just a couple of minutes."

There was a file on the table, and as soon as Kate was gone, I looked at it -- and found out that I had a name, here, one not totally unlike my own name "back home." The file was labeled, "Thompson, Stephanie Victoria." Since I'd been Stephen Victor Thompkins before, I was pretty sure that I could adjust to this name.

What worried me was parents. How would I adjust to that?!

I didn't dare open the file -- I doubt that they thought I could read, and didn't want to disabuse them of that notion. I needed to learn . . . .

Doctor Woods, the man who came in to talk to me, was pleasant, good with kids, I was sure, and he told me a great deal in the course of trying to determine some things.

I was an orphan. Apparently, after my parents had died, I had run away from the orphanage in Arkansas where I'd been placed, and come north. I told him I didn't know why I'd run away, that I didn't remember anything but my name before waking up here -- and he believed me. I cried -- not hard to do, I was seriously freaked out by everything -- and he backed off quickly, comforted me as best he could, backed off again when it was plain his hug made me uncomfortable, and got Deputy Kate. Her I could hug, let hug me and calm me down.

So four hours later, I found myself in my "new home" -- the Nashville Area Home for Disadvantaged Girls.

This place freaked me a good bit right from the start, but I got a grip pretty fast, and adapted. Being much smarter than expected got me a lot of . . . extra information, and a lot of chances to take advantage of certain things . . . .

The place was run by women, exclusively -- no men on staff at all. They were strict about the rules they did have, but fair minded, and most of the rules didn't bother me. In my (private!) room (complete with private bathroom!) at nine o'clock, lights out at ten, up at seven, clean and at breakfast by eight, in class by nine . . . yeah. I could deal. Sure, there were things I'd have liked to be different -- like being allowed to have another girl in my room, maybe, after I adapted some, started wanting to try sex, which didn't take long, due to how different this world was (I'll get to that in a minute) -- but most of the rules were no big thing. I had a place to sleep, three very good meals a day, and, had I needed it, an education. The staff were in no way abusive, the other girls were fine, easy to get along with, not nosy. It was a peach. Hell, I even had a computer and internet access in my room, and the computer monitor would double as a television.

The television is what told me I was in a world radically different than my own in some ways -- ways I'd have loved, back when I was a thirty-five year old man.

I arrived at the Home at about four o'clock, was shown my room, issued clothes and told the rules, then ate with the first group at five, since I was hungry as hell. As I've said, the food was great, and it was served buffet style, with older girls standing by in case one of us little ones (and boy, did the phrase "us little ones" grate on my nerves a couple million ways for a while!) needed help. We could eat as much as we liked, until we started getting actually obese according to the doctor (pudgy was fine, seriously fat was not), and so long as we limited ourselves to one dessert.

Miss Samantha, my "dorm mother," said that I could stay in my room after dinner if I liked -- she knew I was in "emotional shock," as diagnosed by Dr. Woods, and that I was not to be crowded at all -- so I did. And I decided that, since net surfing would give away my brains, I'd learn what I could from the TV.

Oh, man, did I learn some amazing shit!

There was a sort of TV listing thing available as soon as you clicked the TV button on the opening screen, and I decided to play it "safe" and not start with anything . . . tell-tale, in case the staff was watching or somehow knew what I was watching. I found an episode of an old favorite, "Buffy the Vampire Slayer," saw that it was listed as ninety-minutes, resigned myself to tons of commercials, and selected that. It started a few minutes later, at six thirty, and I saw the usual advisory -- only it wasn't the usual one at ALL.

"This program contains no discipline or bondage, nor any acts of rape, and has been approved for all audiences on a sexual basis," said a voice, reading aloud the warning that was written next to the TV-10 rating. "It contains stylized violence, and is rated TV-10 on that basis."

What the fuck? I thought.

Then it started, and seemed . . . well, no different than I expected, not at first, even familiar. I knew the episode -- it was one from the second season, where Buffy is dealing with Spike and Drusilla for the first time. Things went as expected, right up until Spike and Dru made a deal with "the Anointed One" to kill Buffy -- and promptly celebrated this by Drusilla giving Spike a seriously wet and sloppy blowjob in full triple-X movie detail -- then the two of them fucking in just as much detail. I gaped my way through the scene, almost drooling over Juliet Landau, the actress playing Dru, then tried to stay calm as things returned to normal. (I really wanted to masturbate, dammit!)

There were two more full sex scenes in the episode, first when Angel and Buffy had a meeting that I didn't think was in the original episode, in his apartment, and ended up getting oral on each other -- and DAMN but Sarah Gellar was fine-looking naked! She also blew Angel, wet and sloppy, so I decided that a blowjob wasn't enough to take away his soul, as had happened later in the season, when they made love for the first time.

The last sex scene in the episode was a bit of a shocker. It showed Willow, Buffy's incredibly cute geek friend, going to see computer teacher Jenny Calendar, finding Ms. Calendar having sex with a female student (Asian, hot as hell, and apparently quick to come), and standing, hidden, to watch and masturbate. Both the lesbian sex and Willow's masturbation were very graphic, and, as with Juliet Landau's sex scene with James Marsters and Sarah Gellar's sex scene with David Boreanaz earlier, there were no tricky camera cuts that would have allowed for body doubles. I'd seen the tits, ass and pussy of Sarah Gellar, Juliet Landau, Robia LaMorte and some unknown actress that Robia LaMorte/Jenny Calendar had sex with, as well as the pussy of Alyson Hannigan (okay, and the dicks of James Marsters and David Boreanaz, but I was not interested in those), seen these people have triple-X sex, on a TV show that was apparently all right for kids to watch?!

(Odd note: The level of graphicness of the sex I'd seen was triple-X -- but the camera cuts and posed situations of your standard XXX porn film were very much missing -- to which I said a quiet "hurray!" What I'd seen had been people having sex, in ways that were, from their reactions, pleasant to them, with minimal posing to allow the viewer to see that the sex was real, and to allow for the occasional close-up. I liked that very much!)

The extra half an hour wasn't for extra commercials, it was filled, mostly, by sex scenes.

While the credits for Buffy ran, I menu-ed my way back to the TV listings and went looking for something else to watch. I found a Star Trek show I'd never heard of, something called "Star Trek: Icarus," and thought I'd give that a shot. When it started with the exact same warning I'd seen in front of the Buffy episode, I settled down to see what I got.

The show seemed to be set some time after the last (horrible) Star Trek movie, "Nemesis." It featured a Sovereign-class ship called Icarus (duh) patrolling and exploring the sectors of Romulan space opened by the peace that apparently followed "Nemesis." It was pretty good, and never mind the sex.

The first sex scene had no real surprises -- the young-middle-age male Captain went back to his quarters after a stressful shift, comes in to find his twenty-something wives making love, and joins in for a nicely erotic threesome scene. Second sex scene was a male Romulan "attaché" to the Icarus having wild, passionate sex with the ship's thirty-ish, female Chief Engineer. The third sex scene involved the pureblood (and thus telepathic) Betazoid female Ship's Counselor having sex with a female crew member in order to boost her confidence.

Just as that scene ended, Miss Samantha stuck her head into my room, said, "It's nine, Stephanie, you need to stay in here now -- and lights out at ten, okay?

"And Stephanie . . . if you get scared and want company, you can call me -- just pick up the phone and press the red button, okay?"

I agreed, said I thought I'd be all right, promised to be in bed at lights out (this show, another ninety-minute one, was over at nine-thirty), and said good night before returning my attention to the TV.

The last sex scene threw me for a loop -- and hard, spinning, crash-into-the-ground loop.

The ship's head of security, a late-twenties-looking man whom I thought I should recognize (most of the actors and actresses in this were totally unfamiliar to me), a handsome, cut, sexy specimen of Male (even with my still-male mind, I could admit that -- I wished I'd looked like him, before this clusterfuck had started) went to the ship's daycare center to pick up his daughter after his shift ended. When he went in, I saw quick glimpse of a pair of girls -- maybe six, more likely five -- in the background, nude, kissing passionately, and with their hands between each other's legs.

Then the lady in charge of the daycare center said, "Chief Alder, thank god you're here -- Cindy's being a real handful today. She's horny, and no amount of girl-girl sex seems to calm it. She says she needs dick, and of course, she only wants yours."

About that time, a girl of about eight, maybe nine appeared and cried, "Daddy!" before running, leaping into the Security Chief's arms, and tongue-kissing him immediately.

"I hear you've been a handful today, little girl," Alder said, mock-sternly.

"I couldn't help it," Cindy answered. "I need sex, Daddy! Sex with you!"

"Then let's go take care of you," he replied. "Thanks, Ensign Mato."

Two minutes later, I was fighting with every bit of willpower that I had not to masturbate as I watched this little girl -- no way she was post-pubescent, not with that body, which was totally nude -- first get eaten by a grown man, then suck his cock, giving him a wet, sloppy, crazy-energetic blowjob, then get very well fucked by that same grown man.

The show ended some ten minutes after the last sex scene, and I went to the bathroom, tossed my intentions not to masturbate until after lights out to the wind, and got into the shower. There I sat in a corner with a hot spray directed over me, and explored . . . my pussy. Gently. Slowly.

At first.

Then I realized how incredibly fucking GOOD it was, and it became quick and firm.

Look, I'm maybe uniquely suited to try to explain the difference between male and female orgasm, and I'm going to give it one try, then let it go, okay?

When a man comes, it's like every single bit of his body -- blood, nerve endings, muscles, all of it -- lights up all at once, and all of that light zooms down into the penis and EXPLODES out of the body, leaving through the expelled semen as a man comes. The sensation is one of EVERYTHING GOING TO THE PENIS, then going out in a hyper-intense series of spasms.

When I came as a little girl -- and remember, I was only five and a half, and I'm not a lot older than that now -- it was like that backwards -- and multiplied by a million or so. My little clit started getting this feeling of being full of good feelings, GREAT feelings, and being unable to hold them all, like a penis just before orgasm -- and then it just . . . kept building for a while, spreading through my whole pussy, until I could not believe that I could feel that good. Then it got still better, and I thought I might just die for how good I felt -- just before that explosion of orgasm hit me, and things got better! The good didn't explode out of my body, like with male orgasm, it exploded through my body, sending every muscle in me into this crazy, wonderful, rippling spasm, filling my blood, my muscles, my heart, my lungs and, yes, my brain, with waves of pleasure so powerful that I was not able to keep myself from crying out in happiness. I saw white light behind my eyes, heard something that might have been my own cries of ecstasy (or maybe the universe's), felt everything that was part of me filled, overfilled, and eventually near-exploded with joy.

And this in less than three minutes of playing with myself.

I barely got out of the shower and into bed before lights out, and I came several more times, each seeming better than the last.

That was the start.

I had nightmares that night, woke a few times, but never had too much trouble going back to sleep. (Over the first few months of my time in this new world, I had a lot of nightmares, and a lot of dark, depressed days. I'm just . . . not going to bug the reader with them. They were there, I had a lot to deal with and a lot to adjust to, and it wasn't easy -- now you know that, and I can shut up about it.) I got up and got clean (and well-satisfied sexually) in plenty of time to be ready for breakfast at eight. I ate well -- I had a bit of weight to gain, remember -- then went to school, where they pulled me aside to test me. I decided to show them I was bright, just not . . . how bright.

I ended up being put in a second grade class, which was fine, I could do the work in my sleep, but still was over and above the mindless play of kindergarten. After the day of testing, Miss Samantha took me to her office to explain some other rules to me.

"Stephanie, you're very bright," she said, smiling at me proudly. "I'm glad, the bright girls are usually less trouble, and can keep themselves amused.

"Since you can read, we'll go ahead and power up your internet connection, but there are a couple of things I should tell you about that and your TV privileges."

"Yes, ma'am?" I said.

"Well, we do not monitor what you watch on TV, or where you go on the internet," Miss Samantha said. "There are certain websites that your browser will refuse to go to, and if you try these more than once, we will start monitoring your net surfing. These sites are all about violence and hurting people, or hating people because of their religion or skin color, so that shouldn't be a problem."

"No, ma'am," I said, reminding myself to talk young. "I don't want to hurt no one, and I think it's dumb to hate somebody cause of how they look or where they go to church."

"Good," Miss Samantha said, and seemed to mean it. "Now, we don't monitor your TV watching, either, and we won't until and unless you start having nightmares or behavior problems that we can't find another explanation for. Then we will monitor your programs, and may restrict your viewing of things we feel might be causing a problem."

"Okay," I said, and looked thoughtful. "I like Buffy. Is that okay? I don't get nightmares, she always wins."

"That's fine," Miss Samantha said, and grinned. "I like Buffy, too. She's very pretty, and Willow is so sexy it almost hurts."

"Uh-huh!" I agreed.

"Now, Stephanie," Samantha said, looking serious. "I know you don't remember much from before the police found you on the road, honey, but there are a couple of questions I need to ask you, okay? I won't be mad if you can't answer, but I do need to ask."

"Um, okay," I said.

"Stephanie, have you ever had sex?" she asked gently, and in a voice that sounded . . . non-judgmental. "We know you haven't had a man's penis in your pussy from the doctor's exam when you were found, but there are other kinds of sex. Have you done any of those?"

"I . . . I don't think so," I said. "I think I'd remember that."

"Yes, I suppose you would," she said, smiling at me. "Honey, do you think you like girls?"

"I think so," I said. "Buffy and Willow are awful pretty. I could kiss them!"

"Me, too," Samantha said, grinning conspiratorially at me. "So, do you think you like men?"

I opened my mouth to say "no," but that wasn't what came out.

"I don't know," I said. "I . . . don't know."

"You've seen Buffy, so you've seen boys and girls having sex," Samantha said easily. "Have you seen Buffy or Faith or Anya sucking a man's cock, Stephanie? Or any of the other girls doing that?"

"I . . . yes," I admitted.

"Did it make you excited to see that?" she asked.

"I . . . sort of," I admitted, still at least partly against my will. "But I don't know if it was `cause I just liked seeing it, or . . . ."

"Do you think you might like to do that?" Samantha asked gently. "Or to have a man's dick in your pussy?"

"Maybe," I said. "I really don't know, Miss Samantha."

"Well, will you promise to come and tell me when you do know, honey?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am." I was relieved to be off of that subject . . . because I truly didn't know, and found that very disturbing.

"All right," Samantha said. "Stephanie, as a part of our rules from the federal government and the state of Tennessee, we aren't supposed to let you girls have sex, even with each other, so please, just masturbate if you find yourself wanting sex."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, blushing so hotly I thought I might catch fire.

"All right," she said, and sat back. "Do you have any questions, honey?"

"Um, two," I said. "Miss Samantha, there was one outfit in the clothes I got given that wasn't like the others. Just a little skirt and dance shoes, no top, no undies even. What's it for?"

"That's for when people come to talk to you who might want to take you home, honey," Miss Samantha said. "We let them talk to you alone in a special room, where we can see but we can't hear -- you have some privacy, but they can't hurt you, that way -- and we let them see you that way, and if they ask and you like them enough to say yes, seeing you naked is as easy as taking off that little skirt."

"Oh," I said, blushing again. "Um, that sort of answers a little of my other question. How long do I stay here?"

"Well, honey, you stay here until you're chosen by a visitor to go home with them that you like enough to want to go home with," Samantha said. "That never happens for a lot of girls, so you can stay until the end of the school year after you're eighteenth birthday, if it doesn't.

"But if you see people who don't work here, now you'll know why."

"Okay," I said. "Thanks, Miss Samantha."

"You're welcome, Stephanie," she said. "Now, classes are over for the day in an hour -- no point in starting you today. Go on back to your room if you like, or to the recreation room."

I went back to my room and started crawling on the web, looking for answers.

It took me months to figure out a pattern, and I never did get everything. All I can give you is what I found different, and let you work it out your way for yourself.

This world had never had an age of consent for sex in any country before 1951, and the United States had been the first, simply making it federal law that no child could consent to sex before the age of five. Other nations followed, and soon that became the international standard.

Christianity and Islam were both much weaker here than on my world. The most powerful religion on this world seemed to be Wicca, and even it wasn't that big a deal.

I recognized the name of no President of the United States after Lyndon Johnson. Not even one, not even a little bit. And the president in office there, in their 2008, was someone name Cassandra Powell, who was the fourth female President of the United States. The President Elect (this was late December, almost Christmas) was a woman named Fiona March.

Polygamy was a recognized and acceptable practice in the USA, had been since the early seventies, when scientists confirmed a worldwide trend in births; more than sixty percent of births, almost two-thirds, since the USA and other countries had started keeping records, had been and remained female. Allowing polygamy was a sort of defense mechanism to keep enough male kids coming into the world.

And some of my favorite actors and male writers were either missing completely from this world -- or had been born female, and still become famous. Four that come readily to mind in the actor category are Janie Depp, Tabby (short for Tabitha) Maguire, Christina Bale (who knew he'd be a GORGEOUS woman?!), and Leonora Nimoy. (Miss Spock. I didn't think I wanted to see any original Star Trek episodes after finding out that Spock was a girl, and so far I've managed to avoid it.)

It's weird. I never have found a pattern to it, or a reason for it. But I don't care, I'm happy here.

That all took quite a while to find out, of course. That afternoon, I found out only that searching the net for "child pornography" turned up damned few hits, none of them on American owned sites, and that an image search for "prepubescent girls" plus "sex" turned up literally millions of hits, and almost all of them on free sites. (I also found out that looking at those is a bad idea for a former adult male pedophile who is now a very horny little girl -- if, that is, masturbation is not the goal. If masturbation IS the goal? Hell, it's a great idea!)

That evening, I watched more Buffy, and discovered that the channel showing it wasn't running the episodes in anything LIKE chronological order. And I got to see some . . . can't call it "adult-child" sex, so we'll call it "teen-and-child" sex. The episode was totally new to me, took place in the fifth season, and focused on Buffy's "younger sister," Dawn, played by Michelle Trachtenberg, who would have been fourteen or fifteen when the episode was shot. Buffy was freaking because Dawn had disappeared, thinking that season's villainess, who was looking for Dawn, but didn't know it was Dawn she was looking for, had gotten her, when in fact, Dawn had found a girlfriend, and was off having very graphic and painfully exciting sex with her. Dawn's girlfriend was seven, in the show, though I suppose the actress might have been eight, and watching her and the fourteen-or-fifteen year-old Trachtenberg have very intense lesbian sex had me masturbating right there at my desk. Yikes, that was hot!

The next day, I went to school, liked it well enough -- by virtue of being able to do the work without having to pay attention -- and, in the afternoon, got a surprise. We watched a ten or fifteen minute video dedicated to sex! That day's episode of "Sex for Kids," as I came to think of these videos, was teaching little girls how to get a grown man's dick into their pussies without being hurt -- and I had to go to the bathroom after, and sit and freak out and cry quietly over the fact that I had not been freaked out by the idea of learning to get a man's dick inside me.

I'm not going to detail the next year. No need to bore you. You know what I found out, and I've given you an idea how I found it out, that's enough. Just . . . a few high points, and necessary information, maybe a funny thing or two.

Right away, I started deliberately drinking a glass of water before bed, then going to bed early, and using my bladder as an alarm clock to get up in the middle of the night, which seemed to me to be the only safe time to practice some skills from home that I wanted to not let get rusty; martial arts. I did some stretching, some calisthenics, and some martial arts practice exercises every night, keeping those skills sharp, and getting some muscle tone into my little body. Sure, that seems paranoid, but, hey! Stranger in a world I never made, you know? I had a right to be a little paranoid! (Besides, I'd worked for years to get my black belt, and I didn't want to waste that!)

It took me a month to stop walking into the public restrooms in the building, when I was near them, and looking around for a urinal. Old habits die hard . . . .

It took me three months to realize how very many bisexual women I was seeing on TV and in movies. I saw them, I got hot over them, and I never thought about how incredibly common they were compared to home for three months. So of course I researched it, and I got a shock.

At home, I'd read that about four percent of women identified as bisexual, while more like ten percent admitted to same-sex contact over a lifetime. Here, in this new world?

Seventy-five to eighty percent of women identified as bisexual, and ninety percent admitted to same-sex contact over a lifetime. (The variables in percentages differed between the Masters and Johnson report I found, and the Kinsey Institute report, but the lowest I saw was seventy-five percent.)

Conversely, less than two percent of males identified as bi, and less than four percent admitted to same-sex contact over a lifetime.

This place was weird as hell -- but I liked it!

It took four months before I started masturbating to fantasies where a man was present while I had sex with another girl. A month after that, he was touching the other girl while she and I had sex. A month after that, at my six month mark, I had fantasies where a man was having sex with the girl I was having sex with at the same time -- sometimes fucking her into me while she ate me, some times eating her while she ate me, sometimes being blown by her while I ate her. Two weeks after that, my fantasies started including the man (usually a painfully handsome movie star I'd never heard of back home, a thirty-something man named Rick Dumont) touching me, not sexually, but . . . sensually. Stroking my hair while I ate whatever girl (or girls) I was fantasizing about, cuddling me while she/they ate me, that sort of thing.

I'd been there almost nine months before I first fantasized about touching a man's cock. Three days after that, I had the most explosive orgasm of my life -- of either life -- while finally fantasizing about sucking Rick Dumont's cock while sitting on Dakota Fanning's face as she ate me.

That night, I cried a little in bed, unsure I liked what seemed to be happening to me -- but I got over it by morning, when I repeated that fantasy, and that incredible orgasm in the shower before breakfast.

I thought about it a lot over that week, and finally decided that it was natural -- I was a girl now, all over, and I supposed the body chemistry of this girl I had become was biased towards bisexuality. Okay, I'd have to deal with that . . . sooner or later. But not right now.

I did tell Miss Samantha that I liked men, though -- and I got a surprise right after. She sent me to the school doctor after talking with me for long enough to be sure I was sure and serious, and the (lady) doctor used this thingamabob sort of like a vibrator to pop my cherry. It didn't really hurt, just felt kind of like a -- well a bug bite. There were these "safety blade" things -- sort of like a plastic, four-bladed arrowhead, only a little sharp -- that popped out of the head of the vibrator-thing when Doctor Anne had it against my hymen, cutting-tearing it. A couple days later, she checked me over, told me that as long as I stayed away from men with "really big dicks," I could safely have sex with a man.

Weird place. But . . . dammit, I liked it!

I was careful, when people came in looking for a girl to "care for" -- seeking sex was implied, and we all knew it, and most of the others looked forward to it -- which happened two or three times a week, to not stand out. I slouched, and pulled into myself, disguised my muscle tone, and was very, very shy. No one asked to speak to me alone, even, for a long time.

At ten months, I first fantasized about being fucked by a man with another girl present, and me eating her while I was fucked. Three days later, I had my first masturbatory fantasy with just a man, no girl involved. After that . . . it varied. I stopped being afraid of thinking about men, I . . . I think saying that I "leveled out" is about right. I stopped stressing over the fact that I wanted a man to have sex with as much as a woman or a girl, and I just . . . accepted it.

Two weeks before I'd been there a year, I met Michael Lawton for the first time, and I think I knew then how that would end -- but if I did, I didn't admit it to myself for a while.

"Isn't that a little above your age level?" asked an interested male voice behind me as I sat in the library, reading (for the tenth time or so, but the first time since coming here) Stephen King's "the Stand" in a corner of the library.

I jumped a little (the man had interrupted at a very scary part, okay?), and looked up to see a handsome, fit thirty-ish man standing beside me, smiling and looking interested. He was about five-ten, slender but well-muscled, with medium-blond hair hanging a couple of inches below his shoulders in a ponytail, and brown eyes around a right-for-his-face nose. His mouth, quirked in that interested little smile, had a few smile lines around it, and a dimple on the left side . . . my first thought was, well, "Yum!"

"Uh," I said slowly. "Well, I read really well, and I get it all. There's a dictionary right there for when I got to look up something like pathology' or antigen' -- and it's good!"

"Yes, it is," he said. "I'm Michael Lawton. I'm a big fan of Mr. King's, too. Have you read other things by him?"

"Most of what's here," I said, indicating the shelf behind me. I lied a little, to cover my brains. "I haven't read `IT' yet, it looks really scary.

"Oh -- and I'm Stephanie Thompson, Mr. Lawton."

"I loved `IT,' but yes, it scared me silly," he said. "And please, call me Michael."

"Thanks," I said. "I'm Stephanie, never Steph, please."

"I'll remember," he said. "So, Stephanie, of the books by Mr. King that you've read, which do you like best?"

"I think `the Eyes of the Dragon,' it's like a fairy tale for grown ups, and I really liked the way the dragon wasn't really the important thing," I said, being quite truthful.

"Yes, it's high on my list," Michael agreed. "But, really, I'm a big fan of `IT' -- scary as hell, but it says some very important things about being scared and getting past it, too.

"May I sit?"

I said yes, and Michael and I talked for most of the next hour about books, then he thanked me for a pleasant time, shook my hand like I was a grown-up, and left.

That night, I searched for his name on the web, knowing I'd seen it somewhere before, and found only one reference that I might have seen -- there was a Michael Lawton who wrote and directed, and sometimes produced, movies and TV shows. A quick image search on that Michael Lawton proved that he was my Michael Lawton, the one I'd met that day, and I got . . . very intrigued. I researched the movies and shows he'd written, found that he'd written and directed the Buffy episode I'd seen my second night here, the one where Dawn got a prepubescent girlfriend. He'd also directed other episodes of other shows I liked, including "Star Trek: Icarus," and a movie I'd seen called "Baby Doll," which was about a man's very loving and very sexual relationship with his nine year-old daughter, after his wife leaves them both. Intensely sexy, but also very sweet -- I'd loved it.

Starting that very night, every sexual fantasy I had involving a male involved only one male -- Michael.

A week later, he showed up again, this time over recess, and I spent most of the time I'd normally have spent in a corner of the gym reading (it was sleeting outside -- Tennessee in December, remember) walking around the gym in a slow circle, talking to him about books, music, and . . . just stuff.

He didn't come back until after New Year's, and then he came on a Saturday, and we spent the whole day just . . . talking. About everything. Books, movies, TV, music, girls, favorite colors, favorite seasons, whether or not I had thoughts about what I might want to do when I grew up ("Write books," I said firmly, and he liked that), whether I liked any sports (I admitted to liking watching "karate fights," which he also liked, being a martial artist himself) and a hundred other things.

We clicked. Big time. If I'd still been a male, he'd have been my best friend in no time flat. If I'd not been at the Home, subject to their rules, I'd have asked him to kiss me.

That night, I again fantasized about sex with Michael as I masturbated, and I came harder than ever.

The next day, after school, Miss Samantha was waiting for me at the door to my room.

"Stephanie, Michael Lawton is here, and he'd like to see you in the interview room," she said without preamble. "Would you like to speak to him there?"

That was the room where we could be watched, so that I couldn't be hurt or kidnapped, but we couldn't be heard, so could say whatever we wanted to each other.

And speaking to someone there was usually the last step before leaving the Home with that someone.

"Very much, Miss Samantha, please," I said, blushing hotly.

"Then go change, sweetheart, and I'll walk you down there," she said, smiling at me.

I went to my room, stripped, dug out my little pleated skirt -- new, I'd never worn the old one before I'd outgrown it -- and the dance slippers, and put them on. The skirt rode low, and came to about mid-thigh. It had only a single button and a zipper for fastening, both on the right hip. I dressed, still blushing, and followed Miss Samantha down several halls to the interview room, which I'd never seen, of course.

It was a small room, with a couch, a loveseat, and an armchair, all close together for easy conversation. There were four cameras, plainly visible, and Michael sat right where the four of them focused, in the chair across from the loveseat.

"I'll be next door, watching," Miss Samantha said. "Please, both of you, remember; you may not touch more intimately than holding hands while you're in here."

"Yes, Miss Samantha," I said, and Michael echoed me without the "Miss."

She left, and I sat down on the loveseat, being careful not to flash Michael -- though if he asked, I intended to get out of that skirt at record-breaking speeds.

"So," Michael said, sounding a little nervous (and staring at my little nipples, which were rock hard), "now you know why I kept coming back, Stephanie. I . . . I care for you. I'm even willing to say that I love you. And I find you beautiful. And . . . you fascinate me. You're so very . . . different, Stephanie. Not like any other girl your age I've ever met. I've never seen a child of six and a half with the kind of muscle tone that you have, and I know that that sort of tone doesn't come without work. I've seen your IQ, EI and SI tests, and all are very high for a girl your age."

"I . . . don't know what those last two are," I said, stalling a little.

"EI is Emotional Index' -- you're very, very mature for a girl of six and a half," Michael said. "And SI is Sexual Interest,' which is also very, very high for your age."

"Oh," I said, blushing. "I . . . thanks?"

"You're welcome," he said, chuckling. "Now . . . Stephanie, I have some things I'd like to ask you."

"All right," I said. I very carefully sat very still.

"First . . . how do you feel about me, Stephanie?" he asked, very softly -- and sounded very, very nervous, as though he were afraid of my answer.

"I . . . I love you, Michael," I said, and met his eyes for a moment, long enough for him to see it was true, and for me to see the delight on his face when I said it. I had to look back down -- saying that to a man, meaning it romantically and sexually, was the hardest thing I'd ever said. (Not like it stayed the hardest thing I'd ever said for very long, but it was true for a couple of minutes.)

"Thank you," he said, very softly. "And I do love you, too, Stephanie.

"That being said . . . may I see you nude? Please?"

I was on my feet and had the button undone before he finished the word "please," and had the zipper down and the skirt off in less than a second after that.

"My god, you're beautiful," Michael said. He stared openly at my pussy, and I knew that he could see plainly that I was wet. "Thank you, Stephanie -- you can put the skirt back on now."

"Do I have to?" I blurted.

"No, you don't," Michael said -- and gave me a smile that made me shiver, made me even wetter than I had been.

I sat down and let my legs fall open a little, and Michael stared, again openly, and said, "Gorgeous. But Stephanie . . . I don't think I can concentrate with you like that. Could you close your legs, love? Thank you.

"Stephanie, you like girls and women as well as men, is that right?"

"Almost right," I said. I blushed darker still, knowing how very . . . melodramatic what I was about to say would sound, but not having a choice, it seemed. "I like girls and women . . . and you. You're the only man I want, Michael."

"Oh, damn," he said, his voice uneven. "That's the most flattering thing I've ever heard, Stephanie, thank you.

"Stephanie . . . is there anything you don't want to do, sexually? With me?"

"Anal sex," I said immediately. "That's just gross."

"Not a problem, I'm with you on the `gross' aspect," Michael agreed. "So . . . what is the first thing you'd want to do once you and I reached my house?"

And I'd thought telling him I loved him was hard? What came next took several seconds to manage to say -- and I hope no one who reads this ever has to do anything as hard as it was for me to look him in the eyes while I said it.

"I'd want to get on my knees and suck your cock until you made me stop," I finally said, and I met his eyes while I said it, held his gaze long enough to see the tremendous burst of lust -- mixed with love! -- that came up when I said those words.

"Then by all that's good in the world," Michael said, standing and taking my hand in his, "let's get out of here and get you home!"

"I should probably put the skirt back on," I said. "They don't like nudity in the halls."

Michael let me do that, smiled warmly when I took his hand again after, and we stepped out into the hall. Miss Samantha appeared from next door a couple of seconds later, and said, "Well, what's the verdict, you two?"

"I want to go with Michael," I said immediately, blushing to my waist -- but smiling at Miss Samantha. "Pretty much right now, please."

"Mister Lawton?" Samantha said.

"The feeling is very much mutual," Michael said. "I'm told that the paperwork is minimal -- can Stephanie leave with me today?"

"If it takes half an hour to finish the paperwork and get you to on your way, then I need a refresher course on the paperwork," Samantha said. "Stephanie, go pack your clothes, sweetie, then come to my office in the dorm. Don't forget the books you got for your birthday and Christmas, either."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. I hesitated a moment, then said, "Miss Samantha? I'm going home with Michael, that's decided now -- can I hug him?"

"I think we can handle that little rules violation, yes," Samantha said, smiling at me.

Michael got down on one knee, and I hugged him, both arms around his neck, his between my shoulders and at the small of my back.

"Thank you, Michael," I whispered in his ear. "I love you."

"Thank you, sweetheart," Michael said. "And I love you."

I let go, turned, and ran to my room to pack. It took no time at all -- a few dresses, two pairs of shorts, two pairs of jeans, a few T-shirts, my underwear, a pair of sneakers, a dozen paperback books -- it didn't even fill my little duffel bag. I dressed in my nicest dress, of course, and I said goodbye to a couple of girls -- nothing sappy, I hadn't been able to really make friends, with the mental age difference.

Miss Samantha and Michael were talking when I got to her office, and she waved me in, kept going over some form with him, having him sign here and there. I sat in the chair next to his, my bag next to me on the floor, and tried to sit still and be calm when I was as far from calm as you can get and not be crying, laughing, shouting or screaming.

I had just committed to -- hell, stated a desire for -- sex with a man. As a man, I'd been purely hetero. Oh, I'd had the obligatory homosexual experience as a young teen, and it had, by and large, fallen flat. My best friend and I had kissed, played with each other's dicks, and . . . got nothing, really. So we gave it up, went on being friends and drooling over girls.

And here I was fully intending to suck Michael's dick as soon as we were through the door of his house, wherever that might be. If there was a hotel stay between here and there, well . . . I'd do it in the hotel. And I hadn't been kidding about doing it until he made me stop, either. As a man, I'd loved having my cock sucked, loved it more than any other man any of the women or girls I'd had sex with had ever met -- and that seemed to have flip-flopped on me. I masturbated more over sucking dick than over being fucked, at least half again as often. I craved it.

I wasn't freaked. Quite. But damn, I was horny!

"All right, Stephanie, can you sign right here?" Miss Samantha asked.

I found where she wanted me to sign, remembered to sign it slow and careful, like someone not really used to writing in cursive a lot yet, then settled back in my chair.

"All right, just a couple more things, and we're done," Miss Samantha said. "Stephanie, we take our responsibility to you and your being well and happy seriously. I'll be calling you once a week or so for a while, talking to you, making sure you're happy and safe. If you ever want to leave Michael's care before you're eighteen, you only have to call here, and we'll arrange it. I sure don't expect it to happen like that, I think you two are as in love as I've ever seen anyone be walking out of here, and I was here for eight years as a girl before going to school and coming back to work here. But if something doesn't work out, honey, you can come back.

"I'll call on Sundays, starting next Sunday, and we'll talk, just to make sure you're doing well. Michael travels a lot, so if I need to, I'll call his cell phone.

"Stephanie . . . we don't talk about it, but we do examine men for certain . . . compatibility issues with the girls they express an interest in taking home, and you can rest assured, honey, Doctor Anne says that you can have sex with Michael without being hurt -- he's not too big for you, honey."

Michael and I both blushed -- but both smiled.

"Now, Stephanie's been inoculated against all the childhood diseases and sexually transmitted infections," Miss Samantha went on. "And Michael's shown me his certificates for his STI shots, so your sex life shouldn't have any unhappy interruptions -- and Stephanie, Michael's card shows that he's had the Watson-Trent treatment, so I expect you're going to have a very good time, sugar."

I wondered what the Watson-Trent treatment was, but her tone assumed I'd know, so I didn't ask, just smiled and nodded.

"Now . . . I see no reason to keep you two here any longer. But . . . Stephanie, could I have a hug?"

I went around the desk, clambered up into Miss Samantha's lap, straddling it, and hugged her hard, kissed her cheek. She squeezed back just as hard, and, as she kissed my cheek, whispered, "Be happy, honey -- I'll miss you, you were a delight to have around."

So I kissed her cheek again, told her she'd made this a nice place to be (truth), and got down to take Michael's extended hand. He walked me to the cloak room, helped me into the coat that the State of Tennessee had bought me, put on his own, and took me to a car. He let me buckle myself in, nodded in satisfaction, put my bag in the trunk, and got behind the wheel.

I didn't look back as we left.

Once we were on the highway, and Michael let his right hand rest on the car's console-mounted shift lever, I put my hand on his. He smiled at me, took my hand and laced our fingers, and we let our hands lay there on the console until he needed both hands for traffic again.

We went to Nashville International Airport, where Michael turned the car over to a rental company, and he led me through security (they'd still had nine-eleven, here), and to a charter counter. There he showed his ID, turned over our bags, and followed an attendant to a small gate that led outside, and down to a waiting Lear jet.

"Wow," I said as we moved into the cabin. "This is fancy. You didn't have to do this!"

"Of course I did," Michael said. "In the first place, I'm wealthy and rather famous -- it's expected. In the second place . . . I want to get you home with me as fast as possible."

I gave him a smile then, and it must have been something special, because he looked delighted.

"I got one question," I said, remember to talk down some, something that had, over the last year, become a habit. "Where are we going? I don't know where you live."

Michael blinked, shook his head, and sighed as the stewardess (very hot, and dressed in a fashion that would never have been allowed in the universe I'd left behind -- she was about twenty, built like a porn-director's idea of a professional swimmer [sleek, well-toned, C-cup tits . . .], and wearing a sheer pull-over dress that left her breasts plainly visible, as well as the thong that was all she wore beneath it) came over to help us get settled in.

"I'm sorry, Stephanie," Michael said once we were seated and belted in (our seats were right together, and there was no chair arm between us). "I never thought -- I was so delighted that you said you'd come live with me, that you loved me, that I forgot that rather important detail.

"I have three homes, one in California, for when I'm working there, one in New York, for when I'm working there, and then there is the one I love best, think of when I say `I'm going home,' and where I'm taking you; Eau Claire, Wisconsin. The town has about sixty thousand people, and my house is in a very nice neighborhood. I have a big yard, fenced in, should we decide to get a pet, and there's plenty of room.

"And . . . god. Stephanie, I know that you love me. I love you. But . . . there are times when even people who love each other need to be alone, so I did set up a room that's yours, where you can . . . be you. Sleep when one of us needs to be alone. And it's your room. I've put in some things I thought you'd like, but if you want to change something about the room, we will."

"All right, thank you," I said. "I'll look at it tonight -- but . . . I won't stay there tonight. I hope?"

"No, I want you to stay with me tonight," Michael said softly. "And hopefully, a great many nights for a very long time -- say, oh . . . forever?"

"I love you," I said, and leaned against him. "And . . . I don't want to do anything sexy with you until we get to your -- our! -- house, Michael . . . but I think after you said that I have to kiss you."

Michael reached down, tilted my face up, and bent slowly to kiss me.

I was scared out of my mind, but I still wanted to do this, very, very badly. When Michael's lips touched mine, gently, feeling his way, I met them with my own, let him control the kiss, and responded . . . well, eagerly, if a little tremulously.

When his tongue slipped into my mouth, I met it with my own, caressed his tongue with mine, then, obeying some . . . instinct? Drive? Reverse conditioned reflex? I don't know, I just know that it felt right to suck on Michael's tongue, to close my lips around it, caress it with my own, and suck on it gently, like it was a tiny cock.

That kiss seemed to go on for forever, and I would not have minded if it had, except that I wanted more than just a kiss.

"That," Michael said when we finally parted, "was the most wonderful kiss I've had since I started kissing girls some twenty-four years ago."

"Thank you," I whispered -- and I silently agreed with him, though it had been twenty five years ago the first time I'd kissed a girl -- not like I could tell him that.

It had been the most wonderful kiss I'd ever had, better than my first kiss at eleven, my first "real" kiss at fourteen, even better than the first time I'd kissed a prepubescent girl (she'd been eight) sexually at the age of twenty-six.

The pilot came on the loudspeaker then, telling us we were about to take off, and the stewardess checked our lap belts, said nothing about our kiss (which I was pretty sure she'd watched) or the way I leaned comfortably against Michael, and he kept an arm around me.

Once we were airborne and the seatbelt light off, the stewardess got us drinks (apple juice for me, root beer for Michael), and he got up to use the bathroom. After he came out, he stopped in the alcove next to the bathroom and used the air-phone to make a short phone call, then came back and sat down with me, let me lean against him. For an hour, we just . . . snuggled. It was nice. Then I had to go to the bathroom, and when I came back, Michael had gotten a laptop out of his carry-on bag, set it up in front of my seat.

"I'm afraid I have a tiny bit of work to do," he said, holding up a PDA. "So I thought I'd let you surf the web -- we're patched into the air-safe network through the plane, I think you'll like that, it's fast as hell."

"Okay, thank you," I said. I sat down, and Michael got lost in his PDA while I got online.

The first thing I did was look up Eau Claire, find out a little about the place -- nice big-little town, plenty to do. A mall, several theaters, several bookstores, and the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. Seemed that I'd have plenty to do there -- besides Michael, I mean.

Then I went and looked up that thing Miss Samantha had said before we left, about the thing Michael had had done -- the `Watson-Trent' treatment.

I found it -- and I got crazy-horny, realizing what it meant.

David Watson and Herschel Trent were a couple of biologist-geneticists, Watson American and Trent British, who'd gotten together with a wild idea prompted by the love of science fiction. They'd both read some book where a guy, trying to come up with a way to regenerate human tissue, had done something involving starfish tissue to himself -- and ended up not exactly re-growing tissue, but becoming an unstoppable sex machine. Something had gone sideways, and . . . well, the guy in the story was able to fuck for hours and not stop, not "run the well dry" as it were -- keep coming, no real "refractory period" (the time between erections for most men), no need to stop.

They'd tried it, and had limited success in regenerating human tissue, nerve tissue working best (a wonderful thing for para- and quadriplegics, etc, sure), but it had also worked like in the story, making men able to just . . . keep going, like the Energizer Bunny. The average man who had the treatment was capable of some fifteen to twenty orgasms without rest. (Not like the average man could afford the treatment -- it ran well into six figures, the most recent person [a rich old man with an eighteen year old wife] having paid seven hundred thousand dollars for the procedure.)

I closed down the computer, disconnected from the network, and waited for Michael to finish what he was doing. He did, some fifteen minutes before we'd been told we'd be landing, and he put the computer away, assured the stewardess we were fine, and pulled me close again.

"Michael," I said after a minute, "um, I was kinda wondering . . . are we going to be all exclusive? Just . . . you know, you and me and no one else?"

"That's up to you," Michael said seriously. "If you need that, then yes."

"You're sweet," I said, and hugged hard for a minute. "But . . . no. I don't need that. I don't want it, even. I just . . . I want you and nobody but you for men. And for women and girls . . . only all the pretty ones I meet. And those I want to share with you."

"Are you sure about that, Stephanie?" Michael asked. "Do you really think you could accept seeing me with another girl or woman?"

"I want to see it," I said. "I want to have a girl eat me while you fuck her. I want see a girl sucking you while you eat me. I want to eat a girl while she sucks you, have a girl eat me while I suck you, I want -- all that. More than that.

"Only thing I want is a rule for us both; neither one of us does stuff with a woman or girl who don't want the other one too."

"That's . . . it sounds wonderful," Michael admitted. "But if you need to change your mind, I'll understand."

"Won't need to understand," I said. "Michael, I want to do girls with you. And I want to do you with girls. But I want both you and all the girls and women I can get, and the only way to be fair about that is share with you."

"You can have other men, if you want them," Michael said in a steady voice.

I laughed and said, "Michael, you've had that Watson-Trent thing, why would I need another man?

"And besides, you're the only man I ever met -- and I did meet others back at the Home -- who never treated me like a little girl once he figured out that I had a brain older than the rest of me. Heck, you're the only guy who didn't seem scared of me having a brain!"

"And you are the only girl under sixteen I ever met," Michael said, "with whom I felt I could spend my life -- precisely because of your brain being `older than the rest of you.'

"I love sex with girls from five up, Stephanie, but sex . . . it's not enough. And I do prefer little girls to older ones, though I do find myself attracted to women as well, and I do have very satisfactory sex with women, so . . . finding you was the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me. A child, a beautiful, sexy child, with whom I share a love of words and martial arts, whose Sexual Interest index is actually as high as my own, whose maturity is well beyond her years . . . heavenly fortune.

"So . . . yes. Agreed. We share women and girls. And if you should change your mind at some date, want to try another man . . . ask me. I will probably say yes, if he's a decent man."

"I will, then," I said. "But don't hold your breath, okay? You'll get all blue and pass out if you do."

Michael laughed, and we snuggled our way through the landing.

Soon, we were in Michael's own car, headed for his house. It was a twenty minute drive, and I got antsier and antsier. Michael noticed, and politely ignored it. After we got off of the highway, he spoke.

"When we get to the house," he said, "there may still be a girl there -- we're a little early. She's my neighbor, and a sometimes-lover, and is taking care of some supper preparations for me. I called her from the plane, told her I was bringing home a girl I intended to spend the rest of my life caring for and being a lover to -- and that is how it is, love. I will still want you when you're fifteen, twenty-five, thirty-five, I know this already.

"I told her we had not spoken about outside-our-relationship-sex, yet, and that she shouldn't kiss me until I made a move to kiss her. She's seen your picture, and her one comment was, `I want her.' She's very into girls, and quite beautiful. If she is still there . . . may I kiss her?"

"You may," I said. "And I hope you'll get her to kiss me. Not more than a kiss, not til I've had you to myself for a little, but . . . kiss her, and try to let her know she can kiss me."

"You don't even want more details first?" Michael asked, surprised.

"You say she's beautiful, and we've talked about what we find sexy enough for me to know we got similar tastes," I said. "You care enough about her to have sex with her, sort of regularly. You care enough to ask me if you can kiss her. So . . . what else do I gotta know?"

"I keep thinking you've surprised me as much as you can," Robert said. "And you keep on surprising me . . . thank you, Stephanie."

"Welcome," I said. I thought long and hard for a moment, said, "How long til we get there?"

"About six or seven minutes, yet, dear," Michael said.

"Okay," I said, and I took a long, slow, deep breath, trying to calm down. I had to ask him something, and it made me nervous.

As a man, when with prepubescent girls, I had been hugely, monstrously, overwhelmingly turned on the first time a girl had called me "daddy" while we were having sex. I'd asked for it occasionally, after that, and those few times a girl had agreed, it had never, ever failed to leave me ragingly horny.

And, like my love of having my cock sucked, this turn on seemed to have flip-flopped.

"Michael . . . I know that you're my legal guardian, that you didn't adopt me," I said. "And I get why -- much longer wait, more paperwork, more stupid stuff to do if this don't work out like we both know it's gonna. And maybe you don't feel that way about me, but --"

"I do," he said. "You bring out the paternal in me, Stephanie, as well as the frothing sex-monster."

"Okay," I said, feeling some relief. "So . . . um, Michael, you . . . I want you. Want to suck you, fuck you, have you eat me, play with me, make me come. But . . . I love you, too. Like a boyfriend, and . . . and like my daddy. And I was wondering . . . would you be okay -- I mean, if it wouldn't make you feel gross or nothing -- could I . . . Michael, would you be my daddy? Let me call you daddy, even . . . even when we're having sex?"

"God, yes!" Michael said. "Stephanie, you've just . . . I have been trying to work out a way to ask you to call me `daddy' since we left Nashville!"

We were just stopping at a stoplight that had just turned red, so I knew I had a few seconds. I reached out, took Michael's right hand off of the wheel, pulled it to my cheek, and looked up at him with relieved, happy eyes while he stroked my cheek.

"Thank you, Daddy," I said. "I love you."

Michael caressed my cheek for a moment, said softly, "You're welcome, baby girl, and Daddy loves you, too," then had to focus on the road and drive.

A very few minutes later, we pulled into a just-opened (via remote control) gate, and up a plowed (there were several inches of snow on the ground, this was January in Wisconsin, after all), curved drive to stop in front of a big, modern-looking brick house -- or maybe small mansion. Think a split-level ranch on the scale of twelve-bedroom house, and you've got the idea. It was beautiful, and even as we got out, the girl Michael had mentioned came out, wearing jeans and a T-shirt (no bra, I could see her nipples from thirty feet away), under an open ski jacket.

"Hey, Michael," the girl said, coming over and hugging him. "Everything's ready, sauce is simmering, bread's ready for the oven."

"Thank you, dear," Michael said -- and pulled her closer, bent his head and kissed her in a frankly sexual manner.

Me, I just kind of . . . drooled. The girl was thirteen or fourteen, maybe even a well-developed twelve (not likely, but possible), long, lean, and sexy. Her waist was small, her hips broad enough to give her a very nice ass, and her breasts, while small, very pert and shapely -- and with nipples that stood up hugely, making me want to just . . . suck them through her shirt. Her face was angular, not quite harsh, missing it by virtue of her wide, smiling mouth, her nose just slightly upturned, her eyes a brilliant green in the porch light. Long, straight, honey-blond hair hung to a point two-thirds of the way down her back, and one of Michael's hands stroked it as they kissed.

The girl moaned as Michael kissed her, and gave back as good as she got. When they broke, she said, "Wow -- I guess you got to talk to your girl about sex outside the relationship, huh?"

"Yes, I did," Michael said. "And she's fine with it -- so long as we share."

The girl was swift on the uptake -- duh, Michael obviously thought of her as a friend, so she had to be -- and I saw her grin in anticipation as she turned to look at me.

"Emily Monroe, next-door neighbor and sometimes lover," Michael said, "allow me to introduce my adopted daughter, and my love, Stephanie Th-- Stephanie Lawton."

After he said that, called me his adopted daughter and used his last name to introduce me, I never thought of Michael as anything but "Daddy" again -- and I won't reference him as anything but Daddy in here from this point forward.

"Hello, Stephanie," Emily said, and dropped to one knee in front of me. "Since you and Michael are going to share girls, I'm guessing that means I can kiss you?"

"Yes, please," I said -- and Emily swept me into her arms, kissed me greedily, eagerly, and with a lot of sex packed into the kiss.

Her tongue actually entered my mouth before our lips touched, and that girl knew how to use her tongue -- she traced mine with her own, and, as our lips met, pressed the tip of her tongue to the roof of my mouth for a second, making me crazy with wanting her. Her nipples, hard enough to drive nails, pressed into my chest, and her hands slid from my lower back, just above my butt, up my back to my shoulders, then back.

After most of a minute of this, Emily finally broke the kiss, panting happily. She still had me in her arms, and she said, "Wow -- best kiss I've ever had from a girl under ten or so, sweetie. I can't wait til you've had a couple days of just you and your dad, so I can join you guys."

"Me, either," I said. "And thanks for getting that we need those couple days."

"No problem." She kissed me again, more briefly, stood and kissed Daddy the same way. "Go on, get nuts, you guys -- I know I would!"

Emily trotted off towards the still-open gate, and Daddy took my hand, grabbed our bags, and led me inside our house for the first time.

I was amazed that he couldn't feel my heart hammering through my hand, because a moment was coming up that, while he might have thought was only an expression of want, was something I fully intended to do.

Daddy set down the bags in the entryway, took off his coat, took mine, hung them both in the closet while I glanced around, looking for where the carpet started -- only six feet off, good -- then took me by the hand and started leading me into the house.

"Let me show you around, sweetheart," Daddy said, smiling at me happily. "Then we can --"

I stopped two steps into the carpeted area, just before a doorless entryway to a big, beautiful, partially sunken living room, stopped Daddy by holding on to his hand. He gave me a questioning look, and I smiled (nervously, but only barely so, now -- I wanted this, craved it, needed it), stepped a little closer to him -- and dropped to my knees, pulling my hand free of his as I did so. I reached up and unbuttoned his button-fly khakis, and saw that he wore no underwear. I tugged on the fabric of his pants a little, spreading them to one side -- and Daddy's dick popped out, hard and ready.

"Honey, you don't --"

"I do, Daddy," I said, staring at his dick, licking my lips in anticipation, shaking now, but with want, not any sort of fear. "I want to do it. I think I need to do it.

"I love you, Daddy."

Daddy's dick was about six inches long, maybe a little longer, and average girth -- about like my own had been, back in my days as a man. There was a big drop of pre-come oozing from the head, and I licked my lips in anticipation. He'd been circumcised, and the head was a little bumpy-looking, like it had goose-bumps, while the shaft was tight and shiny-smooth.

I leaned forward, licked the head, my tongue deliberately wet and slippery, tasted warm saltiness -- like salty chicken, with a bare hint of spicy under it, telling me that Daddy liked spicy food. I swallowed that pre-come, deliberately letting Daddy see how much I liked it on my face -- and throwing behind me the last of my mental and emotional masculinity as I did so. I was and am a little girl. A horny, cock-hungry little girl, with her Daddy's cock in front of her, begging for attention.

I licked again, this time from the base to the tip, got another glob of pre-come, swallowed it with delight, then kissed the head of Daddy's cock with wet, loose lips, delighted in hearing him moan in want-slash-need.

I still had not touched Daddy's dick with my hands, and I decided not to, not until after I'd sucked him like I said.

I opened my mouth, pulled my lips down over my teeth so as not to hurt my Daddy, and pushed my mouth over the head of his cock, sucking hard and feeling my mouth fill with drool and pre-come quickly. The head of Daddy's cock and the inch or so below it were all I tried to get in my mouth at first -- I was dizzy with how good it felt to have Daddy's dick in my mouth, how good his pre-come tasted, with how much and how perfectly his cock filled my mouth. There was barely room to swirl my tongue around the head of Daddy's dick, but there was room, so I did it, because I had liked that, way back when I was a man. Now, I loved feeling that spongy-hard goose-bumpy surface under my tongue, tasting the salt of my Daddy, feeling his cock throb in my mouth. The shiny-slick shaft was very slick under my very wet lips, and I slid my tongue along the bottom of his cock a couple of times, over the flat spot on the bottom of Daddy's cock, down the slick part of the shaft . . . it made me feel so good that I thought I might pass out -- and then I came.

Yes. I wasn't playing with myself, both my hands were on Daddy's legs, he wasn't touching me at all, because, if he was at all like I had been in the days when I'd been a man, he was afraid of shoving my head down on his cock and scaring me. And still, I came! It was the best orgasm of my life, to that moment, and I know that it's only because I honestly love Daddy that I was able to concentrate enough on his cock in my mouth to be sure I didn't hurt him.

My hips didn't buck, but I sort of rippled, a wave passing out from my pussy in all directions, making my body undulate, sort of, and making me cry out (happily!) around Daddy's cock. I gulped down a mouthful of pre-come and saliva as soon as I could think again, and went back to tonguing and sucking on Daddy's dick. Then he spoke.

"Stephanie?" Daddy said, his voice unsteady. "Baby doll, did you just come?"

I was not about to take my mouth off of Daddy's cock to answer him, so I just retreated a little, to where I had just the head in my mouth, looked up at him, and nodded as emphatically as I could, under the circumstances.

Daddy did touch me, then, stroked my hair with one gentle hand, and said, "My god . . . baby, I'm so flattered by that . . . thank you."

I nodded again, my mouth being too full of dick to smile, and went back to what I'd been doing. I went back down to where I had been before, sucking hard, swirling my tongue around Daddy's cock, and loving the feel and taste of his dick. Then I slowly, cautiously -- I didn't want to gag, I never liked it when a woman or girl gagged on my dick, back when I'd had one -- moved deeper, letting more of Daddy's hard-slick shaft glide past my lips, wetting it with my tongue as I went. Then I felt . . . my tongue sort of bunched up, and I knew I couldn't go deeper without gagging, so I stopped there, with maybe half of Daddy's cock in my mouth, hot and hard and slippery with my saliva and his pre-come. I gulped the mix down, as my mouth was filling rapidly, then slid my tongue along the underside of Daddy's cock once, twice, a third time --

Daddy came, shooting hot jets of salty, slightly spicy come into my mouth, surprising me with it, but not scaring or gagging me. I loved the taste, the slippery texture of Daddy's come, and I let it fill my mouth -- very nearly to overflowing, god, my mouth was small! -- and then I gulped it down eagerly, loving it, loving Daddy's groans of delight and lust -- and I came again, hugely, as I gulped down my Daddy's come, came harder than the time before, even.

"Oh, Stephanie, that was wonderful, baby girl, thank you," Daddy gasped. "That was -- perfect!"

I made a happy sound in my throat, filled with pride at having made Daddy come so quick my first time sucking his cock, at making him happy by coming myself.

Then I went back to work at making him happy.

I'd had a taste of cock, of sucking cock, now, and I knew I could do it well enough to make Daddy come fast and hard. Now . . . it was time to do it better.

I slid back on Daddy's cock, stopping when my lips passed over the rim of the head, pressing my lips tightly to the head of Daddy's cock, and sucking hard, the tip of my tongue swirling around the tip of his cock rapidly, making him gasp and groan again. I sucked until I had every drop of come out of him, swallowed it -- then went back down on his cock as deep as I could, and as fast as I could and still be able to be sure that I could stop before gagging. Then back up to where my lips popped a little as they passed over the rim of his cock-head again, and back down, my mouth filling with saliva and Daddy's pre-come, swallowed as I bobbed back up, letting him feel the ripple of my tongue along his cock as I swallowed. Daddy moaned, and I knew I was doing it right, better than before. I bobbed up and down on his cock, kept my tongue moving, made no effort to stem the saliva that filled my mouth repeatedly, mixed with Daddy's copious pre-come, liked that I was drooling over my Daddy's dick, liked knowing that he knew I was drooling over his cock. Daddy's cock glistened with my saliva, now, and I felt another orgasm coming, for me, I mean, as I bobbed up and down on Daddy's cock like an eager porn starlet -- then it hit, and I found that my bobbing on Daddy's cock was already something I could do without thinking, as I definitely wasn't thinking much while I came -- but I never slowed my bobbing, speeded it up while I came, if anything.

Daddy whispered, "Stephanie, you -- god, you're coming still!"

I didn't answer, just . . . bobbed a little faster, liking how my lips felt a tiny bit -- not sore, but tender -- from the speed and ferocity of my bobbing, how good that made me feel, how it made me feel . . . grown up? Yes. Grown up, paradoxically, when I was just learning to revel in being a little girl.

I bobbed more, faster, with more frantic tongue action than ever, swallowing more often now, loving the taste, my orgasm building up already . . . and then Daddy came again, and I came hard, hard, HARD! I literally screamed my joy around Daddy's dick, gulped his come down greedily, moaned in delight as I kept bobbing, sucking, loving Daddy with my mouth.

Daddy stroked my hair again, and I looked up at him, pausing in my eager bobbing to look up at him, to let him read in my eyes how happy I was, how perfect this was. Then . . . then I threw the rest of my heart to him, gave him the utmost trust I knew how to give, then, and did something that I knew was flattering, emotionally pleasing as well as a huge sexual turn on.

Daddy put his hand back on his waist, grabbed his belt, and I looked up at him as I reached up with my left hand, took his right hand, and placed it on the back of my head, held it there as I went slowly down to the maximum depth I could take his cock in my mouth, then came back up, still holding his hand there, looked up at him, saw the amazement in his eyes, and the love.

"Stephanie . . . sweetheart, are you sure?" he asked, knowing full well what I was offering -- I was giving my Daddy complete control of this bout of cocksucking.

I nodded slowly, slowly and deliberately closed my eyes, then went back down to maximum depth, still holding his hand on the back of my head. Once I had him as far in my mouth as I could take him again, I stopped, dropped my hand from holding his in place, and simply pressed backwards, sliding back off of his dick -- and whimpering with delight and love as my lips passed over the rim of Daddy's cock -- and my Daddy shoved my head back down, just to the point where I'd stopped, then let me back up more quickly, shoved me down faster. I sucked, I tongued, I swallowed -- and I gave myself to him.

I've never been at all religious, but this was now a religious experience for me -- as I gave myself, my mouth, my pleasure, my willingness to pleasure, to my Daddy -- as I submitted to the will of a man who might as well be god, as far as I was concerned.

He made me bob up and down on his cock much faster than I might have on my own -- and I came in less than thirty seconds, and shrieked in joy as I did, writhed and undulated under Daddy's hand, let him force me faster, let him make this the blowjob he wanted it to be. I came, and I came, and I came as I gave myself to Daddy as completely as I knew how, and soon, I gulped another load of his wonderful, salty-spicy come, swallowed it as I came so hard I could barely stay up on my knees. And Daddy didn't stop, didn't slow, just kept forcing me down and letting me up, ravaging my mouth with my complete cooperation, making me come as I gave him my mouth to use, as he gave me his come to swallow.

I stayed on my knees, sucking my Daddy's cock, for what felt like forever -- but also felt like just a couple of seconds, like it wasn't long enough, before Daddy took his hand off of the back of my head, said, "Sweetie, I need to sit down for a while."

I kept bobbing, kept sucking, kept tonguing, kept coming -- and Daddy groaned, let me bob and suck and tongue and come -- at the last speed he'd forced me to, much faster than when I'd started. I drooled and swallowed, and Daddy came again after a while, came hard, and I came too, swallowed his come as I came -- and then he put his hand on my shoulder, pushed very gently, and stepped back while he did so. His cock left my mouth with a wet noise as I tried to follow it, and my tongue went out to preserve the contact for as long as I could.

"Sweetie, I need to sit down -- and we need to eat supper, honey," Daddy said. "That's enough for now, Stephanie. God, baby girl, you've been sucking my dick for forty-five minutes!"

"Yes, Daddy," I said, and looked up at him. "Daddy . . . I love you so much!"

"And I love you, sweetie," Daddy said. "I just had no idea you were such a little cocksucking fiend!"

I wiped my chin, covered in saliva and pre-come, licked it off of my hand, and gave Daddy my best `sultry' look.

"But I told you I was, Daddy," I said. "Back at the home."

"You did?" he asked, looking thoughtful. "I don't recall . . . ."

"Daddy, you asked what the first thing I'd want to do when we got here was, and I told you," I said, smiling over having actually done what I'd said. "I said I'd want to get on my knees and suck your cock until you made me stop, Daddy!"

Daddy blinked, visibly remembered -- then laughed, bent, picked me up, and even with my mouth still wet with a mixture that include his pre-come, kissed me as hard and sexy as I'd ever been kissed.

I clung to my Daddy, kissed back, and he carried me through the house and into the kitchen, where the smell of spaghetti sauce reminded me that I hadn't had food since lunch, seven hours back, and that I was very, very hungry.

For something besides my Daddy's cock, that is!