Feature Writer: DarkEmrys
Feature Title: DADDY’S GIRLS 1
Published: 21.10.2011 / Copyright© 2011 by DarkEmrys
Story Codes: Incest, MF, MM, FF, TS, Rape, Blackmail, Slavery, Sadistic, Harem, Anal Violent, Prostitution
Synopsis: George is an interesting man – former government agent, handyman and sports fan, family man and businessman, but most importantly, Daddy. The family is a conglomerate of young prostitutes, by choice, mind you, and a few Brothers as the girls call them, their protectors. This is a stream-of-consciousness autobiography written by Daddy himself delivering the history of his life and the lives of his girls.
Daddy’s Girls 1
Once, a long time ago, I asked myself what kind of man I wanted to be. Maybe I would make a good husband or a good father; maybe I would make an excellent banker or even an astronaut; and maybe, just maybe, I would be a happy man that brings happiness to those that he loves. That question answered itself many years later when I realized that I was many things: husband, father, successful business owner, good friend, a family man and a man’s man, the kind that does in fact make those around him happy while himself being happy. You get the idea. But there comes a time in every man’s life when he must choose what type of man to become once he’s reached the end of his progression, when he thought he was finished being and growing, when there’s nothing left but to plow a new road or pitch his tent at the end of the current dead end. Every spectrum has a range, a predetermined point of extremes; the human condition, apparently, does not. I suppose this simple idea of limitations and boundaries can only be expressed and applied in science, for I understand now that my world has no limitations or boundaries because while science explains me, my mind and body, I am not science. I am a man.
Keep in mind, please, that I say such with no ego. I speak only in facts that I know to be true for experience is every man’s teacher. To help you understand what I mean – I know it will not make much sense now – think about your parents. Unless you’re one of the lucky few in the world with perfect parents, and I do believe they exist though mine weren’t, then you will surely understand that your parents taught you as much about who you wanted to be as they taught you about who you refuse to be. My father was a drunk, an abuser and a general scumbag. My mother, well … my mother was an angel sent from whatever higher power may exist to make the world brighter, which she did every day she smiled, laughed or cried. Her emotions were infectious and her beauty stunning. She held me enough, told me she loved me enough; my childhood was a happy time. My father taught me many things such as how to be tough and take a hit, cope with pain; taught me how to work with my hands, till the soil and make things grow, work with wood and drywall and paint; taught me how to work on cars and small engines alike. But he also taught me that hurting people is generally wrong – you’ll see why I say generally later – and that alcohol, drugs and women not wearing your ring are probably not good outlets for your energies. Again you’ll see why I say ‘probably’ later.
The end of my childhood came early when I reached one of several periods of my life where I needed to decide what type of man to become. My angel, my mother, was taken from this world by my father in a drunken rage. He only hit her once, but it was enough to compound a frailty in her body, a weak heart. The Story of an Hour told me the truth – “of love that kills.” I hope you can understand the reference even though I imagine you might be offended by tainting classic literature by including it, even as an afterthought, in this tale. I’m an honest man, as well, so I should tell you now that I care very little what you have to say about me or my life. If you need an excuse to hate me as the story goes on, remember this: my life both ended and began the day my mother was taken from me by a drunken, murderous piece of shit. I became a murderous piece of shit because of him, among other things. There. Now you can psychoanalyze me as an abused child and get on with your life.
As a note before continuing, you may want to know that the moment my mother collapsed, so did my father. At fourteen, I was smart enough to know where a heart is and how to plunge a knife into it. I learned later in my chain of foster homes that quick reflexes can both save and take a life, the latter being only a connection made years later, a connection between how quickly my father’s life ended and, at the time, how quickly mine continued because of quick reflexes, instinct. I don’t know if rendering my father lifeless on the blade of the knife used to neatly cut his medium-rare steak into tiny, edible cubes can be considered reflexive, but it was quick. Clumsy children find their way into grace and self-control; I found my way via hate born of love.
The next years of my life will be delivered without detail because you’ll piece together the meaning of the relevant parts. After high school and my thirteenth foster hell, I joined the military. I can’t tell you much about those years because much of it is classified. I went from Basic Training in the Marine Corps directly to Navy SEAL training. From there … wouldn’t you like to know? The government denies most of it, and so do I.
After government work, life was a little less fun for a while. I enjoyed killing, and as a civilian I didn’t have the honor of murdering my father repeatedly. The police tend not to like that. The government prefers employing unbalanced, borderline psychopaths for certain work; they’ll deny it, of course. But I wanted work that at least involved the possibility of violence to sate my angry hunger to cause pain. What did I do? This may make you laugh. I worked as a private security consultant for a very rich family of some rock starlet I never bothered to hear on the radio. I didn’t learn to appreciate music for another few years, and you’ll learn more about how a little later.
They paid very well, and on a rare occasion I got to rough up an unruly fan or intimidate lovelorn courtiers. What is it with famous people only searching for love with other famous people? I never understood that nonsense. At any rate, she was a darling of a girl once she let go of her rocker personality and allowed herself to be the young lady hidden beneath layers of punk clothing, fake tattoos and rainbow hair. But there came a time when her family, and more importantly her agent, felt I was no longer needed, so again I found myself in search of work and again hoping to take a position with violent prospects.
This is where I became the man I desired to be when I was young. I met Kali. My final employment venture before the chapters of my life that sparked this biography was at a small, dingy strip club, and my sweet Kali was one of the dancers. She called herself a professional clothing removal artist. We met, dated, fell in love and married. She continued to dance, and I continued to make sure she – and all the other girls – were safe. I legally carried at least one weapon at all times, usually my favorite .45 that I lovingly named Mrs. Jones. Yes, I know Travolta’s character in that ridiculous spy movie named his gun Mrs. Jones, and frankly, I don’t care. I had my Mrs. Jones before that movie was even an itch in its writer’s pants. We had a thing goin’ on before Travolta learned how to play a bad guy, if you exclude that insane alien movie or whatever it was … something Earth.
It wasn’t long before Kali gave birth to Jenny, my first girl and the only fruit of my looms, and as with all heavens, its hell is waiting on the other bank of a river of pain. My Kali died of breast cancer not long after Jenny finished breastfeeding around the age of three. We believed in the health of breast milk; science today believes in it, also. One of my fondest recurring memories is that of Jenny nestled in her mother’s arms, nursing quietly as she napped. My girls cuddled together in harmony as often as possible, though Jenny only got to nurse a couple times a day. Kali regulated the breastfeeding not because she was ready to let Jenny grow up, but because we needed our baby to be independent. I know it doesn’t make much sense, but it worked for us.
After Kali died, it was just me and Jenny. She mitigated my rage, my need to hurt and kill, much better than I ever could. Precocious little girls take more energy than planning and executing an assassination. I was just too damned tired to bother with anger. I say that because she likes knowing that she keeps Daddy in line, and she does. She could have been her mother’s twin. Raising her alone was easier than I thought it would be, but then I had trusted friends, energetic teachers and wonderful after-school programs to keep her out of my hair while I put food on the table. Thankfully I had no mortgage to suck up my meager paychecks.
Ironically, I ended up working in a bank, but not as a banker. I was the head of security, the right hand of God – as he called himself, Dick to the rest of us – but it didn’t pay as well as I would have liked. When Jenny hit sixteen, she volunteered to get a job and help pay for her first car. I worried for months about how I could afford to buy her a shiny new automobile, something like the newest model of Ford Mustang so she could be the envy of her high school, but no such funding was available. My eyes misted when she told me her plan to find work. A father’s love is undeniable and unwavering; a father’s pride is a thing of its own.
The next few years were uneventful. Jenny grew up fast, discovered boys and treated her 1987 Chevrolet S-10 as if it were a Bentley. I don’t need to tell you that the birds and the bees talk was required, as was birth control and, in an extreme lesson to be learned, a trip to an abortion clinic. I was that type of parent – show her the worst and let her decide where to go. I taught her to ask me, without fear of consequence, about anything she wanted to try. When she was fifteen, she asked about alcohol, and I bought some beer for her to try. I became the cool Daddy that let his little girl drink at home with the understanding that I would paint her back porch red if I found out she was imbibing such beverages away from home. She asked about sex when she was seventeen, so I bought her condoms and birth control, and yes, she was seventeen. I believe her even today that she either had no interest, or at least no experience, with sex prior. She asked about marijuana when she was eighteen, and I told her if she ever touched the stuff, she’d see a new side of me. She’s never touched the stuff.
I should explain something at this point. I am a law abiding man to the point that if the government saw fit to outlaw M&Ms tomorrow, I’d stop eating my favorite candy. I don’t speed; I don’t steal; I don’t park in handicap spaces. But, as you’ll soon find out, vengeance … well vengeance will overcome. Also, while buying beer for my teenage daughter is illegal, does it really make much sense to forbid it all together when the outcome will most likely be rebellion? You may also ask yourself how I can allow alcohol in the home after my childhood. If you ask yourself that question, you may have forgotten that I’m a Marine, a SEAL and a government agent. You think we don’t drink?
It’s also important to note that my Jenny was very well behaved, obedient but independent. Daddy’s word was law, and if she disagreed then we discussed it. She had the opportunity to state her case in an attempt to sway me. She did many times, which leads me to my current profession. I’ll revisit Jenny’s childhood periodically because the next chapter of her young life guided me to this chair today, comfortably reclined with laptop and beer, surrounded by my girls cuddled in the warmth of each other’s arms as they talk about their days, study and practice or nap peacefully in a quiet corner while Micah and Shelly make love to each other on a rug of silky fur near the fireplace.
Before I continue, I want it known that I never have and never will make love to, have sex with or fuck Jenny. She will never know what it feels like to have any part of my body inside her in any way. The boundary of blood is one of few that I will not cross.
Now that we have that out of the way…
I remember it was warm outside, rainfall drizzling onto anything below the grey skies, car tires splashing through puddles as drivers heading toward their futures and an annoying tin can on the fire escape pinging incessantly underneath a source of droplets. My cock was agonizingly hard as I heard Jenny scream her third orgasm while I counted the money for the hundredth time. During that hour, I replayed the conversation that led us here in my mind at least ten times.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked Jenny as she sat down at the dinner table to share a meal with me on our weekly reunion. She was living on campus while she studied Business Law, and I knew how tight money was for both of us. The item in question was a stunning heart pendant of platinum, a hole drilled through the center only to be filled with a diamond that must be a full karat and a thick, sturdy chain hanging delicately around her neck so that the pendant rested perfectly between her collar bones.
“Bill bought it for me, Daddy,” she responded nonchalantly.
“Jenny, that has to cost thousands of dollars, and this guy you’ve been dating for a few weeks bought it for you?” I asked. I wasn’t angry, far from it, but I was concerned about my middle-class daughter wearing jewelry typically reserved for the rich and gutless.
“You weren’t supposed to see this. I knew you’d be upset,” she retorted quickly.
“I’m not upset, but I do want to understand how a broke college student’s boyfriend can afford a necklace worth more than your truck,” I said calmly. And I was calm. I’m not the angry type, not with my Jenny.
“Daddy, Bill is rich, and he’s not my boyfriend. He’s…” she started, but never finished. It was several moments before I spoke again, gathering my thoughts and trying to understand.
“He’s what, Jenny? Buying you things for sex?” I offered. I’m a blunt man by nature, and my daughter knows it. She simply nodded, and, for the first time I could remember, she left the table in embarrassment, her meal untouched. I studiously cleaned the dishes, having lost my own appetite, and settled onto the sofa to watch the news. It must have been 2 a.m. when I headed up the stairs to bed.
“Mmmmmmmm, Daddy, fuck your baby girl’s tight little cunthole. Yessssss,” she groaned as I passed by her bedroom door. I continued on my path to bed, my cock stiffening in my boxers and my head spinning with the possibilities of that statement of passion.
The following morning I blushed when Jenny entered the kitchen to cheerfully pour herself a bowl of cereal. She noticed my reaction to her presence but didn’t say anything immediately. Instead, she sat across from me, locked her gorgeous baby blues on my deep browns and smiled. I was confused by her actions, but I didn’t say anything. I wanted to see what happened next.
What happened next was a detailed explanation of her Junior year of college…
Jenny had quite an enterprise in motion. She was a prostitute with morals, her clients falling into the category of lonely, nerdy college students. She told me that it began with a classmate in need of companionship while she was in need of money for books. I was bothered by her embarrassment to call me for help, but I admired – if you call it admiration, but more that I understood her independence – at finding a way to solve two problems. She offered to teach the young man about women for a fee, a benevolent even if illegal business transaction.
After their date together, the young man asked if he could offer her phone number to a friend to which she agreed. Nearly a year later, my precious Jenny was a full-blown prostitute operating purely by word of mouth and concentrating on the less than fortunate gentlemen of campus. She taught the geeks and nerds how to interact with and sexually satisfy a woman. They didn’t need to get laid, according to her; they simply needed the confidence to play the game. Please note that today, many years later, most of her clients are happily married to women generally “out of their league.” What my Jenny did, worked.
Her process was ingenious. The gentleman took her on a date, to dinner and a walk in the park or pizza and a coffee shop, anything they wanted that would be comfortable for them, not her. No sex took place on the initial date. It was an interview. If she felt she could trust the gentleman with the secret, she let him know, and the business details followed. Her rates don’t matter, but let’s just say that she earned more than I did in that first year.
This may sound odd, but my primary concern was her safety. I was satisfied with how she protected herself from physical and legal repercussions, but the necklace bothered me. No college student could afford such expensive decorations for my angel’s neck. Bill was her first client not attending college. He later sold his business to partner with me after marrying my daughter. He was wealthy and intelligent, a fine combination for the business managers – husband and wife, lovers, partners, Jenny and Bill – of Daddy’s Girls.
Now is a good time to mention that the man I became is Daddy, the figurehead of a prostitution service. I do not, will not, enter the world of child prostitution, nor will I ever cross most legal boundaries not inherently required to run a sex-for-pay outfit, the obvious, and I will exact vigilante justice on anyone that harms one of my girls. You’ll see just how far I will go a little later when I tell you about my precious Ocean.
I run a business that provides erotic services of all levels to those that can afford it and keep a secret. Jenny’s interview process is still enforced. You will not see, touch or even think about one of my girls until I can trust that they will be safe with you in all ways, and even then you will be personally escorted by my associates, lovingly known as Brothers by my girls.
You may notice that I never mentioned my own safety. I care very little about whether or not I end up in prison, maimed or dead. I am Daddy first. My girls and their safety are paramount; they mean more to me than my own life, and that’s how a Daddy should feel. Protect your family at all costs. My girls are regularly tested for diseases and drug use – not for their own desire to partake in modern chemistry, but to verify that their clients don’t sneak something – and they use their profits as they see fit. I take a small percentage to fund the business. I am not a pimp. I operate more like an agent and father-figure, Daddy, doing what’s best for my girls. They choose to be here and sell their bodies. I make sure they stay sane, sober and safe while doing it.
We are a family – you will call us a cult, I’m sure – in that we live together, love together, lose and celebrate together. Just now, Kirin is shedding a tear for our beloved Ocean. I suppose I should shed a tear, too, knowing that lovely Kirin is sad at this moment, but all I can feel is pride and love for both her and Ocean. You don’t shed a tear for someone you hate, and how can I be saddened by the thought of that love even if it does end in misty eyes?
Some of my girls have moved on, some have grown to help run the family business and most have degrees and talents that I embrace and encourage. Kirin, one of my oldest girls, is our technical expert. From WiFi to operable security systems, she makes sure that home is safe and secure. Jenny, as I mentioned, is one of my business managers, but more importantly, she is Mommy to many of the girls, not all. Some don’t need a mother, Mommy or any other woman. They just need Daddy, but we are all friends. Sure, we have the occasional spitting match between girls, lovers’ quarrels between the couples and so on. What family doesn’t have its fights?
As I sit here typing, I’m pretending not to see Cadence sneaking towards me. She fancies herself as a feline, and by her movements, I believe she just might be part kitten. You’ll learn that my girls all have a personality of their own, so varied that you may wonder how we live in harmony, but Paula Abdul had a good point – opposites attract. Sweet Cadence is purring quietly as she nuzzles her cheek against my knee, but I know her game.
I’ll break in to mention that I am told I’m a handsome man, standing at a modest five-foot-nine and weighing one hundred eighty-five pounds, firm jaw line and dark, short hair with piercing brown eyes. I’m slightly barrel-chested, stocky as many might say, with broad shoulders, and my “guns” as the girls call them are thick, muscular appendages from years of hard work, exercise and diligence. My body is thick with muscle, cushioned in the right places with a layer of body fat to keep me soft, I suppose, and my girls never complain about my manhood, a thick, solid nine inches of manly meat. Again, their words. I just call myself George, and I see Daddy in the mirror, not a Greek God as they seem to think.
Cadence is tall and slinky, thin, trim, but oozes sexuality. Her movements are graceful and flowing, always measured and accurate. At exactly six feet tall and weighing no more than one hundred thirty pounds, she’s athletic but feminine with flowing red hair and dazzling emerald eyes, full, pouty lips and a face I often compare to Nala, the girlfriend lioness in The Lion King. Her breasts are B cups, pert and firm, her backside tinier than you might expect but firm and soft. Her personality can be easily described as intentionally aloof, again feline in many ways. She’ll crawl into your lap to cuddle voraciously before suddenly slinking off to gaze out an open window with childlike awe of the wide world.
At the moment, she’s feeling frisky, and the fact that I’m describing her actions here is pure entertainment. It seems like it’s her mission to wrest me free of coherent thought, her lips gliding along the shaft of my cock, having pulled it free of my boxers as I described her to you. The shaft is thickening as she decorate it with soft kisses and delicate swipes of her tongue which I swear is rough but gentle like a cat’s. Sometimes I think she found a doctor, surgeon or voodoo witch doctor to give her the tongue of a real cat. It feels amazing swirling around the fat, mushroomed head of her favorite cock, but I can’t help but gasp as her mouth envelopes it, resorting to gentle sucking, her cheeks caving around the glans while her tongue pokes into the piss slit.
I’ve felt her mouth on me more times than I can count, but she never ceases to coax a treat from my heavy balls. I’m close, much sooner than usual, but the sounds of Micah and Shelly have had me idly leaking precum into my boxers for nearly an hour. I had to stop typing for several minutes just now, unable to concentrate and unwilling to ignore my Cadence as she suckled a creamy load from me. I always comb through her hair with my fingers and caress her cheeks when she pleasures me with her mouth. I do this with all my girls; when they give me pleasure, I let them know as best I can that I love them, and in the throes of an orgasm there’s not much else I can do but stare into their eyes and, well, pet them, especially Cadence. What else do you do with a kitten when she makes you smile? You pet her. It’s endearing to me that Cadence never gives a blowjob, which, as I’ll describe in a moment, is actually one of her talents and one of the reasons she has many repeat customers. Tonight she wants her treat, though, so she won’t release the head of my cock until she’s finished and satisfied with her tummy full of Daddy’s cum. She’s already had her treat and lovingly tucked my cock back into my boxers, of course.
She’s the only girl in our family that can give a man an orgasm with just her tongue, the way she flicks it so quickly and precisely as if she’s treating herself to a bowl of milk – which she’s now doing, by the way. Kirin brought a saucer of her second favorite, creamy treat. I can hear her purring contentedly from here, hunched over her saucer and lapping at the milk happily while Kirin strokes her back, whispering sweet idioms like “pretty girl” and “beautiful kitty.” That may sound unusual to you, but in our home nothing is unusual. We have several dogs in the house, real dogs, and they’re as much a part of the family as Joe Normal’s family dog and two-and-a-half kids and a white picket fence, but they’re also professionally trained guardians. I don’t recommend you try to enter our home without permission, preferably without an escort until you get farther than the foyer.
Tomorrow will be a long day. It’s the anniversary of Ocean’s passing, and the entire family will be with me when I scatter her ashes into the Pacific. She left us not long after her twenty-first birthday, but even at such a young age, she knew where she wanted to spend eternity; she wanted to become one with the oceans of our wondrous planet, the reason she named herself Ocean when she came into our family. All of my girls have a legal name, sure, but it is rare that their parents knew them, so the given name has no meaning. They become Cadence, Kirin and Ocean, Sprite and Byte – my tiniest girls – or Pine and Aspen, but we have Heather, Micah and Shelly, as well. Some of the girls name themselves after a favorite thing, some choose a name they think is pretty. There’s no rhyme or reason to it in many cases. Cadence should have named herself Kitten or Kat, maybe Tigress.
Ocean … my sweet Ocean, our sweet Ocean. She loved water, and her sparkling blue eyes rivaled the brilliance of the Caribbean on a bright Spring day when the sun shone just right and each ripple of the current-driven waters smiled at you, her heart as massive and deep as the oceans. Her name was arguably the most befitting and most metaphorically accurate of all my girls. She was a gypsy-like beauty, hair as black as the soils of the Great Plains and skin so pale and delicate you were almost afraid to let her outside after sunrise with pearly whites aligned perfectly thanks to the braces she bought herself. It only took a year to straighten the off-kilter chompers.
Her breasts were large, full E cups and her body fluffed with gentle rolls of girlish fat that softened her form, enhanced her womanly appearance and most importantly let you know that she was with you when that soft flesh molded to your form. She wasn’t fat, far from it, but she was plus-sized. You might compare Ocean to one of those modern-day pin-up models, the larger but undeniably gorgeous women, full-figured they call themselves. Her hips were wide, her ass large and round, the perfect cushion to soften each thrust and jiggle seductively; there was no denying her sexuality and appeal, and once you had those thick, soft thighs squeezing your head, you never wanted to leave or stop pleasuring her, wanting those thick, soft thighs to embrace you forever.
But, Ocean is not with us. I know Kirin dreads tomorrow, the pain in her eyes is evident as she cuddles with Cadence in the far corner of the room. The sight of them reminds me of our family cat, Jasmine, shortly after my mother died. I came home with a police officer to gather some personal items and make my way to my first foster hell. I sat on the edge of my mother’s favorite chair, head hanging down and tearless eyes staring into the carpet, seeing nothing, and Jasmine walked up, sat back and meowed, staring up at me with her giant Siamese blue eyes. Sometimes animals just know. I’m still not convinced Cadence doesn’t have feline DNA.
Alas, most of my girls are asleep around the common room, some on sofas and in chairs, many in large beds tucked into corners of the room. I have trouble sleeping anywhere but my own bed, and any of my girls are welcome to join me at any time. We don’t have sleeping arrangements, though many of them have a favorite bedmate if for no other reason than their sleep styles correlate so well that they rest deeply. I’m sure you can relate to that – someone you’ve shared a bed with at some point in your life, you just wanted to strangle for keeping you up all night. It may be snoring, constant tossing and turning or a sick lover coughing into your ear throughout the twilight hours. You know that sometimes people sleep well together and others don’t.
Kirin will sleep in my arms tonight, and I know Cadence will follow her anywhere to offer the support of a tender lick on the cheek or an affectionate bout of pawing on her arm. Like I said, sometimes animals just know. Kirin took it the hardest, Ocean’s death. She won’t let go of my hand tomorrow, just like Cadence won’t leave her side. I’d like to believe that we don’t play favorites in our family, but you know as well as I do that sometimes people are closer to some than others. Kirin and Ocean were inseparable, and Cadence was their kitten. Tomorrow is as much about them as it is about Ocean. We all lost her, but Kirin lost her soul mate, Cadence lost one of her Owners. I sometimes forget that I lost Ocean, me, George, Daddy. It’s time to rest, however. Tomorrow we’ll mourn, celebrate the life of Ocean and maybe drink a toast in her honor, and we’ll come home to resume our lives, our business and family. Tonight, though, tonight I need to hold Kirin. She needs Daddy.
If you don’t hate me by now, perhaps you’ll visit again to read more about our family and our business. If for nothing else, I hope you wish to know more about how we remember, love, mourn and celebrate Ocean tomorrow. Goodnight.
THE END OF CHAPTER ONE