Sunday Evenings

I close the door and lock it. Behind me I know my father sits in his chair, a glass of scotch in his hand, and the fire stoked high. When I turn around he hasn't surprised me. It has been like this every Sunday since I turned thirteen, and sometimes on the interstitial weekdays. I walk forward and straddle his lap. He sets his last finger of liquid on the side table and looks on approvingly. Then he tells me to stand.

This is his way of telling me to strip. I do so without ceremony. I've grown a small pair of breasts since he first told me to undress in front of him, but they don't seem to have affected his ardour. By the time I stand there in my underthings there is a visible bulge in his trousers. When I am clothed in nothing but my skin, with the drafts pebbling my nipples and the promise of what is to come dampening my sex, he lifts his glass from the table, drains the contents, and begins unbuttoning his britches.

It was a chore, at first, fucking my father. Not because he is unseemly, but because it was initially extremely painful. He has never been gentle in his way with me, and I had still the body of a child. It would take the rug burns on my back from where he'd pounded me into the floor all week to fade, and Sunday evening would see them back again. The soreness of my womanhood lasted always a day or two, and relieving myself stung until Thursday. It wasn't until I was sixteen that I felt my vitals rise to meet his. Now, two years later, I anticipate Sunday nights and the soreness on the morning after.

His calloused palm is harsh on my already-stiff nipples, and I try not to gasp when one hand fists itself in my hair. He pulls my head downward, and I open my mouth to receive his member. My father prefers to deposit his cream inside my cunt and not in my mouth, but saliva is a quick lubrication, and so he thrusts down my relaxed and accustomed throat until his cock is glistening.

He doesn't allow me to speak during our encounters, but at the sight of his engorged shaft quivering before me, it is all I can do not to moan out loud. I want him to pierce me, to drive his cock relentlessly into my pussy until I scream. Every Sunday I come to him, hoping that this will be a Sunday when he will let me come. Sometimes I don't; he will stiffen inside me and, as I lay coiled with lust and frustration, will pull out, re-button himself, and tell me to leave. Those are the nights when I lie awake and rub myself furiously with his juices as they leak out of my cunt.

"The desk," he grunts. A man whose eloquence is praised by other men, he spares no words for me. I wonder sometimes if he was this taciturn with Mother, and try to remember her, but can only conjure up a vague approximation of her face. I turn obediently and step over to his desk, leaning over its cool, polished surface and exposing my nether regions to his gaze.

He is over me in two strides, his rough fingers spreading my swollen lips wider, and the head of his shaft probing just beyond. When it finds his mark, he pushes into me deeply and is still for a moment, as if to be certain that my cunt can take no more length. It will, with a little convincing, but that will be a few more minutes yet.

He pulls out and slams back in, beginning a slow but thorough pace. His cock pushes slightly deeper with every thrust. He grunts softly, making the only noise other than the slick slurp of our coupling and the sound of my hip bones being driven into the wood. I grip the desktop with my hands, and push my rump backwards at an angle to take in more of my father's cock.

There is another draft, and at the difference of sensation between the fireplace behind me with my father mercilessly pistoning into my pussy and the cool air on my torso, I moan. It was unintentional, of course, but my father would never listen to excuses, and gives my backside a swift smack. The pain goes straight to the little bundle of nerves below my cunt, and I bite my lip to stifle another groan. I taste the coppery tang of blood.

I can feel the pleasure building. The pain in my hips is nothing to the wonder of being filled with my fathers thick shaft. The contrast of his wool trousers and smooth, hard cock is delicious. He gives a particularly vicious thrust, and I feel his sack hit my clit and send delirious spikes of arousal deep into my abdomen. I send a quick prayer to God that today will be one of the days I will earn my release.

A scant few more times he rams into me hard and deep enough to slap my clitoris, and every time I feel myself getting closer. Then my father does something that, in five years of fucking his youngest daughter, he has never done before. He leans forward slightly from his position above me and rasps into my ear, "Speak".

I open my mouth to comply, but the only thing that comes out is a cry of ecstacy. He slaps me again, never ceasing his rough, deliberate, rapid thrusts. In, out, in, slap.

"A-aah!" I gasp when his palm connects once more with my naked cheek, "What should I say--nn--Father?"

"Uhng, just that. Call out to me."

"F-Father?" My breasts are sore from being forced into the hard surface, but my cunt is on fire. I'm so close.

"Yes!" He gives a guttural groan that I've never heard before, "Say it again."

"Oh, Father!" He leans back then and grabs my bruised hips in his hands, pulling me up to meet his vigorous thrusts. I brace my arms on the desk as he pounds into me, my poor, compressed breasts bouncing freely, the pain from their liberation and from my father's fingers sending me into a lustful frenzy. I can feel the skin of my pussy stretching only just enough to take the abuse his member is causing, and cry out again when his swinging sack lands a particularly good slap on my clitoris.

"Father, yes!"

He frantically pounds my cunt, and I am panting with the need for release when he suddenly stills, and I feel a sudden fullness as his cocks empties sperm into my womb. I feel like crying. When I lose his width, I constrict my vaginal muscles in an effort to keep as much of him inside me as possible.

There is a rustle of fabric, and I know he has taken out a handkerchief to clean the sex from his manhood. Next he will button his trousers, and walk to the liquor cabinet to pour himself two more fingers of scotch. Sure enough, I hear the quiet clink of the decanter followed by the sound of liquid falling into a glass. Next he will go stand in front of the fire.

I know it's coming but it's a bit of a slap all the same when I hear his gruff voice from behind me.

"Leave."

Despite everything, this really was just like all the other times. I dress quickly, mindful of the small trickle of cum making its way down my leg, cross to the door, unlock it, and slip outside. I can only hope it will be different next Sunday.