Simon Bennet sat in his bedroom, preparing his canvas for the painting he planned to execute from the drawing that was now in front of him--the drawing he had made of his 9-year-old daughter, naked and strung up to the ceiling in his basement. He had moved his easel and painting equipment up to his room because he didn't want Jane to come upon him while he was doing this. He and Jane had not referred to that bizarre afternoon in the basement room since it had occurred, almost a week ago. They had, in fact, pretty much avoided each other since then, which was not hard to do in the nearly empty house. Little Jane had always been an independent child, and they often took their meals separately. When they had come together in the past week, they had been polite but distant, almost like strangers. But there was a palpable tension in the air, a pervasive sense of...waiting...
He shook his head. He would have to do something to resolve the situation--have a talk with her, discuss openly what had happened. It had been a terrible mistake, a sudden, unbelievable nightmare which had caught them up unawares. They must try to forget it. It would never happen again. She was still a small child and it was her choice. But he wanted nothing more to do with it. Nothing.
Meanwhile, there was the picture....
He stared at the drawing in front of him. He had looked at it many times during the last few days, but actually he had no need to. It was there in his mind all the time, complete in every detail, every line and curve.
And so was the little 9-year-old model.
No matter how many times he had perused the drawing, each time he looked at it anew his mouth felt dry and his heart began to beat faster. He had done his work too well; had captured the scene of eroticized child so vividly that when he gazed at the silent, inanimate lines on the paper he could actually hear in his mind the sound of her tiny innocent moans and sobs, and see the spasmodic jerking and writhing of her suspended, helpless little body.
Her beautiful child's body....
He forced himself back to the task of priming his canvas. But his hands were not steady, and he had to stop. He was aware that he had a hard-on. Despite himself, his brain swarmed with the remembered images. Inexorably, his eyes turned to the drawing again. He sat looking at it this time for many minutes, unconscious of the fact that his ragged breathing was loud in the quiet room, lost in the overpowering evocation of his little daughter's erotic and insanely pleasurable torment.
And again the drawing merged with the reality, and he saw the tiny body quiver, the little bare feet arch painfully trying to reach the floor, the drops of sweat dribbling down her small legs. He heard the gasps coming from the child's open mouth, and in his feverish fantasy he even heard a sound he had not been present to hear--the cracking of the belt across her flesh. And then, amid the other sounds, he heard his inner voice.
"You'll be able to tie her up anytime you like, and draw her.... She'll like that.... Tie her up...."
To have more pictures... to see her in other positions... to gaze on her small nakedness....
He couldn't. His own little girl, tied up, revealed, sexualized...
But he saw her in his mind, a succession of imagined pictures--spread-eagled on her bed; bent double over the back of a chair; lying on her side on the floor, with her legs drawn up behind her, exposed, inviting, bound wrists fastened to bound ankles; standing on her toes facing a thick post in the basement, her arms tied around it, her small chest flattened against it, lashed to it with numerous coils of rope around her slender child's body and legs, only her buttocks jutting out bare and defenseless inviting the punishment.... Anytime you like.... Anytime you like....
And then he heard the sound of the front door as his daughter entered the house.
For a long moment he did not move. Then, as if in a trance, he rose and went to his bedroom door.
"Jane," he called. "Will you come up here, please?"
"All right, Daddy," came Jane's tiny voice. He walked back to his chair. Hastily, he put the drawing of her away. He would simply talk to her, he told himself. Try to smooth things over....
Little Jane came into the room. She moved a few steps inside the door, then stopped. She seemed very calm. "Yes, Daddy?" she said.
He couldn't speak for a moment. She stood there quietly, his 9-year-old daughter, and waited. His eyes couldn't stay on her face. She wore a school blouse and slacks, nothing provocative, but he could see what was beneath them. In his mind he could see it. And she knew. Her little face showed nothing, but she knew. She waited.
"Jane," he whispered finally, "I want to draw your picture."
She lay on his bed, naked and bound, legs quivering with strain, shoulders nearly dislocated, small torso arched painfully, writhing and moaning, panting and sweating, and loving every minute of it.
If he had had any doubts, he was convinced now. The child was a born masochist. His little 9-year-old daughter loved to suffer. That passion had now grown strong enough to override all feelings of shame, modesty or conventional behavior. When he had told her what he wanted, she hadn't said a word. She had simply taken her clothes off, not even bothering to turn away from him. She had brought him rope. Together they had worked out the position, but it was she who had insisted on its severity. He would have been more lenient, to spare the poor girl. But when he would have tied her hands behind her at the wrists, the little girl forced her arms as far in back of her as they would go, until each of her hands cupped an opposite elbow. With her forearms lashed together, her shoulders were pulled sharply back, thrusting her still flat chest out boldly and tightening the flesh over her shoulder bones until they seemed about to burst through the skin. When he spread her legs, tying each ankle with a length of rope which then was fastened to one of the bedposts at the lower corners of his large king-sized bed, she kept urging him to pull the ropes tighter, and still tighter, until her legs were stretched taut as they could possibly get, and then still tauter, stretched so wide apart that he thought she would split, her crotch only a short distance from the foot of the bed, her pink hairless vagina splayed forcibly open before her father's eyes.
Now the child lay on her back, her strained legs trembling with the tension, her small stiff nipples jutting straight up, forced into even greater prominence by the agonized arch of her upper body, lying on her tightly bound arms. To prevent her from raising the upper part of herself from the bed, he had come up with the idea of tying a noose around her slender neck and fastening it to the head of the bed.
All she could do now was to writhe her torso slightly. Her nipples were stiff and pointing, and every sound of pain, Simon knew, was also a cry of joy.
He sat in his chair and watched his little child avidly, his sketch pad set up on his easel. As though he were already a veteran, after one experience, at drawing bound and helpless little girls, he was waiting for the proper moment, waiting until the strain had more of a chance to set in, when she would begin to gasp with the pain, tears in her big eyes, squirming mindlessly against the relentless ropes, dampening the sheets with her innocent sweat.
Meanwhile he was more than content to watch the deepening stages of the child's suffering. It was so incredibly arousing that he had to hold himself in his chair.
Poor little Jane abandoned herself to pain as if it were a lover. Her little vagina opened like a flower and moistened, then bloomed in reddish hue as the lips of her smooth labia swelled with shamefull arousal. A groan left her mouth. With every heaving breath, her thrusting nipples reached out to it. Her twisting, twitching body was dancing in step with delicious pain tormenting he small body.
Father's own breath quickened, his heart pounded as he watched this erotic love play. Like this, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He groped for his pencils, his eyes reluctant to leave her small straining body for an instant.
Now he began to draw. The arch of the upper body over the crushed arms. The distorted, panting mouth. The rolling head, held in position by the cruel piece of metal that pulled at her hair. The breathtakingly flat sweep of her tummy. The damp curve of her little hairless genitals. The agonizingly taut, widestretched legs, in which the tortured tendons now stood out in relief against the curved, sensuous flesh of thigh and calf.
He was lost in the picture of his own suffering child, driven on by the groans and gasps which were now steadily increasing in volume and frequency. He did not know how long he worked; but when he stopped at last the little girl's entire body was trembling with strain and agony. Tears dripped from her eyes, and he didn't think she was even aware of the nearly continuous moan that came from somewhere deep inside her, broken only by heaving gulps for breath restricted by the cruel noose tied around her neck.
Her imaginary lover was taking her, posessing her, raping her of her innocence and childhood.
The father pushed himself up from his chair with effort. He must release her now. His legs were weak, and the blood was pounding in his head. His cock pushed demandingly against his pants; he had had a huge erection since long before he had started to draw. But he would not give in to that again. He must not. He would release her. He moved unsteadily toward the bed. Jane's glazed eyes turned to him, focused for a moment. "Daddy..." she moaned.
"All right, dear. I'm going to untie you now." But he didn't. He stood over her, unable to move, unable to do anything but look at that wonderfully tormented 9-year-old body. It was calling to him with its eager enslavement. The upthrust, shuddering chest were begging him, the cruelly pulled-apart legs were begging him. And her eyes were begging too--and not for him to release her.
He heard a new, deeper groan and realized that it had come from his own throat. As if with a will of its own, a trembling hand rose, reached toward the poor child--and touched its palm lightly to the very tip of one rigid, jutting nipple. Her entire body was covered in thin sheen of sweat.
Two groans now mingled in the charged air of the room. "Daddy..." Jane whimpered. "Daddy..."
"Oh jesus," the father whispered. The hand closed softly over the upreaching bud of flesh. He caressed it reverently. Then he drew away.
"No," he gritted hoarsely. "No!"
The little girl on the bed squirmed feverishly within her bonds, trying to arch her slender tortured body still further toward him.
"Please..." she moaned breathlessly. "Please, Daddy....Do it to me...do it.... Hurt me, Dady!"
"Don't, Jane," Burkheimer groaned as he walked around to the foot of the bed. "It's not right," he said, gazing down at the quivering inner surfaces of the child's tightly stretched thighs, and the open, moist entrance to her baby-cunt. "You're my daughter," he whispered helplessly, unzipping his fly. He knelt at the foot of the bed, and lowered himself between the sweet tortured limbs.
"God forgive me," he said brokenly, and slowly fed his stiff phallic pole into the lovely warm hole of his daughter's cunt.
"No!" Jane cried. "Noo! Oh Daddy, please! It hurts Daddy!"
He gave it all to her. He swam in overwhelming sensation. He pulled out, pushed slowly in. He was fucking his bound little daughter.
"Stop it, Daddy, nooo!"
He had no more to give. He went faster, harder. She squalled in painful delight. That was what she wanted. More pain. He pumped into her. He was holding himself above her, propped up on his hands. Her face was twisted with lust. Lust for sex, lust for torment. This was Jane. His sweet, lovely daughter. Absurdly, he realized she was not wearing her glasses. "Fuck you little girl...." And he fucked her.
"Daddy..." she gasped. "Lie on me.... Crush me.... Oh yes, crush me!..."
Yes! He was her lover now, provider of pain. He slammed himself down on top of her tiny arching body, his passion heightened by the child's shrill scream. He crushed her down even harder against her tied, drawn-back arms, pressed her hips down into the mattress, mashed her upthrust chest against his unyielding chest. His weight put an incredible extra strain in 9-year-old's impossibly stretched legs, and caused the metal roller to pull cruelly at her hair. He didn't care now. She wanted this, and he did too. He plunged into his little girl harder than before, keeping his weight on her while moving his hips like a triphammer.
Poor Jane was yelling in his ear, a scream of agony and triumph and violent fulfillment, a tribute to her twin lovers, himself and pain. It turned into a deafening banshee-like shriek as she came at last, jerking and heaving beneath him for long, long moments before she tapered off, sobbing with exhaustion and joy.
Carefully then, he lifted his weight from her little body, but he did not pull out of her. Incredibly, unbelievably, he had not yet come, was still stiff and aching inside her tiny leaking cunt.
But he waited for the little girl to recover, held still until her melting, climax-softened but still pain-dazed eyes focused on him yet again.
"Ohh...Daddy..." she panted. "You didn't..."
He began to move again inside her.
"I'll come, baby," he breathed, her hips writhing for him with painful effort. "I'll come in you. Come inside my little hot slut of a daughter."
And he did, with all the power of pleasure behind him.
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