Princess Grows Up
I’m in my darkened home office, idly browsing the web. Not worried: concerned.
After all, it's past two; she was supposed to be home by midnight. And I know nothing about the party she went to: who she’s with, what she's doing.
Or who she's doing it with, I joke to myself. She’s not a little girl any more. I know that. Twenty-two, a college Senior. But I trust her. As her *******, I've watched her grow from a spunky young girl to fine young woman.
But I remember the little girl. I remember the last time she sat on my lap in her pajamas. She must have been fourteen. It was sweet, but she was already becoming a woman. Hips broadening out, little breasts swelling. It wasn’t right any more. But she’s still my princess. She still says, “I love you, Daddy”, and I love her too.
I log into the cloud service and I look up the old family photos. There she is. What a cutie. Here’s middle school. Here’s the high-school gymnast: tight little body on that one. Horseback riding: that must have been the summer before college. Thank God she never showed much interest in boys during high school, it would have broken my heart. Really into sports, good. Yes, I’m an overprotective *******, but I truly believe that no-one is good enough for my little girl. LOL. That means Laugh Out Loud.
Of course I knew she would get a boyfriend once she got to college. I’m a modern dad. She brought a very nice boy home for Thanksgiving last year: Brad. Athlete, good grades. Here’s a picture of them together, in January. To be honest, I don’t know if they’re still dating. She hasn’t mentioned him lately.
Huh. This is interesting. Pictures from the Jennings’ pool party two weeks ago. They must have auto-uploaded from my phone, cause I don’t remember putting them on the cloud. So much fun for both our families. Here’s my princess, with her best friend Janine. Janine is definitely the hottest of all my *******’s girlfriends. Here they in their bikinis. Nice. Bending over. Should I really be looking at these? LOL.
Now, here’s one I don’t recognize at all. Janine, at a club, with my *******. Here’s Janine dancing with a black guy. In a rather tight dress. Here they are, holding drinks and laughing. Who knows where? Girls’ night out. Fun. I hope they knew what they were doing. These must have auto-uploaded too, from my *******’s phone. Could be interesting!
Honestly, this next one concerns me a bit. It’s my *******, leaning back against some guy, smiling sweetly. He’s got his arm around her. And he’s black. It shouldn’t matter to me, but it does. Here’s another. Same guy, I think. And I do not like his hand resting on her bare thigh. Very disrespectful. I hope Brad was there.
Now there are a few blurry ones of her and Janine. Someone’s arm. A random crowd shot. Now there’s a scene in an apartment. Very dark, some ******* bottles on a table. Here is my ******* looking *******, unfortunately. And I did not know that she ever dressed like that.
Holy crow. They’re kissing. She’s kissing a black guy. A different black guy. The hair is different. Have you ever noticed that black guys pretty much look the same? I mean, unless they’re especially tall or short, or fat, or whatever, or a different hair style. Skin colour can differ too of course. But it easy to confuse them.
Anyway, *******. She is French kissing this guy. I can see their tongues. Here’s another one: he’s practically on top of her. What are you doing, girl? Here’s Janine, looking like the stupid, ******* slut she is. That girl is a bad influence. Here Janine is dancing with some guys. Here both of them are dancing with some guys. Is every guy at that party black?
I look away from the screen, and think. Would it be OK for my ******* to date a black guy? Sorry, I would never be comfortable with that.
Holy *******. Here’s my ******* sitting on a sofa between two black guys. One guy has Janine on his lap and she’s kissing him. He’s got his fucking hand down her fucking jeans. And my ******* has her hand on the same guys leg and her other hand on the other guy’s leg. On the inside of his thigh. The look on her face: is it the sluttiest look I’ve ever seen, or the most innocent?
Now I’m stunned. Here’s another picture of my *******, from behind, with those two black guys grinning at her. She is not wearing a stitch of clothing.
That’s the last one. I look through the pictures again, and again. She has been intimate with both these guys, I know it. Maybe just teasing them? No. A racist voice at the back of my mind says, “Your *******’s been fucking black men.”
Almost without thinking, I open a porn site on my browser and select “Interracial”. It all looks different this time. Those black male porn actors are so big. Are those guys like that? Have they… been inside her? Did they hurt you, Sweetie?
I watch a video of a very pretty, very innocent-looking blonde girl with two black guys. She fellates them and copulates with them in every possible combination, with many camera angles and closeups. They fuck her silly, and grunt with lust and crudely comment on her body and sexual performance. It goes on a long time, and they leave her with sperm splashed on her face and pouring out of her little pink twat. I watch it again, and then I watch others like it, always looking for the petite young blondes with black guys. Their expressions: naughty, submissive, or proudly slutty as they give oral sex; the pleasure on their faces at the moment of penetration; their tight, youthful bodies thrashing as they approach orgasm. I’m ashamed at how I feel.
I hear a car pull up. It’s nearly 5:00 AM and the pre-dawn sky is already bright. I slip out to the foyer and look out toward the car port. Three ******* pile out of a black jeep. A girl and two black guys. They’re laughing, shouting; her girlish voice and their lower African American tones. She hugs one of them; they kiss with open mouths. She almost wraps her legs around him, she’s grinding him so hard. Now she pulls away, and he puts his hands on her breasts. She kisses him more. He touches her crotch. She moves her hand down to his and presses it against herself.
Now she turns away, looks at the other boy, growls mock-aggressively and lunges. She presses her face against the front of his pants, then collapses in laughter. He helps her to her feet and now both of them touch her. She kisses one, then the other, then the first again. Their hands are all over over: breasts, ass, between her legs. I can’t tell from my angle, but I think she’s groping them too.
Finally she breaks off and tramps up the front stairs. The front door opens, and I hear “Bye-ye!” in a sing-song, little-girl voice. I slip back into the office and close the porn tabs as she hurries past. The bathroom door clicks open and shut. A photo of my sweet, twelve-year-old ******* smiles at me from the screen. The car roars away.
The shower switches on. I imagine the warm, soapy water running down her sweaty, dirty body. I almost want to cry. Washing away traces of... How many times did she fuck them? How many times did she make them cum? Three times? four times, each? In her mouth? On her tits? In her face? Does she still have cum in her pussy?
The shower continues for a long time, and I think she must be masturbating. Touching herself, thinking about her sexual experience with those boys. She must be so horny. The water shuts off and she flits by my office door in her white dressing gown. Her bedroom door clicks shut.
I sit, staring at nothing.
Then, a shameful thought. I creep out into the hall, which is completely silent in the early-morning light. The faint, sweetish smell of marijuana. I stealthily unlatch the bathroom door and go in.
Wet towels on the floor, the laundry hamper open. In it, my *******’s panties, bunched up on top of crumpled jeans. White cotton with lace trim. If I picked them up and pressed them against my face, what would I smell? The horny juices of a healthy young woman? Are they still moist? Is there cum on them? Two black guys' cum mixed together?
Now I'm holding them in my hands. This is wrong. But I don’t stop.
Oh, Princess.
I’m in my darkened home office, idly browsing the web. Not worried: concerned.
After all, it's past two; she was supposed to be home by midnight. And I know nothing about the party she went to: who she’s with, what she's doing.
Or who she's doing it with, I joke to myself. She’s not a little girl any more. I know that. Twenty-two, a college Senior. But I trust her. As her *******, I've watched her grow from a spunky young girl to fine young woman.
But I remember the little girl. I remember the last time she sat on my lap in her pajamas. She must have been fourteen. It was sweet, but she was already becoming a woman. Hips broadening out, little breasts swelling. It wasn’t right any more. But she’s still my princess. She still says, “I love you, Daddy”, and I love her too.
I log into the cloud service and I look up the old family photos. There she is. What a cutie. Here’s middle school. Here’s the high-school gymnast: tight little body on that one. Horseback riding: that must have been the summer before college. Thank God she never showed much interest in boys during high school, it would have broken my heart. Really into sports, good. Yes, I’m an overprotective *******, but I truly believe that no-one is good enough for my little girl. LOL. That means Laugh Out Loud.
Of course I knew she would get a boyfriend once she got to college. I’m a modern dad. She brought a very nice boy home for Thanksgiving last year: Brad. Athlete, good grades. Here’s a picture of them together, in January. To be honest, I don’t know if they’re still dating. She hasn’t mentioned him lately.
Huh. This is interesting. Pictures from the Jennings’ pool party two weeks ago. They must have auto-uploaded from my phone, cause I don’t remember putting them on the cloud. So much fun for both our families. Here’s my princess, with her best friend Janine. Janine is definitely the hottest of all my *******’s girlfriends. Here they in their bikinis. Nice. Bending over. Should I really be looking at these? LOL.
Now, here’s one I don’t recognize at all. Janine, at a club, with my *******. Here’s Janine dancing with a black guy. In a rather tight dress. Here they are, holding drinks and laughing. Who knows where? Girls’ night out. Fun. I hope they knew what they were doing. These must have auto-uploaded too, from my *******’s phone. Could be interesting!
Honestly, this next one concerns me a bit. It’s my *******, leaning back against some guy, smiling sweetly. He’s got his arm around her. And he’s black. It shouldn’t matter to me, but it does. Here’s another. Same guy, I think. And I do not like his hand resting on her bare thigh. Very disrespectful. I hope Brad was there.
Now there are a few blurry ones of her and Janine. Someone’s arm. A random crowd shot. Now there’s a scene in an apartment. Very dark, some ******* bottles on a table. Here is my ******* looking *******, unfortunately. And I did not know that she ever dressed like that.
Holy crow. They’re kissing. She’s kissing a black guy. A different black guy. The hair is different. Have you ever noticed that black guys pretty much look the same? I mean, unless they’re especially tall or short, or fat, or whatever, or a different hair style. Skin colour can differ too of course. But it easy to confuse them.
Anyway, *******. She is French kissing this guy. I can see their tongues. Here’s another one: he’s practically on top of her. What are you doing, girl? Here’s Janine, looking like the stupid, ******* slut she is. That girl is a bad influence. Here Janine is dancing with some guys. Here both of them are dancing with some guys. Is every guy at that party black?
I look away from the screen, and think. Would it be OK for my ******* to date a black guy? Sorry, I would never be comfortable with that.
Holy *******. Here’s my ******* sitting on a sofa between two black guys. One guy has Janine on his lap and she’s kissing him. He’s got his fucking hand down her fucking jeans. And my ******* has her hand on the same guys leg and her other hand on the other guy’s leg. On the inside of his thigh. The look on her face: is it the sluttiest look I’ve ever seen, or the most innocent?
Now I’m stunned. Here’s another picture of my *******, from behind, with those two black guys grinning at her. She is not wearing a stitch of clothing.
That’s the last one. I look through the pictures again, and again. She has been intimate with both these guys, I know it. Maybe just teasing them? No. A racist voice at the back of my mind says, “Your *******’s been fucking black men.”
Almost without thinking, I open a porn site on my browser and select “Interracial”. It all looks different this time. Those black male porn actors are so big. Are those guys like that? Have they… been inside her? Did they hurt you, Sweetie?
I watch a video of a very pretty, very innocent-looking blonde girl with two black guys. She fellates them and copulates with them in every possible combination, with many camera angles and closeups. They fuck her silly, and grunt with lust and crudely comment on her body and sexual performance. It goes on a long time, and they leave her with sperm splashed on her face and pouring out of her little pink twat. I watch it again, and then I watch others like it, always looking for the petite young blondes with black guys. Their expressions: naughty, submissive, or proudly slutty as they give oral sex; the pleasure on their faces at the moment of penetration; their tight, youthful bodies thrashing as they approach orgasm. I’m ashamed at how I feel.
I hear a car pull up. It’s nearly 5:00 AM and the pre-dawn sky is already bright. I slip out to the foyer and look out toward the car port. Three ******* pile out of a black jeep. A girl and two black guys. They’re laughing, shouting; her girlish voice and their lower African American tones. She hugs one of them; they kiss with open mouths. She almost wraps her legs around him, she’s grinding him so hard. Now she pulls away, and he puts his hands on her breasts. She kisses him more. He touches her crotch. She moves her hand down to his and presses it against herself.
Now she turns away, looks at the other boy, growls mock-aggressively and lunges. She presses her face against the front of his pants, then collapses in laughter. He helps her to her feet and now both of them touch her. She kisses one, then the other, then the first again. Their hands are all over over: breasts, ass, between her legs. I can’t tell from my angle, but I think she’s groping them too.
Finally she breaks off and tramps up the front stairs. The front door opens, and I hear “Bye-ye!” in a sing-song, little-girl voice. I slip back into the office and close the porn tabs as she hurries past. The bathroom door clicks open and shut. A photo of my sweet, twelve-year-old ******* smiles at me from the screen. The car roars away.
The shower switches on. I imagine the warm, soapy water running down her sweaty, dirty body. I almost want to cry. Washing away traces of... How many times did she fuck them? How many times did she make them cum? Three times? four times, each? In her mouth? On her tits? In her face? Does she still have cum in her pussy?
The shower continues for a long time, and I think she must be masturbating. Touching herself, thinking about her sexual experience with those boys. She must be so horny. The water shuts off and she flits by my office door in her white dressing gown. Her bedroom door clicks shut.
I sit, staring at nothing.
Then, a shameful thought. I creep out into the hall, which is completely silent in the early-morning light. The faint, sweetish smell of marijuana. I stealthily unlatch the bathroom door and go in.
Wet towels on the floor, the laundry hamper open. In it, my *******’s panties, bunched up on top of crumpled jeans. White cotton with lace trim. If I picked them up and pressed them against my face, what would I smell? The horny juices of a healthy young woman? Are they still moist? Is there cum on them? Two black guys' cum mixed together?
Now I'm holding them in my hands. This is wrong. But I don’t stop.
Oh, Princess.
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