Leaning across the front seat, he opened the door. "Hi baby," he said.
"Daddy." The miniskirt rode high as she slipped onto the leather of the car seat. She met his gaze and smiled.
Sam had to shake himself loose from the bold green eyes; had to remind himself that the girl with the long, creamy legs and big tits – tits that rose and fell teasingly beneath the tight red dress – was the same child he used to tell bedtime stories to. He searched his mind for something to say, but he could think of nothing.
Wendy laughed, a throaty, provocative woman sound. She turned sideways, bringing one knee up, displaying the tops of her stockings, garter clasps, and panties. She cocked her head, and asked, "Aren't you glad to see me?"
"Of course I'm glad." The guilt he'd felt every weekend when Cynthia talked him out of visiting, saying that the girl had to be taught a lesson, now returned. "I… I would've come up every week, but you know your mother. She's even worse now. I couldn't even get her to come along today." He tried not to look at the place Wendy was doing her damndest to show, but his gaze drifted. And at the legband of the black panties, curling out along her smooth inner thigh, he saw hair so red and appealing that his cock stirred. "Did you, ah… do you have any luggage?" he added, needing something to say.
"Uh-uh. I gave it all away." She pointed back over her shoulder, to where a group of girls were clustered at a dorm window.
He reached for the ignition key, wanting to get away from the place. It made him uneasy; it made him remember Lew Ogden and why Wendy had been sent there.
"Kiss me hello first, Daddy." Before he could start the car, she moved close, almost in his lap. "I missed you so." She wrapped her small arms tightly around his neck, and offered him her moist, pink lips.
Sam tried to back away from the sweet mouth clinging to his, but Wendy held fast. He felt her firm breasts digging into his chest; felt the warmth of one nylon-clad thigh against his. She had indeed changed; she had become a small, lovely temptress. He'd always doubted the story Lew Ogden had told; he thought he knew Wendy better than most parents know their children. But now he wasn't sure. He was sure only that what he was thinking, the suggestions the heated kiss formed in his mind, had no place in a father-daughter relationship.
"Hey Wendy," called a girl from the dorm. "Gimme some of that, will ya?"
"Yeah!" shouted another. "I'll bet he's got one a foot long inside those pants."
Blanching, Sam pushed his daughter roughly away. "Don't pay them any mind, Daddy," she cooed. "They're just jealous because you're mine."
Sam gaped. What was she saying? Hers? Hers in what way? He wanted to slap her, to beat her, to make her stop acting as if he were her lover instead of her father. Angry with himself for having a hardon, and with her for changing, for growing up, for being a woman with red hair on her pussy at fourteen – he turned the ignition key, released the brake, and slammed the gas pedal to the floor.
From the corner of his eye he saw the hem of her dress hitch up as she turned in the seat to wave to the girls in the dorm. Or had she turned to show him the twin halves of her ass? Whichever, he stared longingly at the plump melons, thinking how, lovely they were, how white beneath the semi-transparent black panties.
He paced, wondering where she could be at one in the morning, what she was doing. The rules of parole included a 10:00 p.m. curfew, and already, on her first night home, she was jeopardizing her freedom. He thought back to the scene in the car, and how brazen she was. He could still see the red hair at her crotch, feel her tits, the nipples like hard little spikes digging into his chest. He thought back even further, to the first time he saw her naked in the shower before she was sent to the home. He recalled how the blood leaped into her face, how she gasped, "Don't look at me, Daddy. Don't!" Now he was willing to bet a year's pay she'd open her legs and spread the lips of her cunt if he caught her that way.
He paused in his tour of the living room to look in on Cynthia. She was asleep on her side, her nightgown pulled tight across her round ass. He groaned. It was a good ass; the kind of an ass that could keep a man's dick hard for hours. He wanted it now. But it was Wednesday, two days from Friday – the one night a week she opened her legs for him.
Outside a car screeched up to the curb. He strode to the front window, and squinted into the dark at the two figures huddled behind the wheel. She was a hot little bitch, he thought, watching the girl kiss her date as she'd kissed him at the home the morning before. Where were the boy's hands? he wondered. Under her dress? Was he, at that very moment, twisting a finger up her hot, red pussy? Or was he kneading her tits, coaxing the pink nipples hard, planning to fuck her right there in front of the house?
The mere thought of a boy – any boy – parting those lovely red curls with a stiff cock, holding the tender globes of her ass while they screwed, made him furious. He moved to the door, threw it open, and shouted her name. His breath came in gasps, and the muscles went taut in his arms. He waited for her to emerge from the car, and say good night. Then he called her again, ordering her into the house.
The sound of the door closing came with the crack of his open hand against the side of her face. She gaped at him. "What were you doing out there?" he demanded.
"Nothing. I… I…"
Again he slapped her, harder. He could see what they'd been up to: her long red hair was mussed, and there was a smear of ground-in dirt on the wrinkled material over her jutting left breast. "Fucking whore!" he heard himself growl. "Cockteasing bitch! I'll teach you to screw. I'll…"
Suddenly the girl was in his arms, sobbing, holding tight to him. "Don't hurt me any more, Daddy," she whispered. "I-I can't help it. I can't! I… I have to have sex, have to fuck. I can't stand being near a hard dick without having it in me."
"My God!" Sam felt her small, round belly pressing against him, felt her tits, her thighs. It was insane: he wanted to choke her to stop the words, and stop her warm body from doing the things a daughter had no business doing with her father. But now his prick was hard, the glans throbbing at the tip between her trim legs. And her sobbing, her helplessness, was making him forget who she was.
"They… they did the most awful things to me at the home," whispered Wendy. She raised up on tiptoe, moist lips kissing his neck as she spoke. Her hips began to move in a slow, maddening circle. "Doctor Bruce, the matrons, the older girls, everyone," she continued. "They… they fucked me every which way, Daddy. I didn't want to. I didn't! But it was just like with Lew. They were stronger than me, and they hurt me sometimes, and you and Mummy never came up, and…" Her voice broke. The tears poured hot down her cheeks onto his neck and shoulders.
Sam glanced past her, to the dark open door of the master bedroom. He could see Cynthia – her white nightgown was a billowy blur against the turned down blanket. It was Cynthia who had kept him from visiting Wendy, and she who had given him the hardon before turning away for the night. The whole thing was her fault: he couldn't blame the tiny warm thing in his arms, so soft and vulnerable. Nor could he resist the red pussy – he had only to close his eyes to see the springy curls pressing, pressing, pressing so insistently into the knob of his bloated cock. "Don't cry, honey," he said, chest tight, hands moving to her tiny waist, then lower, molding the mini dress to her firm buttocks. "Tell Daddy about it, sweetheart. Tell me what they did to you at the awful place."