They thought I was asleep, but I wasn't, I could hear what they were talking about behind the door. The man was telling my dad what position he wanted to take me in. He asked, can she cross her ankles behind her neck? I tried to recognize who he was by his voice but I had no idea.
My dad told him that I practice yoga every morning and he could use my flexible body in every acrobatic pose he wanted.
The room's door opened and in the dim light dark shadows crept in. I was lying face down on my bed, one knee pulled up to my stomach, my pearly blue, sheer nightie and my cotton thong was stripped to my bare hips. I didn't know what they saw in the moonlight shining on my half-naked sleeping body, but it was clear from their wheezing they were deeply impressed.
When he touched my ankle lightly, I continued my fake sleep. Using two fingers, he walked from my ankle to my hip and he lowered his face to my rump, his hot breath warmed my skin. He stank of cheap booze, smoke and sweat, while I smelt of strawberry.
He pressed his thick lips to my arse and lay into his ritual of kissing, sucking, licking, biting, spitting. His stubble sanding my bare skin like a baby hedgehog with a thousand tiny spikes.
With both hands he clawed my butt cheeks tightly and spread them apart. Pushing his nose to my anus, burying his mouth at my thigh gap. As he ravaged my love hole with his hasty lips and teeth, his drool soaking the thin cotton thong between us came from his mouth, or maybe from my secret fount.
His hands were calloused and streeler, using this clue I assumed he was a worker, but I didn't feel anything distinctive about the nose poked in my anus, I still didn't have a specific guess. My dad can have anyone use me.
He hooked his fingers in the string of my thong and pulled hard, ripping it off. I loved that lingerie, but I'd have to worry about that later because I now fully naked except for my clear nightie. I raised my rear slightly and I waited for him to bury his stubble face in my nymp-hole and dip his tongue into my nectar again. But he stood up.
I opened my lashes just a little, saw a tall, broad shadow in the moonlight begin to undress. I still had no guess, one of the workmen from the garage or some stranger my dad's found in the bar tonight.
From top to bottom I could see his short hair, shoulders wide enough for me to sit comfortably on, strong biceps, chest muscles bulging like sails, abdomen like a statue, long, well-built legs, and that big thing dangling between them.
I opened my eyes a little more to see the details better, but I gave myself away because of the moonlight, which chose to illuminate only me.
I tore my eyes away from his flashy equipment and looked up to realize that the shadows were staring at me, grinning. he'd been waiting with his hands on waist for who knows how long to make eye contact with me.
There was no point faking sleep. I sat up in bed, stood up on my knees, reached out my hands and palmed his bobbing, half-hard baton. It was warm, it's head bobbing in a sleepy salute, it's veins bulging, pulsing in my palm at the same tempo and getting ready to set off. With one hand I weighed one of his bulging sacks. This is going to be a tough fight, I thought as drool dribbling down the side of my mouth.
The moonlight shone behind him and he was still a silhouette. All I knew about him right now that was what I held in my palms.
He tapped me under the chin with one finger, and I lifted my face up and looked at him with the pleadingest girl look he'd ever seen in his life; a girl in love with him, ready and willing to do anything for him. I don't need to know a man to look at him like that.
As his face came closer to mine, the smoky smell of whiskey filled my little nose again. I opened my lips for him to kiss me, but he left a long spit into my mouth. Hot, bitter, tobacco-infused, thick saliva spread from my tongue to my mouth. I swallowed it without changing the look of thankfulness on my face.
Grabbed my hair, but not to caress it, but to make confront me with his maleness. I understood him, he wanted be rough, liked it play that way. Some men like it that, it's fun to hurt a girl. That's okay, I can adapt it, they can take me hard.
He didn't let me lick it a little first to get used to it. Even though I stretched my mouth to the limit, he pushed his barely fitting cock straight in. He wasn't bothered by my fineteeth scratching his skin, on the contrary, my little bites increased his enthusiasm. As he drove hard with twisting my soft lips in and out, he was mumbling heavy curses to me to stroke his sacks.
It didn't take him long to use my mouth, he hadn't come here just for that. As soon as he touched my nightie, I slid back on my knees, I didn't want him to tear it off too. I loved this light blue, sheer gown and every night I wanted my visitors to find me sleeping innocently in it.
Standing on my knees in the middle of the bed, I pulled my nightie up by grabbing the hem and lifting it up. As it passed over my tits and erect nipples, rubbing against them and it shook them gently, before I flipped it over my head and pulled it off. I was sure the moon had waited all night for this moment without changing its location in the sky to see this scene.
For a few long seconds I let him watch my naked body. I itched to see myself through his eyes as he gazed at my small, perky tits, my hard nipples, my soft shoulders, my slender arms, my flat stomach, my femininity completely shaved and cleaned except for the width of a thumb, my nicely curved thighs and calves. Did my pale skin look like a black and white photo in the moonlight? Am I a warm picture, or cold?
Lifted one his knee and put it on the bed. I slowly rolled over onto my side and lay on my back. Dropping my head on the pillow, I spread my legs as wide as I could for that large shadow to fit. He sat on his knees between my legs, taking my feet and lifting them up. When my little feet almost disappeared in his palms, I realized how big his hands were, or tiny my feet were.
He pushed my feet to my head and my bottom turn up like an empty pot. I remembered what he wanted, I reached out my slim arms and grasped his thick neck and pulled myself to him like climbing a tree. He slipped my feet over the outside of my shoulders and cross-locked my ankles behind my neck. It was not difficult for me to do this. Dad's right, I'm too flexible. Anyone can easily make me in any acrobatic pose they want. The easy is me, not the pose.
Before he began to relieve his need, watched the shape it gave me for a while. With my feet behind my neck and my head tilted slightly forward, I could see my own landscape, my pubic mound, even my cleft, in full detail. My chin was tucked between my tits, the skin of my stomach folded and overlapped like a towel. A thin stream oozed from my fount, laking in my puckered little hole. No one had ever taken me in this pose until tonight.
Dipping a finger into my cup of love, he slowly swirled it around in me, like a teaspoon stirring the sugar in a cup of tasty coffee. I approved of his method with a quiet sigh, but not with a cheeky giggle. I smiled with little dimples in my cheeks, like a sweet lover whose ready to picked flower is touched for the first time.
He pulled out his finger and raised one eyebrow at the shiny, slippery, slimy fluid that clung to its tip and trailed after it. I really wanted him to taste it, because in preparing for my visitor tonight, I showered, shaved all my pubes, rubbed strawberry lotion all over my body, and hid a finger of honey inside my love hole. Maybe I waited someone who knew how to lick and suck and drive the girl underneath him crazy with light bites. That's what the tiny tuft of hair just above my slit, which I had deliberately not cut, was for. Maybe he should to pinch it between his teeth and pull it out, even rip it off.
But he shoved the delicious nectar on his finger straight into my mouth, didn't know what he was missing as I sucked my sweet-salty-tart juice from his finger.
As I was about to close my eyes, slightly intoxicated by my own taste, I felt a stranger knocking on my love door. But he wasn't knocking, he was pounding. He was slapping hard on my delicate slit with his thick, heavy flesh held in one hand. The softest, most sensitive tissue of my body was being beaten by a man-flesh. It was like the day my dad beat me naked with a garden hose on a rainy winter day.
So that's why he wanted me in this yoga pose. To slam that thick, massive, overbearing flesh of his unhindered on top of my completely exposed and vulnerable, babyishly sex. So eager and playful was his slapping that an outsider would have thought he was a sadistic monkey attacking an anthill with a tree branch. The sounds of his flesh to hit my flesh was like who suddenly stood up and began to applaud to a desperate talker. Slap…… slap…… slap…
At some point, I stopped counting and just watched as the salami, which he held tightly by the bottom, turned like a catapult mechanism, punishing my rose garden. My thin pink petals were swollen to the thickness of a finger from the beating and began to turn purple.
The way he made love, which had seemed interesting to me at first, was now hurting me. As I looked at my there, a sadness came over me. It was as if a sinless, innocent girl was crying in the hands of her torturer.
But it wasn't just me who was hurt, my visitor was as devastated as I was. The valiant knight's head who had tickled me the first time I saw him, who had made me tremble from my toes to the back of my neck, now dangled, bruised and battered, at the door of the princess whose he had struck countless times. It looked bad and it's torso was so swollen with blood that veins almost burst, it's shaft originally straight as a ruler was like a stale fish now.
And still, like the horns of a willful goat, he kept pounding away at the same target. Maybe one of us had to admit defeat and give up. Maybe I should to cry or he should to get tired.
Or I could stop him, take his battering ram from his hand and lead him through the open door already dedicated to him. I could sing sweet lullabies to him in my soft voice, or dirty words, if that's what he wanted. I could caress his broad hips' hard muscles with my small hands, or sink my thin fingernails in and pull him to me, while his tired warrior comforted himself in my warm, wet, soft nest.
But I can't help him. I'm his personal item until he's done, he can use me however he wants. Rule is rule. I clamped my lips together, clenched my teeth and didn't let the drop budding at the corner of my eye fall on my cheek.
He'd arrived at the end of his fight and no amount of grumbling or denial was going to change the outcome. His ruthless manly finally did what all men do and vomited on me. His rage spurted out like slobbers from the mouth of a rabid dog, making shorter and shorter arcs, hitting and sticking to my hair, my forehead, my cheek, my breasts and stomach, and hanging down like bunches of snot.
I watched in frustration as he emptied his majestic gun by shooting into the air. He deprived an eager girl of the feeling of being stuffed. Whereas tonight he could have speared me with it goodly. With my ankles behind my neck, he could have taken me by my buttocks, sat me on his stake and easily put me on his roller-coaster and bounced me up and down.
Now my soft oyster had fully opened its shell, showing its pearl the size of a nipple, but he had lowered his gun.
He got off the bed, picked up his clothes and walked out of the room with my dad, who had been silently watching the whole thing until that moment. I kept my yoga pose, closed my eyes, imagined that my visitor who had ruined me and left me unfinished was still here, my fingers knew what to do, now I had to go the rest of the way using my own resources.
I used the four fingers of one hand hurriedly, like a thief bursting into a bird's nest, breaking all the eggs and feeding myself before the mother bird arrived. The other hand took over my visitor's shift and quickly spanking my soft meats.
The door opened again, this time I knew who it was, he watched me struggle desperately for a short while. I was like a desperate castaway clapping her hands in panic to not drown in the sea.
“That maniac used his cock like a butcher's meat mallet to beat your pussy into softness...” said, as face lit up with lust in the moonlight.
It had never occurred to him to use her in this position before, as he enjoyed his daughter's naked yoga practices every morning and now he was as curious as a spoiled brat with a big plate of candy in front of him.
“Who was he?” I asked with a wheezing moan.
“He's nothing, just a mental patient I caught loitering in the street and to lock-up. You'll never see him again...”
“Oh!.. You fucked me with a psycho?..”
I thought my dad must have handcuffed him to the kitchen table before he came back to me. Maybe he had still naked and that creepy boa lying on his one leg with head and torso bruised.
“Did you get a hard-on at least, dad?...”
Instead of answering me, he tapped his sausage, vibrating like a steel spring, on my fingers, I still searching for something inside. I pulled my hands back, my ankles pushing my head forward as we watched together his recharged old friend enter his daughter's needy altar.
He dove into my hot donuts, which looked like the lips of someone who had turned into a freak after a faulty silicone filling operation, with great glee. He was happy to be able to get hard-on again.
“Is it good?...” asked, always like to get my approval.
“uh-huh, so good daddy...” I whispered, without taking my excited eyes off the point of penetration.