I Go Down for Angelina
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32
Anything to save her from him
Life was good. As police chief of the sweetest little town in the country–we used to say Quiquonia had so many “Qu’s” in its spelling because it was the quietest little town in the state–I was in charge of a real-world Mayberry. I was the Andy Griffith–Chief of the Quiquonia PD.
The only crime in town was the occasional parking ticket. The only juvenile gangs were the basketball or football teams at Quiquonia High School. No drugs, no drunken teenagers. I didn’t even know any who smoked. I figured police chief was about the softest job in town.
Home life was even better. I bragged my wife Nancy was the best cook in the county; her apple pies won blue ribbons at the fair every year. My daughter Angelina, just turned 18, was a cheerleader, just about to graduate from Quiquonia High, and we planned for her to go on to college and continue her studies in art. Even at her age she had already sold a few of her oil paintings.
What a beautiful girl. Like a porcelain doll, a tiny little thing, Angelina stood five feet tall, slender and delicate. Her long, dark hair swirled around her face like windblown silk, and her big, blue eyes were deep, soulful pools I knew would one day enchant some lucky young man. God, she was beautiful.
And good. A decent, innocent girl. Never heard her cuss, not once, not even when she got mad.
She was innocent about sex, too. It fell to her mother to give her the birds & bees talk, so I was astounded the day we were at a friend’s wedding–when the priest said, “You may now kiss the bride,” in the momentary silence, Angelina’s 10-year-old voice piped up, “Is he spreading the pollen on her now?”
Oh, gee. I’ll have to watch out for her–she’ll be easy prey for any horny boy. She really was innocent about sex. Many of the paintings she did were of glorious, smoking hot nude women, enough to give me a hardon as I looked at them. But to her they were pure art. Nothing animalistic.
As her father, of course, I was more cynical. As she grew older and blossomed into a gorgeous young woman, I kept a very watchful eye over any young men paying her any attention. I even began picking out “boys I liked for Angelina,” not that I ever set her up with any. She didn’t date very much. Good kid, not boy-crazy at all.
One particular “boy I liked for Angelina” was Angel Ubach, a young man from Uruguay who moved to town with his family two or three years ago. He had joined our Quiquonia Police Department High School Academy (which had turned out to be one of the most successful public relations ventures the department had ever tried). We had dozens of letters reading:
“I have always wanted to be a police officer. So when I found out that I could get hands-on experience in high school, I jumped at the chance. During the years I was in the Quiquonia Academy, I learned a lot. We went on trips to test our navigational and physical skills, we learned about laws and their classifications, we met amazing people with many years of police experience, and great officers like Chief of Police Cormorant.”
Anyway, Angel–he pronounced it “On-Hell”–was exactly the clean-cut kind of boy I was looking for with Angelina in mind. Funny: their names were even alike. He was a very handsome boy, 18, tall and strong. Although from Uruguay, his family was of Italian descent; he didn’t look Hispanic, his skin was much lighter. With his black, curly hair and dark brown eyes, he looked like a young Antonio Banderas. He spoke accented English but spoke it well–no trouble understanding him, and he never misunderstood instructions. I actually began to think about ways I could get him and Angelina together.
Life was sweet. Well, semi-sweet. Lately, for the past several weeks, Angelina seemed to be in a funk. Not her usual, perky self. Tired all the time. Circles under her eyes. One day I even caught her smoking a cigarette in her bedroom.
She put it out quickly, of course, then told me she was just experimenting, but I was worried. I glanced over her shoulder. She was painting another nude. This time a male.
She had done male nudes before, one or two, always from photographs, never from a live model, but this one was different. She had painted him with an erection. A nice, big one. So Angelina knew what a hard cock looked like. It was fully detailed.
In Angelina’s bedroom, a frilly, lace-trimmed place that looked like the salon of a princess, the painting of the hard-cocked male was like a turd in a punchbowl. I was worried. Her grades were fine. No trouble with the school or teachers. I wondered what was bothering her. Was she having boy trouble?
One day a thunderstorm interrupted my golf game, and I had to go home quite a bit early. Not really trying to, I nonetheless opened the door quietly and stepped into the house without making a sound. Nancy was out for the afternoon at a meeting of her ladies’ society, and Angelina was still in school.
That’s why I was istanbul travesti surprised to hear someone crying out from the direction of Angelina’s bedroom. I couldn’t make out the words, but that was Angelina’s voice, and she was excited. I hurried upstairs, worried, but the closer I got, the more I realized they were not calls of distress but rather moans of passion.
Astounded, I leaned my golf bag against the wall and tiptoed closer. Outside her bedroom door, I could understand the words:
“Ram that hard cock up me! Stretch my hot pussy, you bastard! Oh, yes, do it! Treat me like shit! Eeeeee! Deeper! DEEPER!”
Oh, my God, is that Angelina? My little angel? The little girl who went to church every Sunday? I’d never heard her say anything worse than “darn.”
For a minute or two I heard nothing but grunts and squishy sounds, then, “Ohhhh, you got me, you bastard! Annnnnh, I’m cumming!! Oh, God, I can feel it! Surging up through me, you son of a bitch! God, it’s boiling! Ah, Jesus! God!”
I was dumbfounded. I could smell sperm. I crept closer, and as I very carefully grabbed the doorknob, I heard, “Ahhhh, God, I surrender! Oh, knock me up! Pump that hot cream all the way up to my tits! Fill me up, I’m your jizz-bitch!”
Couldn’t believe my ears. My hand grew sweaty on the doorknob. Jesus Christ, can that be Angelina? Then I heard, “You big fucker, do me again! Ram that thing up me! Make me scream!”
Again? They’re going to do it again?? Who in hell is in there with her? I was confused. If whoever it was had been hurting her, I would gave barged in there with a baseball bat. But Angelina was begging him for it.
I couldn’t stand it any more. I had to see. Silently I opened the door. And I saw them.
Crouched on the pink coverlet of her bed, his ass toward me, the young stag slid a motherfucking giant of a cock into the hot, drooling snatch of my innocent daughter. She wanted it so bad, her boiling lust actually changed my anger to horniness–rather than go stomping in there to beat the shit out of her lover, she was getting into it like such a slut, all I could do was stand there and watch!
And something else: I couldn’t believe the masculinity of whoever was fucking her. She had to be in pain. Anything as big as that guy’s cock would barely fit into a mare. Poor Angelina. With my own eyes I saw her pussy stretched wider than I could imagine–wider than I could spread Nancy’s. God, that kid’s bigger than I am. Way bigger. Couldn’t see his face, though.
My poor cupcake. As her father I felt her pain as I watched the guy’s huge scrotum swinging back and forth with his lovemaking–Jesus, he’s going to last a long time–his balls haven’t even cinched up for his orgasm yet. But another side of my brain watched his thick pole taming my daughter, and I felt like a stevedore–a non-participant dutifully holding the honeymoon couple’s suitcases while they fucked away.
Couldn’t help but admire his balls: two huge egg-shaped masses in a hairy leather bag. Father-power. That scrotum could impregnate the whole town.
His ass-cheeks were handsome, too. Hard loaves of muscle, humping back and forth, fast for a while, then slow, working up to reach his goal–to spray his white, slimy paratroopers into my tiny daughter’s virgin territory.
Damn, he was good. Angelina looked up at him with fascination and amazement–more like shock and awe. Worship. Panting, her mouth open, Angelina held onto his back. And before my astonished eyes, she raised her legs, crossing them over his back, angling her pelvis to let that big cock in even deeper. God, she wants him!
I couldn’t stand it. My cock was so hard, if I stumbled against the door frame, I would dent it. I couldn’t watch the horny movements any longer–I pulled out my cock and stood jacking myself while I watched. God, what a show!
And the damnedest fantasy crept into my mind: What would this guy be like on his wedding night? Imagine him crouched above, lowering himself down, about to mount, his huge, throbbing cock drooling precum as he lowers it between my spread legs, nudging it against my ass–
What? My ass?? What in hell am I thinking? Jesus Christ! I leaned back against the wall, panting, and I wiped the sweat from my forehead. What the hell came over me?
I looked back into Angelina’s bedroom. The stud hadn’t yet bred my daughter–still humping her hot and heavy. I was never so turned on in my life! God, he was good, screwing her with a lascivious, curlicue stroke, rotating his hips, gouging that big cock of his through her like a corkscrew. I couldn’t stop myself: kept wondering what that felt like, kept imagining it happening in my asshole.
Then he turned his head. Looked to the side, and I saw his face. Jesus fucking Christ! It was Ubach. On-Hell Ubach, the high school police intern I talked to that very day!
Angelina was in love. She lay there, lurching her thighs at him– Am I going to be this istanbul travestileri boy’s father-in-Law?–but my attention was more on On-Hell’s urging, commanding, dominating, colossal cock! I was ashamed when I realized it, but with every outstroke, my eyes devoured the slimy-slick organ, hot to watch it. I was amazed at the huge yaw it caused in my daughter’s cunt. The tight-stretched lips were bright pink, fevered, and hot.
He started to get his gun–the fucking took on a more determined, more desperate urgency. Angelina screamed, “Oh, God, Angel, I’ve never cummed so much! Over and over! I can’t take it any more! Take me! Do it! BLOW ME FULL!!”
I didn’t know how he stood it. Hearing that fuck-drunk scream pushed me over the edge. I shot into an orgasm and stood there, jacking arcs of cum into the air as my daughter begged the bastard to fuck her to death.
And he did. Suddenly he stopped, slammed full-length, balls-to-the-wall in her, and like a cheerleader, she screamed and lurched under him, egging him on. From the stiffness of his body, I knew he was cumming. Up my daughter. No rubber.
But something else: I could not deny I was so horny, so turned on at watching them, the very fact that he had barebacked my daughter and even then was likely impregnating her with triplets made me so fucking nuts, I actually cummed again! Unbelievable! One orgasm on the heels of another! Jesus Christ, he turns me on!
I heard myself. What the fuck did I just think? No, oh, no! I can’t be getting hot over an 18-year-old boy!
But it was true. My mouth watered. If I had one sliver less self-control, I would’ve sneaked into the bedroom and licked at that big cockshaft as it went in and out of my Angelina, but I stood there panting as he finally pulled it out.
And to my enraged, fiery, overwhelming lust, Angelina got up, bent over him, and sucked that huge thing into her mouth–or tried to. Mostly licked and sucked over the huge flare of his cockhead. Couldn’t deny it: my brain was screaming to me that I wanted to do that!
With the last shred of my self-control (and self-respect), I picked up my golf bag and tiptoed back down the hall. In the kitchen I poured myself a glass of cold water, drank some, splashed the rest over my face, and leaned back against the wall. When my pounding heart finally slowed, I walked to the front door. I opened it and slammed it shut. “Angelina, I’m home! I’ll be in the den if you want me!”
In the distant room, I sat back in the leather chair, my brain buzzing. The tactical ball was in her court. How would she get rid of Ubach without my finding out? She couldn’t exactly walk to the front door holding hands with him–or holding his cock. God, I would love to hold that cock!
No, I would not! I’m straight! I am not a queer! I’m the goddamned Chief of Police and a family man! I wished Nancy wasn’t at her meeting. I needed a good fuck to click me back on track.
But that On-Hell has the handsomest cock I ever saw.
Had to admit it. Most often a man’s penis is an ugly, shriveled, wormlike thing between his legs, or in porn pictures a nasty animal extension from his body, red and gnarly, slick from the spit of pre-photo fluffers. But On-Hell’s cock–frozen in my memory in permanent impressions from the few seconds I got a full-length sight of it–was “handsome.” No other word for it.
And I got another weird sensation–affection. Naw, can’t be! But it was stunning, no two ways about it. The father of all cocks hung between that kid’s legs. I would fight the feeling, of course, but I sensed a growing urge in the back of my mind to make sure I passed by every time On-Hell went to the police station showers. God, what a dong!
My poor daughter. On-Hell had a “nailhead” cock–a broad cockhead with a wide, flaring spread like a giant mushroom. Angelina has to be pregnant. That big plug wouldn’t let a single drop of cum leak back out. I’ll have to make sure she gets some morning-after pills. But from the look on her face, she didn’t care. From her expression, she would be in afterglow for days. She looked so pleasured, I figured she just got a new religion.
I remembered her pussy. Stretched. Wowed out. Like her crotch was a donut with a big, big hole. It hit me that even a guy with a cock as big as mine–and I’ve got enough to be proud of–couldn’t pleasure her now. The bastard has ruined her for anybody else. I sure hope she can tighten up again. And that very idea gave me another rush of lust about On-Hell’s mighty cock. Jesus, what a super-organ!
As I automatically rubbed my hard pipe inside my pants, I heard whispering and hushed giggles. Angelina was sneaking On-Hell out the back door. I sat still, listened hard, and heard the door quietly close. He was gone.
A few seconds later, “Hi, Daddy!” She walked into the den. Face was flushed, hair mussed. Even her clothes looked careless. No doubt about it, Angelina had been fucked. I smelled travesti istanbul the sperm and pussy odors. And sweat. Poor thing, too inexperienced to realize she was giving herself away. God, look what that guy’s cock has done to her! I’ve never made Nancy that fuck-drunk.
Angelina had On-Hell’s cum-smell all over her. And that made me even hotter for him.
As Angelina went back to her bedroom, I fought the feeling but knew it: I had to get naked with On-Hell. But for revenge. To fuck the bastard who fucked my baby. I’m going to cornhole On-Hell!
That night I slugged it to Nancy. Took her rough. “What’s come over you? Have you been drinking again? Take your weight off me! You’re sweaty!”
Shit. I’m a five on a scale of ten.
I got up early in the morning and jacked off in the shower. At least my hand wants me. While shaving, I heard low moans coming from the direction of Angelina’s room. Once again I silently turned the knob and opened the door. She lay on her bed, naked, her legs spread on the pink cloth. Her fingers twiddled her clit as she moaned, “Angel, Angel, Angel.”
Jesus Christ, On-Hell is the Fuck King!
All the way to the police station, I couldn’t stop thinking of his huge cock. Every tree was veined and bumpy. Every streetlight had a wide-flared cockhead. Every fire hydrant seemed to be ejaculating. When I got to the station, my dick throbbed so hard, I could barely walk. Glad to take refuge behind my desk.
After On-Hell was due to come on duty, I buzzed to have him report to me.
He stepped into my office nervously. I’d designed the place to look intimidating. No windows. One wall was a library of books, thick ones with gold-lettered bindings, legal works, medical dictionaries, treatises on weapons and warfare.
The opposite wall was covered with photos and portraits of former chiefs and fallen Quiquonia cops (of which there was only one, Lt. James Evan, who in 1963 fell off a Thanksgiving hayride and broke his neck). The pictures were in solemn, formal, heavily carved wood frames. In front of that wall was a single chair–and anyone seeing it would realize instantly it was an interrogation chair. A spotlight across the room focused on it.
At the far end was my desk, a huge, black, carved mahogany giant that weighed half a ton. Anybody paying any attention to the desk would realize (with beads of sweat breaking out on his or her forehead) the carvings were of tortured, damned souls writhing in agony as they were tormented by demons and devils.
Lighting along the floor behind my desk backlit me, putting my face in shadow until I raised my head and leaned back, when the shadows made me look satanic, like we did as kids, holding a flashlight under our chins.
Everybody was nervous as they entered my office, but On-Hell was even more jittery. For him I had a “final touch.” On the floor under my desk burned a special aroma candle I got from a mail-order house–odor of brimstone. In case he wasn’t thinking about standing in the Throne Room of Hell, I wanted to put that picture in his mind.
The poor jerk, no doubt fretting somehow I knew about him and my daughter. I threw him off the scent: “From your record here, Ubach, it looks like you’re going to make a fine cop.” I smiled. “I’ll have to introduce you to my daughter sometime.”
He looked up startled, then, figuring an outraged father about to come down on him wouldn’t say such a thing, he relaxed. Visibly less tense. “That–that would be nice.”
By then I had trained my hardon down my blue uniform pantleg, and I stood up. “I want to take you on a patrol with me–explain some of the administrative duties of upper ranks of the police while we cruise through the neighborhoods.”
“Thank you, sir, that would be great!”
We walked out to my squad car and got in. I began driving around town, a meandering patrol, and I gradually steered the conversation around to the subject of sex. “There was a case we had when one of our own cops got caught up in a gay-sex ring. We set up a sting operation, and the poor bastard got caught in it. We couldn’t believe what we heard on the tapes of him: ‘I’m your bitch,’ the poor debauched bastard said. He was a real queer. ‘Bumfuck me,’ he said. ‘Let me drink your jism!’ “
I looked over at Ubach. He was shifting nervously in his seat. “What do you think about that? Sick, no?”
He gulped. “Yes. Sick.”
“There was a whorehouse in town a few years ago. We got tapes of the perps in there, too. The prostitutes really talked dirty. ‘Give me your cum, you big cocksucker,’ they’d say. ‘Let me suck that big, hard, cock!’ “
All that was bullshit, of course. Worst vice Quiquonia ever had was a woman who sneaked extra white beans into the Friday Afternoon Bingo at the VFW lodge. They caught her when her winnings had reached something like $12.50. Before she could sock it away in a secret numbered account in Switzerland.
“It was tough,” I went on. “Even the cops we had on the sting operation had to fight the urge to take part in the orgies.” I glanced over at him. Yep, he was hard, a big blue bulge in the front of his pants. “In fact, we had to develop a screening program for officers to be assigned to the vice squads.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32