Path: not-for-mail
From: "Nikki@P.U."
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.incest
Subject: LITTLE GIRL BOUND (ped, bdsm, abuse, incest)
Date: Mon, 20 Sep 2004 20:27:53 -0700
Organization: Posted via Supernews, http://www.supernews.com
Message-ID: <10kv7tk5m8h3s9f@corp.supernews.com>
Reply-To: <>
User-Agent: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows; U; Windows NT 5.1; en-US; rv:1.7.2) Gecko/20040804 Netscape/7.2 (ax)
X-Accept-Language: en-us, en
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii"; format="flowed"
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
X-Complaints-To: abuse@supernews.com
Lines: 297
===================
LITTLE GIRL BOUND (ped, bdsm, abuse, incest)
BY ERICA
This story was inspired by a real life experience. It happened about ten
years ago when I was still dating my now ex-boyfriend. He was an artist
and a very good painter and back then we were both into BDSM lifestyle.
One day we met a couple who shared our interest in bondage and after
becoming good friends, they asked him if he could paint a picture of
their daughter. The little girl was then about 9 years old with a very
long blond hair. I can still remember her hair because it was really
long and it almost went past her little bottom. However, it was the
painting of her that makes me remember her the most. Her parents, being
into BDSM, wanted my boyfriend to paint her in bondage. I was actually
surprised he agreed to this, which at the end became a VERY erotic
painting. Looking back, I don't think my boyfriend or the little girl's
parents would do it again. It took him two days to complete the painting
and at the end the girl was was quite tired of posing in her bondage.
But we also had some great time and yes, it was sexy to see this little
girl pose, tied up by her own parents.
The story here has some similar scenes, but mostly it's a fiction I
based on my experience. If anyone is interested in the original story
about the little girl and her parents, I might write about it some other
time.
Alex Burkheimer 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 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 feet dance slowly in the air, 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...."
No.
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.
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, 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....
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. 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 child. 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 using one of his
late wife's metal hair-curlers, which he had clamped into little Jane's
hair and tied with a length of twine fastened 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, Alex 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
open little vagina moistened as that lover brought a groan from her
mouth. With every heaving breath, her thrusting nipples reached out to
it. Her twisting, twitching body was dancing for it alone.
His own breath quickened, his heart pounded as he watched this erotic
loveplay. 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.
Her lover was taking her.
He pushed himself up from his chair with an 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.
Two groans now mingled in the charged air of the room. "Daddy..." Jane
whimpered. "Daddy..."
"Oh jesus," Burkheimer 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 daughter
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 bleeding cunt.
But he waited for the little girl to recover, held still until her
melting, climax-softened but still paini-dazed eyes focused on him yet
again.
"Ohh god...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.
Rate this story: