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Subject: INNOCENCE DEFILED (Mf, cons, pedo, incest)
Date: Sat, 22 May 2004 16:37:24 -0700
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INNOCENCE DEFILED (Mf, cons, pedo, incest)
BY THE CAT
I am just a poster and not the author Of This Story!
Warning: contents are adult erotic entertainment material. If you are a
minor or will be offended by such material, stop right now and delete
this file.
By downloading this material you certify that:
You are an adult, being at least 18 years of age. You are not accessing
this
material to use against any person whomsoever in any
conceivable manner; and that you are not a member of any law enforcement
organization or an officer of any court nor acting as agent for such.
Your
further certify that you will not
permit any minor to see this material, or any other person who might
find
such material personally offensive.
You believe that such material does not offend the standard of the
community
in which you live and that your community subscribes to the principles
of
the First Amendment which holds that free adult Americans have the right
to
decide for themselves what they will read and view without governmental
interference,All the standard rules apply. If you are offended
by explicit descriptions of sex or the human body, if it is
illegal to possess such materials at your location, if you are
under-age by law in your location, or if somebody else thinks you
might have too much fun reading it, stop right now and remove this
text from your computer.
This is purely a work of
fiction, it does not condone or condemn any of the activities or
actions described,
This story is not for everyone and may contain some quite graphical
depictions of children, adolescents, and adults in extreme sexual
situations. If any of this subject matter offends you then don't read
it.
The things depicted herein are purely fiction.
If you've gotten past that, I'm going to assume that, like me, you are a
sick fuck who gets off on pre-teens. If not, what are you doing
reading this?
Clairisa entered my study with her eyes downcast. This was her third
Saturday detention that term, and her offense was quite a breach of
propriety. St. Mark's Grade School has a reputation for producing
graduates with strong character who embrace Christian values. And
Clairisa knew that she was not going to graduate without earning my
approval.
She walked across the room to the writing table and waited, eyes lowed
and hands clasped together. I made a point of continuing my work for
several seconds before turning sideways to face her. She had dressed in
the standard school uniform of a plaid skirt with a white cotton shirt.
She wore plain cotton socks and her tennis shoes were clean. Her long
golden hair was tied back into a pony tail with a single pink ribbon.
All within regulation. Standard uniform is not required for detention,
but I did not let her effort to win my graces alter my stern expression.
"Good Morning, Miss Donovan." I spoke in my most formal manner.
"Good Morning, Father."
"Please explain why Sr. Garcia placed you on Saturday morning
detention." I knew, of course, but forcing the student to explain their
conduct is an old ploy to begin breaking down any defiance. Young girls
start to get rebellious when they reach the sixth grade, and I was not
certain her petitent attitude was entirely genuine.
"Sr. Garcia found me with a forbidden magazine during morning recess."
She replied quietly.
"Why is the magazine forbidden?"
"Because it contains sexual material, which profanes the gift God has
given each of us, Father." A textbook answer. She is going to have to do
better than that.
"Please kneel down, facing the crucifix over the window. You may
consider this a Confession." She turned to her right and knelt down on
the floor. As she made the sign of the cross and said an Act of
Contrition, I turned my chair and pulled it closer and behind her. I
admired her youthful legs poking out from under the back of her skirt.
They were the tan, smooth perfection which is common in adolescence, but
so hard to maintain with age. I regretted, not for the first time, that
the school rules mandated the skirt must touch the bottom of the knee. I
doubt I could have found a flaw with a lens.
"I will remind you that failing to make a full confession is itself a
mortal sin. You will now answer my questions about your sin." She nodded
her acknowledgment of my command.
"Did this magazine contain pictures?"
"Yes, Father."
"Pictures of men?
"Yes, Father."
"Pictures of men without proper attire?"
"Yes, Father."
I paused as though contemplating her answer. I stood and began to pace
behind her, as if I needed to think about my next question. In reality,
I was hoping the morning sun was shinning at an angle which would allow
me to see through the side of her shirt. I was pleased to see how small
and fragile she looked; although she was well proportioned for a girl of
eleven, her actual height was a bit below average, certainly no more
than five feet.
"How long have you had this magazine?"
"One week, Father."
"Had you looked at it before?"
"Yes, Father."
"I want you to tell me when and where you were every time you look at
that magazine."
A slight hesitation betrayed the beginning of embarrassment. She
obviously had not expected that I would be asking for details. "I had
looked in it twice before. Both times I was alone in my room, after
going to bed."
"I see. What were you doing at the time?"
"Just looking, Father."
"Are you sure you were 'just looking'? You did nothing else."
"No... I mean, Yes, Father."
"Which is it?"
"Yes, I was just looking, I did nothing else."
"You are sure you did not rub your legs together or squeeze your thighs
in an unwholesome manner."
"No... I mean maybe, just a little." She began to lose her composure
under my cross-examination. Her body, formerly the picture of contrite
submission, began to twitch nervously and her eyes started to glisten.
For my own, I was starting to feel the effects of this interview in a
different region.
"No 'maybes' Clairisa. Yes or No."
"Yes, Father."
"Do you know what the word 'clitoris' means, Clairisa?"
"Yes, Father." She answered, turning slightly pink.
"You moved your legs to massage your clitoris, didn't you Clairisa?"
"...Yes, Father."
"Did you use your hand to massage your clitoris, Clairisa?"
"Only a little, Father."
Her cheeks were red, and her eyes almost ready to tear. "Clairisa, this
sin is most offensive to God and to all good Christians" I said in a
stern voice. She squeezed her hands to try to hide the fact they were
starting to tremble.
"Did it swell up?"
"What?"
"Did rubbing your clitoris make it swell up!" I say, raising my voice.
"I don't understand."
"When you masturbated, did you enjoy it so much your clitoris swelled up?"
"I... No."
"Did the nipples of your breasts get hard?" I say, while leaning over to
look down upon her chest as unobtrusively and casually as possible.
"I... I don't remember, Father."
"No, I am sure they didn't." I mocked. "Did you touch your vagina?"
"No Father."
"Don't lie!" I yell, as though suddenly in a fit of anger. "You lay in
the darkness, rubbing yourself without shame! Your vagina got wet and
then you smeared the foul liquid around your flesh with your own hand.
You thrust your fingers inside and felt your chest. You lay like a whore
and defiled your innocent body in the sight of God!"
"No! I didn't do it! Not like that." The frightened child pleas. My
tirade has moved her to open crying from fear and shame and guilt.
I opened the drawer of the table and withdrew the very magazine we were
discussing. It renews both her crying and her protests when I hold it in
front of her. I open it, stepping in front of her while using it to
conceal my now obvious erection.
"I bet you stared at his penis as you defiled your sex. Did you picture
it in your mind? Did you try to imagine its volume inside your body? You
dreamt of that *cock* thrusting into your *cunt*, didn't you *whore*!"
"Nooo, It wasn't like that." she whines, looking up at me. "I didn't
mean it."
I was conscious that her small, round mouth was leaning toward the
erection in my pants, but my own lust was not enough to prevent me from
realizing that there was a serious danger she would faint, or worse, try
to run crying from the abbey. I step behind her again and replace the
magazine. I also have to adjust my penis, which has become enlarged in a
painful position. "Please excuse me while I step into the next room to
consider your punishment."
She was too upset to notice anything unusual about my request, despite
its oddity and the excitement in my voice.
I step into the next room and begin to strip. I remove my shorts and
undershirt, anything which will impede my haste later on. I even go so
far as to remove my socks and my ring. While standing nude, I reopen the
door a crack. She is still crying, though more subdued than before, so I
did not fear that she heard me. Beside her gorgeous calves, which I have
already inadequately described, I have a partial view of her innocent
profile. Soft, unmarred by the passage of time, is her skin, and her
complexion like cream. But most exiting to me is the tinge of red in her
cheeks, the rivulets of tears, the shaking of her body, and the muffled
sound of her sorrow. This is no sterile work of an artist, kneeling
before my crucifix in the gentle morning glow. Her slightest shudder
defines her volume, the slight rise and ragged fall of her chest
confirms her life. And the moistness of her cheeks and muffled whimpers
are the proof of my test; her innocence is within my reach, and I can
leave a mark on her mind that would long outlive any mark on her body.
I replace my pants and shirt, though I leave the snap undone on the
former and the collar open on the later. I replace my shoes, without
socks, but tie them so loosely that I could kick them off without
difficulty. My erection is plainly obvious should she turn her tiny head
without my leave.
"Though you are getting a bit old," I say as I enter, "I have decided
that a spanking is the appropriate punishment. Stand and place your
hands on the table." She slowly stands. Under lighter circumstances she
might protest, being at least two years older than the customary limit
for this punishment, but after my tirade, she must be relieved to be
punished in a familiar manner. Indeed her anxiety drains away as she
stands flush against the table and leans on her hands, about four inches
from the side. I withdraw a eleven inch plastic ruler from the table drawer.
I set the ruler on the edge of the table. Suddenly, I grab her little
wrists and pull her farther, at least three times as far, over the
table. The move is not brutal, but sudden and unexpected enough to cause
her to give a startled shout. I also spread her arms a several inches
past shoulder width. She is so short that I caused her pelvis to press
painfully into the table and her heels are pulled slightly off the
floor. It is now a strain to hold herself up, and it would be difficult
for her to straighten were she to try.
Her legs are slightly apart. Her skirt has been pulled up a couple more
inches, and I stare with open lust at the back of her thighs, their
curves shifting tantalizingly as she tries to minimize her discomfort
while moving as little as possible. I kneel down to the floor and pull
her ankles together. I resist the temptation to touch them more only
with great difficulty.
She is becoming uncomfortable again, unnerved by the detail of my
preparations. I reach under her skirt and tug sharply at the top of her
panties. She gasps at the touch of my fingers, as this is not standard
procedure at any age and clearly improper at hers, but she does not say
anything as I drag them down her thighs, over her knees, and finally let
them rest around her ankles. Unable to resist, I caress her lovely skin
more than is necessary as I go. My penis pushes painfully toward the
little girl, but I keep it restrained as I stand again.
Her chin trembles, and tears begin to well once more. Her sense of
relief is rapidly fading as uncertainty about her punishment returns to
her. I casually take the ruler in my right hand and a handful of her
skirt in my left. With a slow, deliberate motion, I raise her skirt
exposing first her upper thighs, and then her tiny ass. The sun dances
across her golden skin from the side, exposing the curves by the play of
light and shadow. I press the skirt into the small of her back and raise
the ruler.
The deliberateness of my movements does nothing to relax her body, and
she trembles openly now. While I doubt she knows my lust, the eroticism
of her exposure ignites the first fears deeper than those of a erring
student receiving correction.
With a flick of my wrist I crack the ruler against the cheeks of her
ass. The plastic slaps her tender skin sharp enough to reverberate off
the walls of the room. A scream, as much of surprise as pain from the
unexpected ferocity of my blow, quickly turns to a continuos wail. A red
mark is already forming by the time I strike her again. And then again.
And again. I slap the ruler across her body at a fast and steady pace.
No less than twice a second it cracks, beating in time with her racing
heart. Her legs buckle more than once, and she slowly starts to slip
down farther over the table. She cries loudly, her voice wavering. She
clenches her eyes shut, but tears still flow freely down the sides of
her face. Her face is red from the exertion of crying, and the ruler
continues to fall. Rather than let up, I let my blows fall harder as my
silent count passes thirty, then forty. The hand which holds her skirt
away from my work feels every tremble, every ragged gasp. Her screams
quickly become desperate, but this only excites my desire. Her flesh has
turned a brilliant crimson.
I break my rhythm long enough to drag down the zipper of my pants, which
fall around my knees. In her pain, she hardly notices the break, much
less the engorged penis now held from her sex by my will alone. My
penis, only slightly above average in size, looks grossly enlarged next
to one so small, and its throbbing head longs to reach into her
interior, but instead I just resume her spanking with renewed vigor.
As my silent count goes past sixty, I vary my strokes so several land on
the tops of her thighs. Unable to keep her arms steady during my stream
of abuse, her hands slide across the table bit by bit, pulling her heels
off the floor and pulling her chest closer to the table. As my count
reaches eighty, her torso hits the table. Dragged to tip toe, her calves
are gloriously extended and I can plainly see her opening peaking out
from under her body. I inch closer to her, as close as possible without
stopping her torture. Soon, less than one foot of air holds my penis
from her young vagina.
One hundred goes by, and I continue to beat the little girl without
mercy. I lean into her and strike her as though I meant to have her
life. The wildness of her screams complimented the wildness in my eyes.
I half noticed I was gyrating my hips in time with the ruler. Spittle
rolled down my chin. My own breath comes hard. I swing the ruler as hard
as I can.
One hundred twenty. I place the ruler table and quickly replace my pants
before she regains her senses. I need not have worried, as she is so
shaken and weak it is several seconds before she begins to move.
Watching her quaking body, moist with a thin film of sweat and
beautifully extended, while she makes no motion to cover herself is
almost more than I can stand. Her ass is deep purple in places, and
slightly swollen. Her vagina, indeed her whole body, is glistening with
moisture. She lies completely unresisting with her vagina exposed, too
weak to defend herself from any advance. Eventually, she slowly manages
to push herself up, but not without difficulty as her panties restrain
her from moving her feet and her hands are slick from moisture. She
bends down modestly to pull her panties painfully back into position.
I give her several minutes to regain her composure before speaking to
her again. I go back to the adjoining room to retrieve a collapsing cot,
as well as a small jar of Vaseline and a small bundle of white cloth.
"I am sorry I had to be so harsh," I say as I return, "but sin requires
punishment. Please lie down and I will give you some lotion to make it
feel better." I unfold the cot, which is a simple, sturdy metal frame
with blue canvass fabric, attached at the corners and a single stiff
strap, two inches wide, on the narrow sides, and two such straps along
the wide sides. It is adult size, nearly twice as long as her.
She knows how much I enjoyed her torture, but not why. It takes a little
coaxing to get her to lie down, and even so she turns her head back to
watch what I am going to do. I remove the jar of Vaseline from my
pocket, and also the small bundle. I turn, my eyes tracing down her
legs, and untie her shoes. I slip them off her feet and place them on
the ground beside the cot.
I turn back and remove the lid from the jar of Vaseline. I reach under
her skirt for the second time, and pull her panties down until they are
just above her knees. I flip her skirt up onto her back and admire her
nakedness for the second time. Next I reach up and untie the single pink
ribbon restraining her hair. She looks at me in alarm, and asks "Why are
you taking my clothes off?". I run my fingers through her golden hair
and let the silken strands fall down her back I smear some of the jelly
onto my fingers, and gently smear it onto her ass. She whimpers quietly
at the touch, but I only rub her body with more passion. After only a
few seconds, I begin to drop the pretext of "lotion" and rub her body
with my entire hand, then both hands. Gradually, the area I massage
increases, until I am rubbing her down to the middle of her thighs. But
she doesn't start to fight me until I begin to lubricate the insides of
her thighs. A new fear is visible in her face and she starts to protest
demurely and fidget uncomfortably. She tries to rise, and only my
constant touch keeps her from rolling over and getting up. Rather than
allow her up at this symbolic struggle, the area I moisten grows a
little more in size. Clearly frightened by that response, she asks me to
stop out loud and props herself up on her elbows, intent on rising from
the cot. I stop my groping and take her shoulders as she rolls into a
sitting position. I repeat that it is okay, that nothing is wrong, and I
lower her gently down so she lies on her back. She hardly accepts my too
hasty reassurances and is starting to get back up just as I grab the
small bundle of white cloth. I take her wrists and guide them together
and to the back of the cot. I try to be gentle, but the swiftness of the
action and the growing tension starts her crying again. She again asks,
with a pleading sound, for me to let her up. Instead I unfurl the
bundle, revealing it to be a pair of white stockings, far too small for
a grown woman. She tries to shy away, though she does not apply her
strength. She is also hampered by her own weight, which is partially
resting on her hands. It is only when I actually begin to tie her
wrists, when she feels the fabric against her skin, that she tries to pull.
I am forced to apply myself to keep her wrists together as I wrap around
the lengths of thin cloth. She tugs and pulls, with half articulated
cries of "no" and "stop". I am wrapping the ends around the central
strap when she becomes desperate and begins to kick and jerk her entire
body in protest. Instinct alone causes her to kick her legs, pushing her
weight against the cot in an effort to sit up again, but she is hampered
by the minimal restraint offered by her own panties, rolled and twisted
into a cord, holding her legs together.
"Why did you tie me up? What are you going to do?"
When I finish my task and pull back, she stares at me as if she has
never seen me before. The need for caution gone, I stare at her with my
lust plainly visible. She asks me what I am doing, why, but her
questions are more like pleas. I unbutton my shirt as hastily as my
hands will move, and unconsciously bring her eyes down to the bulge in
my pants. Until now, I had kept her attention away from it, but there
was no need for more pretense.
She has no idea why I tied her down, but she knows she can't break free.
She doesn't guess what I am going to do, but she knows she is powerless
to stop it. She only has a bare inkling of what the bulge means, but she
knows it does not bode well for her. Everything she took for granted,
who I was, who she was to me, her safety with me, the meaning of
everything happening, being a girl, being a man, was shown to be false.
She was filled with the greatest fear of all, the fear of the unknown.
I discarded the shirt and moved to the other end of the cot. Her eyes
never leave my pants. Her body lies motionless. She does not begin to
struggle again until I reach for her and cup her knees. The resistance
is futile and I lift and pull her down the cot, until her arms are
pulled out straight. I step back, kick off my shoes, and stand at the
foot of the cot. I unzip my pants quickly while looking at her. Wrists
tied together and down with a child's white stockings, her tiny arms
stretched taught, silken hair framing an angels face, white cotton of
her shirt, plaid skirt pushed up halfway, thin tan thighs, cotton
panties, thin shins, bright white socks covering tiny feet. I drop my
pants and climb onto the cot.
I pull her panties down and off, discarding them. I straddle her closed
legs over her groin and start unbuttoning her shirt. Her protests are
constant but quiet. Half articulated cries of "no" and "stop" escape her
lips as each button is released. Her eyes are imploring, begging me to
stop scaring her so intensely that I feel her emotion. I open her shirt
as if it were a package and pause.
The morning glow illuminates her alabaster skin and a thin training bra.
Her breasts are tiny mounds, extending from her chest no more than two
inches. I slip my left arm around her, under her shirt, and lift so I
can pull it over her head. I feel her breath on my skin while I fumble
with the clasp of her bra, and after a moment it too goes over her head.
I sit down on her skirt and grope her chest with two hands. Her chest is
so small that my hands seem gigantic when they clench and release her
tiny breasts. I play my fingers over her tiny bright pink nipples. My
dick sticks out in the air over her belly button.
I lift myself off her and slide my hands down to her skirt. Backing up,
I pull it down off her body. Now Clairisa lies before me completely
nude, and completely helpless. Now just below her knees, I move my right
knee between hers and then my left, slightly parting her legs. Her
small, hairless slit lies just before me. I grab the jar of Vaseline and
scoop some out.
She watches me with her begging eyes to stop, praying that this is only
some kind of threat or joke. Her eyes follow my hand as I smear the
jelly thickly onto my erection. Each stage of my preparations increases
the effort of clinging to hope, but she continues to plea.
"I'm sorry please please don't please why? no please let me up please
untie my hands please don't please don't hurt me anymore I don't like
this please"
"Why won't you stop touching me?"
I take her one knee in each hand and slowly but irresistibly push the
child's legs apart. Farther and farther, beyond what is necessary, I
push them open. I push them steadily over the edges of the bed.
Painfully wide I open them more and more. Her labia stretch apart,
revealing the glistening pink hole itself, leading up into her body. I
move my penis toward it at last. Its menacing shape looks impossibly
huge to fit inside her hairless opening.
Her hope breaks. In an instant she becomes hysterically desperate, madly
tugging at her wrists with all her strength. The cot creaks at her
frantic tugs, which are so hard she arches her back with each one. Her
entire body moves up and down with her rapid jerks. Her lovely face is
contorted into a mask of fear. She tries twisting side to side, writhing
underneath me. She screams as if she is on fire, hyperventilating with
shallow rapid gasps. She pulls with all her might to try to increase the
distance between her pussy and my cock by a fraction. Indeed, Clairisa
might have believed my dick was a flaming torch without making a more
desperate reaction. I draw out the moment, but soon my head makes
contact with her open labia.
Her opening is hot and slightly sticky to my touch. She convulses as if
in a seizure, jerking her arms in rapid vibration and with her head
wrenched back, staring at the stockings with open mouthed horror. I push
my penis inside with a steady motion.
I sink my entire length inside her. The tiny tight virgin hole tears as
I enter and her muscles spasm, clenching my intruder. The lubrication
causes my penis to enter without resistance. Memory does not prepare me
for the ecstasy of heat, the effortless sliding, or the tight pressure
which comes from the moment itself. She shrieks with a sharp intake of
breath, her every muscle clenched, eyes tightly shut. I withdraw and
move in again, in and out. I fall onto her and take her body into a
crude embrace, emphasizing the narrowness of her tiny body. I press my
face to hers and obscenely kiss her mouth. My tongue fills her mouth and
reaches into the back of her throat. I wetly lick her tears and face
while smothering her with my body and fucking her hole. My hands rub her
body rudely, and my legs rub against hers. I taste her nose and eyes,
neck and ears, tasting every portion of her. With each push of my penis
I carry my entire body forward, so she is pressed back and forth on the
cot. My hands probe her skin, moving to her legs and back again. We rock
back and forth in this manner for minute after minute.
I slow down a little after five minutes in order to prolong the ordeal.
She has been quiet since the moment of penetration, only silently
mouthing words when my mouth is not pressed into hers. I stop my groping
with my arms wrapped around her and press my cheek against hers. I revel
in the feeling of my chest on her chest. I touch every inch of my flesh
against as much of hers as possible as we continue to rock together.
Slow and steady but hard and deep. I dominate her, my sheer mass
absorbing any resistance she might be offering. Her vagina spreads at my
whim. My own eyes close and drool escapes my mouth, running down her chin.
I am inside the child. She is beautiful in every way, innocent in every
way, and helpless in every way. The obscenity of my unwanted closeness
moves my dick. My gross sensation is multiplied by every taboo violated
and confidence broken. I near orgasm. She is helpless, completely at my
mercy, and I press my penis in. Every civilized fiber of my being tells
me to pull out, but I press in. She wants me to stop and I continue. She
wants me to free her and I smother her. She wants me to stop touching
her and I touch her deep inside. I climax and feel my cum fall into her
body, my penis falls into her body. I continue to hold the receptacle of
my lust.
After the moment passes, I leave my penis inside and continue my
molestation. I suck on her tits and clench her ass. No portion of her
body escapes invasion. My motions are not brutal, but done with a rude
disregard, her body dominated. I touch every inch of skin, examine every
fold. My penis regains its firmness in ten minutes and resumes its
penetrating motion.
She mouths wordless pleas. But she is no longer speaking to me, now
offering silent prayers for salvation. As my cock increases speed again,
she feels deep, primal sensations rush through her body. But they are a
nauseating parody of pleasure. The lubrication minimizes any distracting
pain. Her body responds to my rhythm by heightening her own senses, so
she feels every unwanted motion and unwelcome probe with increasing
vibrancy. She feels her own body betray her; her clitoris swells and her
nipples harden. But instead of heightening pleasure they heighten
revulsion. Her own body adds to the slickness of her vagina, and my
speed increases as a result. She suddenly feels increasing waves of
nausea spread through her body. They crash and rebound and build just as
I ejaculate for the second time. Her stomach dry heaves and she gags,
choking, while she feels my cum dribbling impossibly deep inside her.
Spent, I lay on top of her for a minute before pulling out and standing
up. I take a camera from a shelf to record the moment. I focus on her
tiny body, breathing slowly, exhausted, limp, utterly passive. The child
is so small and powerless. Her body is wet with moisture and her face is
flushed red. She lies without the strength to close her wide-spread legs
as I snap the shutter of the camera. Her fluids are slowly leaking out
her naked cunt.
I have no doubt I will be able to keep her quiet. Paradoxical sounding
to adults, little girls often are less likely to talk the more horrible
the experience is. As long as I leave the impression in her mind that
this is a one-time occurrence, and back that up with threats of
blackmail over her record, I will be safe. I will be able to content
myself with lesser liberties, the pantieless spankings of pretty girls,
too friendly embraces, pats, gropes, viewing my clandestine pictures,
and masturbation while watching the girls in the gym through one way
glass. Yes, I won't have to repeat this with someone else for a long time.