Adam
is every inch the professional; well dressed, immaculately groomed and
with a
calm and confident manner to his actions and speech. If I had any
lingering
doubts about letting him into my world, just his presence would have
wafted
them away like smoke. He is, as I knew when we first started talking on
the
internet, a man after my own heart.
I
hand Adam his drink and sit down opposite him. We’re in the
lounge of my house,
all warm wood tones and plush furniture.
‘How’s
Emma’s behaviour been?’ he asks, taking a sip.
‘Much
better on those pills, thank you. She’s a little sluggish
obeying the more
demanding type of direct instruction, but otherwise she’s
very willing and
sometimes even eager to oblige.’
Adam
nods thoughtfully. ‘Well the key is to make the unusual into
the everyday.
Repetition is key in getting the best from her whilst she’s
on her meds.
Whatever she hesitates to do, do it more and do it regularly.
She’ll adapt
quite quickly, come to accept her new reality even as you define it.
And once
the foundations of that type of behaviour have been laid, she can be
eased off
of the dosage and we can move on to a new stage.’
I
return the thoughtful nod.
‘Now,’
Adam continues, ‘Hormones.’ My heart leaps and my
cock stiffens just at the
thought of the word in relation to Emma. He reaches down to his
briefcase,
lifts it onto the coffee table and takes a manilla folder, a pad and a
pen from
it. As always, he takes notes throughout.
‘Well
the results from the blood tests showed no abnormalities that could be
useful,
which is bad news, but neither did they reveal anything that might
hinder us
achieving your goals.’
‘Back
to square one, then,’ I say and he concedes me a nod.
‘Yes,
but that’s not such a bad thing except in terms of a
timeframe. Ultimately you
build a better structure if you start from scratch rather than add onto
something pre-existing. It just takes longer to get to the
end.’ He gives a
small shrug. ‘Less chance of it all falling apart when you
stress test it, so
to speak,’ and we both smile at the language.
‘So
what we have to do now is trick her body into entering puberty. Kind of
jump-start the engine, so to speak. Give it a jolt and hope it fires up
under
it’s own steam.’
‘And
that’s possible in an 8 year old?’ I ask and we
both know it’s a question we’ve
gone over more than once. And we also both know we’ll never
tire of doing so.
‘Oh
yes,’ Adam replies. ‘The actual term is precocious
puberty and it’s been
known to occur in girls as young as 5 or 6, though
extremely rarely. Usually it kicks in about 8 or 9 years old and, with
little
girls eating high fat diets and coming into contact with certain
man-made
materials, it’s happening more and more.’
‘Well,
that’s progress,’ I say and we smile.
‘Now
there are two stages to developing her. The first is to accelerate her
sexual
development. Breast growth, pubic and underarm hair, widening of the
hips and a
change of her overall body-fat dispersal.’
I
say nothing, just listen and hope my erection isn’t too
obvious.
‘As
part of that, and key to the whole thing, is to induce menstruation
which would
mean that she has reached sexual maturity with regard to our agenda.
‘The
risks to Emma, though, are significant. She runs a greatly increased
risk of
developing several kinds of tumors, maybe limiting her skeletal
development and
even causing mental health disorders, though all of these will come
later in
life.’
We
look at each other, say nothing.
‘So,
I’m going to develop a regime for her to follow.
It’ll be a mix of tablets and
injections and will have to be very strictly adhered to. On occasion
she’ll
need to come into my clinic for x-rays and ultrasounds and the like,
too. You
okay with that? It’ll be after hours, of course.’
‘Not
a problem,’ I reply.
There’s
a moment’s silence.
‘Now
we did speak about something a little more…’ I
begin.
‘Immediate,’
Adam finishes. ‘Yes we did, and I think what I brought with
me could answer,
though only very temporarily.’ He looked up at me, smiled.
‘But that just means
you’ll have to do it more often.’
Amen.
Some
time later, we’re with Emma in her bedroom. It’s a
beautiful room, even if I do
say so myself being as I decorated it and I like to think it acts as a
ever
present reminder of the life Emma leads. It’s important, I
think, to reinforce
a reality as much as possible and I’ve tried to carry that
through here.
Yes
it’s a girly space, feminine and perfect for a little girl.
Her bed, for
reasons of neccessity, is a double of course because sometimes her
daddy
cuddles with her, and its up against a wall of rich, deep pink, a
feature wall
they call it, I think. The rest of the room is a very soft, creamy
white, with
a little desk, an ottoman and that sort of thing, as well as a big
double
wardrobe because, as with all little girls who have a doting daddy,
Emma has
quite a range of clothes and outfits.
Hanging
on the walls, though, are framed pictures of her and I during what I
think of
as our most intimate, loving moments together. It took a while before
Emma
learnt that she wasn’t allowed to turn the pictures around so
they faced the
wall, but she got the message. A picture of her getting that message is
also on
the walls as another reminder but I think she’s learnt that
lesson. But that’s
ok; there are plenty more to teach her.
Right
now the camera and tripod that I keep in her room is at the end of the
bed
fixed on her, recording silently as Adam shows me how to use the new
toy. Emma
is lying against a stiff board resting on a pile of pillows that prop
her up to
a comfortably reclined position against the headboard. A wide leather
belt is pulled
tight around her waist and the board to keep her in place and another
belt, not
quite as tight, is across her neck. It restricts her breathing a little
and
that’s never a bad thing in my book. Her arms are pulled
behind the board and
bound there and there are belts around her thighs and calves to ensure
her
movement is minimised as much as possible.
To
the side of the bed is a medical stand of the kind you find in
hospitals and
theres a bag of saline hanging from it. A tube runs from that into a
small,
clicking pump and then two tubes run from the pump. Each tube goes to a
hypodermic
needle that pierces the skin a little way above each of
Emma’s small but, due
to the suction I’ve been using on her, lightly swollen
nipples.
Emma
had regarded those needles with sheer dread. She doesn’t like
needles, never
has, but she seemed to know this would be different and the fear was
clear. She
tensed every muscle in her little body as Adam pushed each needle into
her
flesh to his satisfaction and her eyes were liquid and shiny by the
time he had
them as he wanted. After that, she had looked at him attaching the
tubes from
the saline bags with an open mouth, breathing hard and fast, fear
giving way to
panic. And once the fluid began to enter her, once she felt it inside
her body,
she simply closed down. Her eyes became glazed, emotionless. She went
limp
against her bindings, just soaking up what was happening, literally and
figuratively. Her breathing was still too short and too quick but
otherwise she
might as well have been doped.
I
was watching her when Adam started to detail what was going on.
‘So
the pump ensures that the same volume of saline goes to each needle and
that,
in turn, ensures that the distention of each breast is, as much as can
be
reasonably expected, roughly the same. It takes a short while for the
tissue to
reach saturation point and for the process to become visible but, after
that,
the change is quite quick.’
I
nod and can’t help but lick my lips at the sight. I ache,
burn, with need. But
Adam isn’t finished quite yet.
‘Now
the effect is temporary, as I said. It lasts for several hours and
then, again
quite quickly, the saline is absorbed and the swelling diminishes.
Don’t push
too much fluid into the flesh or you’ll damage the skin by
stretching and that
won’t show up well in terms of hormones and the like.
Don’t do it too often or
regularly for the same reasons and be careful in placing the needles.
Do it
like I showed you… Ok?’
‘God,
yes,’ I say, scrutinising my little angel, waiting for her to
grow the breasts
all little girls should have at her age. I stroke her hair as she looks
at me
with red rimmed, fear-wide eyes.
‘Well,’
Adam says, ‘I’ll leave you to your evening, David.
Have a couple more house
calls to make tonight. No rest for the wicked, eh?’
‘Well
you’re always welcome here, Adam, you know that. Next time, I
think, we’ll have
a little less business and little more pleasure.’
He
grins, nods. ‘Sounds great. Maybe bring Julianne with me,
too.’
‘Sounds
like a plan,’ I say. ‘They can have a sleepover.
It’s about time they were
properly introduced. I’d like to see how Emma plays with
others like her. See
if she takes to it as well as Julianne did, I remember you telling
me.’
‘Well
she was a little further down the road than Emma. Much less afraid of
new
activities and new people.’
I
walk him back downstairs to the door.
‘Now,
I’ll put together the regime for Emma’s hormones
and therapies and be in touch
when it’s all ready.’
We
shake hands and I bid him goodnight and safe travels.
I
almost run back upstairs.
‘You’re
so beautiful, baby,’ I whisper to her and she looks at me
with wide, glassy
eyes. My hands, coated in baby oil, stroke, caress and cup the swollen,
thrilling new breasts she has, each one with a small, flesh toned
plaster
covering the needle hole. We’re sat facing each other, my
legs open around her
as she sits, cross-legged, between them.
The
weight of her breasts, the warmth and heavy, thick liquid feel of them
is just
indescribable, at once a heaven for me and a hell for her. When
they’d got to a
suitable, perhaps slightly too large, size, and once she was released
and up
and about, I stood her in front of a mirror to see them.
I
thought she’d be shocked, that there’d be tears and
the usual joyous misery
that often accompanies her suffering. Instead she was mute, just
staring and
occasionally blinking. I lifted her hands, rubbed gently across the
taut skin
and nipples and still there was no reaction. She just stared and
breathed
shallow, light breaths.
We
played dressup for a while. I wanted to see her in a leotard but the
elastic
material was too tight and fluid leaked from the needle holes despite
the
sticking plasters. I settled for a bra which suited nicely, though she
didn’t
quite fill it even pulled tight across her shoulders but it was good
enough.
Dressed in her schoolgirl uniform, one of them anyway, she
looked… utterly
decadent, like a fruit that was so rare and precious it was beyond
forbidden,
if that makes sense. Seeing her that way made me wonder how she would
look when
she’d been on Adam’s pills and potions for a while.
Flared hips, ripe little
backside and, in time, permanent breast augmentation.
I
took some pictures of her for the family album as we went through a few
other
outfits but it didn’t last long because, whilst most of her
wardrobe had room
to accommodate breasts, any kind of tightness simply made the needle
holes weep
a little and seemed, to my at least, to hasten the reduction of the
effect as
well.
So
instead I just content myself with playing with her, oiling her breasts
and
pussy and just enjoying the sheer tactile heaven of my new, improved
Emma. No
tears, though, no wretched sobbing, not so much as a whimper or sniffle.
‘You’ve
broken a little bit haven’t you, babygirl?’ I keep
my voice to a soft, soothing
whisper, my touch gentle and loving. Her pussy is hot to my touch, her
breasts
warm and welcoming, looking and feeling right to my senses.
She
says nothing and I lean forward and kiss her gently on the forehead.
‘Do you
want to show daddy how much you love him?’ I ask and my heart
races a little at
the dumb, fucked-out-of-her-head face that looks back at me. Usually it
takes
medication to get her that out of it but she’s had nothing
because I wanted her
fully awake for Adam’s visit, just in case.
She
looks up at me for maybe a whole minute and all the time I meet her
gaze,
stroker her breasts and gently violate her pussy. And then she nods.
‘Yes
please, daddy,’ she says and though her voice is an
emotionless monotone, her
words nearly make me cum just in hearing them.
With
nervous, slightly shaking hands I open her palms out and squirt a
little pool
of oil into each. I then put them to my shaft, rigid and hot and
demanding, and
curl her fingers around. She begins to masturbate me without either
help or
encouragement.
‘Oh,
Emma,’ I say in a strained, gasping voice, ‘Oh my
beautiful little girl. Oh
that’s so good, baby, so good for your… your
daddy.’ I’m breathless, lost in
the undeniable, unbearable pressure of pleasure. ‘Such a good
whore. Good
little… cunt… daddy’s…
fucktoy. Aren’t you?’
She
nods, eyes still locked on mine and I sense her squeezing me as hard as
she
can. A part of me wonders if its reflex, a little whore embracing her
true
purpose, or if its hate, meant to hurt. Doesn’t matter.
It’s fucking exquisite.
Mind-blowingly, staggeringly so.
‘I
love my daddy,’ she intones in the mechanical voice of a
broken soul and I cum,
hard. Cum jets from my shaft in thick, pulsing squirts and I shudder
and jerk
under her rythmic pumping.
I
half cry some largely incomprehensible words of pleasure and release
before
collapsing back onto arms that barely feel able to support me. I give
in and,
instead, lay out on the floor of her bedroom.
She
pumps me once or twice more and then stops and I raise my head to look
at her.
‘Good
girl, Emma,’ I manage to say in a hoarse, shattered voice.
‘Thank
you, daddy,’ she says and blinks rapidly a few times as if
suddenly tired. I’m
so lost for words all I can do is stare. This is utterly new behaviour
and I
feel suddenly as if I’m playing catch-up, like I’ve
missed an episode or
something.
‘Will
you clean me?’ I ask and have no idea why I do so.
She
looks at me, blinks a few times. ‘Will you hurt me if I say
no?’
Part
of me, a large part, wants to tell her that yes, I will hurt her, that
I’ll
hurt her either way. But that’s not what I say.
‘Not
tonight, Emma. I think you’ve been such a good girl for me
tonight, that you
don’t have to do what you don’t want to do for
once.’ I suddenly feel a kinship
with her, like she understands me, understands what she means to me,
how
important she is, how much I love her. I doubt she feels the same way
about me,
but maybe she’s coming round.
She
says nothing for a few seconds and then gets up, entire
unself-conciously, and
fetches the box of tissues on her bedside table. Taking her place
between my
legs again she begins to wipe me down. Silently, carefully, she tends
to me
like a good little girl should attend to her daddy. She stops when I
get hard
again.
‘Do
you want me to stop?’ she asks and her voice is still flat
and toneless.
I
smile. ‘I want to make another mess,’ I say.
I
stand in front of her, Emma sitting on the bed, legs wide open either
side of
me and revel in it all. Emma masturbates me with slow, deliberate
strokes, her
slick, oiled hands gliding up and down my shaft with what seems like
genuine
purpose. But when I look into her upturned eyes, all I see is the same
oddly
not-at-home look of someone doing whatever she has to do and neither
enjoying
it nor hating it. Just… doing it. Because it has to be done.
To
me, it seems like something of a state of transition, the first signs
of
accepting what is now, undeniably, her new world. Part of me thinks
that, in
time, that acceptance will grow and evolve until she embraces my
desires for
her. Another part of me doesn’t care if she does or she
doesn’t; she can enjoy
it or hate it, but it has to be done, after all.
She
rubs my tip against her breasts and nipples, smearing pre-cum amongst
the oil
and then resuming the even, intent pumping and squeezing.
When
I cum, it’s with less ferocity than the first orgasm. This
one is a ric her,
fuller sensation that seems to simmer inside me and come to a slow,
intense
burn. I say nothing, make no sound aside from a heavy gasp with each
jet of thick,
viscous cum. I let Emma decide where they will land and, I’m
pleased to see,
she has me ejaculate all over her visible diminished breasts.
When
I’m done she begins to gently, almost sub-conciously, rub my
cum into her skin
and I think it’s one of the most beautiful things
I’ve ever seen.
Later,
washed and clean, we sleep together for the night, her wearing a cute,
short
nightie, tucked tightly into me, my arms wrapped possessively around
her. We
both sleep well, though I think for different reasons.