Is it a phaser or a grenade?
My wife was shocked when she heard our daughter's plans for the near future, or rather, her plans for education. Kira wanted to leave school after the ninth grade and enroll in a construction college, essentially a technical school. Those who studied at this college for three years, meaning completed it, were accepted into the construction institute directly into the third year, and those who graduated with good grades were accepted automatically, without any additional exams, which were called interviews, but were essentially the same exams.
Unlike my wife, I supported our daughter, because her arguments were real—she was saving a year on her education. And that's a whole year of life.
Kira studied well,
was in good standing with the teachers, and when the school found out she was planning to leave and enroll in college, they tried to persuade her, including putting pressure on her mother. But the trick didn't work; I supported our daughter, and she started studying at the college.Once, she was sitting in the kitchen after a bath, doing something with her feet. She laid out her lady's paraphernalia—various polishes, peels, scrubs, or whatever they're correctly called; I'm completely clueless about that. Anyway, she's sitting there, one leg bent on the chair, like in a lotus pose, the other knee shifted to the side, and everything wide open.
"You'll catch a cold," I say, hinting that I can see everything. And she looks at me and goes back to her business. "If you don't like it, don't look," she says.
"Kir, I'm kind of a man too," I say.
"What kind of man are you? You're my Murёnochek. Mur-mur," she purred. "And what new would you even see there? You've seen me naked since I was a kid."
"Well, in childhood, you didn't have everything like that; some things have changed after all."
"Everything's like mom's, haven't you seen it?" she replies to me and calmly continues tending to her feet.
Out of principle, I stood up and looked, deliberately doing so. And she, the little brat, put her other foot on the chair, spread her knees apart, leaned back a little, showing me her little flower, and calmly looks at me. I stand there looking, and she continues sitting with her legs spread, showing me her charms. She even opened her robe on her chest, revealing her full breasts with small nipples. And she also looks at me and stays silent, then says, "Murёnysh, I'm not ashamed in front of you; you bathed me in the bath until I was eighteen and washed all this yourself," and she sits there laughing. Honestly, it's like with nudists—they're not embarrassed by their own kind—so she doesn't perceive me as a man at all.
And recently, she came and showed me a colorful tattoo on her pubic area. "Check it out," she says.
"And why do you need this butterfly here?" I inquired.
"You don't understand anything, Murёnysh. It's a symbol that butterflies flutter over flowers, but a bee would look like a fly, and you know what flies land on," she enlightened me. She doesn't do that in front of her mother, only when we're alone together—says mom would misunderstand, start getting jealous, thinking all sorts of nonsense. "But I'm comfortable with you."
She got a boyfriend, a slacker, named Pashka. They started going to various discos, hanging out, you know.
I, of course, discipline her; once even gave her a spanking with a belt. Not really painful, of course, just for warning. Kira cried, sulked, but in the evening she comes—"Mur-mur-mur"—and rubs her nose against mine. "Daddy, I won't do that anymore, okay? Can I go dancing with Pashka? I really want to wiggle my butt; it's so cool. Later I'll become fat and ugly, and no one will look. So, daddy, can I?"
And what can I say to her? She studies well, doesn't smell of tobacco or alcohol, no needle marks on her arms or legs. Of course, she could get hooked on some other nasty stuff, but she behaves adequately, that is, as always. And she's already over eighteen.
And one day, a joy happened: Kira graduated from college with honors and was automatically accepted into the third year of the institute. Her former classmates moved to the second year, while she would already be studying in the third year of the institute.
Well, we celebrated this with champagne in the family circle, and then I myself lacquered it over with vodka after our daughter left with her Pashka for a night out. So what? I can; I have a day off tomorrow, I can recover.
The next day, I woke up; no one was home, our daughter was who knows where, and my wife was supposed to leave for work early in the morning. I went to the kitchen; needed to fix my health. So I had a bite and returned to my room. My body is such that when I consume the fiery water, damn it, the next day, regardless of my condition, I want sex very badly. Well, if my wife isn't there, I turn on the internet and start up various porn, watching to see what catches me, to release some steam soulfully.
And what's wrong with that? Do you think only young guys jerk off? Not at all. Sometimes even if there's a woman nearby, I still want to strain my brain and train my hand. Once, after such training, I shot a stream of semen about five meters. I was just hungover, and there was no wife or any other girlfriend around.
And I do have girlfriends; well, of course, what, am I worse than others? Bodies like that, all those showbiz stars can rest; no worse than my daughter's, though there's an issue with the faces, but the mouth there is no less tender. People are fools, looking for beauties for themselves, while such girls are going to waste, it's a crying shame. When you get behind them, it's a complete mess. Such butts and figures, and they train their inner muscle so well that you finish faster than if you were sticking it in the butt. So what if they're not beauties?
Well, anyway. So I turned on the laptop, scoured the internet for cinematography for an emotional surge and its subsequent release through something. Just as I was getting into it, there was a doorbell. Well, I'm not going to open the door without my underwear. While I put on my pants, this and that, I open the door—no one's there. I looked out into the stairwell and gasped: my Kira was sitting on the stairs, leaning sideways against the wall, a purse dangling on the shoulder she was leaning on. I crouched in front of her, took her chin, looked—her eyes were glassy, and she was quietly muttering something. I scooped her up and took her home. Even though she's slender and young, there's still plenty of stuff in her; she's heavy anyway. I brought her to my room, sat her on the sofa, started examining her, maybe I missed something before and didn't see injection marks. I undressed her completely and laid her out on the sofa, stomach down, started examining from the back first. I even looked under her hair on the back of her neck—nothing.
I turned her onto her back, examined everywhere there too, spread her legs, checked her ankles, not to mention the veins on her arms. Nothing there either. But the child is incoherent; either she sniffed something, swallowed something, or smoked some kind of mixtures. Nowadays, there's apparently an endless amount of this stuff, especially where young people hang out.
And so I'm sitting by my daughter's body, watching as she stares at the ceiling with her gaze and mutters something. Just like that Sharikov in the film about Professor Preobrazhensky, when the dog started turning into a human after the operation. That one said "Abyrvalg," and this one is mooing and grunting something.
I feel my reproductive organ starting to tense up from the sight of my beloved Kirochka. To avoid temptation, I went to the kitchen, took more of the hot stuff, as medicine. I shouldn't have done that; it acted like Viagra. And then I spread the slender legs of my little daughter, positioned myself, and started writing letters on her clitoris with my tongue and examining the butterfly, engaging in this activity. I decided to also check if there would be a squirt
in such a state from my sweetheart-daughter. I inserted fingers into her wet hole, placed the palm of my other hand on her tummy, did everything correctly, and started fucking my girl with my fingers, slightly pressing with my palm on her lower abdomen. Honestly, I didn't expect such an effect; she shook all over, and so much poured out of her little flower, my Kol Kolych could only envy.
I stroked my little daughter's chest, her tummy, caressed the butterfly on her pubic area, and couldn't resist; I dropped my pants, climbed onto my beauty, and entered her attractive depths to the very root of my member. kkiss18.net And then I lifted her long legs, bent them, and fucked the flesh of my flesh so hard that she started shaking again. And with such pleasure, I spilled my flesh into her flesh, squeezing it out to the last drop, deep into her cave.
"I am a man—you understand!" I whispered into Kira's ear, finishing my vile deed.
And then I lay next to her, relaxed, and listened to her muttering, trying to make out at least one word, but in vain.
Unnoticed by myself, I fell asleep, and when I woke up, Kira wasn't next to me. I jumped up as if stung and went to look. I saw her dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt, lying on the sofa in her room. She was curled up in a ball and shuddering. I returned to my room, put on my pants, and went to find out what and how.
Kira was lying and crying. I stroked her shoulder.
"Forgive me, daddy," she says. "It won't happen again. I promise."
"And what was that?" I ask.
"I don't know, some pills. Pashka and I were given one each, we washed it down with a cocktail, and I don't remember anything else," she says.
"Nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all. I came to, lying next to you, naked. You were also naked and sleeping, snoring. I got up and came here, got dressed."
"Rest, I'll go make you some strong chicken broth; you'll drink it, you'll feel better."
And so I did; I made her broth and fed her from a bowl. In the evening, I told my wife that our girl was sick, so she wouldn't bother her.
And after this incident, Kira was like a changed person. She stopped going on night outings, walks around the house dressed, no more stripteases. She became kind of thoughtful.
And in early October, my wife says to me somehow, "Something's not right with our daughter. She's not eating properly, and her stomach seems to be growing. Could she be pregnant?"
Kira came home from her studies, so we started questioning her, what and how. And my wife's fears were confirmed.
My wife started berating our daughter, saying she fooled around, but she laughs
"Enough living in the last century; it's the twenty-first century. In the past, women were needed for this—to be cocoons for children. Well, I'm pregnant, so what now? What difference does it make who the father is? The main thing is I know he's mine. And I won't drop out of school; I'll switch to distance learning; it's possible now. And after I give birth, I'll continue studying as usual. Won't you help me? I have no one else but you!"
"Well, where would we go?" my wife sighed.
Pashka, upon learning that Kira was pregnant, rejected her and went somewhere. He wasn't seen or heard from for a year.
Kira gave birth to a boy, a sturdy one, weighing five kilograms and fifty-two centimeters tall. After all, it's a miracle, the birth of a child.
My wife, after giving birth to Kira, then had seven more abortions from me. And when we wanted another little one, the doctors advised against it, said her body wouldn't handle the pregnancy. They found some illness, so Kira remained our only child.
We met our daughter from the maternity hospital, as expected. Gifts for the nurses and all that. Kira handed me a blanket when she came out. "Hold this, father-grand," she smiled.
"You've become so beautiful, a young woman," I said, admiring my daughter.
"Thank you. I'll remember these words," she laughed again.
"Remember. You're still the most beautiful."
My wife cried, hugging our daughter, then took the child in her arms, looked at his face, sighed, and carried him to the car.
Our troubles increased a lot. Kira, as she said, did so; she studied remotely and took care of the child. And we helped a lot, because there was no one else.
Then trouble came from where we didn't expect. The little guy turned six months old, we rejoiced, and two days later my wife felt unwell, was taken to the hospital. They said something a clot blocked, we'll dissolve it. They didn't have time; her heart stopped during the operation. We buried our grumbler with Kira. She will never grumble at us again. If it weren't for Yurka, our little guy, my daughter and I would probably have gone crazy.
Then, after forty days, a couple of days later, Kira came to my room.
"Forgive me, daddy," she says. "I deceived you. I can't anymore."
She lay down next to me, strokes my chest with her palm, kisses my shoulder.
"Why do you keep trying to deceive me?" I smiled. "It doesn't work out anyway; you still come and repent."
"The child isn't from Pashka. I was only with him until my period. And after my period, I wasn't with him, in terms of sex."
"What difference does it make to me? The child is still yours, whether from Pashka or not," I reply to her.
"Remember that day when you picked me up in the stairwell and carried me home in your arms?" she asks.
Everything inside me went cold. "But you said you didn't remember anything."
"That's what I lied about. I remember everything. That pill gave such a high that you're kind of out of it, all sluggish, but you understand everything. I even talked to you, only you didn't understand, though you listened, I remember. Don't blame yourself; you're a man, and I felt very good then. That's why I came to you, to talk about it. This is your son. I didn't call you father-grand for nothing, and not the other way around. Formally, you're a grandfather, but in reality, you're his father, and I gave birth to a brother for myself. Some kind of foolishness, but it's a fact. Don't interrupt me, please; first I'll say everything, then think and answer me, okay?!" But she didn't let me answer, putting a finger to my lips.
"You heard my arguments about whose child it is, and after you, I haven't been with anyone. I was offended at Pashka then for slipping me such crap, and then my period didn't come. Well, anyway, it's still my child, and whether you're the father or grandfather, it doesn't matter either; Yura is still yours."
"I wanted to tell you," Kira sighed. "In short, to replace your mom for you. Well, to be instead of mom. And it will be good for you as a man, and for me as a woman, and for our son-grandson-brother. And then I won't need anyone else. And if another one or several appear, we'll raise them. Please don't answer without thinking,