Brat Gets Defiled: Taboo Erotica E-Book

Dr. Gerald Leach

• Herausgeber: Taboo Pulp Press
• Kategorie: Erotik
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Warning: This is a vintage hard-boiled full length (100+ Pages), post-censorship erotic novel. This is bad stuff. Both bad meaning bad and bad meaning *good*. The story is so crazy, we can't even give a proper description. Check out the free sample if you can.

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And so it began, my life with Tony. Though father and daughter, we set up housekeeping as man and wife. He would order me around, but that was only during the day. My nights were what kept me there. He could fuck me silly, and he often did. I would suck his thick cock till it came in hot, sticky spurts that I gulped down greedily. Sex with my father was heavenly, and I completely neglected to write my mother in Italy. What could I say? I'm living with Dad and he fucks my twat till it bleeds? I lick his ass-hole and he licks mine? He sucks my cunt?
I didn't dig the pushing around, though, and one day-about a week after I moved in snuck out and got drunk. Returning home, at the front door, I wavered. I saw him beating me to death and no one knowing what had happened to me. Dumped in a canal, weighted down with rocks. My mother wouldn't look for me, saying to herself I had just gone my way. Still, I went in and closed the door behind me.
Tony was sitting at the table with a glass of wine, looking very sad and very pale. I stood still, right in front of the door and looked at him, waiting for the rage I expected to pour from him at any moment.
Slowly and dramatically he raised his face to me. "So it is you. Even you." He lowered his head again.

Leseprobe

Brat Gets Defiled

Dr. Gerald Leach

Copyright © 2017

Table of Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

"It is so good," I heard him say as he thrust into me. "We are so good, my baby."

My own passion was building to another peak, climbing for yet another orgasm. I could feel his prick within me, long and hard and thick like Italian sausage. His broad chest crushed my breasts, sent thrills of delight coursing through my body. I reached up and stroked the back of his head, tingling to the touch of his hair.

So this was the man, the irresistible man who had seduced my mother, whose cock had given her my brother and me. How could this loving creature be the man of her frightening tales, the villain of all those years of warning? For twelve long years I had dreamed of meeting him again, of finding him and my brother, and now it had happened. My mind whirled in confusion, thrilling simultaneously with passion. My father. My own father!

"O-h-h-h!" He groaned as a climax ripped his muscular body. The sound of his orgasm and the fury of his pounding triggered a like response in my body, and wave after wave of sexual excitement poured over my helpless soul. "O-h-h-h," he groaned, and echoed the lustful sound, grasping his back and shoulders as hard as he grasped me.

Together we rocked like that on the creaking bed, the scent of sex pervading my senses. Again and again I came, till finally the two of us ceased our thrusting and ground to a halt. He lay over me like that, his muscles slackening, his grip untensing.

There was long and peaceful silence, and then I heard the heavy and rhythmic breathing of a sleeping man.

My head sank back into the softness of the pillow and my eyelids drooped shut. Was all this really happening? How did it begin? I had come from Venice to this sunny Southern California beach town of the same name to find my father, not to meet the lover of my dreams. I had left my adopted homeland of Italy to find the father who had adopted my own country as his. Why then was I waking up in his bed, his powerful dick in my cunt?

I had only had time the day before to take a cab from the airport to the hotel in Beverly Hills, to leave my suitcase unopened and taxi to his combined art studio and apartment in shabby Venice. The landlady had told me where I could find him, and there he had been, sitting at his favorite table in his favorite bar.

As I entered the darkened dive, I saw immediately that he was the handsomest man I had ever seen. Twelve years in Italy had not prepared me for his dark good looks, nor had eighteen years of life readied me for the deep magic of his voice. We had embraced, and then we had talked over drinks.

He asked only once about my mother, if she were in good health, and I said she was. I told him why I had come, to meet him and my brother Luigi, to know the other half of my family. He smiled, and I thought I saw tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes. "My Kitty," he said.

"All these years I thought about no one but you. My little daughter. How lovely a child you were, and how beautiful a woman. Always I wished to see you, but the judge, he say no. He say, the mother shall take the daughter, and Tony shall have only his little boy, Luigi. Now we are all together again."

Instantly, I knew I would follow this man anywhere. At least I followed him out the door of that bar and down the street to his dingy painter's studio. I had heard that Venice Beach was where the artists hung out in Los Angeles. As we walked down the street, he held my hand and talked disparagingly about the people we had left behind in the bar. They called themselves artists, he said, but what they knew of art you could stick in a banbino's toosh. "The only way you can learn art is to stay in the studio and paint," he said. "Hour after hour, day after day. You cannot sit in the bar and talk about art."

I shook my head vigorously in agreement. Soon we had climbed the stairs to the loft that doubled as my father's studio and home. It was dark inside, but a light hung from the ceiling above his door. He started to turn his key in the lock, then suddenly stopped and took my face in both his hands. He tilted it back under the light.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "You are absolutely beautiful. A classic beauty." I didn't answer. I was mesmerized. My father at last, and he loved me. "You are going to be my model," he went on, "and you'll be perfect. Your face is exquisite, and though your body is covered with clothes, I know already how beautiful it is."

I was in love. There was no doubt about it. I was finally in love. After all those conceited Italian boys and silly American adolescents abroad with their parents, at last I had found a man. He was real, and he was my father.

"Now," he said tenderly, his eyes adoring and warmly looking into mine. "You are home."

He pushed open the door and bowed to me to go ahead. It was dark and kind of scary inside. I said, "I don't know the way. I'll follow you." I followed him on a wooden floor that creaked so loud I expected it to cave in any minute. There was a long narrow hallway painted bright pink with lights all the way along it. Big pink semi-abstract paintings lined both sides of the hall. Here and there I caught a glimpse of a big tit or a gaping snatch in a painting. Even the wood floor was painted pink. Suddenly, all the lights came on.

I know something about art, and I even dig some abstracts. I didn't see much in Tony's things. Just tits and cunts. But obviously he liked them and I was prepared to like anything he did. I tried to think of something nice to say about them, but thought better of it. My mother once told me if you can't say something nice, you're better off saying nothing at all.

We got to the room at the end of the hall. It was enormous. The studio and pad were one huge room after that long hall. There was a big wooden table in the center of the room with a lot of straight-backed chairs around it. A huge bed in one corner, a bathtub, sink and toilet side by side in another corner, and a stove at the other end with metal cabinets around it.

Everything was painted pink. The ceiling had a hugh skylight and the rafters were painted pink. The floor was in stripes about three feet wide in two shades of pink. I was dazed. Looking up I could see my reflection in the glass overhead, a little girl lost in a sensuous sea of flesh colors.

Everywhere in the loft there were pink canvases stacked atop one another. Others hung or leaned against walls. There were no sofas or any other furniture but the table, chairs and the bed.

It was a real artist's studio, my father's studio and maybe I was going to be his model. I walked around studying the paintings that were visible. There wasn't a single real figure in any of them. There were some feminine eyes, hands, arms, cunts, tits and asses set in great blobs of pink.

He went to one of the cabinets and brought out two glasses and a bottle of wine-rose-and set them on the table. For some reason I decided my father was going to change his style of painting pretty soon. He would start painting whole people. Or maybe he had been searching for a long time to get just the right model, the girl of his dreams or something like that.

"So," he said, pouring out two glasses of wine and handing one to me, "lef s talk. Would you like to be an artist's model?" I said yes. "Good," he came back. "Take off your clothes."

CHAPTER TWO

That's how it had started the night before. Now it was morning and I had just given my body to my father once again. He lay sleeping over me, and I brushed his cheek with a kiss. How I had thrilled to him, to his wide-eyed stare as he gazed on my naked body for the first time ... the first time, at least, since I was a little girl. How I had enjoyed baring myself to him. I closed my eyes, letting myself thrill once more to that experience.