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This is the beginning of the three-part conclusion to the Daddy’s Little Psychopath storyline. From this chapter on, the rules change, and none of the characters will be the same.
New readers beware: this is the eight installment of this series. Chapter One can be found here, Chapter Two can be found here, Chapter Three can be found here and Chapter Four can be found here, Chapter Five can be found here, Chapter Six can be found here and Chapter Seven can be found here. You can expect this story to contain the following tags: cuckquean, father-daughter incest, lesbian sex, rough sex, and reluctance along with violence. If that isn’t your cup of tea, you can try most of my other series, as they are quite different from this one.
Please, please, please leave a comment below. I can’t stress enough how much feedback helps me write. I do read all of your comments and emails, even though I can’t respond to them all.
Addendum to editors: This story does not contain any scenes of explicit sex with characters under the legal age of consent (18).
“Mommy . . . why are they taking Daddy away?”
My mother held me, rubbing her fingers through my head in a vain attempt to both calm me and force me not to look. But, I fought her hold, and kept watching as the squad car rode off into the distance, taking my father away from me.
“Why are they arresting him? He didn’t do anything—he was trying to protect me.”
“It’s okay, baby,” she repeated again and again. “It’s okay.”
I was eleven years old at the time, but from the way she acted, you would think I was six. Of course, even when I was six, her efforts would have been no less pointless.
For the next two weeks, I tried to get a straight answer from her. The only thing I knew was that my father and mother had had an argument about me, and it had ended with Daddy and I crashing in a motel room. Then the cops came, they tried to take me away, and Daddy fought them. It had all happened so fast—and there was so much yelling.
There was a trial, but I wasn’t allowed to be there. All I remember is my mother coming to get me, with big showy tears falling from her eyes. She struggled to find her courage, and then told me—regrettably—that Daddy wouldn’t be coming home.
That moment . . . that moment was when my entire world crashed around me.
My Daddy, the only person who ever really loved me, was going away.
My name is Rhonda Scott. I was born with an IQ over 240. That makes me what most people would call a “genius”. It’s true that I have no trouble learning anything at all, really. From the time I was four years old, subjects like trigonometry, literature, and sciences of all kind have been pretty simple for me to grasp. I soak up information extremely quickly, and eventually I become more knowledgeable about the subjects than the people who teach me.
You would think that this would have solved most of my problems, but no—life is stupid that way. My childhood was filled with people who feared and resented me for my “gift”. My own mother, for instance. She was always afraid of me, and she thought I was too dumb to tell. Oh sure, she would hug me, and smile at me, and say sweet things, but I could see the truth in her eyes. The fear. The hate. The jealousy.
I was her and Daddy’s first child, and she was so determined to be a good mommy. She couldn’t accept a daughter that, to be blunt, had no need for her. She resented me—far more than anyone else did. Because I wasn’t perfect, stupid angel. A genius for a daughter? What could she possibly teach me?
She was no gold star herself. In fact, she was absolutely useless. Daddy was the smart one. He was the one who personally taught me and homeschooled me when I was younger. He was the one who read to me, who bought me literature just to hear my opinion on it. He didn’t just teach me—he made me want to be smarter. He made me want to make him proud.
And all that Bitch did was take him away from me.
It took weeks of spying to figure things out. Weeks of picking up other receivers to listen in her phone calls, unlocking and reading her emails, and sometimes even piecing together and reading shredded documents and mail. But eventually, I learned what had happened . . . about how she had been the one who’d called the police on Daddy. How she had told them Daddy had ‘kidnapped’ me.
But even I hadn’t found the proof, I had known it all along . . . my Daddy being taken was all HER FAULT.
To this day, The Bitch claims that getting Daddy arrested wasn’t what she’d actually wanted—that it had all just gone out of control. But, I honestly don’t know which is worse: that she’s just a lying, scheming whore who sent Daddy away to teach him a lesson rus escort . . . or that she’s just a whiny, incompetent moron whose self-destructive idiocy ripples out to ruin the lives of those around her.
Either way, she became my enemy from that day forward.
I can’t describe how painful it was, living with that Bitch. Smiling at her, letting her kiss and hug me . . . pretending that we loved each other. Every second of every day, I thought of ways to murder her. I had fantasies about crushing her windpipe with my little pre-teen fingers. Of stabbing her in the heart and twisting the blade. Of putting a tasteless poison in her coffee and watching as she slowly choked to death.
During the nine months when it was just her and me in the house, I can’t tell you how many times I stood in the doorway of her bedroom while she slept with a knife in my hand, trying to weigh my options.
But I came up with a much better idea.
She didn’t deserve Daddy, I told myself. I remember the story of they’d met and “fell in love”. There were a few differences and embellishments between the two of them, but the story is largely consistent. She was some rich bimbo from a comfortably well-off family that flounced her way through high school failing half her subjects. Her parents pressured the education system to just coast her through school, until she eventually grew more and more slackish and spent more time getting in trouble than giving a damn about school. Finally, her parents had enough and stopped protecting the dumb skank. She had half a semester to improve her grades, or be doomed to flunk out.
She tried to argue with her parents about it, even threatened to run away a few times. But they didn’t give into the whiny slut’s demands. She pouted and fretted, and totally didn’t know what to do—until she found a tutor to bail her ass out. She chose Daddy because he was a geeky loner, probably starving for feminine attention, and he was known for getting high marks and passing his subjects with ease. She just puckered her lips, batted her eyes, and rode his teenage hormones to a passing grade.
Personally, I like to think that she ruined Daddy’s life, and I was only born to save him. Daddy could have become so many things with his brains, his talent, and his looks—and she ruined them all. He put himself in massive debt just to pay for their engagement ring and wedding, and was stuck working shitty jobs for decades after to pay it off. She probably enjoyed that. No . . . I’m giving The Bitch too much credit. I bet she wasn’t even aware. She was probably too busy whining about how she’d estranged herself from her snobbish family to marry a “poor” man.
But I know the Bitch’s game. She only married Daddy because she was still pissed at her parents for what they’d forced her to do. To this day, they HATE Daddy, and so does her older brother, Steven. The only reason she wanted to be with Daddy was because he pissed them off. She didn’t love Daddy . . . she was just attracted to the little bad boy streak he had in him.
Heh. She didn’t know the half of it.
She didn’t deserve him. I knew that. I swore that I wouldn’t let her ruin him. No one deserved my Daddy except me, and I would make him mine someday.
“Oh! YES! David! David, fuck me! FUCK ME!!”
Fa’alele, a Samoan of impeccable beauty, called my name between gasps of breaths. The bed struggled to contain our animal lust, the box springs groaning and straining with each sturdy rise and fall each time our hot, sweaty bodies smashed together. I clenched my ass, raising my hips up and down, feeling my long slick cock drilling into her warm pussy. Her warm pregnant pussy. Where right now, she was growing a baby for me.
Fa was lost to pleasure, her body becoming a limp, quivering mess as I made sure an orgasm took her again and again as many times as I could muster. She could barely cling to consciousness long enough to call my name . . . to scream how magnificently I was fucking her brains out. But she did it anyway. Because she knew it pleased me. And when I was pleased, I only fucked that much harder. It was the only English she knew, and I’d made damn sure she learned it.
Fa was the latest soon-to-be-baby-mama to join my illicit harem. After fucking her regularly for over seven weeks, always bareback, and always finishing with a thick, milky load deep in her pussy, she was now five weeks expecting. She was a healthy young twenty year old. I was a forty-six year old whose libido was in overdrive and whose sperm count was in maximum production. It was a foregone conclusion that she’d end up barefoot and pregnant.
The best thing about knocking these girls up was that they knew the score. I didn’t love any of them; they were just sıhhiye escort sexy breeding material. This was nothing less than pure, visceral, depraved sex—free from consequences of any sort. She came to my bed, sucked my cock, and spread her legs for me until we both were cumming, screaming, and moaning like crazy. She willingly carried my baby, because I gave her the most mind-blowing orgasms she’d ever felt. The same thing had been true of Melanie, and Sera, and Audrey, and Soong Po, and Yukiko. All of them had been my pregnant fucktoys for a time.
And then, we all just went on with our lives, and I would have a beautiful new baby to fondly remember the experience.
At least that was the plan. Sometimes, feelings did get involved. Like with my darling Katy. God, what an absolute slut that girl was. I had to keep her around. I’ve never seen a girl so depraved . . . so slutty . . . so desperate to please me. I could do anything I wanted to her—anything at all—even make her take my cock ass-to-mouth, and she would never complain. No, hell, she would welcome it. Anything I wanted from her, she gave.
The thing that really drove her insane with lust would be when I would walk into the room, grab her, and throw her violently down. I would rip the clothes right off of her—even her expensive, showier outfits. I’d just tear them apart with my bear hands, like some kind of lust-crazed barbarian. Her eyes would go wide with surprise, and her lips wetted with anticipation.
I would fuck Katy right then and there. On the couch, on the floor, on a table . . . it didn’t matter. I would fuck her when and where I felt like it, in her tattered clothes, my hands pushing her legs apart, squeezing her sexy tits, ripping her stockings, pulling her hair, and pinning her hands to the floor. As I said, I could do anything I wanted to her.
Being handled like that always had Katy screaming and gushing before my cock even entered her. And seeing her writing under me, locking her legs together on my buttocks, begging me to cum in her . . . it was always the best.
Everything about my life was the best now. This was the life I’d always dreamed of, but I’d never known. I never had any idea that these desires were inside me—that there was this beast waiting to get loose. But Rhonda had known. She knew what made Daddy happy, so that’s why I always gave her the first fuck. Rhonda had dibs on my cock first and foremost. Daddy’s little girl deserved that much for keeping Daddy happy.
So after she gave birth to our triplets, I got Rhonda pregnant again immediately. She wanted to be Daddy’s breeding slut, and she was going to get that wish. She deserved it. Rhonda would carry Daddy’s babies forever. I would be sure of that.
Creating my utopia took years of planning, and patience.
My mother took me to counseling while Daddy was in jail. Of course, with all the books I’d read on psychology and therapy, it was easy for me to fake my “recovery”. Shrinks are easy to manipulate because they want to believe they’re helping crazy people get better. All they see is another note on their resume; another success story with their name attached to it. Just give them what they want, and they’ll believe anything you say.
“Mommy” was even easier; all I had to do was pretend that giving me ‘more love’ would somehow magically fix me. And she wanted to believe it.
I frequented various message boards and online forums for a year or more afterward—usually tech boards and other places dedicated to hacking and pirating technology. The thing about technology is that the more corporations do to try and stop people from illegally manipulating their products, the more demand there becomes for ways to beat it.
By the time I was thirteen, I already knew how to hack most systems, and numerous little job requests started opening up for me. People who wanted to know how to hack their boyfriends’ social networking pages to find out if they were cheating; people who needed to change their drivers’ license information to beat a DUI; even employers who wanted to find out what emails their employees were sending. For a steep fee, I was able to break into these supposedly-secure networks and get the info my clients wanted.
Eventually, I earned my nickname for my renowned ability to encrypt and decrypt virtually anything. Across the net, people started to refer to me as “The Locksmith”.
But it didn’t stop there. As my reputation grew, so did the number of people curious to find out my identity. Eventually, I even found out the FBI sniffing around for clues. I laid low for a while after that. I had earned enough money to tide me over for years at that point. I took two years away from professional hacking, but in my spare sincan escort time, I still kept up with the latest trends in tech and made something of a hobby of designing my own firewalls, surveillance bugs and other useful little things. I tested them on Daddy and The Bitch, and eventually figured out how to monitor them at virtually any time and place.
When I was seventeen, I started taking my plans to steal Daddy from The Bitch seriously. I decided to wait until I was eighteen to make a formal move, just to eliminate one extra reason for Daddy to reject me. It was bad enough that I was his own daughter, but I knew that if I could make myself a hot enough slut for him, he’d find a way to overlook that little detail as long as I wasn’t underage. Daddy tried to hide it, but I knew how much he craved pussy. I’d watched him for years.
Eventually, it all came to plan. Through blackmail and a bit of rape, I finally got to fuck Daddy like I always wanted. He became my lover, albeit a bit reluctantly.
That wasn’t good enough for me.
The only reason he kept The Bitch around was because he thought she “loved” him. Sure, I was physically and mentally superior to her, but she was his high school sweetheart. They had twenty years of wonderful little memories together. She’d brainwashed Daddy. Made him actually think she was a ‘good’ wife. But I had the perfect way to erase all that.
Some of my clients are in the . . . shipping business. They traffic a certain type of product . . . the kind that has bit tits, round asses, but barely any English. The type that long to fuck a white American if it means they can get away from their shitty countries. So, I called in a few favors. Though it cost me a fortune, I bought a few of those . . . “products” for Daddy.
And Daddy was enjoying himself so much now. He was a machine! At first, I thought it would only take a few sluts to satisfy him, and keep him wrapped around my little finger. I didn’t think he’d find the time to handle even four women, let alone NINE. And the amazing thing was that the quality of our sex never dulled. Daddy still slept in my bed almost every night and fucked me both at night and in the morning, and sometimes even in the day. But when he and I weren’t together, he was fucking the other women.
Part of loves and hates it—after all, he’s my man now. On the one hand, I get so much satisfaction when he looks at me with such joy and delight. Daddy’s living every man’s fantasy now, and he’s well aware that I’m the one that makes it possible. He’ll do whatever I tell him, like a loyal terrier. And occasionally, all I have to do is toss him a bone. Or a dozen.
Of course, The Bitch was still around, but she’d been pretty much tamed at this point. She was my plaything now, too.
But there was still one thing spoiling my little utopia, and making it far from perfect.
My back was killing me so badly. I had gone shopping the other day, but with a family of four adults and twelve children, there was a far bigger haul than I’d really anticipated and it wore me out carrying all that stuff in. I had spent twenty minutes trying to find David, he was too busy fucking to get my attention. I think it was the Samoan girl. Or maybe the Pakistani. She was definitely tanned, and speaking some other language. But ultimately, I suppose it really didn’t matter. He was ‘in heat’. He was the savage, sex-crazed maniac, not ‘David’, and wouldn’t stop fucking for anything. So I brought it all in myself and paid the price afterward.
That was when I decided to take advantage of the patio that Rhonda had built in the back, with the hot tub. It smelled of sex and David’s other women, but that didn’t matter right now. I needed a soak. I spent an hour or so in there, and then laid out topless on the patio furniture.
I was laying on my stomach and I guess I drifted off to sleep. I was having a very comfortable nap, but feeling oddly soothed when I felt something nudging me awake. There was a gentle pair of hands on my back, touching me with a cool, wet sensation. Shocked, I turned to find Katy sitting beside me, rubbing her hands on my back, massaging me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, First Wife. I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said sweetly.
I gave her an incredulous look. “What are you doing?”
She only continued to smile. “It’s dangerous to lay out in the sun without suntan, yes? I did not want you to hurt yourself.”
She was right. I had drifted off to sleep in the sun without any oil on me. I had no idea how long I’d been there, but my back had already started to get a bit baked. If she hadn’t woke me up, I would have traded a sore back for a burned one.
But this girl still pissed me right off.
I sneered at her. “Are you still at it? I told you I don’t want to be your friend.”
She only shrugged. “Be that as it may, you are the First Wife, so I will continue to serve you as is my duty.”
I sat up angrily. “Stop calling me that! You’re not David’s wife, and you never will be! And he . . . and he . . . “
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