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Archive name: kwan.txt (MF, ws, rp, spank, celeb)
Authors name: BY L.T. (Chicago Illinois)
Story title : Michelle Kwan 

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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2002.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
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Michelle Kwan (MF, ws, rp, spank, celeb)
BY L.T. (Chicago Illinois)

***

Of course Ms. Kwan would never do anything like is 
described within this story. She has worked hard to 
become the best figure skater in the world. A superb 
athlete she has made many sacrifices to get were she is 
today. This little fantasy has nothing to do with the 
real world, but a guy can fantasize, can't he?

***

From the window of my tenth-floor room at the Hyatt-
Regency Plaza Hotel in downtown Chicago, I stared through 
falling snow at millions of lights glimmering and 
glistening across the city on a dead and desolate 
February evening. Chi-town, as the locals call it, can be 
a dangerous place come February if one isn't prepared for 
freezing temperatures and frequent blizzards. But those 
who live there are accustomed to the dark days of winter 
because there's enough going on in the city to drive off 
any despair that might try to creep into their hearts. 
They also know how to keep from freezing to death. 

Chicago is known for more than its weather, anyway. For 
the culturally refined, there's the Civic Opera House, 
the Spertus Museum, the Art Institute of Chicago, and the 
Prairie Avenue Historical District. Those with fewer 
cultural tendencies appreciate that deep dish pizza was 
invented in Chicago in 1860, by a man named Salvatore 
Bellomo, an Italian immigrant and chef for a now-defunct 
hotel chain. For everyone, Lake Michigan provides 
excellent fishing and boating in the summer and 
snowmobile and skating in the winter. And when all else 
fails, there's always the sports teams. 

Well, the basketball team, anyway. The only people who 
pay attention to the Cubs or the White Sox or the Black 
Hawks or the Bears live within driving distance of the 
teams' stadiums or arenas. But the Chicago Bulls are as 
world-wide as Dr. Pepper and more popular than 
Disneyland. They play their games in the United Center, a 
vast spaceship-looking structure, which I could see from 
my hotel window across Madison Street. 

This isn't to say that the Bulls won't soon take a 
nosedive into obscurity, like the Bears did after their 
stunning 1985 season, which ended with a punishing 44-10 
Super Bowl victory over the New England Patriots. The 
Bears got a video on MTV out of that season and now 
nobody knows who they are. No, a downward spiral is 
inevitable for the Bulls. In fact, it's already begun, 
but Chi-town is trying to hold off the worst of it and 
keep the magic for as long as possible. How long that 
will work remains to be seen. 

Michael is gone now, and Michael was Chicago. Michael had 
put Chicago on the map in a bigger way than anyone, 
including Salvatore Bellomo, else ever had. And Michael 
had downright owned the United Center for forty-one 
regular-season games a year and as few playoff games as 
his team needed to send their opponents home licking 
their wounds. But this season the Bulls, minus Michael 
and Scottie Pipen and Dennis Rodman and brilliant coach 
and inventor of the triangle offense, Phil Jackson, and 
just about everyone else who had contributed to the most 
dominating dynasty in the history of pro basketball, are 
off to an embarrassing 5-30 start. They'd only lost 24 
games over the entire last two seasons. 

But the powerful afterglow of Michael's reign isn't 
something Chicago sports fans are willing to part with 
easily. Michael's ghost still glows in Chi-town, and fans 
buy every available ticket just to sit and watch the "New 
Bulls" lose in the same arena where the Great One had 
once won. 

Earlier this afternoon, the United Center hosted an event 
that probably didn't fill half its seats, although the 
event was televised in eighteen countries. Figure skating 
is considered by many in Chi-town to be a girl sport, or 
a guy-who-is-more-girl-than-guy sport, if you get my 
drift. The sport is soft. Now, hockey skating is fine, 
because hockey is a real man's sport. In hockey, if a guy 
bleeds, it means an opponent has caught him with a high 
stick or he's had his face run over with a sharp blade.

In figure skating, a bleeding male has probably been 
corn-holed too close to the start of the show and has 
managed to tear open his anal wall while executing a 
triple-loop. Figure skating, so goes the thought, is for 
the weak of heart and the confused of genitals. "Give me 
a hot dog and an Old Milwaukee at frozen Soldier field 
and keep your tights-wearing boys in the closet, where 
they belong," many might say. "The Bears are tough. The 
Bears are rough. They can't win to save their asses, but 
they sure as hell don't go Peter-Paning around in pink 
muumuus and burst into tears every time they sprain their 
ankles or somebody boos them." 

Never mind that four Bears players are gay. 

This afternoon's event, sponsored by the American 
Association of Figure Skating Professionals, was, within 
figure skating circles anyway, one of the most important 
legs of competition leading to the National 
Championships, held in October. Place high in the 
Nationals and you go to the Olympics, it was just as 
simple as that. 

Judging by the scarcity of cars in the United Center's 
massive parking lot late this afternoon, Michael could 
have drawn more fans to one of his celebrity golf 
tournaments. 

But now it was night and yes, Chicago was a different 
world, full of things to do and surprises to be had, but 
the pizza I ate earlier was making me dreadfully thirsty, 
so I left the window and filled a cup with water from the 
sink in the bathroom. I spit it back out. Warm. I can't 
abide warm water, nor will I. I remembered seeing an ice 
machine in the hall on the way to my room. 

I backtracked to the machine and opened its plastic door. 
There wasn't a single cube. There wasn't even a drop of 
condensation where some ice might have been. I stuck my 
head inside the large cubicle, and it was warm in there. 
When I dropped the door back down I saw for the first 
time a half-sheet of yellow line paper taped to the front 
of the machine and bearing the words:

Out of order. Sorry for your inconvenience. Please use 
our ice machine on eleventh floor. Management. All 
written in black permanent ink. 

I rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. The inside of 
the compartment smelled like an old rich lady's perfume. 
The doors opened on a green-carpeted corridor that looked 
about the same as the one on the tenth floor. But it was 
not the same. Like not even a part of the same hotel. I 
knew this because the bellboy who'd insisted on carrying 
my single suitcase to my room told me. The eleventh-floor 
rooms of the Chicago Hyatt-Regency were actually three-, 
four-, and five-room suites, complete with wet bars, 
king-size beds, fully-equipped dining rooms and kitchens, 
and Internet-ready computers. You couldn't get into one 
of them for less than $750 a night. 

I didn't need that kind of excess for what I was after, 
although I suppose I could have afforded it. Call me 
frugal, but if I'd thought I could have pulled it off, 
I'd have rented a two-sleeper at the Lakeview Lodge down 
on Halstead Street for $42.50 a night, or $7 an hour. But 
all I could have attracted to that dump would have been 
some tree-swinging jungle bunny of the Chi-town variety, 
and, well, thanks, but no thanks. Still, glitz and show, 
while they mean a lot to some people, have always been 
empty concepts to me. There was only one thing in this 
world that I wanted the best of--and got the best of--and 
money couldn't buy it and polish wouldn't brighten it. 
Unfortunately, sometimes you had to spend money to get 
close to it. 

I walked to the end of the hall and found nothing that 
resembled an ice machine. My mouth was rapidly drying 
out. It was all the damn salt in the pizza meat, and it 
was sucking the moisture right out of me. 

I turned the corner, looking back over my shoulder at a 
cubby hole that housed what at first appeared to be an 
ice machine but turned out to be an ATM, and ran face-
first into a small Asian girl in a hot pink warm-up suit 
of brushed fleece. Actually, she ran face-first into my 
chest. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. I prayed I hadn't broken 
anything in her. I guessed she was about 16. 

"No, no, it's my fault. I wasn't looking where I was 
going," she said in un-broken English. 

"Well, no harm done, I guess." 

Her short black hair was neatly styled, and just covered 
her ears; the overhead lights picked up its blue hues, 
that's how black it was. Her makeup was heavy, given her 
casual attire, but she looked good with it. Two silver 
chains hung around her neck. A tumble of silver 
bracelets, some with intricate turquoise inlays, gathered 
sloppily at her wrists. On her right wrist she also wore 
a silver Rolex watch. 

"By any chance have you seen a pay phone around here?" 
she asked me. 

"No. Have you seen an ice machine? The one on my floor's 
broken." 

"And the phone in my room is out of order," she said. "I 
pay nine hundred and forty dollars for a room and I can't 
even get a phone that works." 

"My phone works fine and I only paid two fifty; of 
course, that put me down with the po' folks, but you can 
use my phone if you like. If you can't find a pay phone, 
that is." 

Our eyes met, and I could have sworn I knew her. Or at 
least recognized her. 

"Have we met--I know that sounds like one of man's all-
time stupid pick-up lines, and I don't mean it to be-- 

(not that I cared how it sounded because I already had 
her) 

--but I'm sure I've seen you before." 

"I'm Michelle Kwan," she said, and offered me a hand with 
rings on every finger as well as on the thumb. 

"The skater?" 

"Yeah, the skater." 

"Hey, you must have been at the United Center earlier." 

She nodded. "Are you a fan of figure skating?" 

"I know a little about it, not a lot. Was today your 
short program?" 

She nodded again. "Tomorrow afternoon's the free skate." 

"Wow, well, it's nice to meet you. I don't meet many 
celebrities--" 

"I'm not a celebrity. They make me out to be a celebrity. 
Tonight I'm a girl who needs to use the phone and has 
heartburn from that disgusting pizza downstairs." 

"Yeah, that pizza's killer. Are you thirsty, too?" 

"Huh?" 

"Never mind. If you want you can use my phone, and I have 
a bottle of Tums. I had a little heartburn earlier, too." 

"I don't want to put you out." 

I touched her small right breast, circling it with the 
tips of my fingers. I wasn't as big a figure skating fan 
as I'd let on, but I was well acquainted with Michelle 
Kwan from the sports pages of newspapers across the 
country. She'd burst onto the skating tour at twelve and 
after a couple of rough years getting her bearings she'd 
begun eating up titles and gold medals like the yellow 
Pac-Man head used to eat up enemies back when that game 
was popular. Now, at nineteen, she was rarely ranked 
below number three in the world. I would have recognized 
her sooner in the hall but, I hate to admit, most young 
Asian girls look the same to me. 

I applied a gentle squeeze to where I guessed her nipple 
was. "I'd like to have you." 

She looked down at my hand. "Have me, huh?" 

"In a manner of speaking." 

"I see." She smiled at me. "After my phone call and Tums, 
we could come back up here. I have this huge empty place 
and no one to share it with. My parents won't be here 
till tomorrow morning." 

In my room she chewed four Tums and then made her phone 
call--to her skating coach, who was staying in the less 
prestigious Ramada Inn three blocks away. She told this 
woman named Irene to make sure to bring her (Michelle's) 
old skates to the arena in the morning, not the new ones. 
The new ones weren't broken in yet and would blister her 
feet. She also discussed plans for a set of X-rays she 
wanted to have taken of her left leg in March. As she 
stood there talking, I snuck up behind her and held her 
by her skinny waist while I massaged her butt with my 
cock, which was about to burst through my pants. (My cock 
couldn't tell one young Asian girl from another, either, 
but it wasn't interested in their looks.) 

Her voice faltered, but she kept talking. I reached into 
the front of her baggy warm-up pants and tickled her twat 
through a pair of lacy panties. She covered the receiver 
and closed her legs and said, "Stop!" 

She might as well have been speaking Chinese. 

I pressed her panties against her cunt, then stroked her 
clit, which I could feel through the thin material. Her 
shoulders rose over a huge breath. 

"Yes, just arrange it," she said rapidly into the phone. 
"You know the numbers. I'll be there by eight, right, 
okay, right, we'll have oatmeal or something, I don't 
care, right, I gotta go, okay, bye." 

She hung up the phone and I dislodged my hand from her 
pants. 

"You're terrible," she said with a thread of laughter in 
her words. She wiggled and pulled at the front of her 
pants. "Make me all sticky like that." 

"Yeah, but it got you off the phone and I'm dying of 
thirst. Is there anything to drink in your room? All I've 
got is warm water and no ice." 

"There's a refrigerator," she said. "No alcohol, but you 
can find something." 

Her "room" was bigger than most expensive apartments I'd 
been in. There was a full living room suite with two 
couches and arm chairs covered in ritzy-looking gold 
fabric; an entertainment center with TV, VCR, stereo, 
computer, printer; a full bar with empty shelves and 
stools in front for six people; a kitchenette and a 
mahogany dinette set with padded chairs upholstered in 
maroon splashed with black diamond designs; a bedroom 
with a bed the size of Delaware and part of Maryland, 
dressers, a walk-in closet, a private full bath, and a 
twelve-inch television hanging in the corner. It would be 
a wonderful place to live year-round if you could make 
the $28,000-a-month rent. 

We finished the tour and I downed the last of a chilled 
bottle of Avian. Michelle had wanted to show me around 
because she thought I'd be interested; obviously none of 
this impressed her. Now she was staring up at me with her 
big brown eyes, silently asking me to kiss her. 

Which I did, and her lips and tongue slopped against mine 
like the body of a drunk who'd just stepped off a curb 
she didn't realize was there. Michelle was a polished 
kisser for her age. We slipped tongues and licked lips 
for a long time, then she drew away and said, "I'm about 
to lose my boyfriend." 

"Kissing can do that to you." 

"I'm serious." 

"How come you're about to lose him?" 

"We've dated for three years but he's getting irritated 
with me, I think." She crossed to one of the couches, 
plopped down, and pulled a pillow over her lap. 

"What do you do that irritates him?" I said, and sat in 
an armchair across from her. 

"I told him about this fantasy I have. I said it involved 
spanking and he got all weirded out. Well, I didn't want 
to tell him any more and risk embarrassing myself 
further." 

"There's more to your fantasy than the spanking?" 

"Oh yeah, a lot more." She flapped the chest of her pink 
jacket. "A whole lot more, but Kevin's just pretty 
straight-laced, I guess. He's studying accounting at 
UCLA." 

"Do you think your fantasy is embarrassing?" 

"To me it's not. To someone else, I guess it could be." 

"For what it's worth, I can promise you that it wouldn't 
embarrass me, whatever it is, and I'd love to act it out 
with you." 

"Really?" She slid out to the edge of the couch. "You'd 
be better in it than Kevin would." 

"How come?" 

"Because there's a part that perfectly fits someone 
older--not that you're old, but Kevin looks about 
sixteen." 

"Have you ever done this fantasy with anyone?" 

She shook her head. "It's just my special secret since I 
was about twelve. Kevin's been my only real boyfriend, 
and we didn't have sex until I was 18, so I haven't 
really had a lot of opportunity. Anyways, I'm so busy 
flying here and flying there, time just slips away from 
me." 

I loved listening to her talk. She pronounced her words 
without a hint of whatever Asian nationality she belonged 
to, and she talked intelligently, almost as if she were 
writing thoughtfully. She obviously had a superior 
intellect, and I knew all about what effect brains could 
have on a woman's fantasy life. 

"Do you think about it when you masturbate?" 

"It's all I think about then." She paused. "It puts me in 
a state that, well, I just get crazy. Crazy! Now that I 
have my own place to live, I have to guard against 
getting too carried away with it when I'm at home alone. 
It's really an obsession." 

"You masturbate a lot?" 

"As much as possible. At least three or four times a 
month. I don't do it in the showers or bathrooms when I'm 
touring or anything. I have to be in a nice safe place 
and all alone." 

"Do you have orgasms?" 

"Oh, my God. If other women's orgasms are fireworks, mine 
are Armageddon." 

Well, I was good to go for the apocalypse; I've always 
been attracted to finales. "Are you going to tell me 
about it, or do I have to find out the hard way?" 

"Better than that, I'll let you read it. I've written a 
little scenario down and I keep adding to it and revising 
it. I'll be right back." 

She whirled off the couch and trotted to the bedroom. A 
minute later she returned, holding a Macy's shopping bag 
by its cloth handles in one hand, a floppy computer disk 
in the other. "I keep it on disk so I can have it with me 
when I travel. Let me make a hard copy," she said. 

"While you're doing that, I'll visit the bathroom. That 
water ran right through me." 

If her hotel suite was larger than most expensive 
apartments I'd been in, the bathroom was bigger than some 
of the more economic ones I'd seen. While I peed, I 
noticed in the mirror a tiny red-sequined outfit hanging 
on the door behind me. I flushed the toilet and had a 
closer look at the garment. It was really no more than a 
one-piece swimsuit, only with a short feathery skirt in 
sheer red sewn at the bottom. I lifted the skirt and 
placed my fingers against the crotch, which had a heavy 
double lining on the inside. This must be the one she'd 
skated in this afternoon, or maybe it was laid out for 
tomorrow. I brought the small stretchy crotch to my face 
and breathed deeply.

No, this was the one she'd worn today. Her scent was 
faint, but frightfully fragrant. Some flowery aroma 
fought with her girl-smell, and the combination 
mesmerized me. Turning the crotch inside out, I stroked 
the soft tan lining that had been pressed tightly against 
her cunt while she skated and danced and jumped. I 
imagined the lining stretching over her slit when she 
kicked a leg around or leapt through the air like a 
gazelle. 

I gave my erection a few seconds to calm down, then went 
back to the living room. 

Michelle was seated in front of the computer and an ink-
jet printer was whirring and clacking. She took three 
sheets of paper from the printer tray, fanned them, blew 
on them, tested the ink with her thumb, then folded them 
in thirds, the way one does a letter. 

"You're sure you want to do this?" she said. "Like you 
said before, you're sure you won't be embarrassed?" 

"Scout's honor," I said, holding up the two fingers which 
had grazed the crotch of her skating costume. 

"I'm asking because I don't want us to talk about it 
while we're doing it. That would spoil it. It has to seem 
real or I'd just rather not do it with anyone. I have 
everything you'll need right here." She shook the 
shopping bag. "I really hope this will be okay with you. 
I'm pretty nervous." 

Nervous? The three-time U.S. Figure Skating Champion? The 
girl who had thrilled the world in Lillihammer? I was the 
one who was nervous; in fact, I was buzzing. And she 
wanted to know if this was okay with me? I'm in a 
luxurious hotel suite with Michelle Kwan and she's about 
to let me in on a secret fantasy to which she masturbates 
like a wild woman and she wants to know if this will be 
okay with me? 

"This will be the best night of your life," I said, and 
reached for the sheets of paper. 

"No, dress first," she said, and handed me the Macy's 
bag, which weighed about ten pounds "Then read." She sat 
the document on the armchair. 

"What's in here?" I said, hefting the bag. "A suit of 
armor?" 

"I'll be in the bedroom. I'll know when you're ready." 
She wound past the bar, where she took a liter bottle of 
water from the refrigerator, then disappeared though the 
kitchenette. 

When she was gone, I opened the shopping bag and took out 
its contents. A silver hard hat, like a construction 
worker wears. A red-checked flannel shirt with a cigar, 
unwrapped, in the pocket. A tool belt with hammer, tape 
measure, carpenter's pencil, and six-inch plane. I was 
confused. Did she have a fantasy of meeting one of the 
Village People? If that was the case, she should have 
loved running in the circles of her male skating 
colleagues, who were just as queer as the disco group, 
only dressed a lot better. 

I put everything on. The hard hat fit perfectly, but the 
shirt's sleeves were a bit long. I fixed this by rolling 
them up to my elbows, a nice touch, I thought. I stood 
there with the tool belt dragging at my waist and read 
the three pages of single-space type, the text of which 
she'd divided into Act I, Act II and Act III. 

When I finished reading I was sweating and shivering. 
She'd spelled it out step by step and it was an idea 
she'd obviously put a lot of frenzied nights into 
developing. I didn't know how she had the presence of 
mind to skate with all this in the back of her mind. 

In addition to the general outline of what should take 
place between us, she had supplied me with a two-column 
word list. The left column was titled "DO NOT SAY", the 
right, "USE A LOT". 

Words under "DO NOT SAY" included vagina, cunt, pussy, 
crack, hole, twat, box, slit, gash, beaver, and various 
compounds using many of these with "hole", such as "cunt-
hole", "pussy-hole" and "twat-hole". Below the word 
"fuck-hole" in this column, she'd scribbled in red ink: 
"Say this and you go home!" 

Well, so much for all my favorite words. However, in the 
smaller right-hand column under "USE A LOT", she'd come 
up with some pretty interesting replacements. 

Chi-chi. Pee-pee. Down there. Thingy (she underlined the 
"i.e." and wrote: "Don't say 'thing.') That was all in 
that column, and she wrote that I could use these 
liberally, as frequently as I wanted and at my 
discretion. I felt like I'd been enrolled in Richard 
Simmons' Deal-A-Meal program. 

A second two-column list instructed me on how I could and 
how I could not refer to my penis, were I to choose to. 
"Penis words are not as important as Thingy words," she 
wrote. 

Stricken were dick, hard-on, cock, prick, rod, pecker, 
schlong, tallywhacker, snatch-banger, sausage roll, dip 
stick, love gun, the Hammer of Atlas (where did she come 
up with these?), and "anything else that sounds crude." 

The "USE A LOT" column for dick words included just 
three: boner, member, and head. Okay, Richard, I'm game. 
Ever since my daughter was born I've ballooned into the 
size of a swimming pool. I just can't stop eating . . . 
please help me! 

I re-read several complicated paragraphs to make sure I 
had them straight. A p.s. at the end of the last page 
said I could keep the note with me for reference if 
necessary, preferably to be reviewed between acts. It was 
signed, Love, Michelle. 

To start things, I was to leave the room, go out in the 
hall, then knock on the door. I guessed that would be 
okay, dressed as I was. If anybody in the hallway saw me 
they'd just assume I was there to fix the toilet. 
Michelle had written: 

"Our door is always locked. It's locked because you tell 
me to keep it that way while you're at work. And I almost 
always do what you say." 

And why shouldn't she? I was her father, after all, and 
she was only ten. 

In the hall, a man in a slick gray suit looked at me as 
he fiddled with his key two doors down. 

"Here to fix the shitter," I said, and he nodded and went 
into his room. 

When she opened the door on my fifth knock, I thought she 
was someone else. The heavy clown-like makeup was gone, 
replaced with just enough highlights to show off her 
naturally pretty features. She had changed into a blue-
and-white-striped little girl's dress that didn't quite 
reach her knees. The garment's short sleeves were puffed 
around her open arms. A four-inch white bow was sewn at 
the elastic waist. She wore white knee socks and little 
black buckle shoes. All jewelry was gone. 

"Oh, Daddy!" She raced into my arms and hugged my neck, 
pulling me down to her. 

Okay, here goes, I thought, and said, "Now, now, 
Michelle. You're too old for that. Why don't you run and 
get Daddy a beer while I sit down and read the paper." 

Hey, that wasn't too bad. I could get to like this acting 
stuff. 

A Chicago Tribune and an ashtray had appeared on the 
coffee table. I sat down my lunch pail, removed my tool 
belt, and headed to a big soft easy chair, complete with 
footstool. 

Michelle came skipping out of the kitchen with a freshly 
opened can of Diet Coke. "Here's your beer, Daddy." 

She sat the can on an end table. 

"I was a very good girl today," she said, twisting coyly 
back and forth in front of me. My acting might have been 
good, but hers could have won her an Academy Award. 

Following the lead of her note, I said, "And have you 
kept your hands off yourself while I was gone?" 

"Oh, yes, Daddy. You said that touching my chi-chi was 
very bad, so I never do it." 

"Did you make dinner?" 

"Yes. Chicken and rice and green veggies. Mmmm." 

Yecch, I thought, but it sounded better than that pizza. 
"Did you clean your room?" 

Her fingers rose to her lips and her eyes looked 
sideways. "Ooops." 

"Don't tell me you forgot to clean your room!" I said 
angrily. 

"I'm sorry, Daddy," she cried, her hands pressing in 
supplication against her chest. "I got busy and I 
forgot." 

"You have been playing with your... thingy, haven't you." 

"No, I haven't. Honest." 

"Come over here." 

She stepped up to my chair and I grabbed her right hand, 
according to instructions, and sniffed it. It actually 
smelled like her cunt--I mean her thingy. 

"Ah-haaaa! You have been a bad girl," I bellowed. "I can 
smell your chi-chi all over your fingers. You know what 
happens to bad girls who touch themselves down there, 
don't you?" 

"They have to have a spanking so they won't be bad and 
play with their little thingies anymore, right?" 

"That's right, Michelle." I moved over to a straight 
chair. "Now lay down on my lap." 

She eased herself onto the tops of my thighs. I would 
have been surprised if she weighed eighty-five pounds. 

The back of her dress draped sexily across her full butt. 
She was rubbing her thighs together, sending residual 
shockwaves into my dick--I mean boner. 

"Are you going to spank my in my panties, or on my bare 
bottom?" she squeaked. 

Was I supposed to have an answer? I didn't remember 
reading that I was going to have to choose one or the 
other. 

"This time on your panties, but if you keep acting up I'm 
going to have to paddle your bare bottom, and if you 
won't behave after that, I'll be forced to use the belt." 

"No! Not the belt! I'll behave, I'll behave," she cried. 

I lifted the back of her dress and stared at a pair of 
white panties with tiny bluebirds flying here and there. 
She was damn small, but her butt was round with muscle 
and it jiggled each time she shifted on my lap. 

I brought my hand down on her ass. 

"Oooooooh!" 

And again. 

"Ooooooouch!" 

It sounded like she said "Shit" under her breath. I'd hit 
her pretty hard, like she'd written for me to. 

I whacked her again. 

"Oh Daddy, I'll behave, I'll behave, Daddy, I'll be 
good!" 

"And one to grow on," I said, and whacked her bottom as 
hard as I could with my palm. 

"Oooooh, oooooh, that hurts!" She flailed her arms and 
covered her butt with both her hands. "No more, I'll be 
good, I promise, I promise!" 

"All right, then," I said, trying to feed a little Jake 
Stedman into my act. I stood and she tumbled onto the 
floor with a thump. 

She sat there looking up at me, her thighs open just 
enough for me to see a little of her... thingy. I wanted 
to fuck her so badly I feared I may have to visit the 
bathroom for a quick jack-off session, since she didn't 
seem in any hurry to get to the part of the skit where 
I'd have a chance to have her that way. 

"Get up, now, and go do your homework." 

"Yes, Daddy." Her eyes were wet. She'd been crying. 

At the dining room table she opened an actual elementary 
school math book. With what looked to be an actual 
elementary school pencil, she began doing sums on a piece 
of white line paper--wide-ruled, not college-ruled. 

"Daddy, I got my report card today," she said cheerfully. 
Her left hand was between her legs, not in a sexual 
manner, but in a gesture of nervousness and excitability. 
Her knees slapped together under the table. She was 
chewing the tip of her pencil. 

My boner was about to blast off and I knew I looked 
ridiculous standing there with such an obvious hard-on, 
but what else could I do? It wasn't going to go away by 
talking about report cards. 

"Well, let me have a look," I said gruffly, and took the 
cigar from my pocket, stuck it in my mouth, didn't light 
it, and over she skipped with what looked like, for all 
intents and purposes, an actual elementary school report 
card. The front of the pale green card said, Sugar Hill 
Elementary School.

"Where Learning Always Comes First!"

First-quarter Report Card

Michelle L. Kwan, grade 5

Teacher: Mrs. Johnson, Room 4



I opened the folded card and on the inside were columns 
of grades and letter marks just like a real report card. 
I knew it wasn't one from her past school days because 
the paper was brand new. 

The grades and marks were as follows: English B

Math D

Social Studies C+

History F

Science D+

The letter marks for behavior were worse:

Helpfulness U

Cleanliness U

Cooperation U

Neatness U

School Spirit U

Below were explanations:

O-Outstanding AA-Above Average A-Average 

B-Below Average U-Unsatisfactory 

Finally, Mrs. Johnson's remarks in blue ink: 

Michelle is a troublemaker and will not pay attention to 
her lessons. Half the time she spends playing with her 
thingy when she should be listening to me. What is needed 
is some good old-fashioned parental guidance. Cordially, 
Mrs. Johnson 



I had to suppress a laugh. "You got an F in history?" I 
shouted. She cringed. "And a D in math and a D-plus in 
science?" 

She shied away from me like as scared dog. "I'm sorry, 
Daddy. I tried real hard." 

"And a string of Unsatisfactories?" 

"I didn't mean to--" 

"And 'playing with her thingy when she should be 
listening to me'?" 

"I'll try harder from now on, really, I promise," she 
cried. 

"Trying isn't good enough. You know what happens to 
little girls who play with their thingies in class, don't 
you?" 

As I said this I prayed she wouldn't come off with 
something smart, like, "They can't get into a good 
college?", because I'd break character and laugh. 

"They have to be punished," Michelle said, a look of fear 
widening on her troubled face. 

"That's right." I went back to the spanking chair. 

She got ready to climb on my lap, but I stopped her. "No, 
this time, you pull your panties down." 

"But you'll see my chi-chi," she moaned. 

"Daddy won't look," I said. "Daddy's only interested in 
your behind." 

She'd cautioned me in the letter not to be too 
predatorial in the early stages. I was so excited, I was 
about to become a full-blown rapist. 

She reached beneath her dress, being careful not to 
reveal any private parts, and shoved her panties to her 
knees. Then she got on my lap. 

I lifted her dress and exposed two lovely ass cheeks, 
small and round and still slightly red at the edges from 
my last punishment. 

"Please don't do it hard, Daddy," she wailed. "I'll get 
better grades next time." 

I spanked her right cheek. 

"Pleeeeeease! I'll be smarter, I'll be smarter!" 

I wound up and gave her a succession of six swats, which 
made her weep and wail and jerk around on my lap and 
finally flip herself right off onto the floor with a 
pretty good thud for eighty-five pounds. She turned over 
on her back. Her knees flew together and she lay there 
crying into her hands. 

In her note she included a code word, "Fila"--I assumed 
that referred to the sportswear manufacturer--that either 
of us could say to stop whatever was going on at the 
time. I didn't hear anything in her sobs that sounded 
like "Fila". 

"Now get back up and do your homework," I told her. 

She struggled into her panties without showing me as much 
as a sliver of her crotch. She'd probably practiced that 
maneuver. Then she stood up, sniffing, and wiped at her 
streaming eyes. 

"I have to go to the bathroom first," she said. 

Now we were getting somewhere. This was a major point in 
her narrative, and would lead us into more intense, and 
for me, satisfying, situations. 

As close as she was to her character, it was impossible 
to miss the steady rise and fall of her shoulders under 
the straps and high neckline of her dress. She just kept 
staring at me, waiting for me to respond. I had to think 
for a moment because I remembered she was explicit in her 
notes about how this part was to be handled. 

"You'll do nothing of the sort until your punishment is 
over," I said. 

"But you already spanked me," she said. "What other 
punishment must I have?" 

"You'll stand in the corner for ten minutes." 

"But, Daddy, I can't! I have to go to the bathroom!" 

"You heard me, young lady. No, off you go." 

She slinked past me to a corner of the living room. 

"And I don't want you disturbing me while I read the 
sports until your ten minutes are up." 

I sat in the spanking chair and found the sports section 
of the Chicago Tribune. In the bottom left corner of the 
front page was a photo of Michelle herself on the United 
Center ice wearing a skin-tight body suit and leg 
warmers. The headline read: Road to the Nationals runs 
through Chicago this weekend. 

I was two paragraphs into the story when she left the 
corner and approached me. "Daddy, let me go to the 
bathroom, and I'll spend twenty minutes in the corner," 
she pleaded. She squeezed herself through the front of 
her dress. 

"What did I say about disturbing me?" 

"But, but--" 

"No buts. Now you've gotten yourself into more trouble. 
You stand right there and don't move." 

I went to the bedroom, and lying on the bed just where 
her note said it would be was a thick brown man's belt 
with a dingy brass buckle. 

She was horrified upon my return with the torture 
instrument. She still had one hand in her crotch, and the 
other was a fist at her mouth. 

"Oh, no, not the belt!" she howled. 

I jerked her by the arm onto my lap. She screamed. I 
hoped the walls were sound-proof. Wouldn't be good to 
have the cops bust in on me getting ready to assault 
Michelle Kwan with a big old leather belt. 

"No Daddy, no daddy, no daddy!" 

"You disobeyed me and that was a very naughty thing to 
do." 

I jerked up her dress and had to force my hand from 
running itself over her butt. I folded the belt in half, 
raised it, hesitated as she wiggled, then brought it down 
as hard as she had told me to in her note. Which was 
pretty hard. 

The leather make a ferocious pop against her panties and 
Michelle made a ferocious, strangled cry. 

"No, please--" 

I whacked her again. Her right cheek glowed flame-red. 

"I'm gonna pee, let me up, pleeeeease!" 

Again I whistled the strap down on her butt. I felt 
warmth spreading on my pants leg. 

"Did you just wet your panties?" I said. 

"I'm sorry, but you hurt me so bad I couldn't help it," 
she wailed. 

A little more pee drained on my leg. She ground her 
thighs together and stopped it. 

"Well, now you've been really bad," I said, and forced 
her to stand up. The spot on my pants was about three 
inches across. "If you don't want to get this strap on 
your bare bottom, I suggest you return to your corner 
without another word." 

"But I still have to pee sooooooo bad!" 

"I said not another word." 

"Yes, Daddy," she said, and walked, thighs scraping, to 
her place in the corner. 

I picked my paper up and pretended not to watch as she 
grimaced in dire distress, once again pressing her dress 
into her crotch, this time with both hands. The cotton 
fabric around her hands had turned dark from contact with 
her wet panties. 

Her hands moved stealthily against her. I could just make 
out the rhythmic squeezing of the tops of her thighs. 

She continued this way for three minutes, then she began 
sobbing again. The front of her dress was slowly soaking 
up pee and streamers of shiny liquid were drizzling down 
her legs, through her knee socks, and into her shoes. Her 
eyes were closed. Her shoulders convulsed. She sucked in 
huge breaths through her nose and blew them out again.

Damn if she wasn't having an orgasm, as silently as she 
could, all by herself, as she peed all over the place. 
She was obviously trying to hide it from me, or 
pretending to. I wondered if this was part of the game--
if Daddy was supposed to know she was having an orgasm, 
or if the real Michelle had worked herself up to such a 
pitch that when she started wetting her panties, coming 
was the only option. 

I guessed it was the latter. Nothing in her note 
mentioned having an orgasm at this point, although she 
did mention other situations that would happen later 
during which I was to give her a reasonable amount of 
time to come before we moved on to something else. 

By the time the last dribbles of pee fell from the hem of 
her dress and her orgasm had subsided, a foot-wide 
section of the carpet beneath her was thoroughly soaked, 
as was the entire front of her dress, her hands, her 
legs, her socks, and her little black shoes. 

She opened her eyes and caught me looking at her. "I 
peed, Daddy," was all she said, and she said it very 
quietly. 

"You are a very bad girl, Michelle," I said. "Daddy's 
very disappointed in you." 

"I know." She hung her head in shame and clenched her wet 
hands in front of her stomach. "I'm sorry." 

"Well, go get cleaned up and changed. It's time for us to 
have supper, anyway." 

She walked past me, not looking in my eyes. She'd been a 
bad girl and she knew it. 

While she was gone I consulted her note. Everything had 
gone according to plan during Act I, except, I saw as I 
re-read the scene, I was supposed to have made her pull 
up her dress after she'd first wet herself on my lap so I 
could make a visual inspection of her damp panties. Oh 
well, she'd been rehearsing this play for years; I only 
got the script this evening. 

I read through Act II as a blow dryer hummed in the 
bathroom. This act was going to be a difficult one for 
me, for it would bring me into excruciatingly close 
proximity to the infamous "thingy," and I would still not 
be allowed to do anything with it.

Fortunately the scene was short, and with any luck I'd be 
able to hold out until Act III, when I'd not only get the 
whole enchilada, but also the rice, beans, tortillas, 
salsa, two Margaritas, holy-moly, or whatever that 
Mexican ice cream shit was called, a peppermint candy 
with my check, a look down the waitress's blouse, the 
cook's wife's phone number, and a free cab ride home from 
the restaurant. And maybe a couple of tickets to the 
Bulls game. 

The blow dryer shut off after five minutes and I heard 
the bathroom door open. She was finished. I took my place 
at the head of the table in the dining room, drumming my 
fingers on the glossy mahogany finish, waiting for my 
daughter. 

She waltzed through the kitchenette and into the dining 
room, wearing a solid yellow knit blouse, very tight, and 
yet showing only the most subtle hint of her breasts. She 
probably had them pasted down with a sports bras designed 
for a girl half her size... assuming there was a girl 
half her size who could conceivably need a sports bra.

Whatever she'd done, it had worked, and her chest didn't 
look a day over ten years old. Her blouse was tucked into 
a belted plaid skirt with green, navy blue, and yellow in 
its patterns. It didn't even go to the middle of her 
thighs. She wore navy blue knee socks and what looked 
like the same shiny black shoes, only they were dry now. 

I was breathlessly enchanted. 

"Are you hungry, Daddy?" she asked, dragging a three-step 
stool from between the sink counter and the wall. 

"I'm always hungry after a hard day of work building 
houses and listening to the Blackhawks on the radio," I 
said in a manly voice. "Carpentry is man's work, for real 
men." That was about all I was supposed to say on the 
subject, but I added, "Not like these faggot figure 
skaters you see pictures of in the papers all the time." 

She turned away quickly and I was sure I saw her 
shoulders jerk with a laugh. There was still a smile in 
her words when she said, "Can you hold my stool while I 
get us some plates way up on this top shelf here?" 

"Of course," I said, and got out of my chair. "Cooking is 
woman's work, and I'll be glad to help you accomplish it. 
For a woman, cooking should be her passion, her religion-
-and you need a little religion in your life as bad as 
you need fattening up." 

She climbed up the stool and I looked straight ahead at 
the round globes of her ass under her skirt. She now wore 
a pair of skin-tight yellow cotton panties. They were 
faded, and frayed at the legs. They might have been ones 
she'd actually worn when she was ten, for all I knew. 
Between the slim gap of her upper thighs, I saw the 
lovely curve of her thingy. The climb had caused the 
crack of her ass to swallow a bit of her panties. 

She reached up with a grunt toward a six-inch space 
between the ceiling and the cabinet, and her skirt raised 
farther. 

"Daddy, hold me so I don't fall," she said. 

I fitted my palms against her ass cheeks. They were solid 
from years of skating and whatever else you did to get 
solid cheeks. My boner, pressing into the stool handle, 
became a dangerous solid reality. I prayed it wouldn't 
break though my pants and swipe the stool out from under 
her. 

She wiggled her hips and her cheeks jiggled in my hands. 
I was dizzy for her. I wanted to touch her chi-chi so bad 
it was making my mouth dry. 

"I think I can see the plates, but they're way back 
there," she said, girlish enthusiasm springing from her 
voice. She looked down at me. "I'm not showing anything 
under my skirt, am I?" 

"Oh, no. Can't see a thing. You want me to get up there 
and find them?" 

She was silent. I wasn't supposed to have said that. 

"I'll just stand on the counter so I can reach farther," 
she said, and stepped up on the sink ledge. Now I had a 
new and even more dizzying angle up the back of her 
skirt. 

"Why did you put the plates so far back on top of the 
cabinets, Daddy?" she said. 

"Cause us men are taller than you women. We don't have a 
problem reaching that far." 

"I'm going to have to climb," she said. "Keep holding 
onto me so I don't fall." 

Letting go never crossed my mind, let me tell you. 

She brought her right leg up and placed her foot on the 
bottom cabinet shelf. Then she hoisted herself up, 
gripping the top rim of the cabinet for support, and with 
perfect control, raised her left leg all the way up to 
the space on top of the cabinet. She looked like 
Spiderman climbing a building. Her gyrations were 
ridiculous and her position totally unnecessary to 
complete her task. Her legs were severely spread, her 
gaping crotch not six inches from my face. A spread like 
that would badly injure most girls. Michelle probably 
didn't even feel it. 

"Michelle, do you realize that I can see your pee-pee 
now?" I said. 

"Oh, Daddy, don't look at it," she squealed. "It's nasty 
and dirty and smelly!" 

"Daddy'll try not to look, honey." 

I could just make out her opening behind the thin crotch 
of her panties. I could see the outline of a pair of fat, 
puffy lips hanging out of her. I held her ass cheeks in 
my hand and hoped she'd find those damn plates quickly. 
My boner was leaking like a broken faucet in my 
underwear. I feared this would be the first time in my 
life I would come without some sort of direct 
stimulation. 

"Honey, have you found the plates yet?" 

"You know what Daddy? They're not here!" 

"What, somebody moved the plates?" 

"I guess I'll have to look under the sink where we keep 
the pots and pans," she said, and Spiderman began her 
descent. 

That little episode was designed to do nothing more than 
tease me to the brink of collapse. And the next episode, 
I shuddered to think, as I imagined it, was probably 
designed to push me as far over that brink as possible 
without letting me fall. 

She got off the stool, slid it back between the counter 
and the wall, then went down on her hands and knees. The 
toes of her shoes clacked the tile. She opened a floor 
cabinet and peered inside. 

"It's awful dark in there," she said, and leaned into the 
space. 

Naturally, the back of her skirt rose and out popped her 
ass. This time, however, her thighs were close together, 
causing her thingy to squeeze out the back of them. Since 
she couldn't see me, I moved in, hovering into position 
as close as I could to her backside without actually 
shoving my nose up her ass. It was like looking at a 
picture through the world's first Chi-chi-cam.

Her thighs were firm and smooth--not a trace of hair 
anywhere around her pee-pee. Her puffy lips were 
perfectly framed in the position she was in, and looking 
closely I could see a slightly darker shade of panty 
where the fabric constricted over her opening. Maybe all 
this was driving her crazy too, only she was a better 
actress. Girls can hide it from eyes, but not from Chi-
chi-cams. 

"I got 'em," she said triumphantly and wedged back out of 
the cabinet space with a package of paper plates in her 
hands. "See, Daddy, I found the plates!" 

She served us a make-believe dinner of chicken, rice and 
vegetables, that we pretended to eat. She ate slowly; I 
wolfed mine down. Watching her move her mouth and lips 
over fake food nearly killed me. 

"Ouch!" she screamed and covered her left thigh. "I 
dropped my knife on my leg. Oooh, it hurts, Daddy, it 
hurts. Make it feel better, make my boo-boo feel better!" 

"You've got to be more careful, Michelle," I told her. 
"But if you want, Daddy will kiss it and make it all 
better." 

"Oh, good." Michelle pushed my plate aside, then moved my 
imaginary glass, my imaginary fork, my imaginary napkin 
and the imaginary platter of chicken, which she said 
should always go near the man, off to the side. She made 
a quick glance at my boner, which was not imaginary, then 
smoothed her skirt over her lap. 

"Will you hurry up, already?" I said, wishing I had an 
imaginary cunt to stick my dick into. 

She wiggled up onto the table in front of me and spread 
her thighs, as if she were ready to be entered at that 
moment. 

She pointed to the spot where the "knife" had poked her. 
"See, it's right up there by my thingy. But don't look at 
my thingy, only my boo-boo." 

"Right, boo-boo, no thingy, you got it," I said, and 
moved in on her. Her panties were clearly wet now. A long 
oval spot covered the fabric over the entire opening of 
her chi-chi. Her knees quivered as I got closer to her 
boo-boo, which was about two inches from her chi-chi. (By 
this point I didn't know if I felt more like Chester the 
Molester or Barney the fucking Dinosaur, but I didn't 
really give a shit.)

There was no way I could kiss as high on her leg as she'd 
indicated she was hurt without some part of my head 
touching her crotch, but apparently she would deal with 
that. I went down toward her center and the left side of 
my head gently pressed her firm crotch and I almost came 
right there. I gave her leg a kiss and sat back up 
quickly. 

"Okay, all better," I said. "Time for bed." 

"But we're not through with dinner!" 

"I said time for bed. Daddy'll clean off the table and 
put all this stuff away later." There were two empty 
paper plates on the table. 

"Will you read me a bedtime story?" she asked, hopping 
off the table, kicking me in the ribs in the process. 

"Sure. You find a book and I'll read it to you." 

"Oh, good!" She gave me a peck on the cheek then turned 
and ran off toward the bedroom. "Give me fifteen minutes 
to get ready." 

"Fifteen min--" I started, but she was gone. Fifteen 
fucking minutes. I couldn't last fifteen minutes. I had 
to get to the bathroom and give myself at least a little 
relief. I knew I'd still be ready for her when story-time 
began because a man can only expel so much semen during a 
given orgasm. I had enough bubbling in me to last until 
the Nationals in October. 

Her bedroom door was closed when I slipped into the 
bathroom. She'd said she wanted fifteen minutes. I'd need 
about two. 

I dropped my pants and shorts and my boner popped to 
attention. Honestly, I think it could have knocked that 
stool out from under her had it burst through my pants. I 
removed her skating uniform from its hanger, turned the 
whole thing inside-out, and laid the crotch in my cupped 
my hand. Then I started sliding the soft tan crotch 
liner, where her chi--fuck it, where her fucking tight 
little nineteen-year-old Asian little girl's cunt had 
sweltered and sweated, along the underside of my (fuck 
"boner" too) cock.

I imagined her dreamy sexy twat squeezed by the same 
fabric that was tickling my raging dick, and that was it. 
I gripped her crotch around my cock, then pumped madly, 
and just before I came, I moved the crotch into the line 
of fire, and squirted onto the center of it. Another gush 
splattered and semen spread into the liner that had 
absorbed her own juices, preventing them from 
accidentally escaping and being seen by twenty-million 
television fans when she lifted her leg during a routine 
and bared her crotch to the world. 

It was glorious, and I stood there for the longest time 
squeezing and milking the last vestiges of my come into 
her crotch, feeling the other side of it grow wet against 
my hand, thinking of what she was doing right now. 

I turned her uniform right-side-out again and hung it 
back on its hanger. I pushed my cock, which was still at 
90 percent, down into my pants, then slowly zipped them. 
Like the proverbial old soldier, that bad boy just wasn't 
going to die. I wanted her more than ever. 

When I left the bathroom I heard her from the other side 
of the bedroom door. "You can come in, Daddy, I'm already 
in bed." 

She looked like a child lying there. She had the covers 
pulled up to her neck. I could see below the blanket that 
her little feet were crossed. 

Resting on her stomach was the book "Little Red Riding 
Hood." Beside the bed was a chair for me. 

"So it's Little Red Riding Hood, is it?" I said, and sat 
down gingerly, still managing to crank my boner in ways 
not intended for that apparatus. 

"It's my favorite bedtime story," Michelle said, and gave 
a yawn that was obviously fake. 

I started reading. Just being close to her gave me a 
thrill. Imagining what was lurking under that blanket 
made me stumble over my words a couple of times. 
Fortunately, it was a pretty easy book. 

I made it to page four, and that was enough. She hadn't 
specified how much of the book I was supposed to read, 
just that I should read enough to make the experience 
feel legitimate. 

I closed the book, and said, "I just keep thinking about 
your boo-boo. Maybe I should take another look at it." 

"You think so?" she said, here eyes wide. "You think it 
could get infected or something?" 

"Maybe. There might have been salmonella on that chicken, 
and you were using your knife to cut it. Why don't you 
pull down the covers and let me have a look." 

"I don't know..." 

"Now, Michelle, what are Daddies for? I said pull down 
the covers and let me have a look." 

She inched her blanket and sheet down. She had changed 
into a pink Winnie the Pooh long-sleeve shirt that, I 
found out once the covers were at her knees, went all the 
way to the middle of her thighs. It was one of the most 
erotic garments I'd ever seen. 

"It makes me nervous when you look at me like that down 
there," she said softly. 

"Then Daddy won't look. But he has to touch you to see if 
your boo-boo is still swollen. Earlier, it looked like 
someone had attacked you with a tire iron." 

She never saw that one coming and burst into laugher 
before she could stop herself. She raked the pillow out 
from under her head and smashed it down on her face. I 
thought I heard her muffled voice say, "Bastard!" 

That wasn't nice, making a veiled crack about the night 
Tonya Harding's husband and a gang of accomplices used a 
tire iron to cripple the knee of figure skater Nancy 
Kerrigan, and it wasn't fair, and I wished I hadn't done 
it (though I'm glad Harding's boys had cracked the Mr. 
Ed-looking Massachusetts bitch--I only wish they'd also 
shoved the tire iron up her stinking cunt and ripped out 
her womb so she wouldn't be able to go on and pollute the 
world with kids as ugly as her), but I was walking the 
tension tightrope and levity seemed like the only way to 
get across it. 

After a few seconds, she shoved her pillow back behind 
her head. She was recovered. 

"I'll check your boo-boo now," I said, and placed my hand 
on her knee. "Here?" 

She opened her legs a little. "Higher." 

My hand was now just below the hem of her shirt. I gave 
her thigh a little squeeze. "Is this where it is?" 

"No, Daddy, go higher, higher." 

I slipped my hand under her shirt and moved it up her 
silky thigh, quarter-inch by quarter-inch. "Am I there?" 

"Almost," she said. Her voice was trembling. 

My hand reached the spot where in the kitchen she'd 
indicated she'd hurt herself, but I moved it a little 
farther along. The heat from her crotch touched my hand. 

"No, that's too far," she said, keeping her eyes on mine. 
More quietly, she repeated, "Daddy, that's too far." 

"I don't feel anything up here," I said. 

"That's cause you passed it, you have to--" 

She gasped when my pinky grazed the crotch of her 
underwear. "No, Daddy, don't touch my pee-pee. Go back 
down to my boo-boo." 

"It's no different than when you touch it," I pointed 
out. 

She squeezed her legs shut, trapping my hand. "But that's 
different. You're not supposed to touch me down there. 
They told me that in school." 

"Fuck school." 

Her eyes flew open, but before she could get too pissed 
at my temporary break in character (she'd never actually 
written that I couldn't say "fuck", but if I couldn't say 
"prick", I supposed I shouldn't have flown off with the 
F-word), I pressed two fingers into her cunt. 

"Oooooh, Daddy, don't..." 

"Does it feel like this when you touch your pee-pee?" 

"No, it doesn't feel like that... not like that at all.
I think you better stop now." 

This was one of the points in her note at which she'd 
said to keep playing with her and don't change anything 
until she had a chance to come. 

Her panties were embarrassingly wet, and I wanted to see 
what they looked like. I lifted her shirt and gazed down 
at a pair of small virgin-white panties. My fingers 
weren't doing the growing wet spot a bit of good. 

"Don't uncover me, don't look at me," she cried. "You're 
not supposed to be doing this!" 

"Open your legs," I commanded. "I'm your Daddy and you're 
my daughter. I'm a Blackhawks fan and you got a bunch of 
U's on your report card." 

"No, I don't want to." 

"Michelle, open your legs so Daddy can touch your thingy 
under your panties." 

"No! I won't!" 

"I said open your legs, you little whore or I'm going to 
stick my boner right up your skinny butt!" 

She spread her legs and began to cry. "Don't put it in my 
butt," she whimpered. 

"Then don't fight me when I just want to feel your 
thingy." 

"Okay, I won't." 

She watched me push my hand into her panties, then she 
started to cry. "Oh, Daddy, this is bad, it's nasty." 

My palm slid over a mound shaved completely bald and onto 
a pair of lips fatter than I'd imagined from only having 
seen them through her underwear with the Chi-chi-cam. She 
was sopping wet, and hot like an engine. I rubbed slow 
circles on her clit and her thighs slapped together and 
her breath blew out and four seconds later she came in a 
drastic series of snorts and wheezes and bucks and 
lunges. It was nice. Real nice. And quite acrobatic. If 
I'd had a scoring card I would have held up a 9.5 at 
least. 

"Daddy, Daddy, I couldn't help it," she moaned when she 
had finished. "What happened to me? Why did it feel like 
that?" 

"It's because you're a woman now. Hence, get out of those 
dirty panties." 

She grabbed hold of my hands. "No, you can't look at me 
with my panties off! I don't care how dirty and wet and 
sloppy they are around my little pee pee!" 

I paused, my boner screaming at me, as I tried to 
remember what she'd written about this part. I was pretty 
sure I had it right. I gave her a hard, sudden slap on 
the side of her head, making sure to miss her face and 
her ear, which could be permanently damaged. She couldn't 
go on television tomorrow with a banged up face, she'd 
written in her note. 

She screamed and cried and kicked her legs up and down on 
the bed. "That hurt!" she wailed. "You hurt me, Daddy!" 

"I'll do a lot more than that if you don't shut up!" I 
warned my raving daughter. 

I pulled her panties down over her crotch and exposed her 
bald, puffy slit. Her knees clamped together. I could 
barely make out a set of lips the color of red wine 
bulging from the apex of her thighs. I yanked her panties 
down her legs and off over her protesting feet. 

Then I stripped off my pants and climbed on top of her, 
straddling her legs. My dick head poked her. 

"Oh, why are you doing this, Daddy? I'm too young to do 
this! I'm too little. Your big boner will cut me in 
half!" 

I pressed a knee between her legs. She grunted, but 
opened for me. I brought my other knee in. Her legs were 
glued to the outside of my thighs, pressing me. Tears 
streamed down her face. It was all horribly real. 

"Now hold still and Daddy is going to stick his boner 
inside your thingy." 

She whimpered, but no longer protested. She bit her 
bottom lip and squinted, like a little girl about to get 
a shot from her doctor. 

Before entering her, which I desperately needed to do, I 
pushed her shirt up and exposed two tiny teacup breasts 
with small erect nipples, colored as her pussy lips were 
like red wine. I kneaded her tits harshly, making her 
scream once more and cry and thrash about beneath me. My 
dick head pressed against her slick lips. 

"Daddy, it's happening, it's happening again down there, 
in my pee-pee--oh, help, help me daddy, it's happening--" 

She reached down for my dick and used it like a dildo 
against her clit as she came in juicing spasms. I didn't 
know if this signaled the end of our roles, but I was 
going to fuck her right now regardless of what else she 
might have planned. I was finished. 

As it turned out, she was finished, too. I slid past her 
thick lips and into the fire of her cunt. We built a pace 
comfortable for both of us and I was able to hold off for 
quite a while, thanks to my quickie with her skating 
uniform. By the time I was ready to come, she had had two 
more orgasms. 

Mine cramped my stomach it hit me so hard, and during it, 
as I just gushed and poured, I saw stars that reminded me 
of the lights of the Chicago skyline. I could hear her 
saying that she couldn't take any more and that Daddy was 
killing her. I guessed she hadn't entirely left her 
character after all. 

We lay side by side for thirty minutes, barely moving, 
catching our breath, touching each other's faces, 
wiggling our legs, scratching an occasional itch. My 
thigh was draped between her tiny legs and stuffed up 
against her sloppy bald cunt. Each time I moved that 
thigh she shivered, and said, "Daddy, don't." 

It was past eleven o'clock when she finally got up to use 
the bathroom. She returned, still completely nude, 
holding her skating costume. And that's when she finally 
turned completely back into Michelle Kwan, the short, 
skinny figure skater the world knew and loved. 

"You wouldn't happen to know about this, would you?" she 
said, squinting in the light I'd just turned on. 

"Well, it's like this--" 

"Never mind. You realize that will stain, permanently. 
That's Persian Silk in the middle where you did it. This 
outfit cost me four thousand dollars." 

"I never even thought. Can I write you a check? I will 
deduct the price of four Tums, though." 

She dropped on the bed and lay flat on her back. "I'm 
only teasing," she said. "I'll keep it as a souvenir of 
our special night." She kissed me on the cheek. "The best 
night of my whole entire life." 

I clicked off the bedside lamp, and in the moonlight 
slicing through a gap in the curtains her breasts were 
firm and tight, her nipples taught. Across her stomach, 
subtle ridges of muscle protruded, the result of who knew 
how many sit ups and crunches the crazy girl probably did 
every day. She was the consummate little athlete with the 
perfect body for her chosen profession. 

"Tell me," I said, stroking her stomach, "did I do okay?" 

"What do you mean? Of course you did okay. You were 
brilliant, considering you had no time to prepare. And 
you're very sexy, you play a very seductive father. You 
did make a few little slips, but I loved every minute of 
it, including that thing you said in the kitchen about 
the male figure skaters, and the one in here about Nancy. 
I lost it on that one." 

"So, are a lot of them queer?" 

"The male skaters?" 

"Yeah." 

"Most." 

"Brian Boitano?" 

"Three-dollar bill." 

I laughed. "Scottie Hamilton?" 

"Four-dollar bill and a glass of white wine." 

"Greg Louganis?" "He was a swimmer, but he's dead." 

When the hell did Greg Louganis die? I thought, and said, 
"Philippe Candeloria?" 

"He's not gay, he just doesn't take baths." She rested 
her hand on mine and pressed it into her belly, like an 
expectant mother showing the expectant father where the 
baby is kicking. "Forget all those guys. Now you tell me-
-did you have a good time?" 

"More than I ever realized was possible after that shitty 
Chicago pizza earlier." 

She slapped my arm. "Don't clown around. Did you think 
I'm strange and foolish?" 

"For wanting to do it with your dad? No, not really." 

"I don't want to do it with my real dad," she said. "I'm 
just so turned on by the idea of doing it with a generic 
dad. Anyway, my real dad's a much more classy and 
charming man than you were tonight." 

"Oh, thanks a lot." 

"But no man on the earth could do to me what you did, or 
make me feel what I felt. Will you still be in Chicago 
tomorrow night? Win or lose I should be back here by ten 
o'clock at the latest, and I'll tell my parents I have an 
engagement and we could go to a concert--" 

"I have to leave on a plane very early tomorrow morning." 

She stared longingly into my eyes. "Then maybe I'll see 
you at one of my competitions one of these days, huh?" 

"I hope so," I said. "I'd love to watch your beauty in 
person on the ice." 

"You're so sweet," she said, and those were the last 
words she ever spoke to me. In ten seconds she was 
asleep. 

Flying out of O'Hare the next morning, I looked down on 
the snow and twinkling lights around the United Center. I 
spotted the red roof of the Hyatt-Regency and blew a kiss 
in that direction. 

I traced the outline of her folded fantasy instructions 
through my pants pocket. "Sleep tight, Michelle," I 
whispered. "Daddy's still got a lot of work to do." 

THE END

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It's okay to *READ* stories about unprotected sex with
others outside a monogamous relationship. But it isn't
okay to *HAVE* unprotected sex with people other than
a trusted partner. You only have one body per lifetime,
so take good care of it!
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Kristen's collection - Celebrity Directory