Michelle Kwan – Adult fantasies

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.”