Rent-A-Daughter – Part I
A 12-year-old suggests her pedophile neighbor hire her to find out what having a daughter is like.
She’s a twelve-year-old girl with the idea to make some extra money by giving childless people the experience of raising a daughter. He’s a socially isolated comic-book fan and pedophile, who thinks he can play by the rules of ‘Look, but don’t Touch’. The relationship they forge won’t be like either of them anticipated…
It was the biggest moral lapse in my life and yet, at the same time, one of the most fulfilling experiences I’ve ever had. It made me a criminal, but more importantly, it made me a father, and it all started with ‘Rent-A-Daughter’.
The day I first heard those words seemed to start out like any ordinary day. I was working a little extra, by choice, in my home office, which was the second bedroom of my two bedroom apartment. I worked from home, making a decent living at a job that let me set my own hours. I considered it a great job, about the only good thing I had going for me.
I’m not making excuses, but when this happened, it was a pretty low period in my life.
I was unhappy, and had been for a while. I knew something big was missing from my life. Most obviously, I was lonely. I hadn’t had a date in three years, and a girlfriend since I got out of college, six years ago. My dating life, when it was active, was not very notable either… my last girlfriend cheated on me and it pretty much wrecked me, making me too shy to try again. I guess subconsciously I didn’t want to let somebody get close enough to hurt me.
I wasn’t just romantically isolated either. I didn’t have many friends aside from the distant, more-or-less anonymous types you make on Internet fan-boards. My parents were both dead, my dad of a heart attack when I was eighteen, and my mom eight years ago, while I was still in college. Both hit me hard, but I knew my dad wasn’t healthy. Mom’s death was so sudden and senseless. She was murdered in a robbery by a meth head, who was later killed by police. In the comics this would have made me into a grim vigilante, patrolling the streets looking for justice, but in reality, the whole event just left a hole that my ambition slowly drained out of. I pulled away from people, gradually, just by not putting myself out there. Sometimes I didn’t blame my girlfriend for cheating, she said it was because I was emotionally unavailable and she might have been right. It was a wonder I was hired at all when I got out of school, but I had good marks and my company had an aggressive recruiter.
My life pretty much consisted of work, TV, weekly trips to the comic store, less frequent trips to the movies, occasionally out to eat, and every couple months an old friend would ring up and we might do something or a cousin would remember me and invite me over for a holiday. On those occasions, I was good at pretending I was more-or-less normal. I hadn’t fallen apart on the outside, and could fake having a life for some time before retreating back to my fortress of solitude where I just… continued. It was like I was living in some kind of stasis bubble, outside time passed, but me, inside my little apartment, I was stuck, frozen.
Then one day, a knock at the door punctured that bubble. When I heard it, I put my work on hold, extricated myself from my work area, and crossed into the living room, through the kitchen, and to the door.
I peeked through the peephole first, it was only prudent. Through it, I saw a little blonde girl, probably eleven or twelve years old. She made a face at the peephole, an exaggerated grin that made me smile despite myself.
I knew her, but not by name. She lived in the apartment across from me. My place was situated at the very end of the hall, just around a corner. There were only two apartments around that corner, one was mine, and the other for the last few years was rented by her parents.
We never exchanged more than a simple hello, and more often polite nods of recognition instead. The mom was kind of cute, the girl was adorable, and the dad had a shaven head and looked perpetually tired, but other than that I didn’t really know them, and I certainly didn’t have much to say to them.
But I didn’t have anything against them either, so I opened the door, thinking she might need something. “Hi,” she said. She crossed one foot behind the other, seeming a little shy.
“Hi,” I said. We stood quietly like that for a few seconds, as I looked at her. She came up to chest height on me, and was very slender, almost waif-like. I bet I could almost have closed my hands, fingers meshed, around her thigh. The girl wore a long-sleeved sweater-jacket over top of a thin white shirt, with blue slacks. Like I said, she was cute, although a little oddly so. Her ears stuck out, there was a spot on one cheek like a lone, dark freckle, and when she smiled there was a little gap between her two front teeth, and one of her others seemed just a little crooked. On an adult face, these might be a flaws, but in her case, it just somehow made her all the cuter.
“Hello,” she said, greeting me again.
“Hello,” I repeated. I curled my lip into a little half smile. “Did you need something?” I asked. “Did you get locked out or something?”
“No, I wanted to talk to you. Can I come in?”
I had an instinctive, knee-jerk rush of fear. If I invited a young girl into my apartment, even if it was completely innocent, it might look the wrong way… and my thoughts were not completely innocent.
To my secret shame, I’d always found little girls attractive. I’d guess most people would call me a pedophile. Technically, I’d say I’m more of a hebephile, because my attraction peaks in the early years of puberty, although I’ve had some impure thoughts about girls who haven’t quite reached puberty too. Most people don’t draw the distinction, though, so why not go with the pedophile label? Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t some child molester. I’d never touched a young girl inappropriately. All my girlfriends were around my own age, and I could get sexually attracted to fully-grown women, easily… but there was something about the sweetness of a little girl combined with innocence, and a tight little body on the cusp of womanhood that penetrated many of my most hidden, and therefore strongest, fantasies. I never once intended them to be anything more than an exercise of the imagination. The last thing I wanted was to hurt anybody, and trying to make a move on a girl would inevitably hurt them. But occasionally, I did things I knew I shouldn’t just because I could later use them to build much better fantasies. When your only sexual outlet is masturbation, and has been for years, you tend to really focus on it, zeroing in on the most effective fantasies and anything that can be used to help forge a new one is valuable.
So I let her in. I never wanted anything to happen, but I thought I could imagine later that night that something did and have a particularly intense masturbation session. In reality, I intended that our interaction would be totally innocent. I even left the door open. I moved into the kitchen to give her room to enter without crowding her. “Do you want a drink? I think I have some Coke.”
She shook her head, but then seemed to reconsider. “Okay.”
I pulled one from the fridge and handed it to her. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I ever learned your name.”
“It’s Madeline. Most people call me Maddy.” The can opened with a slight hiss as she cracked the tab.
“So, what can I do for you, Maddy?”
“I was just thinking, Mister…” she trailed off, inviting me to supply my name.
“Brown. But you can call me James, if you want.” Yes, my name is James Brown. I’ve heard all the jokes. Maddy was probably too young to even know who he was, so she didn’t make any.
“That’s okay Mister Brown.” She giggled a little. “Anyway, I was just thinking how it’s odd that we’ve lived next to each other almost half my life and I’ve never been inside.”
“I’m sure it’s pretty much like your place,” I said. I didn’t want to give her too much leeway in my apartment, although she had the kind of face you just wanted to give in to. I bet her parents spoiled her.
“Actually, I wanted to ask your advice about something. Me and my dad got into a fight because I wanted an iPhone and some designer clothes and he said it was too expensive. He said that he couldn’t afford to get me what I wanted, just what I needed, and that if I wanted anything extra I should save up or find a way to make my own money.”
“I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but he’s probably right about that.”
She frowned a little. “I know. That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to start my own business.”
I raised an eyebrow. That was unexpected. “So…” I ventured, “you want to sell me some cookies or something?” It was the only way I could think of that little girls made money, although that was for school fundraisers.
“No, silly.” She put a finger up to her lips. “You know, that’s a good idea too. But I had an idea for a business that I don’t think anybody’s ever done before.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Do you have children?”
“No,” I said.
“Do you wish you did?”
I thought about it. “I guess so.” I probably wouldn’t have admitted it to somebody my own age, but kids had a way of disarming me. I did want a kid of my own, even though I knew I should never allow myself to have one because of the fantasies I harbored. I never really considered it a possibility, either, given my lack of the usual prerequisite of some kind of social life.
“My dad says nobody’s ever complete until they have a child of their own to love,” she said.
“He might be right about that, I don’t know.”
“That’s why I thought of my business. I call it ‘Rent-A-Daughter’. I rent myself out to people without kids so they can find out what it’s like.”
Rent-A-Daughter. There was a moment of terrible weakness when I thought of all sorts of ways somebody with my inclinations could exploit a situation like that, or what they might do if they had a real daughter. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea,” I said.
She thrust her lip out in a cute little pout. “Why not?”
“Have you talked to your parents about this?”
“No, I haven’t told anyone my idea yet. I wanted to ask someone without kids about it first. Why?”
“I don’t think your Mom and Dad would let you, first of all.” How would I explain to somebody so innocent looking that there were people who might take advantage of her? I went for a softer lie. “They’d be terribly jealous. Nobody would want anybody else parenting their child, even only rented. Especially a cute little daughter like you.”
She thought about what I’d said, then decided, “I guess I could lie to them. I could just tell them I’m doing something else. Or not tell them at all. They don’t get home until 6 usually and I had planned to do this for 2 hours after school every day anyway.” I glanced at the clock. It was 3:30. She must have just got out of school.
That moment of weakness returned, only now it was much longer than a moment. Whole seconds passed while I thought of things somebody could do with that amount of time alone with a girl like Maddy. A fatherly massage, a fatherly bath, fatherly kisses, maybe some landing in unfatherly places. I opened the fridge again and pretended to look inside, so that my erection wouldn’t be visible.
“I think I’d have to tell them.” That’s what I should have said. That’s what a responsible person would have said. What I actually said was, “Also, people who might WANT to rent a daughter would be too ashamed that they have to. They’d be terrified of anybody finding out. See, most people without kids like to pretend they don’t want any. Even when they do.” I convinced myself that I was still trying to dissuade her. “I know I’d be scared of somebody finding out.”
“Oh, I can be very professional,” she said. “I won’t tell a soul. It would be like lawyer-client confidentiality.” It seemed like she had to pause over the syllables of that last word to pronounce it right.
“Forever?” I asked. “No matter what?”
“Swear to God,” she said.
“How much were you thinking of charging?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted. “I used to get paid $10 an hour for watching Mrs. Marshall’s grandson. I was thinking something like $15 an hour.”
$15 an hour for a little nymphet to hang around my apartment and pretend to be my daughter. I did a quick calculation in my head. $30 a day, 5 days a week. $150 a week was a hefty price, but I made a good living and had a lot of savings.
I wasn’t thinking of having sex with her… or, at least, I wasn’t intending at that moment to have sex with her. But I thought there was plenty of technically legal but extremely shady things I might be able to do that would remain in my memories and serve as fap fodder for years to come… and it would keep her out of the hands of anybody really dangerous. “I might be interested, but if I was going to try it out I’d have to be your only client.”
“Really?” she asked excitedly. She practically jumped up and down. “You’d want to hire me?”
“I have always wondered what it would be like to have a daughter,” I said. “But only if you promised never to tell a soul anything that goes on.”
“Oh, I swear,” she said, and put one hand up in the air, the other over her heart. “I won’t tell anybody, no matter what.”
“Okay. I’d be willing to try it out. When do you want to start?”
“We can start right now,” she said. She closed the still open door, and slipped off her shoes. She wore light blue socks. “What do you want me to call you?” she asked. “Dad? Daddy? Papa? Father? Sir?” She broke into a little story. “One of my friends calls her dad Sir. I think that’s totally weird. But I’m your daughter, so you get to set the rules.”
Oh, how easy she was making it. It was a good thing I didn’t intend to be a sexual predator, just a sexual browser. “I think Sir’s a little weird too,” I said. “Just call me Daddy.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she said. “What do you want to do first?”
What I wanted to do was pull out my dick and ask my new daughter if she would suck it. But I knew that was wrong, even for a fantasy, so I settled for a much more tame, saner choice… letting her decide. “I don’t know. I’ve never had a daughter before. What would you normally be doing if you were home?”
“Watching TV probably.”
I waved her towards the living room area.
She went over there and immediately set herself down on my couch, grabbing for the remote control on one arm. “You’ve got a nice TV, Mister… I mean, Daddy.” It was a flatscreen TV, pretty big screen. What money I did spend tends to go to gadgets. I actually did have both an iPhone and an iPad when this happened. I used the latter more, because I didn’t have many people to call.
“Thanks,” I said, and sat down beside her, on the other end of the couch, afraid to get too close. There was space for another person, maybe two, between us. She turned the TV to the Disney channel, and began watching, laughing along with the lame jokes. I just sat there, pretending to watch TV, but mostly looking at her. At the first commercial break, she took off her sweater top and set it aside. Beneath, her top was thin, with just spaghetti straps, and clung to her body tightly. She had almost a flat chest, only very tiny bumps denting the shirt.
Inside me a war began to rage, between the pervert who wanted to push the envelope, tell her how sexy she looked to me and hope she responded, and the decent man, who was screaming at me to do the right thing and call off the plan, send her home. The winner was the unlikely coward, who would neither side completely with one extreme or the other, nor was willing to make any move at all except watch.
I finally found it in me to say something. “So, um, how old are you, anyway?” She looked like she was just at the earliest stages of puberty, but that wasn’t really much of a guide these days, there’s such a wide range. Judging on her body I might have guessed she could be anywhere from ten to a very undeveloped 14, but considering how naïve she seemed to be about her business idea, I had to guess it was probably towards the lower end. Unless she was trying to seduce me. The thought thrilled me but I knew how unlikely it was and so discarded it as impossible.
“Twelve,” she said simply, and went back to looking at the screen. I watched Maddy. I realized that I was very likely going to be paying a young girl to sit and watch TV at my house for a few hours a day while I stared at her from the other end of the couch, and somehow I didn’t even mind.
I let her watch until the end of the show, and would have let her watch another, but she said, “I hate this show,” and looked at me. “Hey, why don’t you show me around our apartment?”
“Sure,” I said. I got to my feet. “But there’s not much to show.” Since she’d already seen the living room and kitchen area, I took her down the hall, let her have a quick look at the bathroom, then my room.
My room was sparsely furnished. I subscribed to the philosophy that the bedroom was for sleeping in. So, since I had two bedrooms, I chose the smallest one to actually sleep in. It had a bed, dresser, a TV on top of the dresser in case I couldn’t sleep or wanted to whack off to porn, and a little night table.
“Don’t you ever make your bed?” Maddy asked, gently chiding me. “You live like a slob.” She was right. There were clothes all over the floor, and the bed was a mess, but then I wasn’t expecting company.
“I guess when you live alone long enough,” I admitted, “you kind of fall into some bad habits.”
She looked at me tilting her head a little like she was a miniature psychiatrist, analyzing me. “Are you lonely?” she asked seriously.
I don’t have my normal defenses up against kids, so I answered honestly, automatically. “I guess I am.”
“Well, not anymore,” she told me, grabbing my hand. “You’ve got a daughter now. Come on, what else.” She dragged me along to the last room in my apartment, aside from closets, my office.
“This is my work room, and library,” I explained. It was a bigger room, with a top of the line computer, another TV, and lots of shelves full of books, both regular and comic books in long boxes. There were a number of comic-related figures lining the shelves as well.
I loved them when I was a kid, but I really got into comics again after my girlfriend left me. It just seemed to be a nice refuge away from the world, escaping into childhood. I told myself that I wasn’t extremely geeky like many people were, that I didn’t have a collector mentality, I just got books I enjoyed and a few toys to liven up a dreary workplace. But let’s be honest, I was a comic geek, and a big one.
“So, where’s my room?” she asked, and I stammered, looking for some way to answer, while she grinned at my discomfort. “I’m just teasing you.” She stepped inside my work room. “What do you do? For your job?”
“I’m a database administrator. It’s a little complicated. Basically I just make sure everything runs smoothly for my company’s computers, so they can keep track of all their customer records, things like that.”
“Hmm,” she said. “Sounds boring.”
“It can be,” I agreed. There were interesting aspects, but I didn’t think a child would appreciate those subtleties. “But I can do almost everything from here, and unless there’s an emergency I only have to work when I want to.” Emergencies weren’t very common… every once in a while there’d be a power failure or something else that caused some inconsistent data that needed to be fixed right away, and a little more often somebody in the company screwed up and, not knowing how to correct it, forced me to do it. The most serious thing I had to deal with was when somebody pulled off a SQL injection attack because our web designer cut corners.
“Cool.” She took another long look around the room, eyes roaming over the shelves. “You sure have a lot of superhero stuff, Daddy,” Madeline said.
“Yeah. I guess I just always liked them,” I explained. I moved to one of the shelves and pulled off a comic, flipping through it. “I started reading comics when I was a kid, my dad was into them and he passed some of his old ones on to me. I always used to imagine passing on my love of the comics to my kids, too.” It was one of many non-sexual fantasies I had involving kids, right up there with playing catch with a son, or taking either gender out camping.
“Then let’s do that,” Maddy said.
“You can teach me why you love comics. If that’s what you really want. You’re not going to keep paying me if I just sit on the couch and be myself, right?” I shrugged at her, because I probably would, but she took it as agreement. “So if there’s anything you wanted to do with a daughter, just tell me and I’ll do it.”
Oh, if only she knew how tempting it was to take her up on that offer, all the way. As it was, an evil little thought formed in my head. “Well, I guess I always wanted to have my little girl, or little boy, cuddled up and reading a comic with me on my lap.” There was nothing wrong with a girl sitting on a man’s lap, I told myself, if he didn’t try to grope her or anything.
“We can do that. Choose one.”
There were so many options, I didn’t know where to begin. “Are there any characters you like?” I asked. “From cartoons or movies?”
“I watched the X-Men movies,” she told me. “And some of the Spider-Man cartoons. But just pick something you like.”
I looked through my shelves, settled on a hardcover collection of the beginning of Ultimate Spider-Man. It started from the beginning so I thought it would be easy to get into, and I now liked that version more than the regular universe. Ever since the original Peter Parker sold his marriage to the devil, I couldn’t read his adventures in the regular Marvel universe without wanting to smack him. But Ultimate Spidey, he was untainted, and a hell of a lot of fun.
We walked back to the living room, I sat down and held the book, and she climbed up on my lap. I smelled coconut from her hair, and the pressure of her body as she awkwardly tried to find a comfortable way to sit with me was incredibly comfortable and uncomfortable all at once. As much as I tried not to, I started to get hard. Luckily, her butt had pinned my dick pointing down, so that she settled back, she wasn’t getting poked directly with it. If she felt a lump, she gave no sign, just opened the book and began looking. I held her very loosely with my arms.
She read through the book, rather quickly, although for some reason she started out reading the panels and word balloons in the wrong order, right to left instead of left to right. All the while she sat on my lap, and I just watched. Surprisingly, my boner started to fade with time and it just felt incredibly right to have a child in my arms. My heart ached a little knowing it wasn’t real.
Madeline wasn’t a quiet, passive reader, she asked questions all the time, mostly about things she considered “wrong” from how she remembered it in the cartoon. I tried to explain as best as I could without spoiling the story. It was a good thing I didn’t start her off with an X-Men book. That would have been impossible. Her head would have exploded.
“That was pretty cool,” she said when she reached the last page, then began flipping through the cover gallery idly. “Do you have more?”
“Plenty. You can read any of them you like,” I offered. It was kind of nice having the chance to share the hobby with someone that wasn’t an internet shut-in like me.
“I always thought guys who liked comics were all mega-dorks like Comic Book Guy. You know, on the Simpsons?”
I grimaced. “Thanks,” I said sarcastically.
She giggled a bit. “No, I mean it’s just you’re not like that at all. You’re kind of cool.”
I felt a little better. “Comics do attract a lot of people who are… mega-dorks. But there are lots of normal people, too, and loads of people go see comic movies. I mean, I guess it is kind of a geeky hobby to be in to…”
“It’s okay,” Maddy said brightly. “I have some geeky hobbies too.” She didn’t elaborate, though, her face just brightened up with a new thought. “Do you ever go to those conventions I see on TV?”
“I’ve gone to a few,” I admitted, embarrassed. When you’re not a very social person, that counts as a social event. I met up with a few people I knew from forums, we all had dinner together and a few drinks at the bar, I picked up a few exclusive statues, and for a while felt like something other than a recluse.
“Do you dress up?” she asked excitedly. “Like as Spider-Man or Wolverine or something?”
“Oh no,” I said. “Guys just look stupid when they dress up like that. Girls can do it.” With barely a pause to consider what I was about to say, I said, “If I had a daughter I thought I might have her dress up as a comic characters.”
“But you do have a daughter,” she said, and then added, “Daddy.”
I felt an anticipatory tingle go through me, my heart beating slightly faster. “Would you want to dress up?”
“I’m your daughter,” she said again. “I have to dress how you want me to, right?”
My breath caught in my throat. Images of her, dressed up in the most obscene little outfits, crotchless garters, see-through nighties, leather bondage outfits flashed through my head. I tried to put a stop to it. “No, I wouldn’t make my daughter wear anything she didn’t want to,” I told her. But the fantasy was too strong, so I added, “But if you wanted to, I might get some clothes I’d like to see my daughter in.” Nothing smutty, I told myself. “Not just superhero stuff, regular clothes too.”
“Sure. It’ll be fun. Like I’m modeling.”
“I’ll need to know your measurements.” I knew nothing about sizes, and told her that, so I just told her I might decide to special order something and would need to measure her myself.
So, minutes later, I had my trembling hands on her chest, over her clothes, and with a measuring tape providing one extra layer of distance. Perfectly innocent, at least to her mind, but I doubt an adult would have been fooled. I was uncomfortably excited about the positions of my hands and I had to read the measurements twice before I could remember.
After I did her chest, I did her waist, and she undid her jeans and slid them down, just a bit, at my urging so I could get an accurate measurement. I saw a glimpse of her yellow panties. The other measurements weren’t nearly so exciting, but being able to touch her thrilled me in a way that scared me. I knew I was going down a dangerous road, because I didn’t really know how much control I’d have. “Okay, I think I have enough,” I finally told her. My mouth felt bone dry, but somehow my tongue managed to work. “I’ll come up with some ideas and maybe in a few days I’ll have something for you to wear.”
“Okay, Daddy,” she said with a smile. “I can’t wait.”
We spent a little more time together, watching TV, and then I realized it was time for her to go. I pulled out my wallet and paid her for her time. That felt wrong. It wasn’t the only part of those hours that felt wrong, but it was the only part where the feeling wasn’t combined with a perverse thrill. Yet I paid her and she took the money with a smile.
“See you tomorrow?” she said. I nodded dumbly.
After she was gone, I went into my bathroom and masturbated to the thought of my new, rented, daughter. I did it shamefully, but I did it all the same. I had to. Once I was done, I resolved firmly to put an end to any naughty stuff. It was wrong. It would only lead to pain for her, or jail for me, if not both. Either seemed intolerable for a little thrill. I jacked off a few more times that night playing with fantasies, but each time told myself that that’s all they’d be.
The next day, I tried my best to keep that firm resolve. When Madeline came over, we watched TV, I read comics with her, but I didn’t ask her to sit on my lap or try to cuddle directly with her, no matter how much I wanted to. The only contact we had was two chaste, fatherly hugs, one at the beginning of our time together, and one at the end, which included a kiss on her forehead. It probably helped that I masturbated just before schools let out, to unleash any pent up frustrations.
It was a Friday, so the next time I would see her, as my daughter, would be Monday. I was pretty proud of myself for my restraint, so I didn’t cancel our arrangement entirely as I’d thought about doing. As stupid as it seemed, she filled a hole in my life, the idea that I had a daughter who looked up to me and depended on me, or more fundamentally that I mattered to somebody, even if it was all just pretend.
I saw her once on Saturday, in the hall as I returned from a trip to the store to pick up milk for my breakfast coffee. She was walking down the hall with her grim-faced mother, going out somewhere. I smiled politely, but my smile was for her. She waved back. My heart fluttered a little, and I had a smile on my face for minutes after she was out of sight.
Shortly after that encounter, I was spending some time on the Internet and weakness struck me again. On an imageboard, I spotted a thread featuring underage girls around Maddy’s age. None were nude, but many were dressed and posed provocatively. I got aroused, and imagined them with Madeline’s face, which only made the arousal more intense. I remembered the measurements I’d taken of her, and my promise that I might dress her up with my own choice of clothes.
With those images in my mind, and no plans for the day, I soon found myself halfway around the city looking for something to dress Maddy up in. I had an inkling to shop far away from where I lived, to limit any chance somebody would recognize me and wonder why I was buying clothes for a little girl. I found a little plaza that contained a thrift shop and a few other places where clothes could be bought. Several hours of looking around later, I had a few outfits that I wanted to see her wear.
There was nothing technically obscene about the outfits, or they wouldn’t have been sold. If the dresses happened to be a little too short for the sizes Maddy gave me, well, that could be chalked up to an innocent mistake, couldn’t it?
By the time Monday had rolled around, I had flipped back to a desire to be responsible and moral, to not even risk anything that would lead to anything else. That lasted only a few minutes after Maddy arrived.
She had her schoolbag with her, slung over one shoulder, and a simple black T-shirt with High School Musical on it, and a pair of jeans. She smiled her disarming, slightly gap-toothed smile at me when I opened the door, and said, “Hi, Daddy.”
I let her in. “Hi, Maddy. How’re you?”
“Not bad. How are you?”
“Good. Have a good weekend?”
She looked towards the window, a far-away expression on her face, but only for a moment. “It was okay,” she said softly. Then, brightening, she asked, “Didja miss me?”
“You know what? I think I did,” I admitted. “I was actually thinking about you this weekend…”
She beamed, her bright smile lighting up the room with innocent joy. “You were?”
“Yeah, I was doing some shopping and I happened to see some outfits that I think are in your size…”
The smile broke into a grin. “You bought me clothes to try on?”
“Just while you’re here,” I said. “If you want.”
She changed in the bathroom, of course, with the door closed, but I hadn’t expected anything else. Even if I might have hoped for a private strip show, I still intended for this to be entirely innocent. If I was going to take advantage of her, it would be in the most minor way possible… hopefully so little she’d never realize that’s what happened.
I waited, my heart pounding in my chest, alternating between indulging in a fantasy and berating myself for what I was doing, until finally she emerged in the first outfit. It was simple, a shirt and shorts, but both were a little too small for her. The shirt clung tightly to her body and ended just below the belly button. As for the shorts, they made her thin legs look impossibly long, and it was hard to resist staring at them, imagining running my hands up along them.
Maddy herself seemed a little unsure as she stepped out. “It’s a little small I think,” she said, looking down.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I must not be very good at picking sizes.”
She smiled. “It’s okay, my dad… my real dad isn’t good at that either.”
“You do look very cute in it,” I assured her. “I almost want to get a picture.”
Her mouth opened into a grin, teeth flashing. “You can if you want. Dads have pictures of their daughters, right?”
I nodded. “Okay, just let me get my camera.” I had it on a nearby shelf, just hoping for this. I took a handful of pictures. There was nothing erotic about them, or even exploitative. They were, if anything, just cute. When I would later masturbate to those images, it was only to the bright, happy smile on her face, to imagine the smile was for me.
The next outfit was a black skirt and white top, looking a little like a school uniform, with stockings that ran up past her knee. Although it showed off far less skin than her last one, it was somehow more provocative. When I asked her to pose for pictures, I suggested she lean forward and blow a kiss to the camera.
I had two more outfits, but I only got her to try on one that day. It seemed to be extreme enough. This one was a short pink skirt and a top that was a much lighter shade of pink, almost white. Both were again too small for her, this time in particularly revealing ways. The skirt barely came down to the bottom of her ass, and the top left quite a bit of belly showing, including her navel. I could see she had an outie, like a literal button nestled in a little depression. The overall effect of this outfit was profoundly erotic. I guess some parents actually do dress their kids like that and see nothing wrong with it, but it looked to me like she was some kind of preteen hooker.
She didn’t seem to notice anything salacious about the outfit, and although I took pictures of her in it, I made sure they were innocent. Just standing straight, or sitting on the couch. The most risqué I got was one where she was lying on the couch, on her stomach. It was taken from behind, and so you could just barely see up her dress to the bottom of her white panties and the hint of buttocks extending out of the leg holes.
I didn’t pose her in that way, and didn’t intend to take that picture, but since it was the last outfit I gave to her, she stayed in it, and when I saw her lying on the couch like that, reading the next installment of Ultimate Spider-Man, I couldn’t resist.
The little fashion show turned me on of course, mostly the thought of the pictures and what I could do with them later, but I was able to keep my erection down through a force of will and instead just felt a sort of drunken giddiness. As if my better self was reacting against such impulses, the rest of our time together that day turned out remarkably normal and innocent. We read comics, talked about her day, played cards, and I helped her with her homework. I loved it all, and not just because of what she was wearing. In truth, I would have found it almost as satisfying if there was no fancy outfits at all.
The dirty little secret about pedophiles, I think, is that we really do love being around children, and not just for sexual reasons. You always see pedophiles in TV and movies, the ones who don’t just grab a kid and abuse them, as lurking menaces, being nice to kids in order to groom them for later molestation. If you believe the media, they act nice, but secretly, they’re monsters, wanting to destroy innocence. I’m sure there are some like that, but I bet there are many others like me, where the truth is stranger.
I genuinely like kids. Before I knew what sex was I liked playing with younger kids, and when I see a bored kid when visiting one of my relatives, my first instinct is to try and entertain them. I’d almost forgotten this part of me because I’d kept myself away from them for so long, but there’s just something about spending time with younger people that fills me with joy. If I could one day make these urges just disappear (something I prayed for back when I believed), I’d still be drawn to children just for their own qualities. I loved how you could read their emotions right off their faces, because they didn’t see a need to hide it or play games with how they feel. I loved their idealism, their unbridled enthusiasm for the things they loved. Maddy had eventually opened up to me about her self-identified geeky passion for archaeology and ancient civilizations, including lost ones like Atlantis, and in doing so, she made me love it too, a little. I also love that you can influence younger people, guide them, make a positive difference in their lives like you can’t do for someone who’s grown up and won’t let anybody in.
In truth, I don’t think I like kids because I have these sexual urges, but that I have sexual urges because I like them so much. Imagine someone that makes you happier just by just being with them. Now imagine that they also have physical qualities you find attractive. A beautiful, angelic face, the beginnings of a womanly form, combined with an awkward unawareness of their own beauty and a vulnerability that makes you want to do anything to protect them. Size, as well, I guess, in my case. I’ve always been attracted to petite women. Is it that unexpected that, even if they were a child, some part of you would instinctively consider the impossible, crazy idea that you could unite that happy feeling with your most powerful drive, sex? That you’d think about them sexually more than other, more socially acceptable alternatives? I don’t think so.
That doesn’t mean it’s ever right to act on it, but I don’t think most of us pedophiles are monsters for having the feelings, the thoughts. There are real monsters out there, certainly, ones who would just use a little kid like Maddy as a convenient hole, or thrive on ruining her, shattering that innocence. Those are the ones I thought of as dangerous pedophiles. I didn’t count myself in that category. I knew I wasn’t completely safe around children, but for different reasons. I couldn’t ever understand my urges completely, but what I did understand was that the danger wasn’t that I’d try to destroy a girl’s innocence to satisfy my sexual urges, but that I could delude myself into thinking that you could be innocently sexual, that if she trusted you, you could touch without hurting, or even somehow be helping. That’s what drove my interactions with Maddy. I loved being with her, and I thought that I wasn’t going to do anything sexual with her… I didn’t expect even to touch her in any inappropriate way.
I was wrong.
My behavior towards Madeline tended to vacillate… I’d push a little past the boundaries of propriety, like by getting her to dress provocatively and pose for pictures, or a too-long cuddle, and then I’d pull back and for a while afterwards I wouldn’t even touch her except for a brief hug, then I’d go back again. After I’d gotten her to dress up for me, I was good for a while. That last, unused outfit? I threw it away, deciding in one of my better moments that it was too much. It was sleepwear, something like a nightgown, but again too short for her, and I knew I shouldn’t try to get her to wear it.
But slowly my urges would creep back into the picture and I’d tell myself it was okay to get just a little bit naughty. So it was only after several more afternoons of strangely fulfilling pseudo-father-daughter interactions that I slipped again, when I got another package in the mail, something I’d ordered on the internet. Two, actually, but they arrived the same day and were for the same purpose.
When I opened it up and lay it out on my bed, I knew I was going to have to have Maddy dress up again, and to take more pictures. I started masturbating with an elaborate fantasy, of her putting the costume on, straddling me, and then pulling out my dick and practically raping me. That was a surprisingly common type of fantasy for me, by the way… not me manipulating a young girl into doing something, which I was sure would hurt her, but her taking the initiative and, wanting to experience something sexual, forcing the issue with me. That I could convince myself was her true desires, and that if I didn’t resist as much as I ought to, it was, if a sin, at least a more forgivable one.
In this particular fantasy, the costume itself played a role, where she took on the role she dressed up as, so I couldn’t resist, even if I wanted to. I was pinned by one hand of this delicate-seeming twelve-year old, and she pulled her panties to the side and told me she wanted me to be her first, she wanted to feel me inside her, for me to cum inside her.
As I stroked myself, I felt the panties… they weren’t part of the main outfit, but came in the second package, and the logo matched. The satiny material was so smooth, and although it was fresh and clean the thought occurred to me that she would be wearing them soon, and if I rubbed them around my cock as I jacked off, or even came inside them, that it would in some weird psychosexual way, be like I was cumming on her directly.
I didn’t do it, but I came very close, and weighed the possibilities of her noticing a stain before she put them on. Fear of that made me decide to avoid it… not that she might know what it was, which I doubted unless she was far more sexually experienced than she let on, but that I might have to explain what it was, and thus have to lie. Finally, I decided against it, dropped the panties on the bed and went into the bathroom to finish up in the toilet.
Afterwards, I felt pleased with my restraint, figuring that if I could restrain myself from that when so horny that I was about to cum, surely there’d be no way I’d let the situation get out of hand when Maddy next showed up.
The next day, I waited in eager anticipation as Maddy changed in the bathroom. Her face lit up when I showed her the outfit, like she always secretly wanted to dress up, but didn’t often get the chance. “I can’t exactly take you to a convention,” I said, “but at least we can do this.”
I looked forward to seeing her big reveal… even all sexual desire aside, I thought she was going to look cute as a button. Of course, the surprising erotic power of cuteness is part of the attraction of girls Madeline’s age. The pervert within me, though, was most curious about whether she’d wear the panties.
I presented them all as one outfit, in the hopes she might not suspect anything out of the ordinary, or if she did, that she might think it was an innocent mistake. For although the outfit was designed for a girl, not a woman, the underwear was virtually a thong. I’d carefully cut out the crotch piece that was built into the skirt to preserve a girl’s modesty, and didn’t think my alterations would be obvious… but my plans would be for nothing if she just decided to wear her own underwear.
“Ready?” she called from my bathroom. I assured her I was. She told me to go sit on the couch, and I complied. The door opened, but I couldn’t see her yet. Suddenly, her voice rang out. “Look, up in the sky… is it a bird? A plane?” She darted out of the bathroom in a leap that became a slide on my floors. “No, it’s Supergirl!” Then she broke out into a grin. “How do I look?”
She looked… like Supergirl. Red boots that came up to just below the knee, a blue top with that classic symbol proudly emblazoned on the front, and a red skirt and cape. Sure, it was not quite the traditional representation of Supergirl, who almost always looked like an older teen, and most Supergirls didn’t have such straight hair, or ears that stuck out a little, or a cute little tooth gap. But Supergirl must have been an awkward tween at some point in her life, and in a media filled with adaptations, relaunches and redesigns, not to mention alternate universes, it was close enough. After all, in the comics, Power Girl is just the Supergirl of another universe, despite the two characters having completely different body types. With all that, if you ask me, there was more than enough room for the little twelve-year-old Supergirl that posed happily in front of me.
“You look great,” I said, honestly, though when she tugged at her skirt as she turned from side to side, I couldn’t help but wish she would pull it up. When she made her entrance, the skirt bounced but not quite high enough to see about the panties, so the one big mystery of the outfit remained that way. “I should get some pictures, if that’s okay.”
Her grin widened. “Of course it is, Daddy.” While I got my camera, she added. “Of course, I don’t really know what kind of poses are good for Supergirl, I haven’t read anything with her in it.”
“I could get you some, if you want.” I was never a huge Supergirl fan, but I think I had a few issues of her most recent series, if only I could find them.
“Maybe later,” she said. “I’m still reading Spider-Man. Hey, is there a Spider-Girl?”
“Yeah, actually.” And a Spider-Woman, though I didn’t want to spoil her upcoming appearance in the Ultimate Spider-Man series she was reading. “I’m not sure there are any good costumes for her, though.” They certainly wouldn’t be very revealing.
“Hey, have Spider-Man and Supergirl ever met?”
“Different universes,” I said, trying hard not to roll my eyes. “Remember?”
“Oh, right. I keep forgetting which characters are in which. They should just combine them all into one.” She nodded at the camera. “So what kind of pose do you want me in?”
Bent over with her skirt pulled up. Standing on her head. Legs spread wide with her hand in her panties. I blinked, hard, to try and banish that line of thought as much as I could, and said, “I don’t know, hands on your hips?” Snap. “Now with one arm out like you’re flying.” I tried a few more poses, but they were all innocent… I was either unable to, or too timid to, suggest something that would get her skirt to fly up.
It took a few minutes for me to remember that there was a simpler, though less appealing, way of answering that question, and I excused myself to go to the washroom. There, piled neatly on the edge of the tub, were Madeline’s everyday clothes. The panties were sandwiched between the jeans on the bottom and the blouse on top, and they were red with white cartoon cat faces all over. If those were the panties she came in with, it meant that she was wearing the thong right then.
It also meant one more thing… I lifted the panties to my face and inhaled deeply. I’d done it before when she’d changed into underwear I’d provided, and the familiar scent permeated my whole body and made me feel like I was the one who had the power to fly. It’s hard to describe the actual aroma, there was certainly a good deal of the smell of sweat, but there was that something special in it. Maybe it was pheromones, or maybe it was just some shadow of the subconscious borne of the knowledge that it was next to her tight virgin pussy… although the effect was certainly stronger on the panties she wore the whole day. I’d surely smell the Supergirl panties after she left, but, as was the case of the other borrowed panties, the smell was usually less intense.
The smelling, and the mental pictures it provoked, were starting to stiffen my prick, so I quickly put the panties down, back on top of the jeans, and then carefully replaced the blouse on top, so that it seemed untouched. Then I flushed the toilet and washed my hands, and returned to my little Supergirl.