But how had she started thinking of Brute? Daddy was the one she wanted to think of. He kept her turned on. Brute could only be a distraction. In the year-and-a-half since she had begun masturbating, she had thought of almost nothing but daddy, even though cousin Ronald had once tried to play with her body in a way that she had to confess afterward was pretty exciting.

Not that she had let him, of course. She had slapped his hand and indeed carried on very strictly with him. Quite angry with his forwardness – on the surface, at least – she had let him know in no uncertain terms that it was shameful and that her father would probably kill him if he ever found out, and what a disgrace it was for their families, and so on.

Yet secretly she had felt a terrible illicit excitement when Ronald tried to cup his hand over her sweater-taut breast. He certainly didn't get much for his trouble, mostly just the point of her brassiere, and a flare of anger from her.

Yet there was this undeniably deep, squirmy feeling in her loins afterwards, and her breath had come unnaturally hot in the lengthy silence that lasted all the way home. What if he had actually tried to – had actually gotten his hand under her brassiere and managed to feel her heaving young breasts, squeezing those firm, full mounds in his strong eager hands? What if his fingers had actually touched her swollen nipples? How would that have felt?

There was a sharp intake of breath from the young girl on the bed as her fingers now moved with increasing urgency within the hot wet folds of her pussy. The nipples of her breasts seemed to be tingling with heat, and the entire triangle of her loins was fluttering and full of butterflies racing around like mad. Her throbbing breasts rose and fell irregularly, alive with emotion. She saw her daddy, large as life leaning over her, moving down onto her open body, grating his dark hairy chest