Archive of Our Own

Katie was twelve, and she knew that she deserved a daddy. Someone to step in and fill that gap. She acted out in school, but the authorities didn't know the half of what she really wanted. This problem ran deep, and for years now she had a strong sense of what would solve it. Here she was, barely into middle school, surrounded by annoying boys with little dicks and no experience at all—let alone adequate testosterone to match her freak. At eight, she had climbed into a twelve-year-old boy's lap and tried to get under the covers with him. She knew by then where that path could lead, but he hadn't had the courage to walk it with her. The opportunity had been wasted, but it had gone into her permanent record. Then, when she was barely ten years old—the record states—Katie frequently rode her bike and flashed her flat chest to random motorists. Well, maybe not that random: always male drivers, older men, cars full of them, hoping against hope that they might “rescue” her from her situation.

This behaviour didn't come out of nowhere, and it happened to be exactly what brought her under the supervision of a private social worker named Charles. Late twenties, strong and fit, with a girlfriend of his own and a track record of delivering just what certain little girls craved. With so many well-meaning forces arrayed against her, telling her that she shouldn't want what she wanted, that she definitely shouldn't get it, he appeared like a sympathetic angel sans the stumbling block of crowd-sourced morality. This was a proper man, at long last, there to listen without prejudice, there to arrive—neutrally—at what she needed. And with the right degree of privacy, he could supply it. Her biological dad was out of the picture. He'd always been a weak, wet-paper sort of man, barely worthy of the word. In other words, there was a father-shaped hole in her life, and Charles showed up like the first real candidate to fill it for her.

To fill something, anyway. She was all of twelve years old, as stated, but well-activated by her experiences and the culture around her. She knew what certain lucky girls at her middle school were already getting, and what was understood as a fact of life for the high school girls, too. Good dick. The best partner was a real man, twenties or older, with full-grown cock to really jam in that needy young cunt. No two ways about it—that little pussy was ready to grow up fast. She stood all of four feet ten inches, with white skin and a decidedly taut abdomen she liked to show off. Hair the colour of chestnuts went halfway down her back, occasionally put up in an efficient little bun. Her eyes matched her hair like a set, and in one of many nymphet-esque notes they gleamed with mischief, that sexual awareness, a keen mode of flirtation that was always-on when he was around.

Who was going to be the first to tee-off on her strident, budding sex drive? His name has already entered our tale. Catch that cute button nose, like braces, like pigtail ribbons, like a backpack, didn't it call out for a real man to come along and smear with cum? That wasn't all, or even the strongest part of her fuck-hungry look: consider in turn the glossy, pink, supple invitation of her lips, with their cupid's bow curve and lush, dick-sucking shape. What they were made for was the very thing they were waiting for. Cap it all off with a lingering bit of babyfat in her cheeks, like a relic of the childhood she was eager to leave behind.

Charles was not immune to her charms, and his gaze never stopped at her face. When he looked lower, what did he see except the shape of cute little tits, barely half-apples in size, in the first stages of budding and therefore less than a handful each. This was raw feminine adolescence, the advent of her libido, the unspoken question posed to every man who passed by, letting her body language bait them into lurid fantasies. She was—this isn't the technical, professional term—underage fuckbait, anticipating a violation, daring some uninhibited man to deliver on all the promise of her healthy young sexuality. Let him hit it, and she'd cry in relief. He practically breathed in her pheromones and soaked up her permissiveness, and here we've not even described her greatest asset yet. That had to be twofold: her legs, in second place, so toned from kickboxing and karate, leading up to an entirely too-juicy twelve-year-old ass, the size and bounce and double-handful of which she was openly proud. It distracted the boys, but she didn't want them.

“I dumped him.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Short little boytoy. He was being annoying.”

This on the heels of her disclosure that he had tried to grab her ass at school. Add to that the claim, like incredible music to his ears, that it 'belonged to men, not little boys.' She must have been egging him on, blatantly baiting him, Charlie decided. This was all a ploy, but he seemed agreeable to playing along.

“Uh huh. So, what. Do you like your men tall?” He said it in a joking tone, plausible deniability, in case she wanted to retreat from her own sincerity. Instead, she came right out and confirmed what she'd said the first time, doubling down on it without hesitation.

“Yes!”

During that first meeting, he considered her history with both a great deal of pity, professional empathy—and a lewd hope that she'd turn out exactly the way her background was sculpting her. A childhood tainted by Christian ideals, the artificial awkwardness of trying to stop what naturally wanted to flow. Being told not to have any lustful feelings at all, to stamp those sinful desires out and reject Satan's temptation. He knew well that such was only likely to make her want that very thing all the more. When the urge had manifested at ten, at eight, well, by twelve it was breaking through the dam of ideology. She claimed to be a believer, but Charles knew she must have wanted a daddy in her life. Brought up by a woman, with two foster sisters and one younger foster brother, the environment was aiming her squarely at promiscuity. Raised so noxiously religiously, now she was itching to play the slut—and here he was, with an experienced, mature, fat fucking cock that she'd begun imagining the moment she met him.

Katie encouraged him to soothe her, physically. To work out the kink in her neck. When he put his hands around it, she didn't react at all, and just invested her trust in him to be gentle but firm. She sat, improperly, in his lap, and he went on considering what he knew about her family from his file. The story about her mother: a slut by thirteen, the town bicycle, turning unfortunately to drugs and living that lifestyle, bringing in several men who might have touched little Katie and activated her precocious sex drive without finishing the deed. Horny, preteen, willing, flirting, rule-breaking, hip-swirling, bouncing in his lap unprompted, leaning back into his touch, practically purring when he ventured to stroke her cheek, this was kittenish and temptational. Lucky for her, Charles was susceptible. He'd never denied to himself his attraction to hot little girls, and this one was beyond sexy—she was hot for it, giving him one signal after another that in the right time and place he could just destroy her little pussy.

Here's how he knew, almost beyond all doubt, that she was intentionally serving herself up for him. Once they'd conducted that professional interview and he'd done all he needed to, she had propped herself up in his lap. The aforementioned bouncing became an all-too-obvious grind, with Katie making the most of the liberty he was giving her. She giggled in classic provocation, making light of the contact and that sliding frisson of body heat shared between them. It plainly excited her to be close, but not just that. Her exhibitionism hadn't been erased when she was ten, but instead suppressed—put away until the right time. Now she had privacy with a man, no longer some fleeting encounter with total strangers driving by this daring schoolgirl on a bike. She had a captive audience, in a sense, and guess what she did with it.

Katie, the sixth-grader, the daughter of a slut, the fatherless little freak, pulled her My Little Pony pyjama pants down in front of him and showed him her practically hairless pussy. In the process, happy that he was looking, she leaned forward and licked her lips. With sex on her mind and this potential fuck in front of her, no doubt that twelve-year-old cunny was summer hot, sprinkler wet. To complete the brazen act—inviting punishment but praying for his discretion—Katie raised her top as a follow-up, exposing her barely-there breasts to him as well.

Do we think that Charles corrected her behaviour, or admonished her in any way? Far from it. He'd already been hard over what had basically been a bachelor-party lap dance from the tween, and here she was flashing him her body: full frontal, when her real claim to fame was that sumptuous, heart-shaped ass. In fact she read his unspoken approval and seemed to be on the verge of sinking to her knees and pulling her hair back. If only her caretaker hadn't arrived—name redacted—choosing that moment to knock on the door and interrupt. Katie covered up quickly like she was used to rapid concealment, turning around with a more innocent (and inwardly crestfallen) expression on her face. Charles slyly hid his hard-on under his satchel bag and cleared his throat to answer for her 'progress' in today's session. She knew how to play the game, and to behave for the rest of the week, all in the effort of making him look good, securing him as her case-worker.

That's how it went. Everyone was happy. In the private realm, this wasn't even officially social work, so nothing was overseen by the public. Charles considered it all in the aftermath and discussed it online with a writer of loli smut he happened to know.

>She flashed the fuck outta me

>She showed me her lil pussy before her tits too

>That's how much she wants her little holes filled

With the right encouragement, with a sympathetic sounding board, with guidance from one who'd played the role of accomplice before, he knew what he was going to do to Katie if she wanted to pick up where they left off. Time simply had to pass, and the second appointment was scheduled for the end of the month. Big surprise, Katie acted up again at school, in the full knowledge that doing so would bring her into contact with Charles sooner rather than later. He came over on a busy day for her caretaker, who already had her hands full with the kids upstairs. He went along with the notion of conducting their meeting in the basement, and the sanctity of that space could be relied upon for up to an hour. It turned out to be exactly the kind of opportunity they both were waiting for, and Katie wasted no time in resuming what had been cruelly interrupted before.

He noticed that she had her hair in a long ponytail this time, the means for manual control. She'd worn a baggy black t-shirt, only to gain the approval of her caretaker, who'd forbidden the tight clothing she'd have chosen otherwise. Once again, she had on the My Little Pony pyjama pants, baby blue, printed with her favourite character—Rainbow Dash. On the way down, she kept suggestively flickering her eyes lower, as if wishing for a glimpse of some grown-up male anatomy. None-too-subtle: she kept biting her lip too. They were pale pink, free of forbidden lipstick, and she was only permitted to wear the most basic of make-up (her minder didn't want her to be “attacked,” after all!) which served to make her look artificially innocent. He knew better.

Getting to the meeting proper, she was practically vibrating in her clothes. Once it became clear that they were going to be alone, like the follow-through on all her flirtation, Katie went ahead and took her shirt off. No bra, she revealed what he'd already seen: those tiny mounds, work in progress, the budding tits of a twelve-year-old. Making the most of her freedom and their privacy, she got down on her knees, put her head on his leg, and stared up at him. Give her credit for going even further—Katie tilted her head down and swiped her tongue over the rigid outline in his pants.

“So, um. Can I continue from last time...?”

He just laughed and gave her non-verbal approval, tilting his chin up at her in a gesture like a challenge, like go right ahead. She gleefully got to it, unzipping his fly and letting his cock—heavy, thumping, springboard stiff in anticipation—smack her in the face. She didn't need words to express her longing right then. Instead, at that moment, she actually whimpered. The size of it might have been intimidating to a less needy girl, but in reality the presence of it, the rigid possibility, came like the long-awaited promise of relief. After several misguided years, labouring under fantasies repressed by a religion that felt like a sickness, here was the simple home-remedy cure at last.

Katie took the lead, moving in to kiss and lick all over Charles' cock. The display went a long way toward proving her sincerity—her lush lips laid against the crown, her tongue swiping frenulum and ridge, her French kiss displaced to the sides of the shaft. All of twelve years old and there she went giving oral worship, a happy glow on her face, a rush of nectar between her thighs. He finally told her in no uncertain terms to “open up” and Katie immediately parted her lips.

He placed the head of his cock in that jailbait mouth, so warm and small, like purpose-built for receiving his dick and lavishing it. Using his grip on her ponytail, Charles tilted her head up and realigned, only to start sliding vertically down into her throat. She gave cute, sputtering gags of adjustment but stayed on task, gratefully in place, housing his prick in the velvety chamber of her throat again and again. He told her to breathe through her nose and Katie performed admirably, given her age and inexperience, taking to deepthroat like a pro. In time she was choking down the whole thing, impressing him with her efficiency, this preteen so rapidly working his pole past her tonsils and nodding like the unspoken “yes, yes, yes.” A kneeling blowjob dispenser now, sweetly fitting for the role, Katie got after it with effort and finesse, her eyes practically rolling back in her head.

After maybe a minute, Charles pulled back, which only made Katie cough and whine like he'd stolen her favourite treat. He followed it up with a gentle slap, which landed like approval—good job, little slut—and instructed her to finish stripping, then to sit in his lap. She took off the rest of her clothes, but placed them within easy reach if she needed to dress in a hurry. Chances were good that her caretaker wouldn't interrupt, but one never knew. She revealed not only those juvenile titties and her bald cunny but also, at last, the full, meaty, twin-volleyball enticement of her underage butt. Round, taut, perfect. Katie moved up and sat with her back to his chest, wiggling her wet swollen treasure against his cock, only to have it spring up well beyond her labia and thump against her taut tummy.

“Take a look.”

“Mm?”

“Look how far it's gonna go inside you, if that's what you really want.”

“That's—fuck. That's a lot.”

“Too much?”

“N-no.”

“Good girl.”

Fully solid now and glistening with precum, his cock went up to just below her navel. He firmly held her hips down while she kept trying to lift herself up. It would have been too easy, just letting her impale herself. He wanted the full-throated consent, and more than that. He wanted to hear her begging for it, and he knew, without even speaking to her, how to draw out that exact response. She tried to rise, and he exerted downward pressure again, making her accept merely the external friction, slippery and hot, a thick presence between her lips without the satisfaction of having it actually spear up inside.

“C'mon, Daddy!”

“C'mon what?”

“Fuck me...! I want it.”

“Call that begging? You can do better than that.”

“Fuck me, fuck my little pussy, please? Fill it up. I want it so bad!”

“Yeah? You want it? Tell Daddy what you need.”

“I need Daddy's cock in me...! Please, please, please fuck me right now?”

He went on, keeping her hips down when she continuously tried to raise them and align with his dick. All it resulted in was the slow pelvic swirl and teasing stimulation, further enflaming what was already effusively juicy, a peach at optimal ripeness.

“Come on! I want you to destroy me, Daddy!! Break my—”

“Quiet down.”

“Fucking make me!”

He fulfilled that request, at least. Charles put his hand around her throat gently, and Katie whined, helplessly and gratefully caught right in the flex of his control. As big as it was, she was aching for that cock to slide up inside, the demanding wetness of her preteen pussy now reaching obscene levels of creamy, needy, Daddy issues, soaked. He lightly choked her to whimpering submissiveness, and went on coaxing the admissions and loaded-question begging out of her.

“D'you wanna be a good girl for Daddy, or a naughty little whore?” He let up slightly on the compression to her neck, giving her the freedom to respond without squawking.

“Nnh...! I wanna be your naughty little whore...!”

“Why?”

“Fuck, mm. So I don't have to worry about being good anymore! I swear to god. I'm sick and tired of playing nice.”

He directed her to reach down and hold his cock still, to stabilise it for what came next. At the same time, he reached to pull her hips up, until her labia—glowing pink, supple and spreading of their own accord—were positioned just over the tip. Then he let go. It took her a second to realise that he'd released her, but once she did, Katie slammed her hips down. Ambitious for a twelve-year-old, but he knew—he could feel—that she'd been stuffing her kitty for weeks, months, years before this moment of reckoning. She'd been preparing for this for practically half of her life, and she hadn't even reached her teens. Now the girl got herself impaled, and what would have been a scream was smothered by his prudent return to choking her. Right from the start she was opting for rough sex, with all her whimpers and moans and urgent cries, which might otherwise have escalated to outright shrieks. Feeling him forcibly mute her scream with his hands made her clench to a degree that he'd never felt any of his other girlfriends achieve. Preteen tightness combined with the needy, vise-like squeeze of her young cunt, gripping him tightly, like automatic milking, like her body's response to this invader was to welcome him in with a boa-constrictor embrace.

“God damn,” he grunted as she bounced. Talk about pelvic emphasis, body language, Katie was fluent—arching her back and using the muscle groups of practically her entire body to throw herself down, bunny-hopping aggressively on his dick. Charles had both hands working on her in ways that gratified her submission. Namely: twining her ponytail in one hand, and using his other hand to squeeze her neck from behind, using both like a complex leash to compel her oscillation, this cheerleader-eager humping ride. From his point-of-view it looked pleasingly whorish, all her energy expenditure, the swivel and slide, fucking herself on his cock only to have his strength complement her flexibility, helping to work her up and down the pole.

After maybe a hot three minutes relishing that position, he let go of her throat and shoved her to the ground. He pulled her hair again and guided himself in, all before pounding her like the child whore she evidently wanted to be. His whore, a fleshlight for her father figure, a man who'd turned into something hot and red and relentless, transmuting all her sorrow and frustration into just the most rewarding sort of catharsis—fucking the stress right out of her body and mind.

“Dirty little bitch,” he muttered, raising his hand and bringing it down again to punctuate his words with a smack, slapping that ridiculously juicy middle-school ass. He gave it a hit on the other side, and apparently that wasn't quite enough force for the little girl. It had been a test anyway, checking to see how much she could handle while she was down there roleplaying as his young slut of a daughter. He let her tell him how powerful she wanted the fatherly spanking to be.

“Harder, Daddy!”

“Yeah?”

He alternated one cheek to the other, turning both of them a nice bright shade of pink while she went on shoving herself back on his cock. When it came to the hair-pulling, the analogy was too easy: he was using her ponytail like reins, directing her horizontal ride, holding the tension that was quite literally making her drool from both sets of lips. Syrupy, hot, ready, anxiously aroused young pussy took the drilling like nobody's business but her own, thumping catharsis, the sporadic clampdown of her cunny signalling again and again that she loved the connection.

It wasn't just her clappable ass that looked perfect—even her thighs were there for him to wrap his entire hands around, the ideal amount of babyfat left to keep them soft but firm. Her devout act of submission, this wild reception of a twelve-year-old girl taking all that dick, proved something to Charles. He could tell through the evidence of his senses that she was getting close to cumming already. Every resounding thrust brought her closer to the peak of relief. He ended up letting go of her ponytail, only to grab her throat once more. Unsurprisingly, Katie whimpered again, voicing the most sincere repetition of her daughterly consent.

“Mm, fuck! Yes, Daddy!”

He squeezed and lifted her up so that only her knees, his dick and his hand were supporting her weight. To her everlasting credit, Katie bowed like an instrument, something illegal to buy, a living sculpture of little-girl pleasure in the moment. She proved insanely flexible, fitting right into the pseudo wrestling hold. The momentum of the position led to Charle leaning back on the couch. He gripped her by that juicy poster-child peach of an ass and by her throat, which ultimately left her supported by his hand at her neck and his cock up inside her. Gravity assisted, getting him so deep inside her that it virtually cratered her cervix, bashing it and the sensitive surrounding tissue with every thrust. Any little sparks of pain in that moment served to amplify the crush of bliss, the trigger-point reached, wild orgasmic consolation sizzling through her brain. She choked out a cry that sounded like a wounded animal and shuddered, a minor earthquake passing through her body. As the syrupy exclamation point on her ecstasy, the preteen trouble-maker straight-up squirted around his cock.

“ANNNH!! Hnngh...! Ufff—fuh...!! Nnnh-my-god...!”

The whole time she'd been in for this latest interview, and even through the tumble of this first lawbreaking fuck, Katie's shoulders were noticeably hunched. Now that she'd cum for the first time, she finally loosened up. He rode her—like Rainbow Dash—and held his grip on her throat through the initial peak of her orgasm, gauging his timing with a carnal wisdom born of experience. When the equilibrium was reestablished and the crescendo seemed to be clicking higher again, he released his grip on her throat. Katie started gasping, and the sudden oxygen flooding her lungs and brain brought her to an even higher, trembling orgasm, hot on the heels of the first. Her expression turned saint-like, every thought driven from her brain except the baseline yes and Daddy and so fucking good like involuntary affirmations, a song her body could play with no conscious direction at all. It turned her higher brain functions off, and that's just what she wanted. Her airy little moans went on in a melody that he cautiously prevented from getting too loud, given that her caretaker, substitute mom, was still upstairs, oblivious.

He noticed her gripping her own little tits and mashing them like Play-Doh. He grabbed one wrist and forced it away, moving it to the back of his head, and she immediately got the idea. She turned back in line with his intention and kissed him fiercely, running her fingers through his hair. Picking up where Katie left off, Charles put his own hand on her mini-tits and practically mauled them, giving incidental sliding stimulation to her nipples, making her urgent cries ratchet up in their intensity yet again. She did her best not to scream but she was giving what amounted to emergency whispers, heated provocation to keep going. When she had a full second to breathe, apart from the age-gap kiss, Katie asked for more of the same treatment.

“Do it, please...! I like that.”

“Do what?”

“Fuck me, Daddy, go hard...! I can take it. I promise. Please, hurt me more, Daddy!”

One can well imagine that she knew what this was technically called, and it excited her to hold that R-word in her mind and even to throw it around. Through the sanctity of her consent she transformed the crime into something victimless, joyous, rewarding and long-awaited. She volunteered for it verbally in triplicate and kept goading him to the roughest displays of dominance and cunny-pounding indulgence, giving the tween just what she'd been craving for so indecently long. The spanking, the choking, the hair-pulling, the abuse of her budding tits, the plunge of his cock up inside her wickedly tight little hole, now led to the latest in a chain of acts that might look like disrespect. In reality, it was just what she wanted—he slapped her face, much harder than before. Lo and behold, she came yet again, while a bright pink blush blossomed on her cheek.

She gushed. Here was the lesson of the meeting, her progress in physical terms. Daddy Charles was wrecking her little pussy and checking off every box of rough sex, the paradox of some pain and discipline making it all better, soothing her spiritual hurts with exhilarating physical communication. Through her latest climax, Katie vibrated and moaned crazily, all the more intense a release given the need to keep her cries somewhat quiet. The years of repression were exploding into a personal frenzy of sexual abandon, a wild expression on her face like a devil girl's, tween succubus in training, Daddy's personal cumhole, junior-high fleshlight and then some.

Charles kissed her, in an effort aimed at easing any discomfort she felt, post-slap. Instead, Katie bit his lip and smirked at him. Actually taken off-guard in that moment, Charles growled at her.

“Fuck. Vicious little rapebait, you are.”

She merely giggled.

“What are you gonna do about it?”

He spun her around so that she was facing him directly, then put one hand on the ass of which she was so proud. At the same time, he tightened his other hand on her throat again. He noticed that it was starting to get red, so he made sure to be careful—but then he proceeded to use her like a proper little sexdoll. No longer holding back at all, but granting her this trip to Objectification, a consensual becoming that was somehow more human, respecting her wishes to be completely fucked out. She was light enough for him to simply lift up and down on his cock. He checked the clock and pushed himself to cross the line at last, giving her everything left in his tank in terms of pelvic, pounding energy. At last he rammed in deep again and unloaded, flooding her needy little cunt with a pent-up volume of cum.

Katie shuddered and whimpered in the taking of it, inseminated. She ended up stuck in a loop of “Yes, Daddy” and “Thank you, Daddy,” over and over again. For the first time in her life—yes, still a virgin, despite the boytoy, despite the series of Mom's acquaintances touching her ahead of time—Katie got her savoury little bivalve inundated with pearl jam. He held her close and she, what's the term, sub-crashed hard, started to cry into his shoulder. Charles hugged her gently as his cock gradually deflated inside her. The best he could do was give her the reassuring physical contact, rubbing her back slowly, lovingly, back to professional and therapeutic, even if his dick was lodged inside his pretty twelve-year-old case.

She sniffled, cried, and just whimpered for a solid five minutes. Her whole body was quivering like it finally had all its tension released—all from being used, violated like that, made to function as Daddy's personal fucktoy. He gave her that time to recover and process her feelings, having seen before the wonder of an underage girl crying tears of joy, brought to multiple orgasms through some seriously rough sex. Finally she came back from that place of creative destruction, the happy oblivion, some kind of secular exorcism, working out her issues in a way no agency could knowingly permit. Call it street medicine, off-the-books, undeground wisdom to throw a fuck into this preteen girl for which she proved effusively grateful, affectionate even. She came back to life and gently kissed him on the lips.

“Thank you, um. Thank you for being my first, Daddy.”

She didn't have a hymen. He'd thought for sure that someone had broken her in, but here the middle-school slut proved—or claimed, at least—that he'd been the very first, turning over her V-card to a man more than twice her age. Sorting through his shock at that revelation, Charles helped her to get dressed, while his jizz was still running down her legs. He gave her a smack on the ass as she bent over to pull her clothes on, which caused Katie to jump, tiny tits bouncing, and send him another smirk over her shoulder. She started shimmying into her PJs—with a gratutious amount of hip wiggles.

Right about then, her caretaker knocked on the basement door, just as Katie got her shirt back on. Good thing she didn't walk right in. The timing of it came like a blessing, some kind of dispensation of fate, having given them just enough time for that defloration and the aftercare she required. Charles slapped her ass, unseen, while he told the caretaker that something they'd needed to talk about had apparently triggered her, and she had simply started crying.

The entire time, the caretaker had been wrangling thirteen-year-old and six-year-old girls, along with the nine-year-old younger brother—who was a handful, Charles knew. A total brat.

He gave Katie a box of tissues he had on hand so that she could wipe her face of those joyful tears. Her caretaker saw her red eyes, red throat, and red cheeks—but all she said was that Katie should go to bed, because clearly she had been “struggling” with crying so much. They had, in fact, heard some of the telltale sounds upstairs, and interpreted them in the usual way: innocent, naive, religious, oblivious fucks. Adults only heard what they wanted to, what their brains were ready to hear. Just indistinct cries, evidently, instead of the twelve-year-old slut having the time of her life, wrecked so well by the first real father figure she'd met.

When Mrs. Caretaker turned around, Charles grabbed Katie's ass one more time—all a part of leaving her wet and wanting more. He spoke with her caretaker after the fact, and let the irony soak in. He told her that Katie “could take much more than you believe” but that even the best of us needed a good cry every now and then.

Just like the preteen pussy he'd utterly flooded, the double entendre was impossible to resist.