Diamond Tiara Gets Filthy
She walked into the office like she owned the place, as she always did when she wanted something.
I tried not to look at her. I’ve been told by many reputable sources that looking something dangerous in the eye only drives it to attack your psyche even further. It leads you into a tranquil lull, it forces you to listen to every word. She was older now, so her approach had changed, and the strategies of dealing with it had to change too. No longer could I simply shush her and tell her to ask me later, no longer could I shut her out or have it go in one ear and out the other, no longer did my daughter practically kick the doors down, rush in, and start a hurricane of catty remarks and singsong whining.
No, nowadays Diamond Tiara made a grand entrance of herself. She’d stand in the doorway and lean upon it in the way those runway models do, begging me to take my eyes off my work for even the slightest second, wanting me to glance over every single curve and contour she had to offer, driving my gaze in both directions. Downwards were her legs, thick, wonderful thighs that narrowed into long, rifle-length calves with freshly-clipped hooves, and upwards were her eyes. Good Goddess, those eyes. I couldn’t take mine away from hers whenever they connected. There was something piercing in that gaze, something that told you everything that she wanted from you, and compelled you to give it to her at any expense.
So I kept my eyes glued to the paperwork and a steady hand around the pen marking it up. Looking into her eyes was a deathwish, because whatever she wanted from Daddy, she was going to get.
Unfortunately, she didn’t fight with mere sight.
If eye contact wasn’t made at the door, Diamond would simply sigh, a tiny, ever-so-slight huff of mild, sultry annoyance. Then she’d saunter towards me, perfect strut, every single step a runway stride that got her where she was going to go in the most flashy and eye-catching way she could. She’d done this often enough that I could tell what kind of clothes she was wearing by the sound it made as she made her approach. Today was the jingling of the wallet chain in those jean shorts I got her for her eighteenth birthday, and was the soft swish of that brand-name flannel shirt she wore as it gently floated behind her. Doubtlessly she was wearing a tee of some kind, though I didn’t dare look up to see if it was cut-off or not, I didn’t deign to try and find out what loud, obnoxious logo was printed on it, I didn’t dream of glancing upwards to see if she had put her belly-button piercing in yet.
Eyes away. That was the battle plan. and yet it was harder to adhere to with every passing second. Now she would sigh ever-so-demurely and let herself go limp, her rigorous training forgotten for a moment, and that typical teenager attitude shining through. She’d fall back onto one of the pleather seats in front of my desk, cross her arms, and keep a dissatisfied-but-relaxed expression on her face as she waited for me to respond to her somehow.
She was close enough now that I could smell the perfume– she’d put too much on again, just for me. It was that scent the parfumeries tend to give a pretentious, meaningless Prench name to, Frit Bouse de Vache or something else equally cringe-inducing. Despite the stuffiness of it all, it really was rather nice, a strongly vanilla smell that had a vague hint of coconut, and rolled around the room like the gentle waves of the ocean at night. But I knew what lurked in the waters when night fell– sharks, big, strong, hungry predators determined to rip you to shreds. This was one sea I wasn’t going to swim in, not tonight, not even for her.
She didn’t talk. She never did. She just laid back, pouted, and shifted once in a while, letting out little sighs, hums, and tiny, panted breaths. She was trying to get to me without saying a word, trying to win a war without firing a shot. She was compelling me without doing anything more than waltzing into my office uninvited and unappointed, then plopping herself down in one of my very expensive seats in that very expensive, brand-name, model-approved, and yet still trashy outfit I had bought her, messing with her mane, biting her lip, doing all that she could to entice me to speak or, better yet, actually look at her.
My work wasn’t working, for lack of a better phrase. I was aware of her still. I was very, very tempted to look up and let myself be utterly consumed by her predatory beauty. With a small, almost imperceptible grunt, I opened up my desk drawer and took out the pleather pouch with my pipe in it. So long as I avoided eye contact, there was no fear. There was no need for fear. My hands were stone-still holding my pipe, and I put a few pinches of vanilla blend in it, steady as can be.
“I hope you don’t mind that I smoke, honey,” I muttered, slowly, softly, unsure if it was safe to allow myself to acknowledge her presence.
Diamond let out a small, amused huff, but didn’t respond. My hands weren’t trembling, but the grip was perceptibly looser, more slack, more relaxed. I wasn’t letting my guard down, no, I was too experienced with dames to allow myself to do so, but usually this didn’t happen. This was Diamond Tiara, my daughter, the dame to end all dames, just barely legal and already a master at the art of luring innocent sailors to the rocks. Yes, my little girl, my Diamond Tiara, was a vicious vixen of a dame.
It took a few flicks to bring my lighter to life, and my mouth soon filled with the powerful, woody flavor of tobacco. But I felt no calmer, only more aware of where I was.
She was moving again. I could hear the leather groan as she ground her rear into it, teased against it with her angelic legs, lounging on the armrest like some kind of cat. I tried to focus on the pipe, czeching the tobacco into the bowl, taking a deep puff and blowing it out, leaning my head back so that I could watch the smoke linger in the ceiling and give the entire room a sort of dusty, cloudy mystique. The smell of fine tobacco was the smell of business to me. It was the scent of a room where deals had been done and ponies had come to an agreement– either a fair proposal or a very well-veiled bad one. And yet it was this smell, this reminder of the acumen of stallions with money and power, that only made the presence of a very attractive mare in my office all the more a focus in the forefront of my mind.
“Ya know what, Daddy, I think I’ll join you,” she said.
I frowned. “Diamond, you know that cigarette stench doesn’t go away for days. I get enough grief from the staff about the pipe–”
“I said,” she murmured, voice clipped but calm, “I’ll join you.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. My eyes were trying desperately to betray me, trying to treat themselves to long, lustful glances up those perfect legs, around those wondrous hips, across that deliciously flat chest, linger on thin, sassy lips curled into a smoldering smirk, puckering for just a moment as they held a black cigarette. I kept my head back like a colt with a nosebleed, keeping my eyes glued to the lights, the most dangerous part of her far from my vision but clear in my mind. The eyes that could drive a stallion insane, to do that what he wouldn’t normally do, those eyes were locked on me, judging, examining, waiting for an opening to connect like a champion boxer.
“Got a light, Daddy?” she said. Her voice was so immature, squeaky, high-pitched, and yet she could bring it down to a level that awoke primal, intimate desires. She knew the key into a stallion’s wallet, that same skeleton key that led her into a stallion’s heart. Her legs were crossed, her free hand on one knee as the other rolled the cigarette between her fingers. I knew what expression she was using without looking. The eyes lidded, sparkling with as much innocent energy as she could muster and shining with a distinctive sheen of unbridled, untamed sexuality. I feared to match that gaze, match that voice, match that face to that body, and I feared to desire it.
The lighter slid across the desk. She caught it, lit her cigarette, and pushed it back, letting out a little huff as it fell onto the floor. Things were quiet again, the only sound the clock on the wall, and the air an intense orgy of scents. Her posh perfume, the acrid smell of cigarette smoke, the viciously sweet scent of pipe tobacco, all with the undertone of the Febreezies the cleaning folk used whenever they needed to. Her cigarette-wielding hand hung over the arm of her chair, spilling ash upon the floor carelessly, doubtlessly leaving brownish tobacco stains upon it in the near future to match the ones all around it that she had left before.
It was unbearable silence. I was a grazing gazelle and she a vicious, pony-eating lion, hungry, wanting, needing, willing. I czeched down the tobacco in my pipe and took a deep puff, holding the smoke in my mouth, burning my tongue on its powerful taste. She was waiting for me to make the first move, as cunning predators often do. She was waiting to see if I was going to flee, or if I was simply going to play the waiting game. She was hungry, but she was also a hunter– the thrill was in the chase, not the feeding.
“I assume you’re not in here just for a quick smoke,” I murmur, closing my eyes and leaning my head back forward, still avoiding eye contact.
“That’s my Daddy,” she said. “Not as dumb as you look.”
“I wish I could have passed that down to you,” I grumbled back.
She laughed, quietly, the sound breathy. “Owie, Daddy, why do you hurt me so?”
I took a deep puff, closing my eyes more tightly. She was leading me along still. She was trying to own the conversation. I was going to let her, at least for now. Hear her out, don’t let her in, and try to counterpoint where you can. That’s how you deal with dames. Only two in my life have ever been anything dangerous, and the first one was Diamond’s mother. I didn’t pass down my business smarts– she had gotten most of what she had naturally from her mother. I wasn’t responsible for those luscious legs, that sultry voice, the hips that killed on contact…
I swallowed. “Sorry, honey. I take that back.”
“Oh, shut up,” she cooed, taking a swift pull of her cigarette. “I know you don’t mean it, Daddy.”
I absently flicked through the files on my desk. Tax returns, business figures, deeds. Unsexy, businesslike, clinical things that wouldn’t entice me like the yearning yearling that sat in front of me, her legs sliding into my field of view, uncrossing for one teasing split-second before recrossing the other way as she leaned on her chair. Still smiling, still smoldering, slowly breaking down my defenses like waves against the beach, pulling the sand away, leaving me naked. I wanted us naked, on the beach, her underneath me…
Damnit. I let out a little cough.
“You never answered my question,” I spluttered.
“Mh?”
“What,” I said, slowly, trying to calm myself, “do you want?”
She smiled. I felt my heart drop into my stomach, the acids splashing sickeningly and slowly consuming it, because my eyes had flown upwards for the smallest second to finally make contact, to finally see her piercing my soul and rendering it irrelevant. She was wearing a cut-off tee, printed with a bluish-green heart with holes in it. She wasn’t a changeling, no, I knew that, but she may as well have been one, as she fed off of the teat of both my fatherly affection and my more… unsavory desire for her.
I wasn’t sure where it began. Was it when she grew those hourglass hips? Was it when she mastered that sensual saunter? Was it when her wardrobe became more revealing, when the cut-off shorts gave me three-quarters of her cutie mark to ogle as they hugged her perfect rear? Was it all along, only becoming apparent when her little moans and whines for Daddy became older, became needier, became something much more than childish petulance? I knew I didn’t regret it, I knew I didn’t feel any remorse for it, but I knew it still filled a pit in my stomach. Everything that was wrong about it was… Well, you get the idea. I’m certain many fathers have had a buried lust for their beautiful daughters, no doubt, but sometimes I feel like the only one whose daughter took that as an opportunity. Maybe I passed down more than I realized.
I was staring as she sucked down another drag of her cigarette, I was trembling as she blew it out and opened her eyes again and treated me to a stare without any comparison.
“Applebloom’s having a hoedown this weekend. Everypony’s going. Can I go too?”
A front. She always had one. I was falling into her trap like a worker ant with a sand lion, fighting against the inevitable, my life soon to be snuffed by her gnashing jaws. I cleared my throat, trying to tear my glance away, but it only went down and hugged her hips, slipping across her naval. A little belly-button stud today, shining brightly, sparkling in the meager light of my office. She was pulling out all the stops.
“Erm, a hoedown you say?”
“Yeah,” Diamond giggled. “You know, singing, dancing, live music, yokel shit.”
“Yokel shit,” I murmured. “Huh. Well… Will there be any adults there?”
She pouted. “Daaaddy, we’re grown ponies, we don’t need adults!”
“No adults,’ I hummed. “I hope you’re not going to drink any hard cider or rum and cokes or vodka and w-whatever you young ponies get yourselves smashed on?”
She smacked her lips together, wriggling her rear into her seat, her gaze flittering away to the side. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“I can’t let you go if you’re going to be irresponsible.”
She slumped. She tried to look defeated, but she knew that she wasn’t. She knew exactly how to get what she wanted, after all. She knew the value of every scent, of every movement, of every word that she said. She took another drag and stood up, one leg in front of the other, delectable thighs pushed together as she leaned forward onto my desk, our snouts now mere inches away. I could feel her breath on my muzzle, and I didn’t dare to blink, because she did it so slowly, with calculated precision.
“Awww, but Daddyyy,” she whispered, “I really wanna goooo…”
I closed my eyes, and I could tell how much I was trembling. “No, Diamond. You need to be personally responsible for yourself.”
“But Daddyyy! It’s not fair! Everypony’s going! Even Silver Spoon! Don’t you want me to be social and not be cooped up in a big house all alone with no stallion to hoooold me?”
She batted her eyelashes at me, almost innocently but not quite, a smoldering look in her eyes as she regarded me, making my voice fail and falter.
“Well, erm, you see, I’m c-concerned that–”
“Puhleeease, Daddy?” she pleaded, leaning forward, our noses almost touching.
My body was locking up. My pipe nearly fell from my mouth. She had me by the balls, figuratively for now, but I knew that if she was going to get what she wanted, she was going to go for this. No, it was impossible. It was… highly improbable. It was going to happen, her head was tilted, her lips just barely touching mine, her breathing gentle, soft pants. She took the pipe from my mouth and held it in the same hand that occupied her cigarette, the burning ashes falling harmlessly upon my tented slacks. I leaned back a bit to try and get some space, only for her to come forward, opening her eyes a bit and giggling ever so gently.
“I’ll make it worth your while.”
She pecked my lips.
It was the jumping point. That very same place she always made me go to. That very same plane where rationale and sanity evaporated and all that was left was me, a dirty old stallion who had the self control of a teenaged colt, who finally gave in to temptation, finally allowed himself to appreciate every fine curve, every sleek contour of her face, every single gasping breath she took as she held my lips with hers, held my heart in one hand and my wallet in the other. It was a steep plunge into the warm waters of depravity, a leap of faith I always was willing to take.
She was my daughter and that was of no consequence. She was doing this with ulterior motives and that didn’t matter. She was using and abusing me the same way she had all her life and it simply didn’t register. Because underneath all of that was a great, sickeningly sweet need. Underneath was that barely contained excitement in her eyes, the feeling of a soft, dainty hand on my chest, my discomfort slipping away and my desire growing paramount. With a single short, soft kiss, she had poisoned me. She had taken me and made me something I wasn’t supposed to be.
My hands were on her shoulder blades, and trailing down her back, holding her a bit too long for this to be anything but sensual. I was quaking. How couldn’t any stallion be? Here was a mare many leagues beyond him, putting his pipe back into his mouth, cooing gently as she brought her cigarette back to hers, took a deep breath, and blew rings into my face. She let herself down off of my desk and out of my grasp, and sashayed around, every step accompanied by an exaggerated swivel of her hips, drawing my eyes to her twisting rear, to the widest point of her fine-tuned form.
I feigned a cough, but my eyes dared not leave her. They were intoxicated, and only wanted to grow further drunk upon such a beautiful thing, such wonderfully proportioned buttocks connected to wide, grippable thighs. Her legs reminded me quite a bit of her mother’s. They were the kind you always read about in dime novels and never, ever saw, except upon the mares that knew what a powerful weapon they could be.
She slipped her cigarette into the ashtray and leaned on the armrests of my chair. I could smell everything about her now, the perfume almost causing flowers to erupt in my vision, such was its sweetness, and now complemented by the scent of shampoo, of freshly cleaned mare desperate to get down and dirty. It was almost an honor to be considered worthy of such a foxy little lady. Most stallions would stop here, would say “if she wasn’t my daughter”, but I held no such reservations. This was my reward for more than a decade of raising and rearing, my pride and joy standing over me, smiling gently, giving me a lidded gaze.
“Worth my while.”
She hummed an affirmation. I closed my eyes and took a breath, preparing for the waters to envelop me.
“Show me,” I murmured, taking the pipe out of my mouth and laying it on the table next to the ashtray, not caring that the ashes and a few stray strings of tobacco had spilled from its bowl.
All that I had now was her, leaning forward, coming closer, making contact again. Soft, succulent lips against mine, now holding longer, now assuming direct control, taking me into her pink haze of desire. Hums from her, grunts from me, my shivering hand coming up to stroke her face, my eyes closing and letting it all be sensation, let it all be glorious depravity in its purest form. Tiny tongue slipping past my lips, mouths opening and pulling one another in, intertwining the Prench way. My hands became more adventurous now, trailing from her back and down her rear, waiting to hear that disappointed grunt she gave when I merely stroked her rear, then that glorious squeal when I gave it a swat.
She used to hate spankings, used to fear them, and now she asked for them, no, demanded them, pleaded for one every time a hand came upon that luscious backside. I didn’t spank again, opting for a gentle squeeze, kneading into her soft flesh through its tight denim prison. The dame uniform had certainly changed over the years, but I was far from complaining. It was more to take off and yet left so much less to the imagination. It was so much easier to feel her through it, feel warm flesh underneath my hands and flat chest against mine, pulling my tie open, popping the first few buttons of my shirt, breaking the kiss so she could keep her eyes on her current task.
She was a dame, no doubt about that. The kind of girl who uses a guy and then leaves him high and dry. And yet there was genuine want and desire in her face. There was something genuine in the way her eyes fluttered every time I gave her rear a squeeze, the way she looked up at me every once in a while, eyes boring into mine, as her hands slipped into my shirt to press against bare chest at last. The way her hands were shaking, there was no denying it. She might have been pulling the string, but I was weighing it back, and there was now a tug-of-war between us.
Diamond’s hands gently rubbed back and forth on my pecs, the warmth from them radiating and their shivering contagious, my own hands now tracing away from her rear to hold her hips. I leaned forward and planted a little kiss on her chin, then a small peck on her lips, which grew into more than a peck again. Her tongue entwined with mine, her hands trailing down my middle, until a naughty pair of fingers slipped into the belt of my slacks. Another precipice to cross, another cliff to jump. I let go of her hips to take her hands in mine before they trailed any further, pulling away from our kiss and smirking at that adorable little pout she gave me. Pouting lips pursed perfectly; in the body language of dames, this meant that she didn’t want me to stop her there.
“Daddy, what is it? I was just getting into it…”
I furrowed my brow in a look of mock disappointment. “I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Diamond. After all…”
She let out a gasp when my hand swept up and caught her breast in a harsh squeeze. I stood up, pulling her into my chest, letting her lay her cheek against the tufts of fur upon my chest. She was tall; that was something she got from her mother. But I was taller. She seemed to shiver against me. The tables had turned. The predator was now prey, and the hunted had become a hunter, one of those cruel, merciless ones that torture their catches before relieving them of life. My excitement turned from the nervous shivers of a schoolcolt catching an upskirt of his teacher to the anticipatory trembles of a real stallion, the quaking limbs of those who caught man-eaters.
“You haven’t taken anything off for me yet, have you?” I murmured, leaning in and giving her ear a nibble, getting a hefty sniff of her scent again. Now there was an undercurrent of fear in it. She knew now what exactly she was getting into, who exactly she had been teasing. Power wasn’t a solid object for us. It was an ocean ever flowing, and I had caught the little slut in a riptide. I put my snout right up to her ear, giving the inside of it a little kiss, the uncoated skin soft and supple against my lips, one hand squeezing her bust and the other giving her rear a grope.
“You’re not wearing any panties, are you?”
She groaned. “H-How did you–”
“I might be old, Diamond, but I’m not senile,” I growled, giving her ear another nip as my hand slipped under that cut-off tee, groping her breast through her bra, making her sigh. “Not as dumb as I look, just like you said…”
“Y-Yeah,” she huffed, looking away, trying to hide her smile. “Now are you gonna l-let me get outta this stuff or what?”
I sighed. her bust was small, but soft, comforting. My hand was reluctant to leave, but it obeyed, slipping down her body, holding her by the hips. Diamond gave me a demure, almost reluctant look, shrugging off her flannel just a bit, giving me a teasing glance of bare arm between the short sleeve of her tee and the long ones of the shirt atop it. She was going too slow. She was trying to gain control.
Fat chance.
She needed some encouragement, she needed a reason to speed herself up, so I leaned in and grabbed a bit of the skin on her neck between my teeth, making her gasp and shiver, tasting the sweat and the faint traces of soap in her coat, gnashing my teeth as I bit down. Her body trembled as both of my hands slid under her rump, giving it a squeeze as I lifted her. She squealed magnificently as I sat her upon my desk, pushing papers, ashtrays, and inkwells out of the way to make room for her magnificent rear, my bites harder, almost breaking the skin now. She shook against me, laughing, almost screaming, gently leaning back a bit as she threw off her flannel. I only afforded her a moment of relief to take her tee off, then went back at it, zipping down, biting, licking, kissing, nipping, reaching up the moment she unclasped her bra and pulling it away to give the tiny nipple a mighty squeeze.
This was more my speed. Diamond had gone from a wild beast with me between her jaws to a harmless, docile little creature, her perfect body now putty in my hands, and I was now molding an absolute work of art with her. She laid back against the desk, her pert little tits pointing upwards to the ceiling, her smouldering eyes beckoning me from the shallow valley between them, her hands covering herself in a pointless gesture of modesty. She wanted this. It occurred to me that mayhaps I wasn’t the predator at all, merely a crude imitation of one, but even if I wasn’t, it still felt good to have a degree of control.
“Let’s get these out of the way,” I grunted, unbuttoning those tight little shorts. They had to have been a size too small, chosen simply because that way they hugged her body more tightly, made them more difficult to pull off, made teasing less of a chore and more of a natural instinct. At the very least she helped me get them off of her, wide hips swaying back and forth, wriggling, slowly pulling them down. She kicked off her shoes as the shorts slowly stretched past the widest part of her hips, but then stopped. There was the straining sound of tearing denim, mixing with Diamond’s little grunts and frustrated growls, and as much as I tugged and pulled, they simply weren’t coming off of her.
“Rrrgh… N-Not again,” she groaned.
I laughed, letting triumph flow through me. Now I knew I was the hunter. Now I had my prey trapped. Now she was right where I wanted her, helpless, needing me to either free her, or to slay her. The tent in my slacks spoke volumes as to which I was to choose. Dames were dangerous creatures, deadly mares whose killer looks assassinated the character of many a stallion. And here I was, alone with one, her uniform now her undoing.
“Would you like some help, sweetheart?” I murmured, undoing my belt, gazing between her forced-shut legs upon that adorable patch of purple pubic hairs between thick, generous thighs.
“J-Just wait a sec, Dad,” she grunted, rolling from side to side, her hands pushing down against the shorts, those chunky thighs jiggling with every movement. It wasn’t going to take a sec, as she had put it. A sec was far, far too long to wait for her to free herself, to wait for her to give herself to me. I glanced up at her face, and the tears in her eyes as she struggled against her restraining garment brought out just the touch of heart in this old hunter’s bones, reminded me of who exactly this dame was. This was my daughter, and I loved her, and I would do anything for her.
Anything. The turn that phrase had taken over the years made me chuckle a bit under my breath.
“Diamond,” I said.
“W-What?”
“Spread your legs as much as you can.”
“But–”
“Do it.”
There was the soft groan of straining denim as Diamond obeyed, her eyes screwing shut as she lifted the jeans shorts ever so slightly so that she could try to separate her thighs from one another. They still touched, but just barely, just enough to remind me of how delicious they looked, of how I wanted to kiss up and down the insides of them, how I wanted them locked around my head or around my waist like a pair of pillows. Her coat was clean, soft, vibrantly colorful. I couldn’t help but put a hand on her knee and slowly slip it up her leg, just feeling flesh spill between my fingers, begging for me to dig in and give it a squeeze.
I took a letter opener from the drawer under my desk, examining the blade in my free hand, noting Diamond’s sudden tension in her legs. It wasn’t the sharpest knife, but for what I was intending to do with it, it would do just fine.
“Relax, my dear,” I whispered. “Stay very, very still…”
She was like a statue as I brought the blade between her legs. Such an obedient girl, but dames tended to be when captured. I carefully slipped it at the seam bringing the two halves of her jeans together just below the zipper, and slid it down. It cut through the fabric like a hot knife through butter– it was reasonable to assume that the stitching was already weakened by Diamond’s struggles to remove the garment, but I had still expected more resistance. Now those tight little shorts slid off of her with a bit less struggle, and now here she was, naked save for her socks, looking down at me with the most demure little blush, holding her legs together.
I wanted to see it. My hands gripped her calves and pried them open, and I stepped forward to keep her from closing them again as I gazed upon her beautiful little treasure, my reward for freeing her. Such a sweet-looking little thing it was, already spread ever so slightly. Dames did tend to practice, although the lack of any scent beyond her arousal told me it was with toys, not with other stallions. Even if I had smelled stallion, nothing could have stopped me from approaching that winking button, those quivering folds, that waterfall of filly juice seemingly flowing down her thighs. She was ready, she was willing, she was smirking down at me as I gazed upon her in awe, and I didn’t realize I had freed a most dangerous creature before one leg lifted itself, a sock-clad hoof found its way against my chest, and I was given a forceful kick back down into my chair.
I let out an oof as I felt my rear slam back down into it, the kick enough to put the chair on its back legs before it banged back down, my hands having found purchase on the armrests and my eyes still wide with shock and surprise. My former prey, my own daughter, sat up and giggled mischievously, her eyes lidded and brow lowered in an aggressive expression that asserted the dominance that she had always had.
“Honestly, Daddy, you worry too much,” she cooed, hopping down and sauntering over. In one deft movement, she straddled my hips and unzipped my pants, letting my length bounce freely, the tip tapping against her belly. I grunted as a soft, warm hand found its way around the head, rubbing it, pulling it, an unspoken threat. The foreplay was over. The gloves were off, and the filly, no, the mare that had thrown them to the corner of the room was going to make me pay. I started to say something, a small complaint, but she put a finger over my lips and clucked her tongue, shaking her head.
“No worries, Daddy,” she said. “Just let your little girl handle everything.”
I groaned. “But…”
“Shhhhh…”
My protests died in my throat. This was it. I had been caught by the terrible beast, and all that remained was to be eaten. Her camouflage was shed, her trap sprung by my own foolish thinking that I had the situation in my control. Her tongue, small, warm and damp, trailing down my cheek, branding its ownership upon me as it traveled down my chin, sliding across the stubble there, pressing against my neck, her little huffs and pants filling my ears with toxic desire. It went across my collarbone, ran down my chest, stopping at a nipple to give it a small nip, to remind me that any attempt to resist ecstasy, or wrangle it back into my hands, would be met with response in twofold. The best thing for the both of us was to let her do what she wanted, to let her take control.
I closed my eyes. That warm little muscle slid down my abs, licked down my gut, tactfully ignoring the throbbing length just half an inch away from her muzzle. She was tasting the moderate sweat of a working pony now, the aftereffects of a long day sitting in a chair, the musk of unwashed stallion stirring deep within her nostrils. Teasing me was her crack, an addiction that had no cure, no treatment, only something to be taken again and again, until she left the broken shell of a normal father-daughter relationship there. She owned me. She could do whatever she wanted to me, and by Celestia was I ever willing to provide what she wanted.
Now that wiley tongue got adventurous, and trailed a long, luscious lick up my shaft. She took her time with it, begging me to open my eyes, to watch the very filly I had raised to be a mare of wealth and taste going down upon her own father, to gaze into those long-eyelashed pools of lust and need and discover what I had wrought. I clenched my teeth as she gave one of my nuts a lick, sweat and musk no doubt overwhelming her, as she let out the smallest little moan, the tiniest puff of air that blew across that hot, tortured flesh and made it twitch lewdly. I shivered. A dame had to know her prey, had to know what to do to make them quake in their shoes, and she was doing it to me.
She at least had to dignity not to shower me with hollow compliments like other mares often did. She didn’t let out any tired utterances of “so big” and “my Goddess”. She got to work, and she did it well. Like I said, I must have passed down my business sense to her. Every single lick, kiss, and hot breath against my shaft said all the words that she needed to say to me. It was businesslike, though not purely business; she let enough of her lust out to tell me that she was most definitely impressed with what she was lavishing with attention.
The head of my length was between her lips, her little tongue lashing against it, her hands on my thighs squeezing and pulling at the slacks I had no need to take off. I raised my hips up a bit into that warmth and tightness, begging for more, little grunts and wheezes passing between clenched teeth. Slowly, more and more of my cock was treated to that wonderful warmth, that seductive pull, that tactfully messy trail of slobber she left upon me as she took me in little bounces, up and down, up and down, just a bit at a time. It was a facade of inexperience, one that you had to feel to truly see through, to feel to know that no first-timer could ever give you a blow like this.
“Quit fucking around,” I grunted, my hands clawing at the armrests of my chair, half tempted to grab her by the back of the mane and have her show me what she could do. She let out a giggle around my shaft that sent shivers down my spine, and I looked down to see that smouldering gaze looking back up at me, giving me a wink before she took a deep breath and swallowed it down to the hilt. Her nose was buried in my crotch hairs, her eyes watered ever so slightly, but she screwed them shut and held on, massaging my cock with her convulsing throat. It was sudden, fast, and aggressive; I let out a gasp and a shuddering growl, my body tense and yet relaxed all at once, a mounting pressure building up in my cockhead and threatening to explode into her.
I was so close, so soon. She may have been bouncing her little face on top of my cock and riding me with her throat like no tomorrow, but I still felt a bit ashamed I wasn’t lasting out as I would have wanted. I was sweating with effort trying to hold myself back, my hands grasping at thin air, my blackened lungs desperately pulling for any air that they could get. Good Goddess, I was her instrument, and she was playing a fucking solo. It was getting harder and harder to suppress every throb, it was becoming more and more impossible to ignore the pressure in my clenching balls, to ignore the slurps and sucks that tortured me and the clenching throat that almost dared me to bust a nut right there. She was daring me. Typical dame. I had to escape, good Goddess, I had to make her let me go, please, please, please, not like this...
She came back up just as fast as she had gone down, popping off my cock, taking a subtle gasp and licking her lips. No coughing, no gagging, no wheezing. No, that was all left for me, all of that and the cool air against my quaking length, just a lick away from orgasm. She smiled up at me, gaze deceptively warm and loving, and truly wanting. The slightest bit of pride filled my heart; my daughter truly did turn out to be a professional.
“Aww, is Daddy gonna blow already?”
I snorted derisively, despite myself. I was, but she already knew that. A hot blush came to my cheeks as if I was fourteen and stupid all over again, and I massaged the back of my neck with a hearty sigh, trying to weigh down my excitement.
“Can’t help it, honey,” I said, my voice sounding as if I had run a marathon. “That was–”
“Shhh,” she giggled. “Don’t bother. I know.”
That was the Diamond Tiara I knew. The girl that I had raised ever since she was a baby. The little filly whose diapers I changed was now kissing up my tortured length and giving me a bombshell gaze like a pornstar, was making me quake and shiver in ways I could have never imagined before her. That same slut sucking around the rim of my head was looking up at me with those same eyes when she was begging me for an Equestrian Girl doll. The little whore kissing up my belly, putting her hands on my shoulders, pulling herself up to straddle my hips was once the little bitch who put me through hell and yet, at the end of the day, would always give me a hug and a smile, would let me kiss the top of her head goodnight. The girl grinding that slick little cunt against me, letting that sickly sweet scent of need fill the air around us, was my daughter.
I loved her. I wanted her. I needed her. She was panting, sweating, gasping for air against me, fingers clawing into my shoulders, her slick hips rising from my twitching, begging cock, bringing me back to that edge of cumming again. I swallowed it down, balling my hands into fists, gritting my teeth as I laid my head back, but it was still there, still strong, the greatest pressure in the head of it I had ever known. Such an absolute fucking pro. She knew that I was close. She knew and was using it against me, trying to see just how far she could push me.
I was loving every second of it.
It was a challenge, like outrunning a Timberwolf, like facing a Manticore armed with only your wits and a hard, fire-honed sword. Each stroke against her flesh, each teasing poke at that perfect, puffy pussy, each caught squeak and pleading breath, it was all threatening to rip me apart, threatening to cause me to burst at the seams, and I was enjoying every single fucking second. I wanted her to push me. I wanted her to pressure me until I could last no more, until there was nothing for it but busting deep inside her.
I knew she wanted it too; good Goddess, was she wet, so slick and damp I could almost see it glistening against my cockflesh. It occurred to me that she was probably playing with herself while she was blowing me, just like a good dame should– those swollen little lips were parted ever so slightly, winking, giving little kisses against my shaft, only serving to make it even slicker than it was before. My hands unclenched as my shaft twitched again, and I let out a moan as I almost blew, only to feel stronger as it passed. I was ready. We both were. I put my hands on her hips, feeling them, holding them as they sank down, grunting as she took my cockhead in hand, growling as the swollen head pressed against her lips.
Our eyes met for the smallest moment. There was a small sheen of genuine love in hers, something greater than the love between father and daughter, something stronger, more powerful, more pure and yet impure all the same. That sparkle fizzled out, though, the moment throbbing cockhead met ready, waiting labia, and in moments she was sinking down upon me, inch after inch of velvet flesh squeezing my length like no tomorrow as she took every bit of me down to the base, my aching nuts against her rear, my back arched and my teeth rattling through my groans.
She laid against me, chin on my shoulder, letting out an airy giggle as she pulled herself back up, then moaning as she dropped down upon me again, cushy flesh slapping against mine, staying there for a moment as she ground her hips into mine before going up again. The pressure was unbearable. My hands gripped her hips, making sure she wasn’t going to go too fast, to make sure she didn’t cause the dam to burst too soon. Goddess, she was even wetter inside; I slid in and out of her so easily, it was like she was weightless, the only time I was reminded that she was physically there being every time she slammed herself back down upon me, every time hot breath blew across my ear as she let out another needy moan, every lick and nip corresponding with each slick noise between us.
What an absolute pro, what a wonderful dame. She didn’t spoil the moment with words, didn’t sully it with cliche. She went at a pace she and I both could handle, a slow one, one that let us both feel every single inch of one another in detail, let us hear how we made each other feel, let us smell those complex cocktails of smells that we had accumulated over the day. There was still the smallest trace of cigarette upon her breath, and it somehow complimented the rest of the scent of dame. It went with the excess of perfume, with the expensive shampoo, with the soft, brand-name soap, with the sweat, with the musky scent of sex that slowly rose between us like the vapors of lust.
“Diamond…”
“Rrrgh, fuck me,” she growled, leaning forward, her hips rising a bit.
She wasn’t able to go all the way down now; I had to thrust upwards into her, had to flex my hips to slam against hers. A bit more effort for a lot more pleasure, colored dots sparking against the corners of my vision as I slammed up into her, gripping into her flanks, squeaks and moans filling my ears, drowning me in lust. So tight, so wet, so warm, so needy. This wasn’t any old dame, this filly was mine. I owned her, and vice versa, and her vice was my vice, her need was my need, her pleasure was all mine, her treasure belonged to me. My body was locking up, thrusts going faster, and faster, and faster, feeling her squeeze tighter and tighter, her cunt pulling more and more of me into her, her cute little mouth whispering profanities into my ear.
I kept thrusting into her, even as she leaned back, even as she grabbed the desk and began riding me again. Each thrust came with a bounce, and each bounce was enough force to push me back ever so slightly, and soon the chorus of sweet sounds in the air was joined by the gentle thump after thump after thump as the front legs of my chair bashed against the carpeted floor. It was such a sweet rhythm, such a wonderful choir; that slick noise of tight pussy sliding back and forth against my throbbing length, those moans and grunts and squeals and gasps as she bounced upon me. It was already too much, and I hadn’t even opened my eyes back up yet.
I cracked them open, and what a glorious sight.
That blushing face, those lidded eyes, that desperate gaze, the mouth open just a bit. Slender neck shadowed by that perfectly feminine jawline, that demure little chin, junctioning into strong but bulkless shoulders. That delicious little flat chest, begging me the grab those perky little nipples, to tweak them, to lean down and suck on those tiny little nubs. Those slender sides that curved into thick, shapely hips that curved into round, glorious rump, and just underneath the slightest, flattest belly, a miniscule, round, plump little button, slick with juices, winking as mottled cock passed underneath it, glistening in barely any light.
She was incredible. She had every instinct built for me. Everything timed so perfectly. Every clench of velvety cunt in harmony with every groan from her or me, every slap of hips smacking together working as percussion in this perverted band of ours. My length throbbed, my head flared, my legs quaked, my knees would have buckled under me if I was standing, and she took notice, slowing down her bounces but making them more forceful, more powerful, driving me, egging me on. As I let out a needy groan, I felt a soft, gentle hand against my cheek, and saw a panting, needy face looking me dead in the eyes.
“G-Go ahead, Daddy,” she whispered. “It’s okay…”
What a dame. My hands found her hips, my hips raised up into her cunt, her cunt squeezed and sprayed against my crotch as her face went slack and stupid with her own release, and I followed suit soon after. I gripped into those hips as I just let go, finally, pent-up seed bursting forth into the very thing it had created all those years ago, rope after rope after rope, splattering against her insides. She ground against me, pushing off my desk to lean forward, to swear and moan and shiver against my ear, her chin propped up on my shoulder again as she went slack in my arms.
“Oh fuck… Oh Goddess, Daddy… Ohhhh fuck…”
She was so warm, so close, so wanting. My arms wrapped around the small of her back and squeezed her into the tightest hug I could muster. A dame, yes, that was what she was, but good Goddess, did I love her, did I not want her to leave, did I just want to sit there and have her in my arms for the rest of my life… An idea formed in my head, the same idea I’d had when this had happened before, that same negotiating piece that I always needed, that same bit of inspiration.
A few minutes passed. we basked in afterglow, holding one another, loving one another, not giving a damn if anypony would have passed by and seen this sexy, sultry beast of a daughter holding her father in a way she probably shouldn’t be doing at her age. Eventually, though, the damp, sticky warmth that had been so relaxing, so soothing before was now uncomfortable, and my sore, dirtied length was now more flaccid than a dead fish. She pulled off of me, letting my length retreat back into its sheath, and sat upon my thighs, leaning back to retrieve her cigarette.
“Got a light, Daddy?” she said, voice still husky and breathless.
I did, didn’t I? The lighter was on the floor, it had rolled under the desk… Goddess, where was everything? I had been so in the moment, I had forgotten most of it all. I dug into my pocket– thankfully, I always kept a spare light in case somepony needed it mid-meeting, and that was certainly what this was. A meeting. A meeting with a side of lust and incest, no doubt, but a meeting nonetheless. The kind that we had had before, and that we certainly would be having again.
She took a deep drag of her cigarette, still sitting on my lap, blowing the smoke into my face and forcing me to blink it out of my sight. There was a sight to see sitting on my lap right there; a freshly sexed mare, flat chest still exposed, her hips rolled up to show me my own load slowly dribbling from her, blurry, white smoke rising between her lips as she smoked her lungs away upon me, and begged me to listen to her with smouldering eyes.
“So, Daddy,” she said, taking another puff.
“Yes, darling?”
“I can go to Applebloom’s hoedown, right? I’ve satisfied my part of the deal, and I think you should satisfy yours.”
Aha, here we were. I chuckled, stroking my chin, tilting my head.
“Well, I’m not sure, Diamond. I feel like you’re holding out on me.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re holding out on me,” I said. “I hardly think less than ten minutes worth of sex for an hour’s worth of teenage irresponsibility is a worthy trade, don’t you?”
Diamond laughed humorlessly, taking another puff of her cigarette, blowing a few rings into the air. “What are you proposing?”
“Sleep with me the rest of the month and you’ve got a deal.”
She pursed her lips, rolling her cigarette between her fingers, gazing at the glowing orange tip of it, her shimmering eyes shining as it reflected that dim little light. I held my breath, as I always did with risky proposals. Dames weren’t like other girls. They thought in business, they thought in numbers. Another thing I must have passed down, another way this perfect specimen was my daughter.
“Rest of the week,” she said.
“Two weeks. Final offer.”
She smirked. “Deal. You drive a hard bargain, Daddy.”
“It’s what my cutie mark tells me, dear.”
She got up, oblivious and uncaring of her nakedness, turning around to saunter out, puffing on her cigarette on the way. The smoke filled the ceiling like perverse clouds, thick, billowing, not unlike the spunk that was trailing its way down her thighs ever so lewdly, not unlike that reddened rear I was given an excellent view of as she left. That was the thing with dames– once they fed, they always gave you something to look at as they left you for dead. Only, Diamond wasn’t the kind of mare to leave me, not ever. I loved her, she loved me. The business and the control, it was the greatest circus act she and I could have ever mustered.
“Diamond,” I said, stopping her dead in her tracks. She leaned against the doorframe again, and looked back at me with a gaze filled with excitement, with anticipation.
“I love you, Daddy. See you tomorrow night.”
And she disappeared the way that she came.
I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes, swallowing gently, then letting out a wolf whistle, low, gentle, an understatement to end all understatements. I picked my pipe back up, put it into my mouth, czeched it, and lit it back up again, taking a deep puff and breathing it out. These next two weeks, with that kind of dame, well… Once those were done, there’d be another thing she’d want to do, wouldn’t there? Another thing she’d want to go to, another way she’d want to be a typical teenager.
There would be more negotiations. There would be more sleeping with one another, holding one another close. Dame or not, that was all that I could ask for.
I blew out a few smoke rings, laughed, and got back to work, the clothes thrown everywhere and my own battered state the only evidence of my encounter. Not the first, not the last. There was going to be more tonight, and I wanted to get to that as soon as I could.
Author's Note
Czeching, for whom it may concern, involves using a Czech tool to press down the tobacco in your pipe. It's my nonsense word for what people might call tamping, and it's done to crush the ash within the pipe and make it easier to relight.
Anyways, that's my pretension out of the way. I hope you enjoyed your anthro clop, fellas. ~~inb4 drama~~
