Teen Belly: A Belly Tale By Paul Gazer
In the fall of 1996, computer program software was exploding, and, as a freelance code chopper, I was raking in the bucks. So I was hard at it when 13-year-old Betsy walked in and cheerfully announced. “I just had my period, Daddy.”
“Uh, aha, um, well… right. Did you use the stuff we bought?”
“Of course; I’m not mentally challenged.” She grinned all over her plump, pretty face. “You know what this means, Daddy? Now we can really do it!”
Oh boy. To be plain about it, my unofficial step daughter wanted me to sleep with her. This had been building for five years and that girl was wearing me down.
And it had begun so innocently….
Five years back, when Betsy was eight, her mother was 25 and I was 18. (What can I say? I was horny as only an asocial 18 year old nerd can be horny.) We weren’t legally married, just hooked up; but right away, Betsy started calling me “Daddy.”
And no wonder. Her mother resented and neglected her, fed her beans and mac and cheese — that is, if and when she happened to think of it — and otherwise ignored the little girl completely. When Betsy found out that I liked her and paid attention, she glommed onto me like a life preserver after a shipwreck. Naturally loving and affectionate, the kid was simply starved for love in return. She held my hand when we went shopping, sat in my lap whenever she could, and smiled a lot in my direction. Before I knew it I’d been handed the responsibility for a completely volunteer daughter.
My long slide downward started one night about two months after the pair moved into my condo with me. Betsy stood in front of me, blocking the TV, and said, “Come give me my bath, Daddy.” She was down to her little girl underpants, which rode under the shelf of her big bare belly. I looked at her mother (who was home for a change). “I’m not sure…”
“Oh, go ahead,” said her mother.
“But she’s a girl.”
The woman shrugged. “She’s eight, for Chrissake.”
“Pleeeeease, Daddy!” Betsy took my hand to drag me upright. I stood and let her pull me into the bathroom. The tub was already full, so Betsy slipped out of her panties, climbed in, and then stood there. “Okay,” she said expectantly.
“Okay what?”
“Wash me, silly.”
“Wash you; right.” I grabbed a washcloth, soaped it, and started on her arms.
“Ow! That’s too scratchy.”
“It’s the cleanest one we have, babe,” (which wasn’t very).
“Just use your hands.”
Right: rub my soapy hands all over her plump eight-year-old body. But Betsy gave me such a loving, pleading look that I picked up the soap and lathered my hands. Then I just stared at her helplessly.
She was a tall, sturdy girl with auburn hair (which I’d had cut for the first time in a year) and big puppy eyes. Betsy was decidedly plump: chubby legs, dimpled elbows, sweet bubble butt. The plumpest part by far was her belly. Sure, there was extra fat there too, but that couldn’t be all of it. Her bulging paunch arced outward from her sternum and swooped all the way down to her cunning, bare, little girl mound. If she hadn’t been nine, I’d have wondered who knocked her up.
Which was a problem. I’m crazy for pot-bellied girls. (I’d never seen a real one naked, but by 1992 the primitive internet at least had alt-sex groups with a couple of BBW and preggo sites.) But on an eight year old child? God help me, I was bothered by that smooth, thrusting belly. So I washed her arms, her legs, her neck and back, while she rotated in and out of the shower to rinse. Then it was time for her front. Betsy turned into profile view, grinning at me. I swear, she took a big deep breath and arched her back, swelling her convex stomach even bigger. Did she already know my weakness?
At eight years old? Impossible! So I took a deep breath, held her near-side butt cheek to steady her, and rubbed her belly with my soapy palm. It felt amazing: all cushy and soft on the surface, then muscles beneath, and then big resilient innards way inside her. Her skin was smooth and warm and slippery, and she wriggled happily as I ran my palm all over it. I was starting to get hard.
A final rinse and she got out. When I handed her a towel she looked at me enquiringly, but I shook my head. I didn’t trust myself to continue.
Outside the bathroom, I took a deep breath and blew it out, ashamed of my reaction to her. It sure didn’t help when she showed up ten minutes later in jammies three years old, so the tops barely covered her tiny nipples and the pants rode below the swell of her convex gut. She hugged me and kissed me goodnight and skipped out again, ignored by her mother as usual.
I turned to the woman. “What’s with Betsy’s tummy? It’s pretty big, even for a fa- uh, chubby girl.” Her mother just shrugged and went back to her celebrity dirt magazine.
So I took the girl to a pediatrician. He poked and prodded and measured her belly, ran all his tests, then stared at her chart in that inscrutable way doctors have.
He looked up at us. “First the good news. Betsy has nothing wrong with her. No parasites, cysts, tumors – nothing. She’s perfectly normal. She’s overweight, of course, and she has the usual little girl bulging tummy. Even for her age, her abdominal muscles are somewhat under-developed. But the biggest cause of her belly distention is a condition called intestinal hypertrophy. In laymen’s terms, her bowels are too big for her size, so her belly’s twice as big as normal.”
I said, “That doesn’t sound good.”
He shrugged. “Perfectly harmless. We don’t see it often but it does happen. You know, when King Louis XIV was autopsied after his death, they found his stomach was twice normal size.”
I didn’t give a damn about King Louie. “So what’s the bad news?”
The pediatrician sighed. “It’s a congenital condition and she may never grow out of it. Betsy could have an oversize stomach all her life.”
I put my arm around her protectively and she hugged me back. “It’s all right, Sweetie,” I said, you’re just fine and you look just fine too.”
Betsy smiled happily, believing everything I told her.
And so the routine continued. I took Betsy to school, came home and did my freelance work, picked her up in the afternoon for play or shopping or just hanging out. Meanwhile, her mother was still going out at night – alone. Okay, she had a right; we weren’t married and my geeky absorption in work didn’t make me very entertaining. Still, I worried.
Every night we had Betsy’s bath. I did all right except on her sensuous belly, where her thrusting tautness never failed to, well, I guess I’d have to say it aroused me. I don’t think Betsy noticed but I would start to breathe deeply. Some nights I fell into almost a trance, stroking and rubbing the warm, swollen dome, slipping around her curvy sides, playing with her deep belly button. I didn’t really notice that when I did this, Betsy wriggled and cooed and purred like a fat kitten.
Time passed and Betsy was near ten years old, when one night she smelled like an outhouse as she pulled down her panties and they were badly stained. When I asked her, she said she’d had “runny yuckies,” so I threw the panties in the sink to wash as she got in the tub. When I’d smoothed the soap all over her belly and into her navel – I confess: taking longer than necessary — I and said, “Sweetie, You better wash extra between your legs to clean the runny yuckies.”
Betsy smiled a seductive girl-child smile. “You do it, Daddy,” and poked her pussy out.
Now what? “Well, you really ought to do it yourself.”
Biiiig brown eyes and little girl voice: “Why, Daddy?”
“Ah, well…”
“I don’t think I can reach.” She handed back the soap.
So I laundered her plump, bare cunny, rubbing the soap over her soft pink mound, sliding a finger into her immature lips, pushing in and backward. When my finger approached her anus Betsy said brightly, “Here!” Turning around, she leaned over and stuck her big round butt out at me. And there I was, staring at the asshole of a not quite 10 year-old girl. It was tan and puckered, only slightly smaller than a grownup’s. Without thinking, I rubbed two fingers all around it; then I shook my head as if waking up. “Better rinse,” I muttered.
Despite myself, this became routine. I’d refuse to wash between her thighs and she would pout and plead and I’d give in and torture myself stroking her labia and circling her anus. One night, when she had rinsed again, I swear I caught her bottom cheeks in two cupped palms and put my mouth on her belly button. I licked into it with my tongue while Betsy stood dead-still, and then French-kissed it slowly. When I looked up, Betsy was staring down at me with a sly, grownup smile. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispered.
Aside from that, I kept things strictly up and up. I went to parent conferences, took the girl shopping, found a summer camp for her; and as the months went by, she adored me more and more. I confess, I felt good being wanted, needed, loved, and yes, I loved her too. Like a daughter only, I assured myself, a daughter only, honest!
Then one morning when Betsy was near 11 years old, I woke up to find the bed empty beside me, my wallet stripped, my Visa card gone, and a scribbled note: “Bored shitless; getting outta here. Seeya someday maybe.” Sure enough, her mother’s closet was bare and her crap was missing from the bathroom. My only suitcase had disappeared with her. Logical: she’d never really wanted more than free room and board; and now that I seemed to be caring for her daughter, there was nothing (as she saw it) to keep her here.
Okay, I was equally bored with the mother too, but by now I deeply loved the girl. Betsy and I were like father and daughter, but with a weird sexual undertone that I didn’t – no, couldn’t – quite acknowledge. One day, Betsy had smiled and told me, “You aren’t my real daddy, so it’s all right.” Bells should have rung and whistles blown, but I was in my air-tight binary world and didn’t pay attention. I knew I should report her mother’s flight and give Betsy up to Social Services, but that would deal the girl a rotten life, and, well, I plain didn’t want to. I owned my condo outright, my income was way beyond my needs, I worked at home, and the local school had already accepted me as Betsy’s step-dad. I decided to sit tight – well, maybe just for a while.
I told Betsy her mom had, um, gone away for, er, a bit; but that 10 year old girl knew me all too well. She took one look at my face and said, “She isn’t coming back, is she?”
“Ah, we don’t know.”
“She’s not,” said Betsy shrugging, and everything about her face and body language telegraphed indifference. After near-eleven years of no attention, she seemed to have detached herself in self-defense. Betsy had simply dismissed her mother. But she ran over and wrapped me in a fierce hug and mumbled into my sternum, “It’s just you and me now.”
Betsy kept up a good front throughout dinner, but near bedtime, as I soaped her bulging stomach (she often overate, though I’d shifted her to healthier food) I looked up to see tears rolling down her chubby cheeks. At first I was frozen, like most males faced with a weeping female; but then I stood up and gathered her to me, soapy pot belly and all, and held her while she cried it out. Later she climbed into my lap as I watched TV and sat a long time with her big bare gut hanging out above her jammy bottoms. I kept my palm on it, smoothing and stroking absently. It seemed to calm her.
It must have been two a.m. that night when a considerable weight woke me by dropping onto my bed. Betsy, of course. She lay down facing me and wiggled into my arms. I held her a while, and then she started kissing me – not little girl style but alarmingly grown up kissing. “I’m lonesome,” she whispered and kissed some more.
I could tell by feeling down her back that her jammies were even more provocatively low than usual and her naked, outsized belly pressed against my chest. The result was an instant hard-on. Afraid of being busted, I patted her back and gently disengaged her. She pleaded, “Can I sleep here – just tonight, I promise.”
Okay, I let her, rotating her so we were nested spoon-style. Absently, as usual, I rubbed and stroked her sweet pot belly, and she hummed with pleasure. In a while she dropped off, as children do, but I was a looong time staring at the darkness.
The next morning I awoke to find a naked girl in my bed. “Betsy! Where are your jammies?”
She batted innocent eyes at me. “They were too small and fell off.”
“The tops as well?”
She only grinned slyly and moved into my arms. Though still immature, Betsy was as soft and warm and round as any woman, and I confess that I embraced her and stroked her hair and back, while cocking my hips backward to keep my rigid cock away from her. We lay that way together for a long time – too long, I’m afraid.
I think she accelerated her campaign that morning – unconsciously, I’m sure. Betsy was no more introspective than the average near-eleven-year-old, and she’d never been the sneaky, scheming type of girl. But over the weeks that followed, she took my hand more often, leaned against me while I worked at my desk (the numbers on my screen meant nothing to her) and climbed into my lap when I watched TV. By now, she really too tall to fit, and I should have noticed that somehow, she was never dressed, but always spilling out of those damn pajamas. But if you know the intense, hypnotic spell of crash-project programming, you’ll understand why I was too deep in my own world to see the drift of things.
So the little intimacies went on – and then went on some more. The nightly bath continued, and the girl complained if I didn’t caress her convex belly or soap her pussy and wash the rim of her tan asshole. I was sometimes tempted to stick my finger in it, but I sternly suppressed my impulses. At bedtime, she often begged to sleep with me but I said she was too big for that. “Maybe not big enough,” she replied; but again my early warning system failed me.
In May Betsy turned 11, and I planned a birthday party. She didn’t seem to have real friends, so it was just the two of us. I bought her gifts I knew she wanted and took her out to dinner at one of those buffet-type places.
That was definitely an error. Betsy took one salivating look at the long hot tables groaning with entrees and the island of gooey deserts (she was conspicuously uninterested in the salad bar) and went nuts. She piled her plate with corn beef and cabbage and baked beans. She cleaned the plate, then piled it up again – and then again. I worried, but, well, it was her birthday…
By the time she’d reached dessert, she was holding her gut and slowing down, but she attacked a pudding and demolished a giant sundae topped with everything they offered. By now, the girl had packed away a dinner that would have defeated a starving lumberjack. Her eyes were glazed and she burped hugely but discreetly in a napkin.
“Had enough, sweetie?”
She sighed and burped again. “I guess so, for now.” She chugalugged a fourth full glass of cola. When we slid out of the booth, Betsy’s birthday dress was pushing way out in front. Headed out to my Camaro, she wobbled along, as if half drunk on food, her belly swollen out in front of her, belching non-stop and wheezing.
By bath time she was complaining. “Daddy, my tummy hurts.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I went on soaping her big pot belly, which was indeed, swollen much more than usual.
Betsy groaned and wriggled. “I’m soooo full!” She moaned and grunted.
I ignored her. “C’mon, get dry now.”
Later: “I can’t fit my jammies. My tummy’s too big.”
“Try harder.”
“Maybe I’ll sleep without them.” Betsy did ad-lib belly dancer moves as she wriggled to settle her enormous dinner.
Then she moved up between my legs as I watched TV. “I’m so hard and I hurt!” She pushed closer. “Feel my poor tummy.” She turned and pressed her soft butt against me.
Aw jeez! Her dinner was now invading her intestines and their obvious swelling pushed her navel almost level with the surface. Slightly impatient with her, I said, “Betsy, you ate so much tonight, you graduated: from a tummy to a gigantic beer gut. Look at you!”
She grinned through her discomfort. “Just like a grownup, huh?”
I gave up. “Okay, get to bed now.”
She kissed me on the mouth, wagged her swollen paunch at me teasingly, then waddled off.
Betsy reappeared twice more within an hour, complaining that her tummy was too stuffed and big to sleep. I only repeated, “Try harder.” By now I was starting to realize that this couldn’t go on much longer.
Of course, I’d no sooner gone to bed myself than Betsy snuck into my bedroom and stood beside my head. By now, the corn beef and cabbage and especially beans were in full gaseous production and her straining pot belly gurgled and snickered and made fizzing sounds.
“Daaaady.”
“I know, your tummy hurts.”
“It’s still so hard, and now it’s all swelled up. Look!”
The front end of a small blimp loomed over me when I turned on the bed lamp. The blimp went on gurgling and squealing at me while I felt her stomach and intestines. Her belly was obviously bigger and hard as a basketball. Even her bladder was rigid and bulging.
“Daddy, I’m scared. My tummy keeps swelling and growling and it keeps making noises. I feel so full and it hurts so bad! I think I’m going to explode. Help me, Daddy; don’t let my tummy blow up!”
“Betsy, you’re not going to… aw hell, come on get in bed.” I flipped back the covers and she thudded down beside me and lay on her back, desperately rubbing the tight shiny dome of her gut. She was crying now.
“Easy. Just take it easy!” I rubbed her rumbling belly, starting up at the extra bulge of her stomach full of beans and kraut and working slowly down in gentle circles. After a while, she burped and burped some more, then farted. She giggled through her tears. By the time I’d caressed and patted all the way down below her straining belly button, Betsy’s tears had turned to sighs and then coos and humming that meant she was enjoying this.
I circled the base of her paunch a few times and then stopped. “Betsy whispered, “That feels so good. Keep going down, Daddy.”
“Down is in between your legs, Betsy. You’re not stuffed down there.”
“It still feels swollen. Rub it anyway, Daddy.”
Swollen pussy? Betsy was barely twelve. She couldn’t be mature yet, could she?
How would I know? Though I was 22 by now, I’d dropped out of Stanford after six months and spent three years in a little room making magic with numbers that made lots of money. I was rich all right, but still ignorant, and insulated from real life by the priesthood of programming.
So I just went back to caressing the straining dome of her pink belly, pressing and squeezing her knotted stomach and moving my palm gently over her noisy, stuffed intestines. I played with her navel a little, and she giggled again through her burps and groans. Her bladder still felt like a big round stone, so I asked if she needed to pee. “Nooooooooorrpp,” she replied, as the word turned into a long, juicy belch.
This went on for a while and then, without warning, Betsy rolled on her side, toward me, threw her arm around as much of me as she could reach, and gave me one of those grownup kisses that went on way too long.
“Okay, sweetie,” I said, disengaging. “Now turn back over and let’s go to sleep.”
“Awwww,” but she removed her arm from my chest. Then, to brace herself for turning, she dropped her palm – right on my painful hard-on, unmistakable under my boxers. “What’s that, Daddy? Is that your thingy?”
“Uh, yeah. Roll over.”
“Is it supposed to be this big? I saw Billy’s once at school and it was little.” She still held on to it.
“Well, sometimes – when I’ve been asleep.”
“But you weren’t asleep yet.” Now she was stroking it through my shorts as if my cock were a small cute animal.
“Betsy!”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
“Why? Is it bad or something?”
“No, but…”
Without waiting, the 12 year old girl dug inside my waistband and freed my cock. “Wow! It’s huge!” My cock was of pretty large, I guess, but not up there in freaksville. She circled most of my diameter with her fingers and started stroking absently.
“Betsy! Don’t do that!”
Then a kid’s most irritating question: “Why, Daddy; whyyy? It feels real good to do it.”
“Uh, well, uh, only grownup ladies do that, baby.”
“You mean like Mommy?” Stroke, stroke, stroke. “But Mommy’s gone, so I have to be Mommy!”
I groaned. “It’s not the same.” Losing patience (and control) I pushed the girl away. “Behave, Betsy!”
“W-w-what did I do bad?” Her big brown eyes puddled up and tears spilled over.
Oh gawd. “Nothing, just – We’ll talk about it in the morning.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose. “Will you rub my tummy again?” Without waiting, she turned over and spooned against me. My still-exposed cock detected bare skin: Betsy’s butt. I registered that the kid was naked.
“In just a minute.” I hit the bathroom almost running and stroked a huge load of cum into the sink. When I returned to bed after a few more minutes, my cock was back down off duty.
So I rubbed and kneaded and caressed her swollen paunch while it squelched and gurgled, until she finally went to sleep. Now what the hell was I to tell her in the morning?
At breakfast Betsy was still caressing her straining gut and eating very little (for a change).
I finally assembled some courage: “Betsy, you feel more grown up now, right?” She nodded, grinning. “Okay.” Deep breath. “First, we both like giving you your bath and rubbing your tummy and, well, so-forth.”
“And sleeping with you,” she added brightly.
I winced. “Better to say you’re sleeping in my bed sometimes. In fact, better not talk about it at all.
“Why, Daddy?”
God-DAMN that word! “That’s not important right now. The point is, we have to make some changes here.” She opened her mouth but I rushed on, “In September, you start seventh grade at a different School.”
I outlined the facts of life: a) her grade school had believed I was her stepfather because her mother had told them so; b) now Betsy faced a whole new set of middle school teachers, counselors, administrators, but without a mom to vouch for me; c) however I seemed to Betsy, adults would think me way too young to be a parent of a middle school student. If they decided that, the Social Services people would show up and take Betsy from me.
“Nooooo!”
“Exactly! So from now on, you start behaving like a teenage daughter, not a kid. Don’t take my hand; don’t kiss me in public; don’t show you like me too much. Oh: and stop calling me daddy. I’m dad, from now on.”
“Can we still have fun at home?”
“Um, well, within reason.” Before the girl could ask what that meant, I served her more pancakes. On autopilot, she piled on butter and syrup and devoured them.
Between May and September I grew a short, trim beard and mustache. I went to a men’s outlet store and bought some business clothes and shoes. Just before school started, I invested in a business executive’s hair styling. At the new middle school, when Betsy’s seventh grade guidance counselor asked about her parents, I explained that my wife was a “project consultant” who traveled a lot. I myself was “in software, locally.” Both titles automatically satisfied everyone where we lived in Silicon Valley.
I made a big deal out of insisting that, as Betsy’s stepfather, I kept close tabs on her school progress. I wanted to be informed of any problems in Betsy’s important transition to her new environment. I guess I was pompous and serious enough to pass – especially when I volunteered to set up the new computer lab (this was 1996, remember?) By the time I left, the counselor accepted me completely as Betsy’s step-parent and guardian. Not to brag, but I would keep that illusion going perfectly until Betsy graduated high school; and Betsy played her part too. As far as the world could tell, she was just an adolescent daughter.
But in private, Betsy’s stealth campaign continued. The sensuous baths grew longer somehow and the bedtime visits more frequent. Often she “forgot” to put on her jammies and showed up in the living room in all her plump, pink glory. I’d shoo her out, but she’d inveigle her way up onto my lap while I groaned silently. Once, she complained that her belly button hurt.
I stuck in a tentative finger. “Does that hurt?”
“No, keep looking.”
“You mean keep playing with your navel.”
Betsy grinned and nodded. “And kissing it, you know the way you do – with your tongue and all.”
So I French-kissed her belly button and tongued all around in it and pressed my lips against it and sucked it like an inverse nipple. And all the while, I kept my palms on either side of it, caressing her warm, taut belly. I could hear supper inside, bubbling and chuckling away. I confess it made me hard, as it now so often did. Still, I tried to believe that this routine was as innocent as blowing on a baby’s tummy to make the child squeal and giggle.
Between 12 and 13, Betsy started budding big-time. Her nipples grew into puffy mushroom caps and her slowly widening hips required new clothes. She was growing ever taller – up to my chin by now and no end in sight. Her pussy was still bald but the lips grew plumper and more prominent. Sometimes my hand shook as I soaped them. She lost a little baby fat, but her tight belly still bulged erotically.
A full year went by this way, with Betsy quite innocently trying to seduce me, I while stayed on my best behavior.
It couldn’t last forever, though. When Betsy was approaching 13, things came to a head, so to speak, on Christmas morning. Like most parents I gave in to presents before dressing and breakfast, so we made a wrapping heap out of the living room and then retired to the kitchen for a huge holiday breakfast. Betsy stuffed herself despite my constant cautions. I ate more than my share too, and ended up sitting listlessly on the couch in my bathrobe and night boxers.
Betsy ambled innocently over to me, wagging her belly overhang negligently. “Daddy – um, Dad?”
“Mm?”
“I want just one more Christmas present.”
“And what would that be, Miss Greedy?” I took a drink of coffee.
“I want to see your cock.”
SPLOOSH! I cleaned the coffee off my robe with a tissue while thinking fast. “How come?” (Okay okay, I wasn’t thinking all THAT fast.)
“Cause I learned about them in, uh, sex education.”
Seventh grade health, eh? “I don’t think they call it that in health class.”
“Well…” she wormed her way between my knees. “…well, it wasn’t school, exactly.” She grinned up at me. “Marcie told me.”
Aha! Marcie was another seventh grader, who had moved into in our condo complex. Betsy hung out with her after school. Like any proper parent, I took refuge in a technicality: “It’s called a penis.”
She served up her irresistible giggle. “Of course I knew that! Okay, I want to see your penis.”
I thought a long moment, then pulled it out of my boxer fly, why, I’ll never know (oh yes I do). Maybe I talked myself into the idea that we could somehow get the whole thing over with. Or something. My excuses to myself were embarrassingly lame. “Satisfied?”
Instantly, Betsy grabbed it. She inspected it critically. “It’s not big and hard anymore. Now it LOOKS like a ‘penis.’” She started kneading and rubbing it.
“It’ll grow in a minute if you keep that up.”
Sure enough, as she fondled my shaft it stiffened and swelled under her warm fist. She smiled and started stroking up and down.
“Betsy, easy! Don’t Betsy! Dammit! Marcie taught you how to do this? She’s mighty young yet.”
“Well…, she had an educational video.”
“Educational? Ooh! Easy, sweetie! Ah, and what was this sex education video called?”
Cheerfully: “‘Nine-inch Cocks in ten-inch throats.’” Thankfully, I didn’t have a mouth full of coffee this time. Betsy continued, “Marcie sorta got it from her brother.” When I raised an eyebrow she added, “Like from the back of his bedroom closet.”
I should have stopped it all right there, should have stowed my cock away, should have got up and got dressed, but… shoulda woulda coulda. I didn’t. Betsy’s hand was big enough to wrap around me now and her slow stroking and squeezing were irresistible. I just lay back and let her do it. After several minutes she looked up at me. “I think it’s ready, so I want to suck it.”
“Okay, I draw the line. NO!”
“But I want to see your cum!” she wailed.
“It’s called ‘semen’… oh never mind.”
Another giggle. “That’s as bad as ‘penis.’”
“Uh, okay, if you keep rubbing and stroking and maybe tickle my testicles with your other hand, maybe you’ll make me come.”
“Testicles?”
“Balls.”
That, I think, was the tipping point. By allowing Betsy to masturbate me, I was exposing my sexual interest in her. Of course, the mind doesn’t notice what it doesn’t want to, and the thought did not occur to me, at least consciously.
She unsnapped my boxers completely and did as I advised. Her fingers were delicious, exploring my scrotum, pulling up the skin and watching bulges fall on either side. Then she leaned forward with uncanny instinct, trapped my straining cock between her palm and round belly, and pumped it up and down with her entire food-stuffed gut. She pressed harder and her belly dancer bumps got faster and stronger.
“Aaaahhh, okay, sweetie, here it comes, get ready!” She leaned her face over my cock head with great interest. “No! Straighten up; straighten up now!”
So when my ropy cum spurted upward, it didn’t splash her face. That would have been just too much. She watched, hypnotized, as gush after gush of thick white jism fell back on her hand or ran sluggishly down the steep slope of her belly. She fingered her belly-button thoughtfully and licked it. “Mm! Salty.” She swept up a big blob and swallowed it. Then she looked at me wickedly. “Maybe next time,” she whispered seductively.
I was too confused, too ashamed, and, yeah, too happily serviced to say anything. We took our shower early that Christmas.
In fact, I started joining Betsy in the shower some nights instead of standing by the tub and washing her. I still soaped her thrusting pink belly, pushed fingers into her pussy lips, and teased her anus while she grunted with pleasure and waggled her tight bubble butt. But now she washed me too – at least, where she could reach. Looking down at her sopping hair as she knelt and tenderly soaped my feet and legs, I recognized the deep affection, even love, that bonded us. She rinsed my cock and balls more thoroughly than necessary. Almost always, she would kiss my cock tip, then look up at me wickedly. “I love you, Daddy,” she would whisper.
God help me.
On her 13th birthday in May, she took things up to the next level. After the usual dinner out that left her groaning and rubbing her food-packed gut, we sat on the couch while I massaged it. “Daddy,” she said in that tone that meant something was coming. “Daddy, on my birthday, can I pick the TV to watch?” I said I didn’t see why not. Betsy hauled herself up off the sofa, turned on the 50-inch hi-def, and fed a DVD into its player. By the time she had climbed back up beside me, the usual copyright warnings and stuff were over and the title came up: BOUNTIFUL BOUNCING BEAUTIES. Uh-oh!
It was one of those porn anthologies, 20-minute segments of big beautiful women getting themselves off and/or getting their socks fucked off. During a lesbian segment, Betsy confided, “Marcie and I tried that, but it didn’t do anything for us.”
“Marcie’s brother’s DVD, is it?”
Instead of answering, she pulled her sweatshirt off and shoved the pants down below her straining gut. “I hurt again, Daddy. Make my tummy feel better.”
So I resumed the routine, massaging her tight flesh from her over-stuffed stomach all the way down to her sweat pants top. By now I was avoiding her chest. Betsy had always had plump little fat-breasts, but now her small nipples had widened and risen up into dark pink mushroom caps.
One segment featured a quite pretty young woman with a smooth, generous belly crowned with marvelous breasts: as big and pendulous as all the others, but shaped into thrusting, dark-tipped gourds. As we watched them wag erotically, Betsy reached an arm across and put her palm on my pants. “Oooh! You like her, don’t you, Daddy?” She rubbed and patted my cock through my jeans.
A long, reflective pause, then she said, “Do you think I’ll grow boobies like hers?”
“You’re starting already.”
“I try to make them bigger.” With the first and second fingers of each hand, she rubbed round and round her puffy nipples. “It feels good,” she said. I kept silent. “When you wash me you hardly touch them anymore. Don’t you like my boobie tips?
“Honestly, I do. They’re, um, stimulating.”
“Well?” She grabbed my hand that was still reaching over to massage her belly and lifted it to her chest. “Rub there too, Daddy.” I stared at her indecisively. “Give me a birthday feel.”
“Feel?”
A giggle. “That’s what Marcie calls it.”
So, God help me, I caressed her big nipples while Betsy hummed and cooed with pleasure. She started wiggling her hips around too. When I left off, she checked my crotch thermometer again. “Mmm, you like that too, don’t you?” She smiled at me. “One last birthday present, Daddy. Let’s get undressed while we watch the movie.”
I heaved a mighty sigh. “Betsy, I just can’t do that.”
Her pretty face clouded up. “Why not? Don’t you like to?”
Time to be very careful. After a pause for heavy thinking, I answered her slowly, “I do like to, sweetie, I like to play with you – too much. We love each other, right?” An enthusiastic nod. Betsy had stripped off her sweat pants too, but I ignored this. “Well, it’s turning into grownup love and grownups show their love, sometimes, like that.” I pointed at the heavy action on the screen.
“Good!” Betsy exclaimed. “My pussy really wants that!”
“Yes, but your, um, pussy isn’t grown up enough to work right yet. It isn’t big enough and it doesn’t make slippery juices.”
“Ohhhh, yes it does!” she shouted. “And I am grown up! I have hair down there – well, one or two – I mean, I think.” She couldn’t quite say that part with a straight face.
“Listen, darling, fathers don’t do this with daughters.”
“But we’re not really related.”
“Well grownup men don’t do it with ANY 13 year olds; or if they do, they get busted and sent to jail forever. You don’t want that, do you?”
“How do you tell when I’m grown up enough?”
“For one thing, you get a period every month. You know what…?”
“Of COURSE I know!”
“And even then…”
“Okay okay, but it’s still my birthday. We don’t have to…” she jerked a thumb at the couples on the screen. “You can still take your clothes off this one time.”
So I did. Then we lounged side by side, naked, while I slowly caressed her straining belly and she slowly fisted my equally throbbing cock. Most of the DVD was over by now, so we watched it out.
Then I had an idea. “Okay, baby, the first step is to talk to you like an adult. You ready?” A wide-eyed nod. “Let’s talk about making love and fucking.” When her eyes got even bigger I added, “I’m sure you and Marcie use that word.” A reluctant nod. “Right, now tonight, we’ve looked at both.”
At the DVD menu, I went to one of the four segments, fast-forwarded a little, then hit Play. On the screen, the woman’s huge boobs were flopping madly back and forth as her stud took her from behind: wham! Wham! WHAM!! In and out, in and out. Both partners were clearly just going through the motions. “That. My darling, is fucking.”
Dismissively, “Of COURSE it is!”
“But wait.” I found another segment I’d remembered and jumped to it. This time, the couple were obviously amateurs. The plumply luscious girl looked fresh and her guy was well enough endowed but nothing awesome. As they fondled and licked and sucked each other they often paused to look into each other’s eyes; and the looks were intimate and joyful. Once she even giggled when he whispered in her ear. And when he finally entered her he teased her slowly, surged against her G spot, stroked her body with his hands. And all the time, they watched each other with a mixture of affection and desire.
“That, my dear sweetie, is making love. Now what’s the difference between it and fucking?”
Betsy pondered this at length, all the while running her hand slowly up and down my cock. Then she said, “Fucking’s like a sport. Making love is showing how you love somebody.”
Betsy was one bright 13 year old. I nodded at her, smiling broadly. She smiled back. “And we love each other, don’t we?” TOO smart, too damn smart!
Defeated by logic and maddened by her warm, stroking fingers on my cock, I just sighed; and then we wrapped our arms around each other and rubbed our bodies together as we tangled lips and tongues. It was the most erotic thing that ever happened to me and, yes, I knew I did – I did love Betsy.
A few minutes later we were gazing at the ceiling, side by side, still caressing each other’s bare bodies, when Betsy piped up, “I got an idea.” I’d had enough of her ideas for one night, but I said okay. “You ‘member the two who made love on the disc?” I grunted assent. “Well, she not only rubbed his cock. He kissed her pussy too.” Oh, here it came. “We could do that too.”
I sighed. “Remember how I said you weren’t grown up enough to make juices down there?” Her turn to mumble assent. “Well your parts probably aren’t developed either.”
“What parts?”
“Well, ah. Your clitoris.”
“What’s that?”
“Um, it’s sort of like a tiny female penis – way up in front of your pussy. When a girl grows up it gets very, very sensitive, and, uh, well, makes her feel all… aroused,” I trailed off lamely, “and like that.”
Betsy bounced upright, “Let’s try it, Daddy – see if I get aroused yet!” Without waiting, she flipped over into 69 position and raised her upper leg, her plump knee cocked. “Come on, Daddy: for my birthday!” She snugged against me and took my stiff cock between her two palms. She kissed the tip and slid it between her pink lips.
So there I lay, face just far enough away to focus, staring at her plump, pink pussy. I knew Betsy wasn’t above faking arousal to get what she wanted, so I parted her outer lips and put my tongue tip all the way back to her vagina. I licked and lapped her a bit, without much response. I raked my tongue back and forth between her inner lips. She sighed a bit.
Then I moved forward and found her clit. I had too little experience to know if it had grown to adult size, but it sure wasn’t hard for my tongue tip to find. I tickled it. Betsy grunted. I pushed my mouth in and sucked on it.
“That’s it, Daddy!” she shouted. “Do it! Do it more!!”
Did I want to? Betsy would take this as proof she was physically adult. Instead, I said, “It’s kind of hard to reach now, sweetie; you’re still a bit short.”
But her informative friend Marcie had clearly clued her in. Without stopping her work on my straining cock, she reached a hand down, found her clit, and started on it herself. She rubbed and diddled her fingers while her hips bucked and her sucking on my cock intensified.
After a few minutes, Betsy squeaked, “It’s doing something! Something’s happening!” her body was now trembling as well as bumping and a mewling ummhh! ummhh! came out of her mouth. Ultimately, she shuddered and subsided into trembling. She pulled her hand out of her pussy and rubbed it up the slope of her belly, between her budding breasts, and up and into her mouth. She licked and sucked her fingers. “Hey! I taste good!” I smiled inside. Betsy had been so busy getting off that she’d forgotten to jack my cock. I pulled back from her a bit and let it settle on its own (encouraged by determined thoughts about gas station rest rooms and overripe dumpsters).
As we lay there, I studied the girl beside me. She wasn’t soft-fat now – becoming more like a seal with a layer of firm blubber under a sleek, sensuous hide. Her legs were longer too, and from my extreme low angle, I could see that her breasts were now far more than baby fat pads with nipples. My Betsy was growing honest boobs. Her body had always been ripely attractive, but now it was part way toward forming one sexy young girl.
Somehow, it came together: I loved Betsy, romantically, sexually, fatally; there was no avoiding it. I loved her sweet temper, her generosity, her loyalty to an absent-minded nerd – and right now, I loved her sleek, voluptuous body and that erotic, thrusting belly. Lifting her upper leg again, I rammed my face into her cunt, shoved one arm beneath her to hug her resilient butt, and actively pushed my cock toward her face, suddenly grown stiff and fat again. Without missing a beat, she took it deep into her mouth and started sucking me. Licking her clit, embracing her bottom, caressing her swollen pot belly, and thrusting into her mouth, I spasmed and shot a giant load of come into her. From down where I was, I could see it gush out around my shaft, too thick and generous to swallow.
“You’re good at that!” I gasped. Between swallowing rapidly and licking white overflow off her lips, Betsy couldn’t answer for a while; but finally she grinned and said, “Remember those sex education tapes?” I hugged her thighs and we chuckled together. We lay there on the couch a while until our breathing and pulses slowed, then showered to clean up and went to bed together.
I hadn’t been able to think about what I’d done on the couch, but before I went to sleep that night I stared into the dark with growing shame and horror. I had allowed a 13 year old girl to service me… No, say it! I fucked my girl in her mouth. I literally threw my pillow over my head and half-hoped I’d smother. When I’d told myself to quit the drama and suck it up, I took the pillow off, stared at the night again, and made a silent vow: no matter how intensely I loved her intelligence and originality, her sweet, cheerful personality, and growing sophistication; no matter how I gave in to her lush, exotic body and insistent physical tempting, she was still a girl and I would not penetrate her. I would not stick my grown-up cock in to her pussy, ass or mouth!
And for two solid, frustrating years, I kept my promise. Even when she came to me that day when I was working and said she’d had a period, I refused to shove my cock in her.
Betsy turned 15 in May, 1999 and finished ninth grade. Come June, as usual, I sent her to a marvelous summer camp in the Rockies – but this year, for the first time, she went as a Counselor Apprentice and stayed through all three three-week camp sessions.
In June I’d shipped off a big but half-developed girl. Now, just before Labor Day, I got back a young woman – tanned and toned, with sun-streaked auburn hair, a face no longer baby-chubby, and sexy looking legs that shot her up to five-foot-five. As she ran toward me in the San Jose airport arrival area, I saw she had hips now, and those swinging shapes beneath her shirt were real breasts, and full-scale too. Later, at shower time, I found they were accented by bikini tan lines. (By this, her 4th year at the all-girl camp, her odd pear shape was long-accepted and she wore a thong bikini unselfconsciously.) Her pudge was evolving into sleek, overall padding, and her thrusting, pouting belly was even better showcased by her tan lines.
Oh, that sexy belly! It was what had hooked me to begin with, and now it was twice as erotic. The slopes of her upper and lower gut arced seductively and the belly button between them was now sunk deep enough in solid flesh to suck my finger in a half inch. My belly fetish dominated me as always, and nine weeks without Betsy’s erotic stomach had left me so horny that I was more susceptible than usual.
I’d like to claim that she seduced me all over again, but the fact is, I’d already bought a box of condoms – “just in case,” I told myself, ho, ho.
In bed I said, “Hmh: you have real boobs now, baby.” I scuffed them lightly with my palms.
She grinned. “You bet, still growing too.” She covered my hands with her own and paused reflectively. “Know what? You can’t call me baby anymore, ‘cause I’m not; and I can’t call you daddy.” Taking hold of my wrists, she moved my hands around her breasts and upper body. “Things are different, now. I’m grown up now.”
I smiled. “Well, maybe not completely.”
“Enough.” Her smile wasn’t sly anymore, just loving. “You remember when we talked about making love and fucking?” I nodded “I’m ready to make love now.”
I pretended to consider, but I’d already decided and I think Betsy knew it (she had a genius for reading me). I said judiciously, “Well, okay ba- uh, Betsy.”
“I thought a lot this summer. I know you really love me – the real me. And…” she stopped long enough to puzzle something out, “…and at the same time, you think my belly’s a huge turn-on. You want to fuck it – ‘course you can’t really, but you know what I mean.”
It took a while to get it out, but finally, I admitted, “Yes, uh, yes, you’re right.”
Betsy took my hands now and placed them on both sides of her swelling paunch. “And I realized it’s okay – okay to love somebody and still want to stroke their belly and fuck their brains out.”
I chuckled. “You picked up some expressions this summer.” I was rubbing and caressing her smooth, shiny belly flesh.
“Oh, I knew that one. Now,” her smile did turn wicked. “Now, let’s fuck each other’s brains out!”
“Mm, but slowly, gently. You’re still a virgin.”
Another grin. “And you’ve got to bust my cherry!”
“No! I’m going to worry it, tease it, persuade it to give surrender voluntarily.”
We dried each other with more than usual care and walked, hand in hand, into the bedroom. She led me to the bed and sat down on the edge. Standing above her, I saw for the first time how her bulbous new breasts accented the thrust of her sitting-down belly. It made an echoing trio of swollen curves that had me instantly hard as a brand-new popsicle.
As if picking up the idea, Betsy started warming me up, teasing and tickling my cock tip with her tongue, then slowly closing her lips around my cap and sucking. She repeated this until I groaned, and then started slowly thrusting deeper and deeper, until her lips kissed the base of my shaft. Of course, popsicles melt, but my cock only warmed even further, if possible. When she had me gasping Betsy pulled her mouth off my straining cock, scooted back on the bed, and lay with her knees in the air, wide apart. “Your turn,” she whispered.
Before going down on her, I took a moment to study what the summer had done for her. As I’d noticed, her bikini bra line drew triangles around her breasts – so full and turgid that they refused to lie down or flop to the sides. Her nipples were bigger and even puffier now, and her face was a woman’s face, not finished yet, but leaner, stronger, suddenly full of character that the little girl version had not shown. From the breasts on up, it was hard to remember that she was 15.
From the breasts on down she was still changing. Her loss of childhood chubbies had left her a sweetly curved waist that faired outward to hips that were definitely female. Her legs were longer now and promised to look mouth-watering in high heels. She was still quite plump, but her fat was squeezed by tight, taut skin that made her look even more like a sleek and streamlined seal.
And then, of course, her belly: still layered with solid fat, still thrust upward by the bulk of her oversized organs. The doctor had been right: Betsy’s bowels would remain double-size and she would always look five months pregnant. Sensing my thoughts, she took a huge, deep breath and held it while she arched her back and pushed her stomach out. Her tan, shiny belly ballooned into an erotic dome that had me close to coming instantly. I slowly ran a loving palm around it, spiraling outward from her belly button and ending at the new, small crop of pubic hair now shadowing her mound.
“Ohhh, Betsy!” I groaned and dropped my head between her legs. I licked her ass crack and vagina, then moved forward to isolate and tickle her clitoris. Betsy moaned and shook, holding my head and pushing me into her. “Oh, now, Dad, now!” she breathed, and sure enough, her cunt was flowing with grownup female juices. Yes, now it was time.
I moved up her round, sleek body, kissing and licking as I went, until I reached her mouth. Her eyes were tearing up although she smiled and nodded, yes!
I was so aroused by this new Betsy that I almost forgot. “Sweetie, I’ve got to put a condom on.”
“No you don’t.”
“We’re not risking…”
“Daddy, I mean, Dad: my period stopped yesterday. I won’t be risky for almost two weeks.”
“You’re sure, baby?”
“Regular as clockwork.” She giggled. “You oughta see me just before it. I get all bloated up and my belly gets even bigger.”
Interesting, how calmly she accepted her body shape by now, but I was too far gone to think about this. Gratefully, I slid my cock into the lips of her plump cunt and found my opening. Slowly, slowly, I pushed in an inch, then pulled back out. Betsy nodded enthusiastically. In again, an extra inch this time, then out.
Betsy looked impatient. Oh, do it, darling, fuck me!”
And so I slid my fat cock deeper, out, deeper, out, deeper down her eager, slippery hole until it hit the classic virgin barrier. “Hold, on, Sweetie; here we go!” I pushed a bit, and pushed again. It seemed to yield a little.p“Oh, Dad!” Betsy said in that disgusted tone favored by teenagers. Grabbing my butt cheeks, she yanked me closer, while thrusting her hips to meet me. I broke through, watching her face anxiously. Betsy squeezed her eyes shut, with her mouth and lips locked tightly closed. After a moment, though, she relaxed, took an immense breath that pushed her belly farther upward, and grinned at me. “Now go, sweet Daddy, GO!”
I went. Not the rapid slap-slap-slap so typical in porn vids, but slowly, lovingly, watching her face grow tense and beads of sweat stand out above her plump pink lips. After several minutes of this, I wanted to see more of my new lover. “Listen, Betsy.”
“What, what?” she grunted.
“Do something for me.” I withdrew and rolled us over. “Sit up and then spear my cock in your pussy.”
This took a bit of fumbling and experiment but she finally mastered it: straddling me, kneeling she guided my tip to her vagina and lowered slowly down. A look of joy transformed her face, like looking at a pile of Christmas presents. “Oooh, Dad,” she whispered.
“I’ll say, baby! Now you do the work a while.”
She tried it, rising and falling on my turgid cock. After a few moments, her smile got wider, if possible. “It’s even better,” she breathed, “somehow you rub my clit thing harder.”
She pounded harder, faster, deeper while her new boobs trembled and swayed. Finally I said, “Honey, I’m going to have to…”
Her shuddery wail cut me off – an endless “Aaaaah-aaaaah-aaaaah” that rose up to a shout. Her body jerked and trembled, jerked again, and finally shuddered six or seven times, each a bit less violently. My Betsy had enjoyed a thorough, grown-up orgasm.
All this time, I was gazing at plumper heaven: auburn curls bouncing, shapely arms propping up her tanned, roly-poly body. Her swollen belly thrust forward each time she grounded on me. Its skin stretched tight and shiny and her belly button got shallower until it was level with her belly surface. This and her noisy orgasm were too much for me. I exploded cum in her vagina, firing spurt after spurt.
When Betsy felt it, she hopped off, knelt beside me, and took the rest in her wide-open mouth. When I had exhausted my supply, she sat up and let white semen dribble down her chin. She licked it, swallowed. Then she fell forward on me and kissed me so passionately that I tasted my own ejaculation. We lay there, panting.
And so our long affair began – a love affair that lasts up to the day I write this.
The rest is quickly told. Betsy blew through high school in Palo Alto, happy with life, scoring top grades, and running with the concert band and jazz group. (She played a mean baritone sax. I guess her lungs were as oversize as the rest of her organs.)
Meanwhile, fate and the dot-com bubble were good to me indeed. First a software company bought my program for improved cell phone switching and paid me with ten percent of their stock. Within a year, they’d been devoured by a big firm and I got ten percent of $100 million. With the money, I bought property in Silicon Valley and the Bay area, and watched my investment quadruple in four years. When I sold out again, just ahead of the real estate collapse, I had 40 million bucks. At a careful five percent interest, I was raking in two million a year. Okay, not Bill Gates, but Not Too Fuckin’ Shabby, as they say.
I kept one home in Berkeley, in walking distance from the university. When we sold our condo (at a ridiculously inflated price) we moved up there and started a new life – at least in public. She was now my live-in girlfriend and the two of us started at Berkeley together.
Why go back to school at 28? I guess ten years of parenting, family management, and keeping up mature appearances for the outside world had all changed me from a reclusive geek to a grown up man. Besides, I wanted to stay in Betsy’s life. She felt the same. Later on, we married, and today Betsy bustles with our two kids (you should have seen her belly fully pregnant!) I collect obscene income from investments and teach high school math and programming. Turns out, I know an awful lot about kids and feel strong empathy with them.
Betsy had shown me that my people skills were better than I’d thought.

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