I’m not crazy.
Parenting is tough; ask any mother or father, they’ll tell you the same. There’s the financial side of things, and the time allotment; worrying if you’ll have enough money to stay afloat with a kid to take care of, worrying if you’ll have enough time to raise them right before they grow up. There’s the responsibility, knowing that you have the next generation of your species under your care; no pressure. Of course, there’s the worrying, knowing how dangerous the world can be and how totally unprotected your child really is; take your eyes off your kid for a second, fucking anything can happen.
Being a single parent carries its own set of challenges, obviously. It’s ALL on you. No partner to shoulder the load with, no secondary income, no second set of eyes to look out for danger or hands to help out. It’s you or nobody.
I am not crazy.
My name is…well, irrelevant. This story isn’t really about me, y’see. It’s about my daughter; her name is Cassandra, or Cassie for short. Her mother and I never married, we just had a lot of great sex that paused momentarily when we found out she was pregnant, and paused again during the birth. After a few weeks of further sex, I woke up to find her gone, her stuff gone, half my damn bank account gone, and a note saying that she had left. She left Cassie with me, I’m assuming because it would have been hard for her to find a new super-dick with a baby on her arm; as big as her breasts filled up after the pregnancy, I’m guessing that she was already getting laid by the time I found the note. Tramp.
Took me a while to get my shit together after that. Wasn’t easy; took me five years to get my money back in order, and about as long to learn how to go two days without some grade-A pussy getting stretched to my balls. For a few months, I really lost sight of things; all I really remember is that we had to move after a night of my blackout drinking, and that my neighbor’s nude garden statues looked like someone had dumped a couple truckloads of vanilla pudding over them. C’est la vi.
I’m really not crazy.
I shaped up, though. Wildly gratuitous sex has always been my only real vice, and I hid it pretty damn well in the new town we moved to. Found a nice open-species area with half-beasts like me, anthros like Cassie’s mother, even a few full-flesh humans. Still, being what I am, I picked up on the usual rumors flying around as I moved in. ‘Have you seen the guy moving in down the street? Bigass satyr with a little cow girl! Wonder how that happened?’
Did I mention that already? Sorry. I am a satyr; a supposedly-mythological blend of man and goat. I’m a particularly big specimen, seven feet tall, 220 pounds, and if I say so myself, hard as a coffin nail. Thick, shaggy black goat legs and hooves, olive-skinned human upper body, swept back horns, a short tail, a generous amount of chest fur, a goatee (naturally)…suffice to say that it’s never been hard to get noticed if I wanted.
Cassie has half of all that; her other half came from her mother, who was an anthropomorphic cow I met on a dairy farm. To summarize, she’s one half goat-stud, one half cow-scamp. Can you SEE the sleepless nights I had when she was a baby, wondering just what the hell I was going to do when boys started taking notice of her? And trust me, THAT shit started practically the day we moved. At five years old, my little girl was already so goddamn pretty and so quickly-bloomed that I could see the whites of boys’ eyes staring at her two blocks away.
I am NOT crazy.
School; shopping; sports; dentists; doctors; friends; parties; vacations; crying; laughing; fighting; playing; teaching…thirteen years passed by in a blur, and Cassie seemed to grow non-stop through the whole decade. By the time she turned eighteen, I had grown somewhat used to the difficulties of raising a future bombshell; yearly doctor’s check-ups informed me that she was still a virgin, but that wouldn’t last. Satyrs, you see, have something of a genetic block in them; our young have different body chemistries than mature satyrs, which keeps them from feeling the wild urges that we grown-ups have to deal with. Around 18 or 19, the body chemistry changes, and within a month, they’re feeling the full weight of their sexual needs. Fortunately, another block keeps them sterile until around 24-25, when most satyrs have themselves under better control; otherwise, we’d probably populate the whole damn planet.
Cassie is only half satyr, though; her other half comes from a bovine harlot who informed me that she had lost her virginity at an age that shocked even me. I had suspected that Cassie had been feeling at least some of her urges for years. The signs were there; the permafrost of boyfriends’ phone numbers on her bedroom floor, the whispering, giggling, late-night video chats, the occasional snooping glance at her internet history…all signs that my daughter was going to do her parents proud in the very near future, by maturing into a tremendously popular harlot.
You bursa escort may be thinking to yourself, ‘Proud? Your daughter is setting up to be a cock-sock and you’re proud? Horrible father! Disgraceful man!’ Well, kinda. Bear in mind, to my people, sex isn’t just natural and productive; it’s damn near an olympic event, and as my Greek ancestors started the olympics, I think I know what I’m talking about. I spent a decade and a half more or less chaste to better concentrate my time and energy on Cassie…but in the privacy of my own home, I absolutely wrecked myself any chance I got. I set world records in almost every aspect of masturbation, denied myself proposals from gorgeous women because I wanted to make my daughter the only meaningful person in my life. I taught her everything I could while she was young, but when she turned eighteen, the simple fact was that I had to address the lingerie-clad elephant in the room.
I needed to give Cassie the Talk.
Not the ‘use a condom every time’ talk, because frankly, I have never be able to say that sentence without falling over laughing. We satyrs have an immune system that could shrug off HIV-infused herpes like water off a duck’s back, and since Cassie’s a hybrid, I’m not sure she can even get pregnant; not easily, anyway. No, the Talk I’m talking about is one we satyrs reserve for our own kind; something to help our young come to grips with the instincts bubbling up in them. Satyrs, by default, have sexual urges that put rabbits to shame; we love sex, more than damn near anything or anyone. The fact that I love my daughter enough to abstain for almost eighteen years is the kind of stuff that other satyrs talk about with a lot of shocked gasping involved. To a race of sex-mad deviants, abstinence is tantamount to psychosis.
It occurred to me as I walked in my front door that my abstinence might also make the Talk a bit hypocritical; kind of a ‘Do as I say, not as I do’ situation. I was prepared, though…had my little gym bag full of visual aids, my speech ready, I’d made sure to schedule an open Friday afternoon…I turned the corner into the living room ready as ready could be, and then…
Have you ever had a moment where something you see or hear just completely blows your mind? Wipes the slate clean, fills your head with nothing but what’s right in front of you, makes you just freeze and stare? Yeah.
I turned the corner and saw my daughter. Cassie was stretched out on the big leather couch in the living room, wearing a pair of cotton shorts, a t-shirt, and that’s it. How do I know that’s all she wore? Because my daughter’s body is very difficult to clothe and leave details to the imagination. Cassie has curves her mother hadn’t had when she was twenty eight; five feet tall, breeder’s hips fully half as wide, a bust to match her hips, and a plush belly half as curvy as the swells above and below it. Thighs as round and thick as Grecian columns, a butt like two prize-winning bubbles of flesh, dainty little hands and glossy little hooves…and then there are the details I really should have worried about. An exceptionally pretty, pouty, faintly naive face, like she always has a favor that she wants to ask and will love you forever if you do it. Nipples that poked through her shirt like she was trying and failing to hide a pair of plums. A pussy that pushed out the fabric of her shorts in a soft, fat camel toe that she had definitely gotten from her mother. Her skin was as pale as the milk I used to drink practically on tap from her mother, save for her arms and legs, which each had the thinnest, softest coat of fur in a classic black and white holstein pattern; her mother had been fully furred, but Cassie had only gotten full-length gloves and stockings. Black hair long enough to brush the backs of her knees, currently tied in a braid around the small black horns curling from her head; turquoise eyes behind little silver glasses, plump bee-stung lips, and a voice as soft as the hearts she melts with it.
“Hello, Daddy!” She murmured, lighting up a beaming smile. Smiling at me like just seeing me was enough to make her happy all day.
“…Hi…” I managed to grunt back, half-dazed, blinking and staring in a way that would have gotten me slapped in a bar. Or maybe kissed; bitches be crazy.
If Cassie noticed how I was helplessly ogling her, she didn’t show it. “What’s up, Daddy? You going to work out?”
“Huh?” Oh, I was fresh today; couple more hours of being shell-shocked and I’d be able to use two whole syllables! What the hell was wrong with me?!?
“Your bag…are you going to work out?” She asked, pointing. I looked where her finger led and remembered that a gym bag full of anatomical diagrams and dildos was in my hand. Why was that?
Oh, right. The Talk. Talking with my daughter about her urges. HER urges. Never mind MY urges, which felt like they were fighting my self-imposed restraint like the sun trying to shine through clouds.
The Talk could wait; HAD to wait. Looking at my daughter, bursa escort bayan I knew that if I started getting into a discussion about sex and the like with her now, I’d wind up making myself look very, very foolish.
*ahem*…”Uh, no, sweetheart, I’m not going to the gym. Just, uh…clearing some stuff out of my room. Thinking of running a few things down to the thrift shop later.”
Her eyes lit up, and she slid off the couch before skipping over, bouncing on her hooves in front of me, all eager smiles and jiggling, rippling flesh. “Can I come with, Daddy? Please, pretty please? I always find something cute to wear when I go!”
Years of practicing keeping my dick under control, more than a decade of learning and enforcing self-restraint, and I still felt sweat starting to bead on my brow from the effort of staying soft. Fuck me, what WAS this? Was this REALLY what I did now? What fucking switch had been flipped, and how the fuck could I flip it back where it was before? Why the hell was I getting so goddamn hot for my daughter?!?
“Sure,” I said with a shaky smile. “Go throw on something that won’t cause traffic accidents and we’ll slide out.”
She nodded and darted off to her room; my eyes watched her ass move as she ran, though believe me, I tried to make them look away. My right leg twitched and I had to reach down and punch myself in the thigh to stop from taking a step after her. “What the fuck are you doing?” I hissed to myself, hoping that my body would listen to words since it was clearly ignoring my thoughts. “You are not going to follow her, you jackass…remember your training, and for fuck’s sake, remember that she’s your daughter!”
Cassie came downstairs in a sundress that didn’t cover much more than the shirt and shorts had, though mercifully it hid the shape of her snatch. If you’re wondering why that should matter, let me explain something: I love a fat, juicy pussy on a woman. It’s why I was working at the farm Cassie’s mom was at, because I knew that all those barnyard girls wear ’em big and sloppy. Before Cassie’s mom, I shacked up with a mare MILF who could take my arm to my goddamn shoulder; that’s been a jacking-off memory ever since, and thinking about it in front of Cassie did not help my attempts to chastise my aching loins.
I got into the car, almost had a crisis when Cassie buckled up and the seatbelt practically traced and outlined her breasts, and dug into her pudgy tummy (gods, do I love a thick woman). Managed to control myself, though. I vaguely remember going down to the thrift shop, sent Cassie off with enough cash to get herself something, and quickly hid the gym bag in the trunk. I didn’t pay Cassie much attention…had to duck into the shop’s bathroom and rub one out so fast that I nearly gave myself a heart attack. Of course, that did leave me with the problem of a toilet clogged with my spunk…and a bathroom floor almost glazed in an inch of the stuff. Thank the gods for the mop in there or I’d have never been allowed back in the shop; caught a few odd looks for having to flush ten times to clean up, but no real damage done.
Cassie was ready to go after a while, time I spent doing my damnedest to keep my loins from regrouping and attacking again. I drove her back in a bit of a haze; I had enough presence of mind to realize that trying to cook would end in disaster, and made a pit stop for pizza. That also got me thinking about the Talk, and in a moment of panic, I decided that I needed something to distract me from it and anything else sexual. In the morning I’d take the time to meditate on the changes I was experiencing and pull myself together. Tonight, I just needed something casual.
“Sweetheart, what do you think about a night in? Find a movie, maybe hunt a game achievement or two…start the weekend off slow?”
“Sounds good, Daddy,” Cassie murmured, smiling happily and toying with the handles of her bag. I couldn’t help but smile with her and raise a curious eyebrow.
“Get something fun? Pop your tags?”
“Mmhmm!” She smiled brightly and wiggled in her seat; if I hadn’t popped my cork in the shop, I swear I’d have gummed up the pedals and ruined my jeans; not the first pair of mine to get hosed to shreds. I concentrated on driving and wished that I could conjure ice cubes around my troublesome loins.
Home! At last! Cassie ran to her room to put away her latest acquisitions, and after once again having to watch her ass bounce up the stairs, I ran to the bathroom to once again relieve the pressure in my aching testicles. No such problem at home as I had at the thrift shop; I’ve acquired quite a few devices for self-pleasure over the years, and hidden them in a couple convenient places. A foot locker in the master bathroom off my bedroom contained a number of well-used fleshlights, and a false section of tiles in one wall covered a heavily reinforced wide-gauge drain. The locks on my equipment were all brute-force affairs that required a lot of strength to open; figured that Cassie wouldn’t be escort bursa able to pick them if they didn’t need keys to begin with. I, sinewy colossus that I am, simply pried the lock open, grabbed a silicone favorite, plugged it into the drain and then let nature take its course. Two rapid orgasms later and an unwholesome amount of semen safely shot down the drain…and I still felt randy as a rabbit on speed.
I tried a cold shower; I mean ice cold. As in, my shower is set to run water through liquid nitrogen-cooled coils before spraying me, cold. Mercifully, the combination of orgasms and 10 degree water was enough to make shrivel a bit; much as I hated abusing my mighty manhood, this was trouble I did not need. I dried off and went to the living room to get ready…Cassie wasn’t there, thankfully; after the incident earlier, I think that seeing her alone on the couch might have made me snap. I’ll admit, I DID buy that couch based on how comfortable it would be to fuck on, but not like this!
I got comfy. Settled into a corner and started pulling up the movies on demand to see what there was to see…switched over to the movie history to see if an old favorite was still there to get called up…and just about swallowed my tongue when the most recently-viewed movie caught my eye.
Before I went to college, I had to make ends meet, and…well, to make a long story short, I was in a handful of pornos. None of them particularly good, but according to the crew I worked with, they turned out to be reasonably popular, thanks largely to my productivity. These really were shitty movies…no clever titles, shaky and occasionally splattered camera work, TRASHY women…but hey, it got me fed more than once, and at 20, I’d fuck anything with a mildly warm, wet hole in it. I’d figured that they were in my past, contributions to a bloated and shifting history of cheap, bad porn only available if you were willing to hunt through a discount skin-bin.
And yet…there it was, unmistakeable with its awful title. HORNY V: MEGA-LOAD; one of the shittiest pieces of jizz-soaked film I’ve ever fucked on, so named for my horns and my room-flooding cumshots. Relief washed over me as I remembered that I wore longer hair and a good mask in that one, and that I’d collected enough strategically placed tattoos and scars since then to achieve plausible deniability if confronted.
Of course, none of that told me why the movie had been watched in the first place. Had Cassie learned of my brief film career and sought out my work? Had she just been looking for porn featuring satyrs? Had a friend recommended it? Did she secretly think that I’m just another pervert? Could I somehow brainwash her to be completely asexual by Monday?
I’m not crazy. I’m just confused.
“Daddy, do you want popcorn?” Cassie called from the kitchen. Panic sirens roared in my head as I fumbled with the remote and my knotted tongue.
“Yeth! Uh, go ahead, sweetheart, but not too much. We’ve got pizza, remember?”
“Alright, Daddy! I just don’t want to have to get up and down a lot! It’s nice to have everything close and just snuggle in,” she said as she came into the living room with drinks, microwave humming in the background. I managed to look calm and distracted when she came in, idly scrolling through movies; I watched her from the corner of an eye, though, to see if she seemed disturbed or guilty at all.
Not sure why I bothered. Cassie once hid two pet kittens in her room and I didn’t discover them until they had kittens of their own at three in the morning, two years later. Keeping a good poker face as I skimmed within digital inches of her porn might have made her strain a smile muscle, but I’d never know about it. Somehow, despite the boyfriends and the smutty chatrooms and the porn (I assumed that she’d watched it, but I could have been wrong), Cassie still managed to have an air of innocence about her…naiveté, if you will. So sweet that if she shot you, you’d probably wonder if she was okay.
Sweet enough to convince me to let her keep the damn cats, that’s for sure.
In minutes our coffee table was loaded with our casual dinner, and the tv was playing the opening credits of a movie I distinctly remembered for its lack of sexual content. Perfect conditions, I thought, to keep me and the feisty fuck-rod under my shorts calm.
Then, of course, Cassie pounced over the arm of the couch and jumped onto my lap, giggling, wiggling, squirming on top of me to get comfortable. I tried to get air back into my lungs after she knocked them empty and desperately tried to keep my dick on a short leash. Not an easy thing to do when it seemed like every move she made rubbed silk-soft fur or cream-smooth skin against me; she eventually settled her back against my chest, head resting back beneath my chin, snuggled up close to me. I couldn’t breathe for nearly a minute, trying, fighting to keep my loins cool. The slightest movement now would be instantly noticeable, with that big bubble-butt squeezed up tight to my hips. I forced my eyes to stay on the movie, not wanting to see what she wore; I could feel much more of her legs than her sundress would have allowed for, and if she was back in those damn shorts, I knew my dick would go full flagpole.