Excerpt from "Carrots, part 2":
I like it when my daddy digs his fingers deep into my buttocks, going harder now, no more hesitation in his touch. In fact it only takes another little moan for him to pull down my underpants, too, leaving my butt exposed to stare him in the face. I lose his touch for a moment, he's rummaging around, and for the length of that moment I fear that he might have returned to his old self, his inhibitions overcoming him; but no. A heartbeat later they are back, his hands, squishy again, only this time with something more cohesive, I think, vaseline or something. He is pushing up the flesh of my buttocks with cupped hands, his well-manicured thumbs (not a trace of fingernails there, in his touch) almost touching at the divide. I have to force myself not to tense up, not to squeeze my buttocks together as he pulls them apart ever so slightly, a little more in each go, his thumbs going down a little deeper to where I've never been touched except by my own hand protected with five reams of toilet paper. (Yes, I'm one of those girls. Call me hygienic if you must. )He stops a little to refill his hands on vaseline, then startles me by pulling my buttocks apart with one hand and letting the other's thumb glide straight through the gap between them. My sphincter contracts involuntarily at the passing touch, rocking my whole body and sending shivers of surprise, shock and excitement through my nerves, mingled with surprisingly little revulsion.
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