Daddy seattle craigslist > casual encounters Blonde Cutie Looking for Daddy to show me off and enjoy me!

- 19 (seattle) Reply to: pers-413288957@craigslist.org Date: 2007-09-03, 9:25PM PDT Slim, blonde girl with a baby face wants her Daddy. Take me to dinner, take me to the ballet, take me to the opera so I can fidget and fondle your cock. Take me to the candy store. Then take me home and let me help Daddy relax after a long day. Be over 35, professional, no children. Wife is fine, as long as she is either a) completely aware and approving of your “little girl”, or b) completely oblivious.
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Chapter One “Hello, Daddy,” she says, sliding into the metal chair. Across from her sits a well dressed man. He has a soft face, a slight paunch, and is dressed in a crisp oxford shirt and dark slacks. He studies the girl before him, drinking in her slim, young form and shining pigtails. She pulls off the large sunglasses obscuring her green eyes. He looks at her, anxious, hesitant, unhappy. “What?” she asks, folding her sunglasses with delicate fingers. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Your sunglasses are nice. Ladylike,” he says. The implication of womanhood hangs between them. She smiles. “Oh, those. Well, Carl said I had to wear them,” she says, smiling down at the sunglasses folded on the glass table. “Who’s Carl?” “My teddy bear.” “Ah,” he sighs, relived. He smirks at her, lewd and curious circuits flashing in his mind. The classic late-summer Seattle day blows cool air across the park, making the

surrounding flora shiver, dappled light flickering over the table. The man leans forward suddenly. “Well. My name is…” She cuts him off, a shake of her pretty head making her gold hair swing. “You are Daddy.” “Okay, baby girl,” he says, all too willing to play along. “You can call me Lolita. I’m your Lolita,” she replies, a sly smile spreading across her face. Chapter Two They sit near the window in the dim restaurant. He worries, a little, about the location as they are seated. His worries are banished, fluttering away like moths, as the dark-haired hostess seats them and asks her if she would like a child’s menu. She beams, and nods shyly, yes. The hostess pauses, allowing time for any other request before returning to her station before the drafty door of the restaurant. “Daddy, Carl needs a place to sit,” she pouts. She is wearing yellow plastic clips in her hair tonight, with little sunflowers. The hue is dim and droll compared to her sunshine hair. He smiles, his soft face crinkling, the slight stubble of grey and brown beard catching the light. “Of course, honey,” he says, and turning to the bemused hostess, “We’d like a booster seat, please. For her teddy bear,” he adds at the confused look on her face. The hostess smiles and whisks off. She licks her fingers as he takes off his shirt in front of her. Her skin tastes of the chicken fingers she had for dinner. She bounces, wide-eyed, on the edge of the enormous bed. He reaches for her, his big, soft hands sliding up her legs, over her tights, under her jumper. He murmurs to her gently, a man speaking to a child. To his child. She slips his slacks off with little hands, tasting of chicken fingers. He slips her skin off, tasting her pert breasts, her smooth stomach, her young bones, her sweet blood. Carl watches. Chapter Three “Lolita, I’d like to see you today. Would you like to go to the mall?” “Yah!” “Okay, sweetie. I’ll pick you up on nineteenth in an hour,” he says, unafraid of consequence. “Ooh, Daddy, I like these,” she says, pointing out a pair of Mary Janes. They are pink leather, embroidered with flowers. “Try them on,” he says. He finds a saleswoman. They get odd looks in these places; children’s stores. Lolita looks young, but not that young. She is small, though. She wears children’s sizes. Daddy likes to take her shopping. “I think they’re really nice, Daddy,” she says, smiling and hopping around the store. “Do they look nice on me?”

Daddy looks at her. She is intoxicating. She is wearing another jumper today. The coarse fabric hangs to just above her knees. When she twirls around, the skirt flares out, revealing the pointelle-knit tights. She wears a light cardigan in the same cream color as her tights. The new pink shoes she is clopping about in complement the rose of her jumper. “They look great, sweetie,” He looks up at the saleswoman. “We’ll take these, please,” he says. She half-smiles and goes to the register to ring the odd father and daughter pair up. He stoops and places her old jelly-sandals in the box from the Mary Janes. “I bet you want to wear them out, right?” he says to Lolita. “Yeah!” she says. She twirls, rotating closer to him. “Oof!” she exclaims, bumping into him. “I’m dizzy! Thank you, Daddy,” she smiles, raising up on her toes to kiss his cheek, the new leather of her shoes creasing unwillingly. He says nothing, but wraps an arm around her. Outside, she plops down on a bench. “I’m tired Daddy,” she says. She yawns, little white teeth like pearls through the mist of sweet child’s breath. He stifles an amused grin. He loves this game. She plays it so well, it is reality. He has to keep pinching himself to remember that she is nineteen. “Would you like to go home?” he asks. She looks up, confusion breaking through her wide-eyed expression. The puzzlement makes her look even younger. “Home?” she repeats. “Yes, sweetie, home. Lolita, come home with me,” he says, crouching in front of her. His face is even with hers now. He loves that her feet barely touch the ground as the swing off the bench. He loves that people look at them in the busy mall. She hesitates a moment, aging suddenly. Then she smiles with those baby teeth. “Okay, Daddy, lets go home!” She looks tiny, but comfortable in his Audi sedan. Like a spring flower in rose and cream colors sitting in the dark interior. She even smells floral; Daddy inhales sweet girlscent with his right nostril, leather and new-car scent with his left. She looks out the windows as they drive through the city. He parks in a below-ground garage under a towering apartment building. It is older, with a tan façade. They take the elevator to the sixth floor. Daddy lets her push the buttons. The apartment is large. The front room is furnished sparsely, in excellent taste. Modern art adorns the walls. White, angular chairs and couches fill one corner. A desk of dark wood, imposing and serious, juts from the other corner. He leads her through this room, and into one with overstuffed couches and a big television. There is a bar dividing the kitchen. This space looks lived-in, comfortable. She perches on the edge of a couch. Its bulging cushions threaten to swallow her little body up. “Are you hungry?” She shakes her head. “Would you like to watch a movie?” She wrinkles her nose. “A grown-up movie? I don’t like those.”

He chuckles. “No, I have some good ones. Go look, in the second drawer under the T.V. I’m going to make us some popcorn, okay? Pick a good one!” he calls, going into the kitchen. She opens the door. Inside are the complete works of Disney, Dreamworks, Pixar. A microwave beeps behind her as she rifles through the choices. She selects a slim DVD, setting on top the large, flat-panel television screen and returning to her couch. “Well, what are we watching, my little Lolita?” he says, smiling and settling comfortably next to her on the couch. “The Little Mermaid,” she says, reaching out and plucking a puff of popcorn out of the bowl he is holding. He sets the bowl down, and puts in the disc. As he settles back into his seat, he pulls the girl and the popcorn close to him. Her body hesitates for an instant, stiff against him. She melts like the butter over their snack against his body as the opening music plays. “Oh, I hate this part, Daddy,” she says as Ursula, the sea-witch, cackles over the surround sound. “Can I watch another part for a little bit?” she asks. Her eyes are big, green, framed by long black lashes. Her eyes are pleading. Her eyes make it clear that she is not asking for another part of the film. He shifts, unzips his fly, uncovers himself. Her small, warm mouth envelops him. His breath comes heavy. Ursula’s whirlpool sucks the nubile mermaid and her lover into the sea. She is asleep against him as the closing credits play. He runs his hand over her silky hair until the text finishes rolling over the screen. He pulls the tights, wadded up in a corner of the couch, to him and folds them neatly. Setting them on her stomach, he slides one arm under her knees, the other under her shoulders, and carries her down the hall. He sets her on the bed, places the tights on the nightstand, and pulls the comforter over her. She turns over, and he holds his breath. She still appears to be asleep. He walks to the doorway, pauses. He reaches down and flicks the hot-air balloon nightlight on. She stretches in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing her panties and knit shirt from last night. She has wrapped the bright pink gingham and yellow floral comforter around her. He is sitting at the small table, reading the newspaper, sipping black coffee. He looks at her and smiles. “Hi Daddy,” she says. “Good morning, sweetie.” She sits at one of the other chairs. “Did you sleep well?” “Yah. I like the bed. It’s really pretty, Daddy.” He senses a question there, and leaves it unanswered. “Hungry?” She nods, rubbing her left eye with a diminutive fist. He gets up, goes to the pantry. “Hmm,” he mutters. “Rice Chex or Fruit Loops? Or, if you want, I could make you pancakes,” he offers doubtfully. She understands. “Ooh, Fruit Loops, Daddy, I love Fruit Loops!”

She eats her cereal, her little mouth stretching around the big spoon. Only the sound of crunching fills the kitchen. Daddy sips noiselessly from his mug, stealing glances at his ravenous treasure over the top of his newspaper. He slides the comic pages over to her as she slurps up the last of the now-Technicolor milk. “Garfield! He’s my favorite,” she says, her eyes glowing. She skims the page, giggling lightly every so often. He lets her finish. She pushes the paper away and gazes out the window. Below is the urban sprawl of Seattle. The buildings are damp and flimsy-looking through the glass. They are wet origami, a moment away from disintegration. “What would you like to do today, my little Lolita? Would you like me to take you somewhere before I go to work?” “Oh, Carl will come pick me up.” “Alright, sweetie,” he murmurs. He smiles at the irony of her sentence, wondering how many men have ever heard their little girl assure their Daddy that they would be collected by a teddy bear. He looks away as she climbs into a yellow taxi-cab, vibrant and gleaming in the damp November morning.