The Accidental Daughter


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Co-author credit belongs to cherryontop1973, a true partner. This story is dedicated to Pamela, a fated friend, guide, confidante, and muse.


It was like a moment frozen in time: my white hand tightly gripping my belt buckle as the other and came down on her perfect, quivering brown ass. It struck with a hard, sharp smack, and she cried out in pain, her knees sliding apart slightly. She was kneeling on her bed, her face buried in her pillow, her firm, round pointed butt up in the air. She wore only a green tank top which had become bunched up near the top of her ribcage. I delighted in being able to see the bottoms of her deep honey-colored breasts… and her soft, naked butt which now had one long red mark on it… and her nearly-hairless pussy which, in the shadows of her bedroom, appeared to be a bit moist from the punishment and humiliation.

Cara and I certainly had come a long way in the last three weeks, when I first met my accidental daughter.

This story starts 18 years ago, with my brief and somewhat memorable visit to the Phoenix branch of our firm. Back home at the shore in New Jersey, I had a wife and a three year old daughter. Between the pressures of my job and an ongoing disagreement between my wife and I about whether she should return to the work force, our bedroom had been an icy place for months. However, my two week stint in Phoenix turned rejuvenating and magical for one reason: Pamela Hill, the branch manager. When I met her, she was merely an efficient, petite, tremendously attractive black woman. By the time the two weeks were over, she had been my passionate lover and confidante for many nights. It was the first time I was unfaithful to my wife. Pamela and I promised to keep in touch, to rekindle the flame when we could… but in an era before email, when cell phones were expensive, burly devices, it was impossible to maintain a discrete, quiet connection. My memory of her faded to the recesses of my mind.

Then, three weeks ago, at the start of summer, my life changed in twelve hours. A morning call from a lawyer in Phoenix, regretting to inform me that he had some complex news. That Pamela, most recently district manager, had died suddenly, tragically in a car accident. That her daughter, Cara needed looking after. That Pamela had come from a very small family, and once she had a biracial baby with a missing father, the family had disowned mother and daughter, leaving them alone. That Cara was 18, and I was listed on the birth certificate. That I was it. And that she would be arriving in Newark Airport this evening, bags in tow.

I considered fighting it, going to court, getting a DNA test… but her birthday and my time in Phoenix were nine months apart. In my heart, I simply knew she was mine… and that now she had no one else.

It was awful news to break to my wife, then to tell our two daughters, aged 21 and 16, about my dalliance, the result, and how our lives would change in the evening. My daughters took it with shocked silence. My wife, more than once, hurtfully wondered what the neighbors would think when they saw a black girl in our home, and flew into a rage several times about me cheating on her–with a black woman, no less. Whenever she said that, all I could think of was the poor, abandoned girl that by that time was flying across the country to us.

Cara was a small, quiet thing when she first walked through our door–clearly a girl of mixed race. She was curvy and petite at 5’1″, with long, curly dark brown hair, intense green eyes, full sensuous lips, and skin the color of warm honey. She wore a hooded sweatshirt, perhaps trying to hide what I suspected was a large chest for her little frame. There was definitely an exotic beauty to her, but also a sadness in her eyes. One look into those eyes and it was and it was apparent she was mine.

Given the lateness of the hour and the taxing circumstances, she had a quiet, stilted first meeting with my family. Those first three weeks passed by in an odd, stony silence. My wife and two girls weren’t going to be mean to Cara; it wasn’t her fault that she was with us. She was not easy to get to know at first, but she settled in, making the start of a close attachment with my oldest daughter. Similarly, my behavior all those years ago was not disgussed–not with Cara in the house, anyway. In private, my wife would spit fire about cheating on her–and with a black woman, no less. For my part, I felt frustrated and alone… all because of this sad, quiet, mousy girl who said next to nothing to me, but whose familiar eyes could flash anger. Anger like her father was feeling. Between the two of us and all the things left unspoken, the house was a pressure cooker, filled with tension and anger.

It had been a brutal Tuesday–the type of day where I was on the verge of losing my temper from the moment I entered the office. When my afternoon of meetings were cancelled, I decided to go home, despite the fact that I would be home alone izmir escort bayan with and I couldn’t help but be home early–home alone with that frustrating, angry girl.

Needless to say, I was not in a good mood when I walked in the door. I looked around for Cara, then heard the shower shutting off. Cara was in the only bathroom–the one in my bedroom was being renovated, a peace offering to my wife.

“Richard?” she hesitantly called out. We had decided that it would be easier for her to call me by my first name instead of “dad” or something along those lines. I barked that I was home early and needed the bathroom. She responded, “Um, okay, I’ll be out of your way in a sec.”

“Good,” I growled, the combined frustration of the day and her presence in my home taking its toll. “I hope you’re not in there all goddamn day.”

The door opened, and she was wearing a full terrycloth robe, her hair up in a towel. Seeing me, she put her head down. “Sorry,” she mumbled as she let me move by her. I heard her open the door to the basement–we had taken the finished section, formerly my home office, and turned it into her bedroom.

I finished in the bathroom and washed my hands–it was then that I found the bathroom was missing something. “Cara, get your ass up here!” I heard nothing from downstairs–not the creak of her getting up off the old bed, nor the patter of feet coming up the stairs. “Cara!! Dammit, hurry up! Let’s go!”

Then, I heard her running up the steps. She appeared at the bathroom door, her hair wet and down, wearing an oversized pink Phoenix Coyotes t-shirt and what I assumed were black lace boyshorts, sticking out underneath. One quick glance and I could tell they were clinging to her still-damn rear end. Had I been in a better mood, I might have kidded her about the shirt (hockey? really?), but I was growing tired of her sloppy habits.

“Yes Richard?” she asked quietly.

“Look at this bathroom. Water on the floor, water around the sink! What did you do, shower with the damn curtain open? Plus, there’s not one towel left–not one!!”

She looked uncomfortable, and I didn’t know if it was from the enclosed space of the bathroom or the fact that I was yelling at her. Again. She simply put her head down and said she was sorry.

“Cara, look at me when you’re talking to me.”

The girl looked up, and this time I saw a flash of temper in her eyes, a building temper that she was trying to contain. “I’m sorry, Richard. And just so you know, there was only one towel in here when I got home, so–“

I cut her off. “You know what? You know where the linen closet is. You should have gotten more!”

Cara took a breath and looked at me steadily. There was iron in her voice now. “Well, I did not need another towel.” Her temper was clearly getting the better of her now. “And if you recall, you rushed me out of the bathroom so I did not have a chance afterward to get more, or clean the floor, or around the sink!”

“Do NOT get an attitude with me, missy! I demand your respect in this house!”

Her face turned a bit red now as her anger unleashed. “Well, you should try giving some then!” Her little chin poked out, her green eyes afire, her damp body shaking with anger. I couldn’t help but notice her full, round breasts jiggling from her agitated breathing. She turned away, walking out of the room. I could barely see those boyshorts under her shirt, but they appeared to be covering an ass unusually spectacular for a girl her age.

Without thinking, I hurtfully yelled, “You know what else, Cara? Don’t come upstairs unless you are fully dressed. You don’t see my daughters hanging around half naked!” As soon as it was out of my mouth I realized what I had said: that the two other girls were “my daughters,” implying that Cara was not mine in my heart.

She paused as though she had been physically hit. She turned her head and said over her shoulder, “You know what, Richard?” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. “I am obviously not like your other daughters.” She turned now to face me, angrier than I had ever seen her in these three weeks. “I live in the basement like Cinderella, so don’t EVER compare me to them or them to me!” She waved her balled fists at me. “And if you don’t’ want me to come upstairs without clothing, stop bellowing for me like the king of fucking England!”

With that, she stomped out of the room and down into the basement. I was bewildered a moment, then yelled after her. “I heard that! Get your brown ass back here!” I followed her down the stairs.

In her basement bedroom, I was met with more of Cara’s snarling sarcasm. “Brown ass? Did you say brown ass? You racist fucking redneck!” Almost like a child, she wailed at me, “I want to go home!” Something, I assumed a shoe, flew past my head.

I reached for my belt buckle. Undoing it, I said, “Don’t you dare call me a racist, you insolent little bitch! I took you in, put a roof over your head. This is your home now. And you escort izmir know why I said brown ass? Because as far as I know, your ass is brown!” With that, my belt was off, buckle in hand, the rest reaching to the floor.

Cara held her ground. “I hate being beholden to you! You fucked my mother’s black ass like a hooker on the corner for a week and prayed you would never see her fucking face again! So here I am in all my splendor thanks to you and your dick. And just so you do know, my ass IS brown!” Daring me, she turned around and lowered her panties, mooning me.

I lunged at her, not swinging the belt yet, but it was enough to scare her. She screamed and ran past me for the stairs. I was able to grab the back of her shirt, and I heard a satisfying rip at its neck. It stopped her, and I put an arm around her, half picked her up, and pushed her towards the bed.

She half fell, her feet on the floor, her hands on the bed. For the moment she didn’t move and appeared to have given up. There was a maniacal expression on my face, and my belt was in my right hand. Over her shirt, I put my hand on the small of her back. I could feel her small body trembling; she appeared to be terrified.

I heard her whisper. “Oh god… please don’t.” There was a pause, then she earnestly added, “Please Daddy, I am begging you.”

I responded strongly, trying to contain my anger. “Cara, in this house, when one of my children is out of line, they get punished.” She turned her head to me, tears in her eyes. I continued. “My girls grew up with the belt, but not often. Only when they needed it. And you need it now.”

I saw her body relax. She almost looked relieved, almost happy to be treated like my daughter. She looked in my eyes, and looking back, I saw hope for us. A chance at love between us.

Tears rolling slowly, softly down her cheeks, she looked as though she was desperate for love and acceptance. Cara said simply, “Then I’m ready for it, Dad.” She turned her head back around, giving me a trust that was utter and complete. She was at my mercy, only wanting–or needing–to please me.

“Cara, please lower your shorts. To the ground.”

She paused, clearly confused and uncomfortable. I wondered if the sight of her big, strong father standing over her like this had made her panties wet. I wouldn’t have been surprised. It had happened with her sisters. She looked up at me. “Is it absolutely necessary?” Her voice became a whisper. “Maybe just this time we can do it with my panties on?”

I smiled down at her sweetly. “Cara, I know you are shy, but my girls grew up with this. Part of the punishment is the shame you are feeling. Now be a good girl, a good girl for your father, and lower those bottoms.”

She smiled back tentatively, then lowered her panties. They fell to the floor, and in the shadows of her room I still thought I saw a wet mark in them. I was growing hard. I looked up her strong, curvy legs, to see her thighs pressed tight together.

“Now step up to the bed. Kneel on it, Cara.” Her body was still trembling slightly. She nodded, but did not move. “Don’t keep me waiting.” Then she moved, kneeling in a most wonderful way. I stared at that brown butt, not believe how wonderful it looked. “Good, good… now just part your knees a bit. Don’t keep them closed.”

“Oh god, please no,” I heard her whisper, more to herself than me. She buried her head in the pillow, mortified, and spread her thighs a bit. Indeed, she was a bit wet.

“Good girl, putting your face in the pillow. Your… well, your sisters both do that.” Now, the time had come. “Alright, Cara my love… ten hits, okay?

Through the muffled pillow, she said, “Okay D-d-daddy.” Her body was quaking now. I doubted anyone had ever hit her before.

“Count for me… with each swat, my love.” Her only response was her soft brown hair moving up and down: yes. “Here we go.”

I gave her an intentionally light swat.

“One,” she counted.

“Good girl, Cara.” Then another swat, just as light.

“Two,” she said, clearly thinking this wouldn’t be too bad.

Then, I smiled to myself. Time to take things to hard strength, though not my fullest.

Smack! “Three!” she screamed. “Owwww, Daddy!” I had no response. “Please…” she cried out, but was interrupted. Smack! “Four!”

I could tell that she was crying into the pillow. “That’s right,” I said, my pent-up anger releasing. “Keep counting!”

Smack! I heard her count five while my eyes glowed at the sight of her precious ass jiggling right in front of me. And it wasn’t just that: with each hit, she flinched, and with each flinch her knees slid on the bed sheet. With each hard hit I saw more of her soft, almost hairless dark honey-colored pussy.

“Cara, never, ever speak to me like you have today, you bitch!”

Her body was shuddering before the smack of the next hit. “Six,” she whimpered. She felt that the words of love before had been a trick, that I still hated izmir escort her after all. At the moment, I didn’t know what I was feeling.

“You want to be treated good? Then act like a proper girl!”

Smack! She cried out something, probably “seven” and I heard hate and tears in her voice.

I looked down: clearly, her ass was in fire, her legs hurting and sore, and her pussy wet and burning. I was nothing but rage; I put my whole body behind the last hits, anger and rage and confusion from the last three weeks bubbling and boiling over. My daughter looked terrified from my rage.

“Don’t you ever–“SMACK “ever act like–” SMACK “a fucking stuck up cunt again!” SMACK!!

Partially out of breath, partially disgusted with her and myself, I threw the belt down. I stared at my new daughter, not sure of what I was feeling.

There was a moment of silence, then Cara’s steely voice. “Eight. Nine.” A pause, then, “Ten.”

She twisted herself, now half sitting on the bed, and looked up at me. “Is that all, Richard?” Her face was a cold mask.

I smirked back at her determination. “Don’t act tough, Cara. I see the tears on your cheeks.

She slid to the edge of the bed, standing, trying to get off of it and collect her panties. “Excuse me… Father.”

I put my foot down on her panties. “Sit down.”

She did, but looked into my eyes, feeling that we would never be father and daughter. Looked at me coldly, she said with quiet determination, “Fuck you.” Cara stood up, walking towards the dresser to get another pair of panties.

“I said sit down.”

She walked by me, ignoring me. She looked at my raging hard on and looked up at me with a smirk. Then added, “I said, fuck you.” She reached her dresser, her back towards me.

I walked behind her, putting my hands on her shoulders in a paternal way. She tried to snatch away, but I held her. “Cara… listen.”

“Get your hands off of me, Richard. I will listen to you, respect your wishes and be obedient. But never, ever fucking touch me again. When I finish high school I will be gone and you will never have to see me again.” Taking her panties, she pulled away from me, sitting on her bed.

I sat next to her, putting an arm around her. Softly, I said, “Cara, I don’t want you to disappear. Don’t be upset because you were punished. All my girls get it when they need it.”

“Yes sir,” she mumbled. Inside she wondered how many of “my girls” I called a fucking cunt. “Well… goodnight, Richard.”

“I’m sorry if I said some hurtful things. Do you accept my apology… my love?”

I heard her mutter something under her breath–it sounded like “No, asshole,” but I let it go. She looked at me, smiling so sweetly that it was clearly false. “Sure, Dad.”

“There’s a good girl. Now, come here. Every spanking ends with a hug, Cara.”

The hug started out with my daughter being stony. She stood there, not even pretending to hug me back. Then her head came to my shoulder and she took a breath in. She let out a soft sob, showing how desperately she wanted things to turn out differently. My arms were around her firm on her.

Softly, I said, “I know it’s been tough on you, my love. A lot tougher than for everyone else.” I started to rub her back. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re my girl.” Absentmindedly, I rubbed lower, to the small of her back.

My kindness was her undoing. She started to fully sob, realizing that if we couldn’t make this work then she would be alone, without love or anyone to care for her.

I’m not sure if I had intended it or not, but my hands were now full on her butt, and she knew it. She held me, crying, and said into my shoulder, “It’s okay, I’m okay.” She stood up a bit, her hands on my chest, a lazy smile on her face as my hands kneaded and rubbed her wonderfully-shaped ass.

Playfully, I added, “And know this, Cara… black, brown, or white, you’ve got the best butt in the house.” I gave her a soft squeeze.

She half-smiled back. “Richard, may I go to sleep soon? I am sooo tired.”

Devilishly, I responded, “Oh, don’t you like me rubbing away the sting on your behind?”

She smirked softly. “A little. Do you have some type of cream you could put on it? It hurts. A lot.”

“Of course, my love.” Her face looked odd for a second; perhaps she loved how it felt when I said that, but hated herself for it at the same time. I was next to her now, one hand on her butt, the other at the bottom of her shirt. Sweetly, caringly, I said, “Arms up, Cara.”

Without thinking, she did as I said. A moment later, her tank top was up and over her head, then thrown on the floor.

“Now lay on the bed face down, babygirl.” The girl was fully naked before me. I had a split second to drink in her body before she again did as she was told. “I’m lucky to have such a beautiful daughter.”

She smiled sleepily, laying her cheek on the pillow. “Thanks, Dad,” she murmured.

My mind was whirring now, looking ahead, planning to cross the line that I was so close to. “Now,” I said as nicely as possible, “I must admit that I’m a little shy seeing you all in your birthday suit for the first time! Could you turn your head to the wall?”

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