Drenching Jenna

My name is Rory Gulager. I'm a TV producer desperately trying to make quality educational television programming in a day and age when stuff like Sesame Street and Reading Rainbow are being replaced by dopamine-abusing 'toons and unmoderated microdramas.

I'm a single man, recently divorced. I'm forty-six years old. And I'm emptying my balls on my barely legal goddaughter, Jenna.

She looks like some sort of Scandinavian mermaid with her racerback ribbed gray tank top soaked through and clinging tightly to her flesh like a cockleburr to corduroy pants.

Her clothes are as saturated as her skin, the fabric rendered translucent by my pee stream. My water ripples down her chest, her hard nipples bleeding through her top, fusing her B cup titties to her black sports bra.

With her eyes closed and her mouth open, she looks more satisfied than I've ever seen her. Perhaps because she's finally learned that she's not the one in charge.

Every part of her glistens as I hose her down and she takes it gratefully, rubbing my heated excretion into her scalp and letting it trickle down until she can feel it tickling the tender flesh of her underarms.

She has no choice, I've made that clear, and that's what's got her so hot that she's panting frantically, her eyes shut in absolute bliss, taking my piss like the little slut that she is. I'm down half a quart before she rises up on her knees and takes my penis in her toasty little mouth, gracing my glans with her glossy lips.

My urine pools in the hollow of her clavicle as she tickles my banjo string with her pointy little apex and I loose another stream of boiling piss on her tongue.

Everything was different this morning, I swear. How we got here is almost as fucked up as what I'm gonna do to her.

Just thirteen hours ago, I was feeling as stressed as I've been in my entire life. Ready to throw in the towel.

The educational children's show I'd produced for the better part of twenty years had seen its rating drop for the sixth consecutive month in a row and the network had just informed me that it was moving us to an afternoon time slot that would spell the inevitable end for a program aimed at kids and parents waiting for the school bus.

That's when I got the text from my sister-in-law. She wanted me to take the brat to work with me.

Jenna—real name Jenevra like her grandmother—is my goddaughter. If my math's not off, she's turning eighteen this week. Not that I've been counting.

Jenna wants to become a fitness icon, her mother says. Last week she wanted to make R&B music. Next week, she'll decide she wants to become a fashion influencer.

“I don't think she gets to decide whether she becomes an icon,” I text her back.

She lays a guilt trip on me about my late brother and what he would have wanted. Then, as is her custom, she makes it all about herself.

“When he died on me, I didn't just get stuck with the bills. I got stuck being a single parent and it's hard. I want to guide her in the right direction, but I have no idea what she's talking about most of the time.”

“And I do?” I text back.

“She responds better to men.”

Of course, I think. The little slut.

Since my brother passed, I've tried to make a concerted effort to visit my sister-in-law. To check in on her and make sure she's not wanting for anything.

Same with Jenna. I know it is, in fact, what my brother would want.

Regardless, it doesn't take long for my brother's widow to piss me off. She had always expected to live pretty high on the hog, but without my brother around to say otherwise she was free to wildly embellish the degree of luxury to which she was accustomed.

When I'd give her a sizable loan and tell her not to worry about getting it back to me, she'd just stare blankly at the cash until I bit. Then she'd turn on the water works and talk about all the things she would have to go without. She would go on like that until I finally relented and coughed up another grand. This went on every single time I visited.