Paradise Bound Ch. 01

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Comments I received on Katy the Virgin made me take a new look at my characters and where I was going with them. This story is a re-write of Katy the Virgin, and this is the base for future stories. I appreciate all the comments and votes! Thanks!

Yes, my name really is Paradise and yes, my mom was a hippie. A soldier hippie, of all things. She died when I was two so I can’t ask her about my name. And Dad will only say that she insisted on “Paradise.” Not that many people know my name is Paradise, though—everyone calls me Pari.

Dad was a soldier, too, even though being a single parent made things harder for him, like during the tour he had in Iraq when I stayed with my grandparents. Still, he made a career of the Army and I enjoyed being an Army Brat. We almost always lived on post, where I loved the all-in-it-together atmosphere. I liked it when we lived for a few years on post at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri, where dad was a Drill Instructor. I also liked it when we lived on post at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. At the time of the events related here, though, Dad was a First Sergeant stationed in Germany, and I was truly loving being in high school there.

I was very proud of my dad. I never really knew what he did because he couldn’t talk about it, but that always made it seem that much more important. He was James Bond, Captain America, and G. I. Joe all rolled into one. He was also Mom and Dad all rolled into one: he swatted my butt if I misbehaved, but he also kissed my skinned knees and elbows. He taught me how to shoot and to drive, but also how to cook and to clean house.

I loved my Dad very much, but things got a bit weird when I started dating. Not with my dad–with my dates. A boy would seem interested in me and we’d hang out. He’d pick me up for a date and I would bring them in to meet Dad. Then, Dad would use his Drill Instructor look and voice on them, asking what were their intentions, and the like. That always seemed to turn them into quivering, quaking little boys right before my eyes. If they didn’t turn tale and run, then I did. I was not interested in dating little boys. I always wondered why they were scared of a strong man, when I wasn’t.

Over the summer between my Junior and Senior years, I attended the post’s annual Independence Day celebrations with my dad. Even though we were in Germany, it was a huge event with carnival games and rides, various bands playing, and, of course, the evening ended with fireworks. I guess I was trying to be provocative, as I wore my shortest shorts and tightest t-shirt. Dad looked at me and raised his eyebrow at me as we headed out, but didn’t say anything. I would turn 18 in another month and he trusted me.

I knew I was turning heads that day. After a while, though, I noticed things were different depending on how near I was to my dad. The boys from school would stare, maybe come talk to me, but only if my dad wasn’t around. On the other hand, the soldiers, well, they’d look at me regardless. In fact, being near my dad meant they were more likely to come over and talk. Of course, they mostly spoke to Dad, but they’d always at least say hi and introduce themselves. By the end of the day, the difference between the boys at school and the men who were soldiers couldn’t have been clearer to me.

I decided then that if I was going to date, it would be men, not boys. And living on an Army post meant I was living right in the middle of thousands of men. In fact, I realized, Dad worked with hundreds of them himself. I thought if I hung around more frequently, I could get to know some of them, maybe find a date or two.

So I started going to my dad’s office a few times a week. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed how yummy those soldiers were before. I was like a kid in a candy store—I wanted to lick them, every one! I flirted outrageously as much as I could. I loved it when the guys flirted back, although not all of them did. Lots of them were married, and some of them didn’t feel comfortable being anything more than friendly with the First Sergeant’s daughter. Some of them plainly didn’t like me coming around, and some of the soldiers were women.

There was one guy who didn’t seem to fit into any of the categories, though: Staff Sergeant Derrick Jackson. We had met before and he had even been to the house several times. I knew quite a bit about him, as Dad mentioned him frequently. Dad was his mentor and he had been a drill instructor at Fort Leonard Wood, too. He seemed to be Dad’s right-hand man at work. Outside of work, they both loved driving around Europe and exchanged route ideas all the time.

Sgt. Jackson had previously been at least somewhat friendly to me: he’d at least say hi when he came over to the house. But now that I was on the prowl, so to speak, he refused to say a word to me. I think now, that he probably knew what I was about and didn’t want to be a target. However, his aloofness had the opposite effect: It made me curious. It made me want a reaction from him. casino siteleri He became a challenge to me.

I began daydreaming about him. I could picture him in my mind perfectly. He was tall, with a massive chest and biceps. He had skin that looked always tanned, courtesy of his dad, who was African-American. It gave him the kind of ethnic look that made people wonder where he was from. He kept his dark hair very short and his uniform knife-edge sharp. His most gorgeous feature, though, was these amazing golden eyes that I could have stared into for hours.

After school started for the year I couldn’t spend quite as much time hanging around Dad’s work. I had to content myself with elaborate fantasies about Sgt. Jackson, which usually involved teasing or provoking him to anger, so that he would grab me and kiss me hard. My fantasies also generally involved lots of tongue-on-skin. I wondered what he would really taste like.

In the back of my mind, most especially after a visit to Dad’s work, lurked the constant question of how I could get Sgt. Jackson to respond to me. I tried many different tactics. I always spoke to him and sometimes, I would try stepping closer to him as I talked. But he always stepped back when I did. A few times I tried touching him on the arm or shoulder as I spoke to him. He would sort of flinch or even walk away when I did that. He never answered my questions or laughed at my jokes. And if I dressed to show off, he would suddenly have somewhere else he needed to be. The more he didn’t react, the more I wanted him.


I started asking Dad lots of questions about Sgt. Jackson. I’m sure I was obvious about my interest, but I thought the more I knew about him the better chance I had to come up with something to make him respond to me. Dad told me Sgt. Jackson had been also been a DI and that he was basically on the same career path as Dad. He was about ten years behind my dad, which made him about ten years older than me. According to Dad, he was smart and funny and generous. He was an Army brat himself who didn’t fit in during his school days, who’d had an odd assortment of part-time jobs along the way, and had practically every award the Army gives out.

I enjoyed learning all about Sgt. Jackson, but Dad never gave me any information I could use in my quest to snag Sgt. Jackson’s interest. Except, maybe, for my idea that the mutual respect he and Dad had for each other was behind his non-reaction reaction to me.

One day in my Psychology class, the teacher caught me paying attention. He started talking about so-called “reverse psychology.” It gave me an idea that I hoped would be a powerful strategy for getting to the sergeant.

That afternoon, I walked into Dad’s office and did my usual flirting routine with the usual guys. All the guys, that is, except Sgt. Jackson. Him, I walked coolly by, as if I didn’t even see him. After speaking to my dad briefly, I walked back out, again seeming to pay no attention to the sergeant.

After a couple of days of that, as I was leaving, I heard the guys razz the sergeant, asking him what he’d done to piss me off. It stopped quickly, and I could just picture in my mind that all he’d done was stand up and give them that intimidating DI Look. I shivered as I thought that, and the idea that I’d like him to give me That Look popped into my head. My pussy tingled at the notion.

After several more days of Pretend-Jackson’s-Not-There, it suddenly worked. He quietly whispered to me as I passed him, “I know what you’re doing.”

I was giddy with delight, but knew that if I made a big deal about it, he’d go back to ignoring me. So, as much as I could, I maintained my cool, but on leaving, I whispered back to him, “Is it working?”

He said, “No,” but I caught the slight smile.

I grinned all the way home.

After that day, he no longer gave me the stone statue treatment, although he still wouldn’t let me touch him, nor would he flirt back. We had friendly but brief interactions primarily consisting of small talk. I began to get desperate for more. After about a month of this, I screwed up the courage and asked him to go to a movie with me. I was prepared for him to say no, especially the first time. So, I should have been prepared for him to say, “I don’t date little girls.”

I was so embarrassed. Then I was furious. ‘Little girl?’ Ugh! How dare he call me a little girl! I’ll show him! On my way home, I thought of ways to show him how much of a little girl I was NOT. I decided I would literally show him that I was all grown up.

I spent the evening setting up my camera and taking test shots. When I figured I’d gotten the framing right, I stripped out of my clothes and started to put my bikini on, then paused. I reframed the shot, a little tighter and a little lower, then took my bikini back off. I hit the self-timer and stepped in front of the camera. It started clicking and I posed for it. I turned to the side a little. Then I thrust my boobs canlı casino towards the camera a little. Then I realized I was getting wet and tingly and put my hand down to my puss to rub those wonderful tingly spots.

When I looked at the shots later, I knew exactly which one to use. No one could look at that shot and think “Little Girl!”


The next week, I set my school books down on Sgt. Jackson’s desk as we talked. The photo was face down on the bottom of the pile of books. When I picked up my books and walked away, I left the photo.

I was creaming my panties so bad all the way home, imagining Jackson looking at the 8×10 glossy of my lithe, young body. In it, my breasts were pressed together between my upper arms and I had one hand down, fingers buried in my pussy. My other hand was aimed up, fingers teasing an erect nipple. I imagined Jackson’s eyes bugging out as he picked the photo up. I ran to my room and threw my books down and tore my pants off. I pictured him getting hard looking at me and immediately, furiously started rubbing my puss to a huge orgasm.

It was several days later before I was able to face the sergeant again. I had no idea what his reaction was going to be. I rehearsed in my mind how it might go—and how I hoped it would go. I approached his desk, full of apprehension.

Quietly, and without looking at me, he asked, “You ARE 18, right?”

I said, “Yes.”

He looked me in the eye then, and said, “One movie.”

I squealed and jumped up and down.

He groaned.

That Saturday, I met the sergeant at a movie theater off-post. I hugged him tightly for several seconds until he picked me up and put me away from his iron-hard body.

“We are seeing this movie as friends, Pari,” he said, “No boyfriend-girlfriend kind of stuff. I only agreed to see this one movie with you because I was afraid of how you’d escalate your—your campaign. I’m too old for you. I’m sure your dad would agree.”

I knew I had to make the most of this date. I held his hand. I touched his arm or his close-cropped hair. I called him Derrick for the first time and whispered into his ear how much I liked older men. I kissed his cheek. I asked him if he thought I was sexy. If he liked my picture. If he masturbated to it.

“Enough!” he nearly yelled.

He dragged me from my seat and back out of the theater to our cars. I repeatedly tried to pull my arm from his grasp. When we reached the cars he let go of my arm.

He sounded like he was in pain when he said, “Jesus, Pari! You can’t…don’t say…I’m…! Jesus!”


“I’m sorry Derrick.”

He looked out over the parking lot.

“I didn’t want to make you mad.” I pitched my voice lower, “I’m sorry I was a bad girl.”

He looked back at me quickly, with a new expression on his face. It was like he was seeing me for the first time.

“Yes, you were a bad Little Girl. And do you know what happens to bad Little Girls?”

I nodded, wide-eyed.

“What?” he demanded.

“They get spanked.” I replied.

Derrick groaned and grabbed me by the arms, hauling me up his body, crushing me to him, then crushing his lips to mine.

Yes! THIS was what I wanted! I uttered wordless noises of desire, but he misunderstood.

He pushed me away suddenly, “Pari, did I hurt you? My god, see? This is why we can’t….”

“No!,” I said. “It didn’t hurt. Oh, kiss me again, please?”

I curled my hand around the back of his neck and stood on my toes to reach his mouth. I kissed him softly, then pressed my tongue forward to taste his lips. He parted his lips and we kissed for hours, days, years. His hands ran up and down my sides, pressing me to him, molding our bodies into one. I felt his cock harden against me and realized how wet with want I was.

But the kiss ended and Derrick stepped back. I could see a change in his eyes: he was going to try again to argue that we should not see each other. But after that kiss, no way was I going to give him up. I jumped in my car and sped away before he could say anything.

I stayed up most of the rest of the night reliving the entire thing. I hoped his kiss meant that he had gotten past the age difference. I figured he was worried about Dad’s reaction. It had been a couple of years since Dad had questioned me about my dates. He trusted my judgment. However, it looked like Derrick needed to know, explicitly, that Dad was okay with my dating him.

Dad and I had a pretty unique relationship. He had raised me on his own since I was two, and his philosophy was that he was raising an adult, not a child. Now that I was legally an adult our relationship had, in many ways, become that of roommates.

So, I approached Dad directly, the next night. “Dad, I went to the movies with Derrick Jackson yesterday, you know. I want to see him again, but Derrick thinks you might have a problem with it if we dated. I want your okay to date him.”

“Pari, you know Derrick is my kaçak casino good friend. He’s a good guy and if you were older I wouldn’t have any problem with it. But there is a pretty big age difference there, Honey.”

“I know, Dad. And maybe that age difference will be a big deal. But maybe it won’t. I want a chance to find out.”

Dad seemed to go back to the paper. “And what if you break up? We would still have to work together and it might be awkward.”

“I’m completely sure of your professionalism, Dad” I said, hoping to score a few points.

He set down his paper. “Pari,” he said, “Men, expect—more—from their dates than boys do.”

“Dad, I’m not an innocent.” Hastily, I added, “I mean that I am, still—a virgin, but that, my girlfriends and I, well, we share information. And there’s all kinds of books and videos and stuff. I know.”

I continued, “I know what to expect. I’m ready. I’m on the pill. This is weird saying this to you, but if we get to that point, then I want Derrick to be the one. He would never hurt me and you know that. There’s no one alive that you could trust more to take care of me. Is there?”

I saw that he wasn’t looking towards me. This was hard for him, too.

Dad sighed, “No. I suppose not.”

He looked at me and I could see how much he loved me.

I smiled at him.

“We’ve talked about everything, all along, haven’t we?” Dad continued, “And yet, somehow I imagined this talk to always be at some unnamed time in the future.” He smiled back at me. “Well, if I’ve trusted your judgment in the past, I suppose there’s no reason to stop now.”

I kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks, Dad,” I said quietly.

I knew that Dad must have said something to Derrick, because the next day Derrick called me. We talked on the phone every evening that week. He asked me on a date. We talked some more. He shared with me who he was, and I shared, too. He asked me on more dates. We had long talks and asked each other everything we could think of. We made out—a lot. God, I loved when he kissed me!

Gradually, I noticed that the more comfortable Derrick got with me, the more demanding he got. He started telling me we were having a date, rather than asking. He would tell me when he was going to pick me up, where we were going, even what to wear. He ordered for me when we ate out.

It seemed he was always touching me in some way: whether it was his hand on my back, or playing with my hair, or brushing light kisses over my face. It made me feel like he was marking me and making me his. I realized I really liked that feeling. Except that it also felt like teasing. It felt like the longest foreplay in the history of sex!

After several weeks of it, I couldn’t stand it any more. He seemed to like it when he was in charge—but he also wasn’t fucking me yet. I decided I was going to try to force his hand. What would he do, I wondered, if I didn’t go along with his commands? Maybe he was waiting for me to…I didn’t know. Issue my own commands? Stand up to him?

Our next date was to be Friday night. I was to be ready at 6:00 for Derrick, with my hair in loose curls down my back, wearing my short black skirt and tall black heels. Instead, I decided I would pretty much do the opposite.

I made Derrick wait at the door after he knocked. When I did open the door, my hair was in a braid down my back. I was barefooted and wearing on old t-shirt of Daddy’s over boy-short style panties.

I didn’t invite Derrick in I just said “Hey” and turned my back on Derrick.

Derrick just stared for a moment. He came into the house, shutting the door behind him. “Are you sick?” he asked with genuine concern in his voice. That made me feel bad, just for an instant.


“Then what’s going on? Why aren’t you ready to go?”

“Maybe I don’t feel like doing what you want to tonight,” I said.

He gave me That Look. It made me feel excited, but apprehensive, too. What had I started, I wondered anxiously.

“So what is it you do want to do?”

“Well, I…,” I stammered, my doubts growing about how this would turn out. “I thought… we’ve been dating for two months now…and I thought it was time.”

“Time?” He grabbed me up in his big, strong hands. My desire for him ramped up. He moved one hand to my breast and with the other he took my braid in his fist. He pulled my braid and crushed his mouth down on mine. I whimpered. He mauled my breast with his other hand and I leaned into it. I was breathless with want. I was getting so wet. This is it!

He broke the kiss. I could feel his breath on my check and then my neck. “Yes,’ I said, “time to fuck me.”

“Ahhh,” he said, stepping back, “so that’s what your defiance tonight is about, is it?” He stepped back again. “We do this my way or no way. Got it, Little Girl?”

The look and tone of voice sent a frisson of apprehension down my spine. I nodded quickly—anything to get to the sex!—and said, “Yes, Derrick.”

“No, I don’t think you do yet. But you will.” He turned to the door and walked out.

“Well, shit!” I exclaimed. Guess I learned my lesson.


The next day, around noon, Derrick called. “You ready to behave?”

“Yes, Derrick.”

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