Her clit is hard. With a relaxed tongue I barely brush against it, a teasing dance to drive her wild. Her butt comes off the bed in a humping motion, pussy muscles flexing and contracting. Such a hot pleat of flesh—perfect in every way as if it were sculpted by a great artist out of the most delicate fabric on earth.
And it’s all mine. My own personal playground.
I enter a second finger into her and I’m rewarded with her moans. Hooking my fingers, I find the bumpy ridges of her g-spot and play it like washboard and scoop out the cream building up inside. I drink it like warm milk as it spills onto my fingers and I dip my tongue deep into her hole to make sure I don’t miss a drop. It’s sweet as fruit and addicting as hell. I’m a junky for it.
She starts to buck and curse and scream my name, begging for more.
If she wants more, I’ll give her more. I’ll give this woman whatever she wants. I’m hers, body and soul.
I stand up, keeping her backside dangling off the bed and push her knees up to her arm pits, spreading her pussy and ass until both are in perfect view. With one swift thrust, I enter her and feel her muscles clamp down on me. As I fuck her, she screams, “Harder!” Her wish is my command. I fuck her harder and her gorgeous plump breasts jiggle and bounce.
I watch my cock slide in and out of her, coated in her white cream. There’s a sexy squelching sound each time we come back together again.
I can feel my orgasm rising. I don’t want to go before her, but I won’t be able to help it. “I’m gonna cum, baby,” I warn her.
Just as the words are leaving my mouth, her pussy clamps down like a vice and she’s howling, eyes rolling back in her head like a woman possessed. Seeing her in the throes of an orgasm is more than I can take and I unleash shot after shot of my seed inside of her.
I have to wait several seconds for her muscles to relax before they’re willing to release me. I let out a tight groan and clinch my teeth as my sensitive cockhead slides out of her tight pussy.
Some of my cum dribbles out with me, but mostly it stays inside.
“I want to see the cream pie,” I tell her.
She smiles up at me with those sexy full lips. “I want to see it, too.”
I go to the closet and pull the full length mirror off the back of the door and place it in front of her. She sits up, but can barely see over her belly. When I’m finally able to get the mirror at an angle to where we can both enjoy the show, I spread her pussy wide.
“Push it out for me,” I tell her.
She bears down, which makes both her pussy lips and asshole puff out. It bubbles out at first then spills over, settling into the nook of her asshole. It might just be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
She dips her fingers in to dig out the rest, then rubs it across her clit. Tired from sitting up, she lays back against her pillow with a contented sigh. “That was incredible,” she says.
I kiss the tip of her nose, then her lips and say, “I love you.”
“I love you more,” she replies.
But I know that’s impossible.
I run us a bath in the jacuzzi tub. We settle in and I wash her as she looks out the window with a smile barely touching her lips. I still can’t believe this is my life. I have the woman of my dreams and our growing child. I couldn’t have asked for anything more.
Copyright © 2017 by Penny Wylder
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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1
Lia
If I close my eyes and pretend as hard as I can, the list in front of me has gallery dates and art supplies listed instead of line after line of jobs my step-mom thinks I can handle. I can barely tolerate being back home with her here. Once I have a job and can save enough to get my own place, I will be out of here before the ink dries on a lease agreement.
The walls of my childhood bedroom are still silver and black striped with my mixed media artwork displayed as a personal gallery. It looks the same now as it did during high school. My prior almost step-mom tried to talk my dad into shipping everything to me and turning this into a yoga studio for herself, but he had refused. Something or other about even though I was an adult who owned her own gallery, I was still his little girl and needed to have a place in his home. She never made it down the aisle with him; he wouldn’t marry someone who was so blatantly vicious about me. Jean, the current step-mom, was careful to be extra nice around him until they were married. Her behavior towards me since is another story, one more typical of stepmothers in fairy tales. I feel you, Cinderella.
When the economy went to shit, I could no longer afford my dream. I sold my car for two months of utilities and rent. Even with a loan from my father that floated my studio’s expenses for a few more after that, it was just too hard. It is not like I had become some big-name artist, but I was holding my own. For being just out of art school, I had done well for myself. A patron of the arts near my college had an old storefront he was looking to rent, and in exchange for some art and a date that didn’t go well for either of us, I had a gallery. Doing well for myself is not good enough in today’s world, however. With a tiny U-Haul of canvases, sculptures, and the assorted tools I couldn’t bear to sell to pay another month’s rent, I moved back home.
“Lia! It’s breakfast time. Get your lazy ass out of bed and come down here. Be a productive part of the household.” The intercom clicks off, but not before I hear Jean’s usual complaint. “That girl of yours is such a waste of space, honey. Can’t you do something?”
My dad won’t do anything to change her attitude; even in her mid-forties, she still has the body of a college coed—most of it plastic—and is his glorified trophy wife. They never expected me to move back home, and I think he believes this is just an adjustment period issue. Her only issue is with me. She lets him go play golf with his buddies or run off to Vegas for a “weekend with the guys” and never asks a question. I so much as breathe too loudly in Jean’s direction, and I’ve ruined her world. Jean is some sort of scientist, super smart, and if she could be anything but a raging bitch of an evil stepmother to me, I would like her. I try to for Dad’s sake.
Mom’s death still weighs on him. They were high school sweethearts, and I was their honeymoon baby. I am pretty sure the fact that I look so much like my mother is why Jean hates me so much. Okay, so maybe it was the four bottles of hairspray I gave her for the first Christmas she was with my dad along with a note that they might help with her 80s-era hairstyle.
I throw on a pair of jeans, buttoning them as I walk to my bedroom door. They are splattered with paint and scorched in a few places where they protected me from sparks while welding. Artists reserve the little black dresses for gallery openings, not for making art. At least spending my days in the studio has kept me in shape: hauling metal home from the scrapyard and holding parts over my head while welding was just as good of a workout as paying for a gym membership.
The intercom buzzes on again as I open the door. I press the button before Jean can yell, and I promise in my sweetest voice, “I’m on my way down.”
I grab my purse off the hook beside my door and head downstairs. Once upon a time, these stairs would have taken me past my dad and mom’s bedroom, but after Mom lost her battle with cancer, Dad could not stay in there any longer. It became the guest room, or rather Tasha’s room, once we were too big to sleep in the same bed.
Tasha is the highlight of being back home after years away. A best friend who is still my best friend despite so much time apart is a rare gift. She lives up to the designation of “BFF” in my contacts list. I do my best to make sure she knows how much I appreciate her and the use of her garage for a makeshift work studio. My sketchbook has a design I’m working on for of a tattoo that she wants to have done eventu
ally, when she can summon up the courage to do it while still living under her dad’s roof.
“Wow! You’re even dressed. I’m surprised.” Jean gives me a catty smile as she sets a pan of quiche onto a trivet on the table and sits down beside my dad. The fact that she can cook sets her marginally ahead of her predecessors.
My dad has the newspaper up, reading the stocks. “Ladies, I haven’t even finished my coffee. Let’s try and have a nice day.” Dad rustles the paper before folding the section and setting it onto the table. “What are your plans for the day, Lia?” His hair has gone grey at the temples and started to recede a bit in front, but he still looks like the dad I remember from before graduating art school and trying to make my mark on the world.
I serve myself a piece of the quiche, barely avoiding wrinkling my nose at the bits of mushroom and pepper. If Jean sees that I don’t like something she’s prepared, I’ll find those ingredients in everything for the rest of the week.
“I’m going to Tasha’s to work on a sculpture.” Doing my best to ignore Jean’s scowl and exaggerated sigh, I continue, “I submitted my résumé and application to all the places you asked me to. I also applied to a few others that were just looking for seasonal help. A job is a job right now.” Any job to get her off my back would be a gift, plus I could start paying off my loan to Dad.
“It’s only been a week, Lia, give it time.” Dad ate his quiche in a few bites and went back to the paper. “You know this is your home and always will be.”
It’s an effort to not smile around my own breakfast while Jean’s face falls. “I know, Daddy.” I don’t have to see him to know that he is smiling; calling him “Daddy” has never failed to earn me a grin.
“We have company tonight for supper. Will you be home by then?” Jean has the tone of voice that balances on the line between me being uninvited but expected.
“I don’t know. It depends on how far I get on my project. I want to keep my portfolio current in case I can get into the downtown gallery’s next show.” Really, I’m hoping to see Tasha’s dad and don’t want to deny myself the chance. He’s been busy at work since I got home, and I haven’t been able to see if he’s still the stuff erotic dreams are made of.
“I can make myself scarce and grab a sandwich so I don’t interrupt your dinner party,” I offer.
My dad makes sure I know that I have a standing invitation to their dinner gathering. After we finish eating, Dad asks me, “Do you want to take my car, or are you walking over?”
It is a gorgeous day for the season, and the walk is under a mile, so I don’t mind the fresh air. “I can walk, Dad. That way you aren’t down to just one car or stuck here waiting on me. Besides, we can’t have me being lazy, can we?” I say sweetly before quickly getting up and clearing my dishes.
Despite it being my third time over to work in their garage, Tasha continues to stare at me as if I might disappear at any moment. It would be freaky from anyone else, but from Tasha it is almost endearing. It also makes me sad. She and her dad were there for me after we lost my mom; I repaid the favor by escaping town at my first chance and did not look back until I had no other choice.
“I’m not going to vanish, Tasha,” I chide while taking off my jacket. I am warm from working with metal, but I don’t want to chance ruining the fabric with the dirt and oil on the cement floor. Working on the ground between sawhorses is not glamourous work, but it is the best I can do for the moment if I want to finish this sculpture. I miss my more portable welding stick, but these will do the job. Selling my welding tools had gotten me through a quarter of tuition, rent, and my food. While still near the art school, I could use theirs. Living here doesn’t provide that luxury, but I do have the ability to work. I can’t afford to be choosey in what tools I use if I can still get the desired effect.
“I’m glad your dad has this creeper board for playing around with his truck. It’s perfect for letting me slide around.” Teenaged me had spent many a Sunday afternoon sitting on the workbench, watching her dad, Beck, change his oil and do minor repairs. I even masturbated under his truck, almost hoping he would walk into the garage and catch me with my fingers inside my shorts. I wasn’t thinking of legality, only that I was a horny teen and he was hot. He was better looking than most of the men in the heartthrob teen magazines.
Even if he is somehow half as gorgeous now as then, I think I’d still be more grateful for having space away from my step-mom. “Jean was on my case already. I can’t wait until I have a job and can get out of there.” I rush through what it has been like, having an evil step-mom straight out of a Disney story.
“We could make room here; it’ll be like a sleepover. With it being just Dad and me, it’s not like you’d be in the way. Plus, there are like six unused bedrooms. He’s never home anyway, what with work and traveling for work.” Tasha is playing with her phone as she talks, texting as if I can’t see her fingers sliding across the screen. Swype is nowhere near as stealthy as she thinks it is.
“Who is he?” I ask. A boyfriend is the only person she would be texting like that. We have not had secrets between us in years, except for the one about me crushing on her dad when we were little. Even that was not so much of a secret but more of an omission. We were only sixteen years old when Tasha caught me staring at her dad while he played racquetball; I had promised over a bottle of stolen rum in our hideout that I would never sleep with her dad. Fast forward six years, I’m equally proud and dismayed to say I have not gone back on my promise.
“His name is Chris.” I practically can hear her rolling her eyes at me. “And it’s been four months,” Tasha says before I can ask how long they have been dating. “He’s not exactly someone my dad would approve of. I mean, he has a job and stuff, and he’s really good to me, but he’s just not our families’ sort of person. You know what I mean?”
The cement is cold beneath my fingers as I pull myself out from under the workspace to look at Tasha. “Wrong side of the tracks?” I question.
She nods, giving me a small smile. “He’s a mechanic.” She brings over her phone and shows me a picture. He’s tall and good looking, long hair pulled back in a ponytail. There’s a carefree smirk that isn’t quite a smile which reminds me of the artists at my school who spent a bit too much time with hallucinogens as inspiration.
“Chris is cute,” I tell her. He isn’t my type, but I can definitely see the appeal. His blue eyes are piercing, and they shine with amusement at whatever Tasha was saying before taking his photograph. It’s clear to see that he loves her.
“Maybe we can go out sometime so you can meet him.” Oh, joy, being a third wheel sounds like so much fun… “You know, Lia, there are still some of the guys from high school around town who are worthy of your attention.” Unsure that any of the boys could measure up to the standards set by my long-term crush, I make a non-committal sound while she rambles. It was an adequate response, and Tasha resumes gushing about Chris. “I know that four months is still too early to talk about forever and all, but he was hinting at getting me a promise ring for my birthday. Just something small, but he wants to show my dad that we’re committed when they meet. He’ll have Sundays off starting next month, so I’m going to plan to have him over for a family dinner then. You should come too; you can be the moderator if Dad yells.”
I am about to open my mouth and tell her I need to meet this Chris-who-wants-to-buy-her-a-promise-ring like yesterday and make sure he’s the right guy for her when we hear the crunch of tires on gravel at the far end of their driveway. As a car door closes and the sound of footfalls brings the driver nearer, my heart stops beating. It kicks to a start a moment later as my mouth goes dry.
Beck Huntsworth has gone from being a hot dad I’d like to fuck to full-blown silver fox. His formal business attire completes the image. His hair was always light blond, but now it is thick and blonde like silvery moonlight. Memories flood me of the sculpture I once made of him for a college project on building a clay figure without a model
to reference. From the cut of his jaw to his long, muscular legs, he oozes sex appeal like a modern David. My fingers itch to run along the hint of stubble, and I clench my thighs together to avoid arching my back and offering myself up to him.
“You’re home early, Dad.” Tasha sounds dismayed at having to share me.
“There are my favorite girls! Welcome home, Lia.” Beck nudges my leg with one of his feet in greeting, and I try not to stare up at him from the creeper board. “I need to get packed, and I have lots of meetings tomorrow. Did you get my note, Tasha?” When she does not look up from her phone, Beck clears his throat in anticipation of a response.
“Yeah, Dad. I transferred laundry, checked our pantry, and updated the grocery list for the delivery guys.” It must be nice to be as rich as they are. I mean, my family is beyond comfortable, but Tasha and her dad have the money to vacation anywhere they want, have a housekeeper, and get their groceries delivered for the rare times they aren’t just getting takeout. Their housekeeper doubled as a nanny growing up, so she has always been more like a daytime grandma than a maid, even to me when I came to visit.
“What’s it like being back?” Beck asks me.
Back? My brain blanks out everything except images of what it would be like to be on my back under him. I try to give his question more thought than an immediate, cliché response. He knows me, or knew me, better than that. When my mom was in hospice care, Beck was the one who gave me sanctuary from all the nurse visits and company coming to say their farewells. He was the one who looked the other way when Tasha and I raided his liquor cabinet, as long as we did it in moderation, didn’t get drunk, and weren’t driving.
“It’s hard after living on my own. I didn’t think I’d be back here for more than a visit. I miss having my own space and schedule.” Sitting up on the board, it slides into his leg, and I find myself leaning on Beck to find my balance. “Sorry.” I’m not really sorry, not when grabbing onto him lets me know that he still smells every bit as good as I remember.
Happily Ever After with My Dad’s Best Friend Page 9