by Vivian Vixen
BIG STEP BOSS
Vivian Vixen
Copyright 2015
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, dialogue, and everything else are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to people or events, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
NOTICE, WARNING, DISCLAIMER, AND ALL THAT:
All participants are 18+, 100% willing, not blood related, 100% human during sex, well read, finished their homework, eat their vegetables, yada yada yada
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1
The sheets, heavy with my anxious sweat, twisted between my legs as Alex came crashing down above me. Well, the thought of him anyway. Not Alex rushing down, but my fingers pressing right between my thighs, into my hot core, stretching me with first one, then two, then three fingers. I imagined him above me, raising his hips—up, then down—that powerful sex pressing through me, big as I knew it must be. I'd see it outlined in his towel when he'd come from the shower, soaking wet, the steam still pouring out in thick clouds from the bathroom. He'd cock a smile at me and slip off to his room.
Oh, man, it was difficult growing up with an older brother like that sometimes. Well, step-brother—but we'd been raised together for as long as I could remember. My mother had remarried pretty quickly, so my step-bro and step-dad were as much "real family" in my head as my blood mother was.
Despite that, I couldn't help finding my brother so goddamn attractive. He was a nice guy, and about ten years my elder, and always a bit aloof. That age gap meant that we didn't get to know each other too much, and perhaps that's why it was so easy to suddenly fall in lust with him.
I started to make a habit of finding excuses to be standing in the hallway when he'd come out of the shower, chest still gleaming, still dripping beads of water from his shower clinging to his powerful pecs and running smooth and fast between his sculpted, tan abs. His kind, confident smile cracked open his calm, handsome face whenever he saw me standing there. And I was always standing there, looking him up and down—taking in every aspect of his near-perfect form. Legs thick with muscles bulging out against the towel wrapped tight around his waist which showed that gentle protrusion. Completely relaxed, his thick cock was clear to see beneath that cotton cover. Soft and substantive like that, I could only imagine with a mix of terror and excitement how large it must be when he was hard.
Of course, it goes without saying that I tried to push these thoughts out of my head. I'm not a pervert. Just horny. But I could hardly help it. And so I found myself in bed on another lazy day, fingers pressed hard between my legs and eyes shut tight, a screen for the projections of my lascivious mind.
I was arched between two points on the bed, scapula digging into the spring mattress, heels supporting a twin colonnade of flexing calves, wide mind rising like a wave and cresting, ready to crash.
“RACHEL!”
My mother’s voice.
In my wild reverie of passion I’d not noticed the knocking on the door, or the twist of the knob. And so my mother walks in, eyes agape and glossy, caught on a sightline with the point where my thighs made an angle—now acute, now obtuse.
“What the hell are you doing!?” My mother’s voice cracked like a banshee’s wail.
“Mom!” I shrieked. “Get out of here!”
“Oh no, absolutely not,” she said, face twisted with anger and determination. “Cover yourself up right now!”
“Mom!”
Her shoulders twisted away and she shouted down the hallway. “Bob! Get over here and see what your daughter is doing!”
“Mom, no!” Her face and tone showed no sign of not being serious and I scrambled to cover up as quickly as I possibly could. It was all I could do to wrap the bed sheets tightly around my body before I heard my father’s footsteps closing in on my room.
His face appeared in the doorframe. “Jesus, Clara, what are you showing me this for,” he said to my mother as he flung a hand up to cover his eyes.
“Look at what your daughter is doing,” my mother insisted, “instead of trying to get a job.”
His hand slid down his cheek as he eyed my mother with a mix of confusion and irritation. “Really Clara? She’s eighteen for chrissake. Let the poor girl…do what she wants.”
My mother huffed. “Bob, she is eighteen. She’s the one who decided to not bother going to college—and we told her she needed to get a job. And instead of pounding the pavement she’s…well, see?”
“No,” said my father. “I… I don’t think I should see. She’s my daughter.”
“Oh, grow up, Bob,” my mother scolded. “She’s a boarder under your buck! And you just let her wile away her days on her back. If you let her keep this up, that’s exactly how she’s going to end up making her living.”
“For goodness… You know, just because you’ve grown frigid, doesn’t mean this whole household has. We can’t expect her to spend every minute of the day passing out resumes. Let the girl enjoy herself.”
“I don’t want our little girl growing up to be some useless husk,” said my mother, mounting into yet another fervor. “She should be working, not masturbating!” Her hand shot out to point at me and my apparently grotesquely wanton form, curled in the sheets. My father was helpless to avert his gaze, pulled along as it was by the energetic insistence of my mother’s gesture.
His reaction was almost comically severe. Even from where I sat on the other side of the room I could see his pupils dilate and his forehead take on a clammy sheen. His shirt began to pulse with the furor of his excited heart, and his pants began to tighten across his crotch. I can only imagine the sight I must have presented for him. He swallowed—hard.
“You… you’re right, Clara,” he said, practically gasping. His jaw hung loose for his dry mouth sucking air. My mother, distracted by her anger, took this all for equal rage. “She does need to get a job.”
“I knew you’d see it my way,” said my mother, humming happily.
“And I have the perfect solution.” He stepped boldly into the room, his arousal betraying his fatherly conscience and puffing him up with confidence. And I did like him when he got that way. My father could be quite the excruciatingly handsome man. It’s where his son got it from, no doubt.
He had been creeping beside the doorframe before, but now, bolstered the sight of my lusty body, he stood tall just inside my room. He shoulders were back, and his chin turned just slightly up with a sense of mocking contempt. His legs were planted wide and firm, and I could see his gloating manhood through his pants—another hereditary trait, no doubt. He was so tense with anticipation that every muscle in his body was bulked, his thighs stretching the fabric clinging to every wave of this sculpted form, and the same across his barrel chest. His jaw set hard, he stepped over to me in a few long, commanding strides.
Staring down, he spoke. “Young lady, tomorrow you are going to your brother’s office and he is going to put you to work!” His back to my mother, I watched as his tongue lashed out across his lips. Consciously, or unconsciously, what did it matter? My father wante
d me—bad.
To be honest, as can be attested by the tingling pin-pricks of need in my dampening sex, the feeling was quickly becoming mutual. “Oh... okay daddy.”
His eyes narrowed on me. He licked his lips again, slower this time, though with no more thought. “Now… enjoy the rest of today,” he said, hunger in faintly quivering voice, “because tomorrow you are going to learn the meaning of work.”
I could only guess my father’s meaning in this, but his rakish tone and feverish face insinuated enough that I felt I only needed now to wait for his advances at another time.
“I will call your brother and tell him that you will be arriving at nine in the morning,” he said, moving back towards the door. My mother was oblivious to the excitement in his pants. He turned around as he passed beyond the threshold, casting a severe glance my way. “Sharp.”
He closed the door firmly behind him and I listened as two pairs of feet made their way far from my room. When it seemed I was in the clear, I resumed my eager ministrations and brought myself to a rapid and powerful release.
2
I laid in bed for the rest of the day after that, thinking back on what my father actually meant. I began to doubt myself. I mean, it must have simply been my state of arousal—I wanted my dad to want me, so I must’ve imagined the whole thing… Right?
Well, that’s what I told myself anyway as I moved between perverted ruminations and mindless tapping games on my phone, curled up under the covers as the sun slowly drooped beneath the neighborhood.
Either way, I wasn’t going to have my days to myself anymore—regardless of however I was to serve my brother—so I tried to enjoy myself. My nose pricked as the scent of my mother’s spicy meatball dinner crept through the entire house. From the time I first smelled it, I knew I had just ten minutes until dinner was ready. My family was punctual like that.
I finally got out of bed and began to rifle through my drawers of clothes, searching for the perfect outfit to wear downstairs. It needed to be a balance of slutty and demure—somewhere right in the very middle. Enough to churn my father’s butter, while leaving my mother blissfully unaware.
I chose an old t-shirt. There was nothing so obviously revealing about it until I let it drape over my slight frame. It was a little oversized, but sheer as silk from years of wear. It formed around the graceful curves of my budding breasts and the firm attention of my nipples like a mist, the remainder fluttering at the slightest provocation, with the hemline just a breath below a sight of my puffy, shaved lips.
For safety’s sake, I pulled on a pair of my shortest short-shorts, so there could be no protestation from my mother, and I could pass it all off as comfort. Who could suspect my coy manipulations?
To curry favor, I ensured that I was downstairs and setting the table before my mother could even think to ask. Her mind was at ease now. Between this peace offering of good-daughter work and my ready acceptance of my father’s command to work for my brother, my mother was sufficiently palliated.
When we sat down to eat, my mother kept her attention on her food while my father held court. He was full of verve and chattered on at a clip, shoveling food into his mouth even as his lascivious eyes feasted in their own way—as I’d designed.
The curry was spicier than usual—perhaps a subtle punishment from my mother. I breathed cool air through rounded lips and gulped back water.
“Ah, kiddo, you’re doin’ it wrong,” said my dad, getting up from the table. “Water just makes it worse. Here.” He grabbed a large, clean glass and pulled open the fridge, retrieving a frosty, brown bottle. He cracked the cap and poured a frothy beer. “This’ll go better.” He held the savory libation at arm’s length, smiling at me.
“Bob! She’s not old enough,” my mother protested.
“Ah, she starts work tomorrow,” he said. “She’s a real adult now. She can handle it.”
“Bob, that’s not appropriate!”
He smirked at the word ‘appropriate,’ and winked at me. “Ah, can it Clara. It’s not like you never had a drink when you were her age.”
My mother clamped down for the rest of the evening after that. She even took my father’s recliner in the living room when we all sat down to watch a movie while he sat on the couch with me, the big comforter stretched across both our legs.
He kept pouring me drinks and I was quite drunk by the time the movie finished and my mother headed off to bed. Even then, my dad wouldn’t let me go to sleep. He kept our little father-daughter party going, talking about not much of anything, but playing some music and dancing together. It was… weird. But in a nice way.
He played me some of his favorite records from his youth, even breaking out the old turntable to play ‘em. I, in turn, played him some of my favorite songs, and, to my surprise, he seemed to enjoy himself. But perhaps that was just the alcohol.
A slow song came on and my father pulled me in close to dance. He held my body tight against his, and I could feel his heart beating against my sizzling chest. His arms were powerful and muscled and flexed along my waist where he held me.
I rested my head against his shoulder as we swayed—he kissed my temple. That tender touch set off something that was stomach-flipping mix of arousal and affection. His hands wandered, but just a little. Not enough to suggest anything, but, perhaps, more than they should have.
I didn’t have much time to think before our little party mix switched to something up-tempo and we were dancing hard and fast. Our movements, by the end of the first chorus, were coarse and passionate, grinding in the middle of the living room. If my mother had come out at that moment, it would have been ground for divorce.
When it was a little past two in the morning, and I was a little past eight drinks for the evening, my father finally agreed to call it a night.
“Get some rest, kiddo,” he said to me as I scampered up the stairs. “You have a big day tomorrow.”
I spun around at the top of the stairs, my shirt fluttering in a carousel flourish, flashing my entire bare, toned stomach and pert breasts. “Thanks, daddy.”
I stumbled into my room and fumbled my phone, setting an alarm, and dropping it next to my pillow as I passed out.
3
“RACHEL!”
My mother’s voice cleaved my mind like a melon, interrupting the pleasant dream I was having.
I cranked my eyes open in the stiflingly bright morning light and craned my neck to see my mother’s beet-red face. “Aren’t you supposed to start work now?”
I closed my eyes again. “Yeah, mom, I set an alarm.”
I could hear her tapping her foot impatiently. “I know! I’ve been listening to it ring for the last half hour!”
“Hunh?” A song came into aural relief, like a face in a parting fog, and I realized that there was music playing, as there had been in my dream—my alarm. “Oh shit!”
“You slept through your alarm,” my mother accused. She shook her head and walked away.
“Fuckfuckfuck.” I jumped out of bed. The headache wasn’t too bad, but it did slow me down. I was in a haze as I fished out some presentable clothes. God, I must’ve been really drunk to have slept through my alarm like that.
I flew downstairs and found my mother in the kitchen. “Can I use the car, mom?”
“Absolutely not!”
I glared at her and raced out of the house and down the street. Even by car it was a good five minute drive. My legs pumped hard against the pavement, driving me as fast as I could down the street. I burst into my brother’s office, forty minutes late, panting, and covered in a thick sheen of sweat.
He looked up from his desk with a look not a little bored and quite irritated. "You're late," he said.
"Yeah, sorry," I said. “Mom wouldn’t let me use the ca-”
He glared. “Are you blaming our mother?”
I swallowed nervously. "My alarm. I, uh, I slept through it."
He blinked slowly. "Dad said you would be showing up at nine o'clock in th
e morning."
"I know."
He reached across his desk to a small desktop clock and turned it to face me. "Do you know what time it is now?"
I looked at the clock face. "Uh, almost ten."
He placed both hands flat on the table, tension cording through his neck. He looked at me from under his dark brows. "No," he barked. My brother stood up and picked the little clock up and made a rather dramatic point of moving it a few inches forward, so it was right at the edge of the desk.
I tilted my head down, a little nervous after the way he just spoke. I knew I'd be in a bit of trouble, but I didn't expect him to be this mad. I looked at him from under my drooping bangs. He was gorgeous there in his fitted vest, broad chest putting just the perfect bit of tension on the buttons of his white shirt.
"I asked you what time it is... Now. Do you have a problem telling the time, sis?"
"N-no. I don't."
"I know you're a little younger than me," he said, "But they should have taught you at least this by now in that shit school you go to." He stepped out from behind the desk and moved towards me.
It took only a few, slow, broad motions and he was at my side. The heat coming off his body was unreal. I could feel him next to me without even looking, as if he was more than just what his suit contained.
Alex rested his hand on my shoulder. "Rachel." He slid his palm over my collar and around my throat, forefinger and thumb slipping up until they held my face firmly by the jaw. He guided me forward by the face until I was directly in front of the desk. He placed his other hand on the back of my neck and pressed down insistently until I folded to my knees.
I sank down, feet tucked under me, bare legs flattened against the cool, hardwood floor. My eyes flicked to the right, taking in the presence of his... presence. I could see it there, engorged just a bit, pressing through his thin, pin-stripe pants. My mouth watered in spite of myself. I wondered if, maybe, he'd put me on my knees to...