by Alexis Angel
Ever since she got her hands on that tape, she has used me like some disposable tool. I’m not proud to say it, but she has forced me to seduce some of her political rivals in the past so that she could force them to align with her, or get out of the way. Yeah, I’m her femme fatale of service.
But I can’t do that to Parker. He’s my stepfather, for God’s sake!
"In case you haven’t noticed, Amy, this isn’t up for debate. You will do this. But don’t think I’m an evil bitch," she whispers with a smile, and I do exactly the opposite. She couldn’t be any more of an evil bitch. "Do this for me, and I’ll let you have the tape once you’re done. Just do your mom one last favor."
"One last job," I correct her, pursing my lips.
"Whatever you want to call it, Amy," she chuckles, throwing her purse over her shoulder and straightening the front of her haute couture dress. "Just make sure you do it," she finishes off, and then walks out of my office.
I sit there in silence, my hands balled into fists. Once again, my mother has pulled me into her political schemes. And, once again, I have no choice but to do her bidding.
One last job then.
Parker
It's been four days since I announced my bid for the U.S. Senate and my phone's been ringing non-stop. My inbox is so full, I could spend the next ten years answering every fucking message, and I still probably wouldn't get through it all.
And you know what? I couldn't be happier.
Needless to say, people are pretty fucking excited about my announcement.
And this evening, I'm celebrating at Cipriani's where the liquor choices are large, and the jumbo shrimp cocktails are even larger.
I walk over to the bar and motion to the bartender for a drink.
"What can I get for you sir?" And before I can even answer, a smile of recognition spreads across his face. "Wait a minute, you're the guy I saw on TV the other day—the 'Just Ask Trask' guy. You're Parker Trask, aren't you?"
"That's me," I say, reaching over to shake his hand. "It's nice to meet you."
"The pleasure's mine—now about that drink," he smiles. "What can I get for you?"
"I'll take an Old Fashioned," I reply.
"Sure thing—but I've gotta say, you're anything but Old Fashioned. The way you've whipped this city into shape, and brought it all together, is nothing short of a miracle. I've never seen that from any other mayor, and I've been in this city my whole life."
"I appreciate that," I reply. I think about segueing his accolades into my new bid for Senator, but then I decide that'll come across as shameless self-promotion, so I hold back and simply keep it at a thank you and nod my head.
I watch as he makes my drink—muddling the sugar and bitters, pouring the whiskey, and topping it with a twist of orange and a cherry. The ritual of it all is somehow comforting. He slides it over to me.
"Perfection," I say, and he seems pleased.
I reach down to grab the glass and before I can bring it to my lips, a woman catches my eyes. She grabs the empty seat next to me, and casually looks at the bar's menu.
I'm trying not to stare, but fuck, this is some woman.
Did I just say that my drink was perfection? Because I was clearly wrong. This woman sitting next to me is perfection incarnate.
I look around, hardly believing that she could be sitting here, alone. There's probably a boyfriend—or husband—about to walk up any minute. I'm bracing myself for the disappointment. I'm expecting it.
When I steal another look at her face, I notice that she seems familiar somehow.
Do I know her from somewhere? I'm wracking my brain for an answer when she speaks up.
"Can I really ask you anything, Trask?" she says, a smile forming on her lips.
Wait … that smile. Now I know why she looks so familiar. She looks so much like her mother.
"Amy?" I ask.
"I was wondering when you'd recognize me," she laughs.
"You look—"
She cuts me off. "Older?"
"You look good," I say.
"I'm not the frizzy-haired, braces-wearing 18-year-old kid you remember, right?" she continues, laughing.
If I'm honest, she's the opposite of that description in every possible way. Fuck, the woman sitting next to me is stunning. A halo of blonde hair frames her face. She's wearing a form-fitting, but classy black dress that shows off her every curve. She has an ass to die for; I'll tell you that much. I can picture myself squeezing it, a full cheek in each fist.
What?
Don’t look at me like that. Sure, she’s my stepdaughter. But that fucking dress. It’s wrapped to her body like wet tissue paper.
Its almost impossible to not be able to tell what she looks like fucking naked.
No, she's definitely not a kid anymore. I can't help but gaze at her perfect, round tits, and the way that they seem to be popping out of her dress—almost fighting with the fabric—and she catches me in the act of staring.
"I'm up here," she smiles.
I quickly look up, and act as if I don't know what she's talking about.
"Jesus," I say. "I just can't believe how grown up you are."
It's as if the surrounding people—the noise, the commotion, the bar, and everything has melted away and the only thing I can see and hear is Amy.
She smiles and seems to recognize the magnetic hold she has on me right now. She now has a drink in her left hand, and as she brings it to her lips, I quickly scan her finger for a ring, trying not to be too obvious about it. I don't see one.
"No husband?" I ask.
"I haven't found anyone worth marrying," she grins.
"That's a shame," I say.
"And why's that?" she asks, one eyebrow arching. "Maybe I don't want to be married."
"With your," and I hesitate, trying to find just the right word, "assets … you'd make any man happy, and lucky."
She doesn't reply, and instead simply smiles, and goes back to her drink. I notice her legs are angled toward me now, and she seems to have scooted in a little closer. I take it as a sign to try and dish out the charm.
"Want to make a bet with me?" I ask.
"Depends," she smiles, hesitating ever so slightly. And I swear she opens her legs a little.
Am I just imagining that?
It takes everything in me to not reach over and rest my hand on that butter-smooth crevice between her legs.
I hand her the cherry from my drink. "You know what they say about a woman who can tie a cherry stem into a knot without using her hands, right?"
She shakes her head no, so I continue. "Well, it means," and I lean into her ear and whisper it for emphasis, "that she's a phenomenal kisser."
"Is that so?" she purrs, a wide smile lighting up her face.
"But I bet you can't pull it off," I say, teasingly.
"That little stem?" she laughs, looking at the cherry pinched between my fingers.
"That little stem," I confirm, and smile. "And I'm gonna bet you can't do it. But if you prove me wrong, I'll owe you an entire dinner."
She seems to perk up at the challenge. She's competitive. I like that in a woman.
"Do I get to choose the place?" she asks.
"Of course. Anywhere," I confirm.
"Considering what I do for a living," she smiles, "challenge accepted."
"Wait, what does your job have to do with tying a cherry stem with your mouth?"
Now I'm really fucking curious. I can't possibly imagine the connection.
"Let's just say I'm a sex worker of sorts."
Wait, what did she just say? I nearly choke on my drink. Instead, I cough into my napkin.
"Sex worker?" I ask. "You're joking, right?"
"Is that so hard to believe? Especially from a man like you, Mr. Parker 'Pleasure' Trask—the man who was caught with his pants down, with three different women at once?"
"Okay, okay," I shrug. "I get it—you're right. So, what exactly do you do?"
"I basicall
y run my own online porn presence with an online peep show," she smiles. "Our jobs are more alike than you think," she continues, when I don't respond right away.
"I'm not sure about that," I say, shaking my head. I really don't see the connection.
"It's true. We both know how to work an audience," she purrs, and now she's so close that I feel her knee pressing against my thigh and it sends an electric current up and down my body.
"Maybe," I smile, not totally convinced, but not wanting to say she's wrong either.
"I want to help you with your campaign," she continues, in all seriousness.
"I don't know… I don't think that's a good idea," I say. "I've already given the media enough to talk about lately."
She laughs, and then places her delicate hand on my thigh. I think about how close she is to my 12 inches of man meat, and I grow hard. "Since when did you care about what other people think?" she purrs.
Fuck. She does have a point.
"Touché," I smile.
I watch as she grabs the cherry from my hand. The color seems to mirror her nail polish, and she brings it to her mouth, slowly. Grinning, she places it between her lips and pops it from the stem. I watch as she licks it and rolls it across her tongue before chewing it.
Fuck. My cock is throbbing.
Then, she pinches the stem between her white teeth. Her teeth are so white and straight they remind me of a picket fence.
"The moment of truth," she purrs, and gives me a seductive wink.
There's a fucking pulse in my pants now, and I watch as her plump, moist lips take turns parting, closing, and wiggling in cycles.
Then her mouth stops moving and she shrugs her shoulders.
I try to read the meaning behind her eyes.
She reaches into her mouth and pulls out the stem.
"Never bet against me," she grins. "It looks like you now owe me dinner."
I look down.
There, lying on top of the bar, is a cherry stem fastened into a perfect knot.
"Have your people call my people," she says to me as she turns to leave, swaying her hips and giving me a view of her ass.
My eyes meet hers as she gives me a lascivious smile and licks her lips.
"See you around, Daddy."
Amy
So, what does a busy entrepreneur such as me do on a Friday night?
Well after the way I left Parker, I’m going to need to spend it doing research.
So that’s what I do Friday. Read up on my latest target, Parker Trask, or, as the media dubs him, Parker ‘Pleasure’ Trask. So here I am now, sitting in my living room and wearing pajamas, my laptop balanced on top of my knees.
I have to be honest, even though Parker’s my stepfather, I never knew much about him. Sure, I knew that he was New York City’s mayor, and that he had a reputation; I just had no idea how big his reputation really was. And, ahem, it seems that his reputation isn’t the only big thing he has. Hey, I’m not the one saying it; it’s all over the tabloids.
Since I have no other choice but to go through with this, I decided to do some research before diving head first into what I hope is the last time I help my mother out. Although, I must admit, what really spurred me to do all this research was meeting him at Cipriani’s. The air around us seemed to grow warmer and warmer with the bet he made with me, until it started boiling, and I’ve been in a daze ever since.
News articles, interviews, tabloids—you name it. If it mentions Parker, I’m reading it. I like to go into things prepared, you know? It’s not like I take any pleasure in doing my mother’s dirty work, but since I’m being dragged into this, I figure I’ll go in prepared.
Thing is, I didn’t realize that reading up on Parker would be fun. Yeah, there, I said it: fun. Billionaire, bad boy, sex god; the man is the complete package. And the photos of him … Jesus Christ, it seems that after he left my mom he became even hotter than before. Sure, I watched him on the news from time to time, but only now that I devoted my whole evening to him do I realize how truly gorgeous he is.
Throughout the years, I tried to forget all about him. I told myself that all the desire I felt toward my own stepfather was nothing but a silly teenager fantasy. But I was wrong.
And you know what? I’m freaking wet right now.
Crap, I can’t believe this is happening to me. Not again. I spent most of my college years daydreaming of Parker, imagining how it’d be to have his naked body pressed against mine, but eventually I put all that behind me once I started focusing on growing my companies. But now it seems that hunger for Parker is coming back to me. Which, you know, is kinda messed up since he’s my stepfather and all. Not to mention that I’m supposed to start spying on him so that I can ruin his political aspirations.
Could this situation be any more fucked up?
Okay, I need to take a break from all this. I need to unwind or else I’ll go crazy.
I place my laptop on the coffee table in front of me, and I’m about to close its lid when my eyes meet the picture on the screen, the last one I was, ahem, analyzing. It’s from a photo shoot Parker did two years ago for a magazine, a complimentary piece to one long interview he gave. In it, he’s loosening his tie and offering the camera his million dollar smile, and I’d bet my company that this photo alone made thousands of women as wet as I am right now across the whole city.
Oh, screw it, I think to myself as I lie down on my couch, my eyes focused on Parker’s picture. Biting down on my lower lip, I place one hand over my stomach and then slide it down between my thighs, pressing the tip of my fingers against my pussy. I choke down a moan, and then decide to go all the way; I slide my hand underneath my pajama bottoms, feeling the wet fabric of my thong, and then press down on my clit.
Pleasure soaks my nerve endings all at once, and my eyes start rolling in their orbits as I imagine Parker right in front of me, that deliciously wicked smile dancing on his lips. Oh, I’d give a lot of money for him to be really here now. I’d just reach for his crotch and grab his cock, feeling it harden against my eager fingers… Oh, I bet the tabloids are right about his size.
Oh, God, I can’t stop myself now. I slide my fingers underneath my thong and, parting my inner lips, I slide my middle finger inside my pussy. I curl it upward like a hook, driving it all the way in and only stopping when I find that red hot button of pleasure, my G-spot. I press hard against it while, at the same time, I use my thumb to stroke my clit.
I close my eyes as my brain starts to overheat, all of its processing power used to render a mental picture of Parker’s body. I imagine the rugged muscles he hides under his tailored suits, and how it’d feel to run my tongue over the grooves between his abs… And, you know, with my tongue on his abs, it’d only be a matter of time before I went further down and found out exactly what he has dangling between his legs.
How big is he? Now that’s a question I’d pay serious money to see answered. Judging by what the tabloids spout, he must have a baseball bat between his legs. Which sounds like the most delicious thing I've heard all day. I can already imagine his enormous shaft sliding in and out of me, ravaging my pussy mercilessly…
"Oh, sweet God…" I moan, my quivering voice echoing throughout my empty apartment as I start moving my hand faster. I slide one more finger inside my pussy and start flicking my wrist fast, my fingers moving in and out of me at a furious pace. I pretend they’re his cock, stretching me wide and ruining me for all other men, and that just drives me completely insane.
I arch my back, moaning loud enough for my neighbors to hear, and take my free hand to my breasts, squeezing them eagerly. Images of Parker’s naked body flash behind my shut eyelids, and a burning need to feel his body on mine flares up violently, like a sword cutting my brain in half—rationality to one side, irrationality to the other.
"Oh, fuck," I groan, my inner walls tightening around my fingers as my muscles start burning up. I hiss through my gritted teeth as a sudden spasm takes over my body, forcing every single
muscle in me to twitch erratically, and that’s when a sudden moment of clarity overtakes me.
I must have him.
I will have him.
This has been a fantasy for too long.
Besides, it’s not like my mother forbade me from doing it, right? And it’s not like she’ll ever find out if it does happen.
Dear stepfather, here I come.
Parker
We've been driving for 15 minutes. I sit back in the black leather seat of my car as my driver navigates us to Amy's apartment.
A-my … those two syllables officially drive me wild. They raise my pulse. They make my heart kick. I even heard someone at the grocery store the other day say something that sounded like "Amy," and when I swung my head around, wondering if it was 'The Amy,' all I found was a toddler on the verge of a tantrum, pulling on his mother and saying, "weigh me," because he felt that he should get to swing from the produce scale instead of the bag of bananas.
I must be slowly losing my fucking mind.
A is a letter that seems to get my attention wherever I am now. And that day in the store, I swear to God, every fucking item starting with the letter A jumped out and reverberated in my brain—almonds, apple cider vinegar, avocados, angel hair pasta.
"Here we are sir," my driver says, pausing my thoughts.
I look out the car window at her building. It's nice. Nicer than I imagined, if I'm being honest.
"I'll be right back," I tell my driver. "Keep the car running. This'll only take a minute."
I walk briskly into the building and to the elevators, pressing the numbers to her floor.
As the elevator climbs, my thoughts return. I remember her back at the bar—the bet—the way she kept her legs slightly open, suggesting something more. Like she was on the verge of revealing a secret and I was going to be the lucky recipient of.
I remember the way I wanted to slide my hands between those butter-soft legs, or squeeze her tits, or slap her firm ass. The way I wanted to press my mouth to hers as she wrestled that cherry stem.