by Dark Angel
“I want you to spy on him, and you will spy on him,” she says, a veiled threat behind her words. Well, not exactly veiled; if there’s one thing my mother loves, it's to threaten me in order to make me do her bidding. It’s what she does. Behind her pretty face and middle-aged elegance lies a creature that knows no limits. “I’m going to run for Senator, and Parker’s in my way. I have to put a stop to his ambitions, and you’ll help me do that.
“You’re insane,” I repeat, a headache already brewing inside of my skull, “how the hell am I supposed to get into his campaign? And, besides, he’s my stepfather. It’s not like I get off on sabotaging family.”
“Parker and I aren’t together anymore, so let go of that family talk,” she shoots at me, walking around my desk and leaning into me, her hands resting on my chair’s hand rests. “And we were only married for a year, Amy. Don’t bullshit me and say you care about him. You hardly know him.”
That’s true. I was only 18 when mom and Parker called it quits and split up. But that only strengthens my case.
“Yeah, that’s right. So what am I supposed to do? Stroll into his campaign’s headquarters and announce myself? Hey, daddy? I missed you! Gimme a job. How do you think that’ll play out?”
“It’s not like you have a choice,” my mom says, her grin widening as she lowers her voice. Here we go.
“Yeah?”
“That’s right, Amy. I still have that tape, and unless you want your business to go up in flames, together with your reputation, you’ll help me do this,” she hisses, an amused expression on her face. Ever since she got her hands on that tape, there’s been no stopping her.
You see, Parker left a lasting impression on me. I was only 18 when he left, but I grew up dreaming of his strong frame, deep voice, and smart eyes … God, just thinking about that is enough to make my heart race.
Anyway, I’m not ashamed to say that I had some solo fun thinking of Parker once puberty hit. Too bad that, once in college, I never found anyone that managed to fill Parker’s shoes.
That only happened after college.
I was still working as a model when I got a very lucrative offer to star in a movie—a porn movie. I said no at first, but when I saw the man I’d be, ahem, co-starring with, I started having second thoughts. And for a very simple reason—he looked a lot like Parker. Sure, the voice was off, and he didn’t tower over me like my stepfather did, nor his body was as perfect as I needed it to be… But there were a few resemblances, and I found myself signing a contract just so that I could get the chance to live out a fantasy of mine.
I don’t even remember that man’s name. All I know is that he looked like Parker and, once our clothes were off, he became Parker. I closed my eyes once he slid his cock inside of me, and I moaned and screamed Parker’s name until my throat grew raw. I forgot all about the cameras, the director and the crew; in that moment, I was just living out a dream.
Once that was over, I started having second thoughts. Did I really want to star in a porno? Did I really want to go down that road? Push came to shove, and I decided to bail out of my contract. I returned all the money I was paid, and the producers were kind enough to bury the footage. I chucked out that moment in my life to a lapse of judgment and promptly forgot about it. I had the only copy in existence, and so my little secret would never see the light of day.
Except, of course, I made a slight miscalculation. You see, I always knew my mother was a ruthless person, but I never thought she’d be shrewd enough to go looking through my stuff, trying to find some dirt on me.
Once she found the tape, it was downhill from there.
Anytime she wants me to do anything, she resorts to her threats right away. And it isn’t like there’s anything I can do. If that tape sees the light of day, Kinky Amy’s is going to be swept away by the resulting scandal, and I can kiss goodbye all the sweet investment I managed to secure with my hard work.
“I’ve done enough for you,” I say, gritting my teeth and making an effort not to slap my mother. It’s kinda sad if you think about it. She’s my mom, and all I really want to do right now is smack her across the face.
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 l
ike 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 basically 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 phot
os 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.