by Selena Kitt
“Meh.” His stepdaughter rolled her eyes, tapping her feet in time to the song’s beat on the dash. “We both know she’s a prude.”
“Christa…” He admonished her, but he felt her words more than heard them, a stab in his gut. Rachel hadn’t always been like that, he reasoned. When they’d met, she’d been a little reserved, yes, had liked to make love (and called it making love, not having sex, never “fucking”) in the dark. So she always liked him on top, so what? It felt just as good that way, didn’t it?
When had they stopped having sex? He couldn’t remember. Three months ago? Four? Just before I’d sold my play, he thought. Just before he’d begun to really take notice of his stepdaughter prancing around the house in sheer baby doll nighties, undressing with her door open, teasing him about not shaving by rubbing her cheek against his in the morning like a cat looking for attention.
“Not like Ashley’s mom.” Christa glanced over at him, smirking, and then repeated her earlier performance, mimicking Ashley’s lusty mother. “Ohhhh yeah, baby, stick that big fucking dick in me! Pound my pussy! Do it hard, make me feel it! Make me come all over your—”
“Christa!” His cock was throbbing. Thank God their street was a dead-end road with few streetlights. He turned down it, seeking an even deeper darkness.
“Oh come on, Dad.” She laughed, a light, breathy sound. “Those two were practically fucking on stage. They talked dirtier than that. And you wrote about it.”
He couldn’t deny it. “It was an adult play. You really shouldn’t have come.”
“I’m an adult.”
“Barely.” He pulled into their driveway and cut the engine, feeling both relieved and let down at the same time.
“Old enough,” she countered, turning toward him in the dark. Rachel hadn’t left any lights on, inside the house or out. “How old was Crystal? Twenty? And Ben—he was, what forty-something? They were both consenting adults. Right?”
“It’s fiction, honey.” He took a deep breath, running a trembling hand through his hair. The engine ticked as it cooled, and the air in the car was already warming. “It’s a play. It wasn’t real.”
“But it could be.” Christa’s words surprised him, but what surprised him more was the way she crawled toward him, across the gearshift, practically straddling it so she could press her mouth to his ear and whisper, “What if I want it to be?”
“Uhh… no… honey…” His cock didn’t agree with him, not in the least, but he wasn’t going to have that argument, not here, not ever. Fiction was fiction. This was reality, and this was very, very wrong. Even drunk as he was, he knew that much.
He could smell her gum—juicy, fruity.
“I know you watch me.” Her words jolted him, literally, his body like a livewire. But she didn’t relent. His reaction seemed to feed her intent. “I know you have a pair of my panties in your desk.”
He groaned, shaking his head, closing his eyes, trying to deny it—but it was true. They were pink, one of the few colored panties she owned, and he’d masturbated with his face buried in the crotch more times than he could count.
“I know you think about me when you jerk off in the shower.” His stepdaughter licked her lips. He heard it more than saw it, the gentle click of her tongue moving from the roof of her mouth to trace the plump path of her bottom lip. “Do you think I come in to pee by accident? Do you think I don’t know you’re looking?”
Oh he looked. The sound of her voiding was enough to make his cock stand at attention, but it wasn’t enough. He had to peek around the curtain and watch her reach behind—a good girl, wiping front to back, just like her mother taught her—wiggling on the seat, lifting her bottom a little, her tiny breasts almost visible under her tank-tee as she bent forward like that. He had splashed the shower tiles with his cum, loads of it, imagining her bent over like that in front of him, her behind rising up like an offering.
“I know it was about me.” Christa’s lips, sticky from her gum, touched his earlobe, and he felt her palm pressed between his knees on the seat, balancing herself. “I knew it the minute she came out on stage, the things she said and did. Thank God my mother didn’t see it. Do you think she wouldn’t recognize me?”
Would Rachel have recognized her daughter, fictionalized up there on stage for the world to see, seducing an older man who just happened to be her stepfather? She might have, he realized, with dawning horror. And then what?
“No, Christa,” he said, his voice unbearably hoarse. “You have the wrong idea…”
“Oh no, I don’t.” Her hand moved, oh God, it moved up between his thighs, and he shifted in the seat, trying to hide the proof of his arousal. “I have the very right idea. The perfect idea.”
“No,” he whispered, but he barely heard himself. Her hand cupped him, rubbing deliciously as her mouth sought his. He couldn’t resist, he simply couldn’t. The soft press of her little body, the way she searched for his zipper, her sweet tongue licking at his lips, asking for entrance. He knew very well he should say no, he should stop her, act horrified and appalled at her actions, but he wasn’t.
He was beyond excited.
“Oh Daddy, you’re so hard,” she breathed, and he tasted her gum, smelled it, sweet and fruity. Her lips were sticky against his. His zipper was down now, and she’d found him, thick and swollen. Her fingers played him, up and down, dancing lightly over the sensitive head.
“Sweetheart.” He tried. He made an effort. But he couldn’t manage anything else. He swallowed and heard his throat click. That was all.
“Oh I’m so wet,” she confessed, squeezing him in her little hand. Oh God. She wasn’t the only one. He felt pre-cum leaking from the head of his cock already. “Let me suck you. Oh Daddy, please, let me suck your cock.”
He didn’t answer her. He didn’t have to. The way his cock jumped in her hand was answer enough for her. She fished her gum out and pressed it with her thumb to the top of the steering wheel, grinning at him in the darkness before bending her head down toward his lap. He both loved and hated the darkness. He wanted to watch, see her mouth open for his cock, see her eyes looking up at him, but he was glad she couldn’t see the look in his face. He was sure it was a twisted, horrible picture of lust.
“Oooooohhh fuck,” he groaned, finding his voice as she slipped the head of his cock between her velvety lips. She made the sweetest noises, moaning and mewing as she took his length, the wet press of her tongue so delicious he almost felt like he was going to pass out. He dared to touch her, to stroke her hair, silky soft, falling over his arm as his hand moved over her bare shoulder. Her dress was dark with spaghetti straps, a sharp contrast to her pale skin.
“Mmmm!” Christa came up on his cock, the head popping thickly, wetly out of her mouth, and she tilted her head to look up at him. “I’m so fucking wet. I have to play with my pussy!”
He nodded—as if she needed his permission—her words forcing more pre-cum from the tip of his cock. He hadn’t been this excited since he was a kid in high school. To be honest, he’d probably never been this excited. Christa leaned in across the console, balancing with only one hand now, the other one pulling up her dress. He saw the flash of her white panties, and then he heard the most arousing sound of his life—the wet squelch of her fingers as she fucked herself.
“Ohhh sweetheart,” he moaned, his hand in her hair, her mouth so soft, so slickly silky and yielding, he could almost imagine it was the hot clutch of her little cunt. Imagining that was almost too much. His balls tightened to the point of near-pain and he twisted in his seat, trying to hold it back, oh God, not yet, not quite yet.
She worked him only with her mouth, swallowing his length with greedy fervor, and the noises she made, her movements, drove him wild—the puff of her breath through her nostrils against his pubic hair, the way her hand, the one between his legs, balancing her over the console, moved between his thighs as she rocked, the impossibly soft skin on the inside of her wrist rubbing against his balls.
“Mmmm Daddy, my pussy is so fucking hot! Ohhh! I’m gonna make myself come!”
“Yes!” He thrust up, unable to hold it back anymore. “Oh honey, yes, come for Daddy!”
“Mmm! Mmm!” Her mouth and throat worked him, deep and hard and hungry, mimicking the contractions of her spasming pussy.
“Ohhhh! Fuck! Now!” The first blast shot out of his balls with such force it shocked him, his cock erupting like a volcano, bathing his stepdaughter’s throat with a white hot lava. “Swallow Daddy’s cum, baby girl! Swallow it!”
She did, eagerly, sucking hard, insatiable, as if she could empty him completely. He felt her trembling, her whole body aquiver, and caught her instinctively as she collapsed over the console, panting and laughing, her cheek resting on his leg, her shoulder against the steering wheel, where he noted her gum, still fragrant, was stuck fast.
“Christa, I…” The shame of what he’d done overwhelmed him. He wanted to apologize, to take it back.
“Don’t you dare apologize!” She anticipated him, sitting up fast, brushing her long, tousled hair out of her face and licking her lips. Oh God, she was licking his cum off her lips. “Don’t you dare, Daddy!”
He didn’t. Instead, he went about straightening, tucking and zipping. He turned to her in the dark, wanted to reach for her hand, wanted to hold her, but didn’t know if he should. She giggled, so young and girlish, and it made him smile.
“Listen I—” He didn’t know what he would have said, but he never got the chance to say it, because the passenger door opened, startling them both.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Rachel demanded, standing there in her robe.
That was a good question.
“I… we…” He seemed to be great at starting sentences tonight, not so great at finishing them.
“Ashley wasn’t feeling well, so I called Dad to pick me up.” Christa lied so smoothly that Jim gaped at her in awe. She was already slipping on her heels, getting out of the car. He followed his wife and stepdaughter, too dazed to do much else.
“What are you doing in that dress?” Rachel asked as they entered through the side door into the kitchen. It hadn’t registered, in the darkness, that Christa was wearing the dress he’d left for her mother, but he could clearly see it now. “I was going to return it!”
“Oh, I didn’t know.” She sailed past her mother, heading toward the stairs, calling over her shoulder. “Me and Ashley were playing dress-up.”
Rachel scoffed, calling after her, “You’re a little old for dress-up, Christa!”
Jim sat at the kitchen table, more to get off his unsteady feet than anything else. His wife turned her attention to him, arms still crossed over her chest, her white satin robe bright in the kitchen lights, and he wondered if she’d seen anything. She would say something, wouldn’t she? Accuse, rail at him, something.
“How was your little play?”
He blinked at her, trying to remember. Oh yes, there had been a play. He had written a play.
“Fine.”
“Jim…” His wife leaned back against the counter, tightening the sash on her robe. “I’ve been thinking.”
That makes one of us, he thought. He hadn’t been thinking. Not at all.
“Yes?” He prompted when she didn’t continue, rubbing his eyes, seeing lightning bursts and fading spiderwebs. He was going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow.
“I’m leaving.”
His head shot up, his eyes widening. “You’re… what?”
“I need a break. We need a break.” Rachel sighed. “I talked to Kathy on the phone after you left, and she invited me to her place in Florida for spring break. I booked the flight. It leaves tomorrow. I’m already packed.”
“Well.” What could he say? “If that’s what you want.”
“Okay. Good.” She nodded, like it was all decided. “I’m going to bed.”
He watched as she turned, padding barefoot past him. “Rachel?”
“What?” She stopped at the door, looking back at him.
He had a million questions and couldn’t think of one. Finally, he asked, “Why wouldn’t you come to the play?”
She sighed and shook her head, answering him cryptically. “That question is the very problem. Do you not know me at all?”
He sat back in his chair, wondering the same thing as she started out of the kitchen.
“Oh, Jim, please don’t forget to feed Taffy, okay?” She peered back around the doorway to remind him.
“Who?” He blinked at her, feeling as if he was in a dream. Maybe he was just still too drunk to process any of this.
“Taffy.” She pointed to the kitchen counter where her class rodent was busily shredding Kleenex.
“Oh.” He gave a brief nod. “Right. Sure. Not a problem.”
He listened to her climb the stairs. The house was so quiet he heard the familiar creak of the fifth step, the snick of their door closing. He should be devastated. Horrified. Panicked. Something.
But for some reason, all he could think about was his stepdaughter. He thought about her, upstairs in her room, how coolly she had handled herself, how composed she’d been. He thought about her mouth, her hands, her eyes, although he knew he shouldn’t. His marriage was crumbling and he couldn’t think about anything but fucking his stepdaughter—and his wife… his wife was worried about the fucking hamster.
That told him a hell of a lot.
His office overlooked the backyard, which was a small affair, crowded with a little pond—ridiculous in the middle of Texas, the water constantly evaporated in the heat—and a huge trampoline. Christa used it regularly for cheerleading practice, and because he worked from home, he had the perfect vantage point for her after school antics. Today, though, Christa didn’t have school.
He knew that spring break week meant both his wife and stepdaughter would be home with him all day, although this morning his wife had left for Florida and his stepdaughter had taken off in her brand new 2011 red Mustang convertible to meet Ashley at the mall, leaving him alone, which was how he usually spent his days.
Work waited while he brewed coffee, searched the Internet, dabbled on World of Warcraft for a while and even played a few rounds of Solitaire. He couldn’t concentrate. Rachel had been in a better mood before she left, even kissing him goodbye and saying she’d call him when her plane landed.
“We’ll talk when I get home,” she’d whispered, hugging him tightly before getting into her Intrepid and heading off to the airport. He’d offered to drive her, but she had refused. He stared after her, still unshaven, standing there in his bathrobe, more confused than ever.
Before he knew it, the afternoon had rolled in, and he still hadn’t touched any of his editing, although he had managed to shave and shower. That had taken far too long, because his cock had insisted on remembering the feel of his stepdaughter’s hand and mouth, her velvety tongue and achingly soft lips.
Fuck. He was a bastard. A deviant. Rachel was right to leave me, he decided, trying to decode words on the screen in front of him, but nothing made sense. The Internet’s siren call lured him and he found himself surfing and, clear admitted deviant he was, somehow clicking on a porn site. His cock made it to half-mast almost immediately, but the more he clicked, the more dejected he became. None of them looked like Christa.
And Christa was all he could think about.
As if on cue, the top of her blonde head appeared above the window ledge. Jim blinked in amazement, and then realized—she was practicing her cheers on the trampoline. Christa was so small and light that they used her to form the top of all their pyramids. He’d seen the girls during practice on the few occasions he’d picked her up from school, his stepdaughter balanc
ed precariously on a pile of female bodies, like the fine top to a trophy, or the goddess Venus rising out of a surf of flesh.
He could see her clearly enough. He’d sat back and enjoyed this show on several occasions, had even once let himself masturbate to the spectacle from the bathroom window when Rachel wasn’t home. Christa in her cheerleading outfit was a sight to behold, all slender curves and jutting hips, the black and gold skirt so short it flipped up every time she leaped, higher and higher on the trampoline. Today she had braided her hair into two long, blonde pigtails on either side of her head, the effect of which was mesmerizing.