by S. E. Law
However, I force a smile onto my face. Victoria is merely a means to an end, I remind myself. She’s the way you’re going to be able to stay in this country and practice the kind of medicine that you want to practice. She’s your ticket to the Promised Land.
After all, I’m a Greek national. My country a beautiful one with fertile soil; ripe and bountiful olive trees; blue skies scattered with fluffy clouds; and the gorgeous stormy grey of the sea. However, Greece is also a place that’s come under intense financial pressure in the last forty years. First, it was war, but then there were all sorts of indignities of our own making. The deal with the American banks. Our entry into the Eurozone. Heck, even our entry into the European Union has been a source of strain, and as a result, my home country is falling into tatters.
That’s why I left. To practice medicine, and I mean real medicine, and not the techniques of thirty years ago. Unfortunately, Greece is stuck in the past. At this point, my country is filled crumbling hospitals and the equipment that you see in old-timey movies where they practically hiss and spit steam. It’s cute when you’re watching it on screen, but it’s a lot less cute when there’s a patient screaming bloody murder because they’re in real pain.
As a result, I came to the United States to further my research. It’s been wonderful so far. This place is all about gleaming hospitals with the latest equipment, and often the health care system seems awash in money. But for some inexplicable reason, my visa renewal wasn’t granted, and according to U.S. immigration rules, I’m supposed to go back to my own country and apply for a new visa once I’m back home.
That’s total bullshit. If I return to Europe and then reapply, I’m going to lose at least a year in the process, and that’s if I’m lucky. If they lose my paperwork, or god forbid, turn down my application altogether, I may never be able to come back. It’s a godawful nightmare.
That’s why I’m getting married to Victoria now. I’m trying to get a green card via marriage, and my sham union with Victoria is the first step down that path. It’s not virtuous, nor am I proud of what I’m doing, but I want to deliver the best medical science possible, and that just can’t happen in my home country.
Gritting my teeth, I watch as Victoria strolls down the aisle. For all intents and purposes, she looks like a bewitching bride. She’s slim, blonde and generically pretty with bright white teeth and flowers in her hair. She nods and waves to a buxom brunette sitting in one of the pews, whom she introduced as her friend Sofia. I think I know who Sofia is: my new bride’s girlfriend. I should be jealous, but in reality, none of that matters because we’re not going to be a couple for real. Instead, I’m going to support Victoria and her daughter on my doctor’s salary, so they can live in comfort.
It’s like making a deal with the devil, but in fact, it doesn’t feel too bad at all, and I know why. It’s because of Kayla. Victoria’s daughter is currently waiting across the aisle from me, on the other side of the minister. She took her place before the ceremony began, and I started to pretend that I was getting married to her, and not her mom.
It’s possible after all. Victoria had Kayla when she was young, so Kayla’s actually quite mature. And she’s incredibly beautiful. She’s everything that a Greek man wants in a woman: curvy, round, with bountiful breasts and a big butt. Plus, she has brown eyes that could melt snow. Kayla is delicious and cute in every way, and my cock jerks from pretending that she’s my bride.
But what the hell am I doing? I’m not getting married to Kayla. I’m getting married to Victoria, for crying out loud! Yet, I can’t help but sneak another glance at the curvy girl. She’s like an angel, standing there in her pink gown. Her cheeks are flushed and her lashes flutter a bit. Then, her eyes sweep over to look at me, and she bites her lip, making that pout even pinker.
Holy shit, I’m going to lose it. I’m going to run out right now, and take the sweet girl with me. But then Victoria steps up to the altar and giggles like a maniac.
“I’m here!” she whispers. “Ready for the big day!”
I manage a wan smile in return.
“You look beautiful,” I say, but it’s Kayla’s eyes that I meet over Victoria’s head. It’s like I’m saying the words to the daughter, and not the mom. Kayla flushes a bit, standing as still as a doe.
Meanwhile, Victoria shimmies like a wriggling puppy and giggles again, but it’s all fake.
“Let’s get on with it!” she whispers. “Go!” she directs the officiant.
It’s not a great sign to have my soon-to-be-wife acting like a spoiled child, but that’s why I purchased a big house for us to live in. There are five bedrooms, and even more importantly, one of the bedroom suites is located downstairs, which means that I can live on a different floor from my new wife. There’s no way we’ll be sharing a room at all. We’re not attracted to one another like that.
Meanwhile, the officiant continues droning through the ceremony, and I force myself to pay attention. Or more accurately, I force myself to pretend I’m paying attention even as I watch my stepdaughter from the corner of my eye. Kayla is trembling ever so slightly like a flower in the wind, and I hold my breath. She’s gorgeous and I wouldn’t mind sharing a room with her.
Stop it, the voice in my head admonishes. You’re such a dirty asshole.
The truth is that I am thinking forbidden thoughts, but it doesn’t stop me from wanting what I want.
Suddenly, the minister gets to the part where we say our vows. Obediently, Victoria and I turn toward one another, and we clasp each other’s hands. But I’m looking over her shoulder at her daughter, and as I begin to recite the words, I pretend that I’m saying them to Kayla, and not Victoria.
“I, George Pappanapolis …”
“Do solemnly take you, Kayla Knight …”
“As my lawfully wedded wife …”
“To have and to hold …”
“Until death do us part …”
Then, the ceremony concludes and I lean forward to kiss the bride. But not before making eye contact with Kayla again, and my heart jumps. How is it possible that she’s so tempting and forbidden, standing not two feet away from me right now? How can I control myself when the woman I truly want is the daughter of the woman I just married?
I can’t believe that this is my life, and yet, I desperately want more of Kayla. To see her, to love her, and to touch her, even if she’s off-limits.
3
Kayla
Four years later.
I can’t believe this is happening to me. I’m back from college and in my old room at home. It’s silent around the manor, and I pray that no one can hear me although my problem is urgent.
Let me rewind to the beginning to give a clearer picture of how I came into my current urgent situation. It’s been tough at school, so I came home late on a Friday night, and the house was still. No matter. I let myself in with my keys and looked around. The manor was as opulent as always. George bought it when he married Victoria, and we moved in a week after the wedding.
At first, it was a little strange to be living in such a sumptuous setting. The house was so big that sometimes my voice echoed when I spoke, bouncing off the marble floors and high ceilings. Not to mention the fact that we dumped all our old furniture. Our ratty couches and garage-sale décor just wasn’t going to fit in in a place as nice as this. As a result, George had an interior decorator come by and do the entire place up so that it seems more like a French palace than a mansion on the outskirts of the desert.
But living with George wasn’t the naughtiness that I envisioned. First of all, I barely saw him. He’s a very successful doctor who both treats patients and does research. As a result, he was always at his office or the lab, and never around.
Second, he moved into a bedroom on the first floor, whereas my mom and I live on the second floor. In a house this big, it’s significant because sometimes it feels like you have to walk fifteen minutes just to get to the other side of the building. Not to mention the stairs. Ev
en though we’re only one level apart, the stairs are long, curvy, and seem to go on forever. That was another obstacle separating us.
Finally, maybe nothing ever happened because I only imagined the attraction between us. On the few occasions that I did see my stepdad, nothing untoward ever took place. Sure, there were some smoldering glances and I swear, I saw a bulge in his pants a few times, but other than that, nada. There were never any late night escapades, nor any dirty tales to tell. As a result, I graduated from high school and went off to college a virgin, without a man touching me to make me moan.
But college has been exhausting, and I wanted to come home to relax this weekend. After all, I’m an economics major and taking some really difficult classes this semester. There’s one on econometrics, and also an economic history course that flabbergasts me. Evidently things like the price of beans in Venezuela can have an effect on the American economy. Who would have thought?
But as I lay on my mattress scrolling randomly on my phone, I started to feel bored. What the heck? I should feel relaxed and at ease, but instead a wave of lethargy overcomes me. I wasn’t just tired. I was bored, full stop. The temptation to lie back and melt into a puddle was overwhelming, but then something caught the corner of my eye on my cell. There was a pop-up ad with a woman bouncing around from right to left, and I clicked on it.
Bad idea. The ad zoomed out to take up my entire cell phone screen and suddenly it became obvious that the woman was actually nude. She was bouncing up and down vigorously with her face a rictus of ecstasy as her huge breasts bobbled.
Oh my gosh! Immediately, I tried to close the pop-up. My finger hit the X in the upper right corner, but it didn’t work. I furiously kept jabbing the X over and over again, and finally after about ten tries, it closed. But then more pop-ups appeared. They popped up again and again until I had at least five X-rated ads going simultaneously on my phone. It was utterly diabolical, I tell you.
Again, I worked furiously to try and close the advertisements, but they just wouldn’t do as told. They were like whack-a-moles that wouldn’t die as my fingers zipped from one to another. Finally, I gave up and re-booted my entire phone. I had to shut that thing down and then re-power it all over again just to get rid of these crazy advertisements. How do advertisers even do that? I swear, I’d just been browsing on some random news site when I was assaulted by the NC-17 pop-ups.
With an agitated sigh, I put my phone on my nightstand. What a close call. At least no one heard because the woman only moaned for about five seconds before I closed her screen. But in my mind’s eye, she came to life again. She was round and curvy like me, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. She was riding something, and I couldn’t tell what it was, but I was titillated for sure. Was it a broom handle? A wine bottle? Or something else?
With a cheeky smile, I silently reach over to my nightstand and open the drawer. Oh yes, it’s still there. My favorite toy. I haven’t used him in a long time because I’ve been away at school, and there’s no opportunity for that kind of private time when you share a tiny room with another woman. But here at home, I can indulge.
Quietly, I turn the Battery-Operated-Boyfriend on. A small whir sounds and I stared at the purple toy with delight. He’s small, I’ll say that. He’s probably only about two inches long, smooth and cylindrical. He’s not one of those fancy toys that have weird protrusions and things that look like propellers attached. He’s just a small bullet, made to stimulate a woman down there, but my toy is packed with a big punch. Now, I was going to have a little bit of fun on my own.
Quietly, I open my nightstand again and get out a bottle of lube. I oil the device up so that he’s goopy and slick, and then I quickly strip out of my clothes and lay back on the duvet. Ahh, it’s nice here! It’s peaceful and comfortable, and I have privacy for the first time in a long time.
Slowly, my hand goes down and I place the bullet between my legs, nestling it up against my slit. Mmm, it feels so good. My eyes close and I let out a small moan of pleasure. Yes, this is it. I pull my knees back and slowly edge the purple toy into my hole where it whirs away, making me shiver with ecstasy. Ah!
The toy’s not big and I keep pushing him into my interior with excruciating slowness, savoring the glide. My pussy’s getting a good ride and I squeeze my breast with one hand while inserting the toy even further in.
But then the unexpected happens because I lose him inside. This can’t be happening. What the hell? I push a finger in there, trying to fish the toy out, but it doesn’t work. If anything, he just slips further inside and I fish around even deeper in a futile effort. He’s definitely in there because I can feel him vibrating away. Heck, I can even hear him vibrating, but no matter how I try I can’t get him out. Uh oh.
This reminds me of the time I had a tampon stuck inside that I couldn’t get out. It wasn’t fun. I didn’t even know it was in there, to be honest. I’d just made out with my high school boyfriend, and somehow, my tampon “disappeared” during our naughty escapade. I’d forgotten I had it in me, to be honest, and after we finished, I looked around the surrounding area with confusion. But there was no feminine product anywhere to be found. It was simply gone.
It was only when I got home that I fished around deep inside and realized that the tampon was still in me, just jammed really, really far up there. I practically had to use a chopstick to get it out, and after two hours of straining and pulling, finally I managed to pull out the thin white tube. By then it was a crumpled mess, just two inches long.
So this was just another case of the same thing, right? Except this time, it was a bullet stuck in me, and not a tampon. I sat up, breasts bobbling. I had to get this thing out. I lifted my knees so that my feet were flat on the bed and parted my legs, trying to fish out the blasted toy. No luck. If anything, I only jammed it in further.
Then, I tried doing it the back way. I got on my hands and knees and reached one hand between my legs, trying to catch that little sucker again. Still no go. It buzzed away, and I could literally feel it going deeper and deeper as I struggled.
Oh my gosh, was I going to die of septic shock? Was I going to be the woman in the morgue while the medical examiner tried not to laugh? After all, the ramifications were real. If I didn’t get this out, my body would have some kind of nasty reaction. I’d have to go to the emergency room and face the amused faces of the nurses and doctors as they tried not to laugh. And that was the easiest part.
Suddenly, inspiration struck. My mom married George years ago. He’s a doctor from Greece, and he’s hot. It was just a green card marriage, so they were never really into one another. But somehow, they pulled it off and fooled the immigration authorities. George got his green card after meeting all the requirements, and now they’re divorced.
But even though they’re no longer together, George still lives with us. Or more accurately, this is George’s house and my mom and I never moved out after the divorce. Frankly, without George, we’d have no place to go. My mom is still working as a cocktail waitress but she dialed her hours back after the wedding, and has been cruising along like a rich housewife. But there’s more to it because George is actually the one footing my college tuition bill; without him, I’d probably be a waitress on the Strip as well.
As a result, even though they’re divorced, my parents still live together in this huge mansion. I guess it makes sense. The space is enormous, and after I moved out, they had even more room. Plus, it’s not like the house has any bad memories because George and Victoria were never really married. When we moved in, my mom moved straight into the master bedroom, whereas my new stepdad took one of the bedrooms downstairs. I was going to live downstairs too, but my mom insisted that I occupy a room right next to hers. Okay, fine. I was headed to college anyways, so it was only going to be a few years of forced proximity at the maximum.
But now, I’m in big trouble and I wonder if my ex-stepdad can help. I throw on a robe quickly, my face flushed. At least while I’m standing, the hum of
the toy is a little quieter, thank goodness. It still feels pleasurable, and I tie the sash tightly around my waist. It highlights how I’m slender in my middle but big up top and down below. I’ve always been a curvy girl. I have huge, pendulous breasts and a big bottom with plenty of junk in the trunk. Thank goodness that there’s an appreciation for girls who are hourglass-shaped these days because I couldn’t lose weight if I tried.
Slipping on my fuzzy slippers, I quickly open the door to my bedroom and look out onto the second floor landing. There’s no one around, and the house is totally silent. George is probably downstairs on this lazy Saturday afternoon, enjoying his peace. Well, that peace is about to be disturbed.
Slowly, I creep down and peer into the kitchen. Nope, it’s all silent. The sunlight streams through the window over the sink, making dust motes sparkle in the air. Everything is spic and span and the counters gleam.
Then I peer into the living room. Nope, no George there either. Again, it’s pristine, with its beige couches, a huge sixty-five inch flatscreen TV, and a luxurious mohair rug. But none of that makes an impression on me today. I’m looking for a certain someone to help, and he’s not here.
Finally, I pad over to the hallway by the living room and take a deep breath before knocking on George’s office door. He keeps a home office, and uses the space to catch up on work during weekends. Hopefully he’s inside, and not out playing tennis or grabbing a bite.
“George?” I call. My voice comes out a little weak and I clear it a bit. “It’s Kayla.”
There’s utter silence.
“George?” I call again. “It’s Kayla. I need your help.” This time, my voice is more insistent.
There’s a shuffling sound from inside, and then a deep voice booms, “Come.”
Hesitantly, I open the door and stick my head inside. My gorgeous ex-stepdad is seated at his desk, looking as formidable as can be. He has dark chestnut hair swept back from a patrician brow, as well as piercing blue eyes and a deep cleft in his chin. He looks like Dr. McSteamy from Grey’s Anatomy, although my mom’s ex has brown hair and not salt and pepper locks like the actor.