“I’ll get the machine set up,” she chirps, pinning me with a long glance before she turns away, and I watch her plump ass cheeks wiggle in those yoga shorts as she starts to walk away.
I avert my eyes, but not before I see the flicker of a question in hers. She knows. She may not be ready to admit it, but she knows something has shifted, and sometimes, you can’t put that toothpaste back in the tube.
Or put that cum back in the balls, as it’s likely going to be.
Fuck, it’s going to be a long fucking night.
Chapter Three
Reuben
My dick aches like a motherfucker as I finish putting the leftovers away and stacking the silverware and dishes in the kitchen sink.
I roll the crystal glass with a sip of my scotch left between my palms as I hear the high-pitched feedback pierce the space from down the hall where Winona is getting set up in the mini auditorium.
I designed the auditorium into the house when I built it for us. Winona has been a performer since she could hum Wheels on the Bus as a toddler, and somewhere around age six or seven, we all realized her voice was fucking magic.
It only gotten better from there, and her singing has danced in my dreams for years. Now, though, it’s more. The way she moves when she gets on the stage, the sultriness of her womanly voice, and curves… Fuck me, it hits me straight in the fucking balls, bouncing around inside me like a pinball hitting all the bells and whistles, until I damn near lose my fucking mind.
I throw back the last bit of the alcohol, savoring the burn, hoping the bit of a buzz will help loosen up the grip she has on my boner and let me regain a modicum of control.
“Testing, testing.” The amplification of her voice sends a new wave of possessive heat rushing through me as I work my way out of the kitchen and down the hall towards her.
“Fuck,” I whisper as I look through the curtains, watching as she moves on the stage, tip-toeing like she does most of the time.
Probably started out as a self-defense mechanism around her mom, but it’s more of a habit now than actually trying to be quiet. She does this happy little hop when she hits the center of the stage, securing the microphone into the tall chrome stand.
I stay at the doorway where the velvet curtains hang open enough for me to watch. The stage is lit, but the small auditorium is dark, so she can’t see me hanging back, stalking, perving.
I force steel into my spine. I’m so hard I could crack granite.
I reach down and lower my zipper, twisting my long fingers through the opening, then battling the other opening in my boxers until I can grab the pole of my shaft and force it out into the open air.
If she only knew the number of times I’ve done exactly this, thinking about her, looking at the depraved sea of photos I’ve taken of her since she turned eighteen that I keep in a private, ‘Finally fucking legal’ folder on my phone.
My tongue rakes along my bottom lip as she wiggles into her favorite standing position behind the microphone, and I start to stroke myself in the darkness.
When I built this house, I filtered every decision through the lens of her. Would she like it? Would it be good for her? Make her smile? Help her achieve her goals? Be safe for her?
I never imagined being a father, but once Winona entered this world, pride and protectiveness swelled in my chest. Shewasn’t mine by blood, but she lit something in the darkness inside of me that would never be extinguished.
I have enough memories of my own shitty childhood to know what not to do as a stand-in parental figure. But I’m also smart enough to know that there’s a good portion of instinct involved in being a parent as well.
I seem to have a shit ton of instinct when it comes to her, that’s for fucking sure.
That all surely makes me more of a monster now, as I stand half-hidden, squeezing the root of my dick as my balls twitch, my erection throbbing evidence of the forbidden fantasies that will no longer be denied.
My cock is dripping like a goddamn leaky faucet, but it’s not enough. As her soft breathing whispers through the massive speakers, golden light shimmers on the walls from the brass sconces I bought on a work trip to Seattle, rescuing them from a nineteen forties art deco theater they were tearing down.
I raise my hand toward my mouth, palm up, and release a generous glob of warm spit. Then I return to pulling at my cock, hard and fast, as she plants her feet and puts both hands on the microphone, doing her best Taylor Swift impression.
God, she looks so confident up there. So fucking beautiful, it nearly stops my fucking heart.
“Are youcoming?” she chirps, squinting into the darkness, and the words are enough to put me over the fucking edge.
“Yes...” I grit out, my erection so thick my fingertips barely overlap as I imagine Winona, the girl who considers me her father for all intents and purposes, straddling me, tits in my face, as I bounce her up and down.
You want to bounce like a big girl on Daddy’s dick, do you?
