I consider lying, but it would be an insult to both of us. “Yes,” I rasp. “But I want you to keep going.”
She nods, once, and switches tactics. Her right hand cradles my balls, thumb tracing a line along the seam, while her left hand oils up and wraps around my shaft, slow and careful. She strokes me with long, deliberate pulls, never breaking eye contact, and the tension in my gut doubles, then triples. I groan, louder this time, and her grip tightens, fingers sliding up and down with practiced ease.
I let my head fall back, eyes closed, and just feel: the heat of her palm, the slick slide of oil, the way she pauses at the head, thumb circling just under the ridge, then gliding down again. My hips are moving now, subtle but insistent, meeting her strokes. The air is thick with the smell of sandalwood and something sweeter, animal and electric.
I lose track of time. All I know is her hands and the sound of her breath, quick and shallow. When I open my eyes, she’s watching me, mouth open, tongue wetting her lip. The sight is almost enough to push me over the edge.
“Harder,” I whisper, and she obeys, grip tightening, pace increasing.
I feel it building, a heat that starts at the base of my spine and spreads outwards, filling my limbs, my chest, my head. The world narrows to the point of her thumb, the space between her knuckles, the place where her palm meets the shaft.
When I come, it’s violent, a white-hot spasm that rips through me, my hips bucking off the table. Cum spurts in thick, messy ropes, striping my stomach, catching her wrist, spattering across the back of her hand and onto her chin. She gasps, startled, but doesn’t stop stroking, milking every last twitch out of me until I’m limp and shaking.
We’re both breathing hard. I look at her, and she looks back, her chin glistening with a drop of my cum. I reach out, wipe it off with my thumb, and she grabs my wrist before I can pull away.
She brings my thumb to her mouth and sucks it clean.
Holy fuck.
Did that just happen?
The knowledge that my stepdaughter just tasted my semen is almost enough to get me hard again, right there. I stare at her, stunned, as she licks her lips and wipes her hand on the towel.
“Sorry I have to go. I have homework,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
She stands, smooths her sweatshirt, and heads for the door. At the threshold, she pauses, turns back to me, and smiles—a real, dazzling smile, full of sweetness and a certain pride.
“See you tomorrow, Kent.”
The door shuts, and I lie there, staring at the ceiling, the scent of her mixing with the oil, the bourbon, the memory of her mouth.
I don’t move for a long time.
When I finally do, it’s to clean up, to prepare for tomorrow, to count down the hours until she comes back.
And this time, when I think of her hands, I don’t feel guilt.
Only hunger.
6
SHOWERS ARE SUPPOSED TO GET YOU CLEAN BUT MINE GOT ME DIRTY
MARY KATE
The first thing I taste when I leave Kent’s office is him—salty, almost sweet, and utterly irresistible on my tongue. The second thing is my own breath, shallow and tight, as I back away from the closed door and press my fingers to my face, not sure if I want to wipe the evidence of his semen away or rub it deeper into my skin.
The house is quiet. More than quiet, it’s entombed, as if the walls themselves have signed a nondisclosure. I creep up the grand staircase on bare feet, the marble stairs freezing against my toes and making the bones of my arches ache, every step echoing up through my legs to the spot between them that Kent has just trained into a living, buzzing wire.
My room is at the near end of the third floor, perfectly situated with its own en suite. But I walk right past it, clutching my phone, my heart a feral animal in my ribs. The guest bath, further down the hallway, is the biggest, the best, the one with the glass shower the size of a zoo enclosure. I open the door to the restroom, step inside, and leave it hanging two inches from the jamb—an invitation as much as an oversight. Why am Idoing this? I don’t know, but my mind clamps down before I can probe my reasons any further. The only thing I know for sure is that my body’s aching. My breasts are tight, my pussy drenched, and Ineedsomething, even if I can’t articulate what that is just yet.
My eyes take a second to adjust. There’s something unreal about the light in here, all golden and flattering, the sconces throwing geometric shadows across the Carrara marble and the thick, glinting hardware. I close the toilet lid and sit, then just stop, and let it catch up.
The man of the house let me touch him tonight for the second time. Not just let—he wanted it, leaned into my hands, groaned when I found the seam that made his hips jump. He came so hard I thought he’d snap the table in two. And then, he wiped the cum from my face and smiled as I tasted it, those blue eyes gleaming.
My hands are trembling, but not from fear. I think of Kent’s body: his thighs, the dusting of dark hair, the heat of his skin under my fingers. I think of the curve of his cock, so tantalizing up close—thick, veined, with a pulse you can practically hear. I remember the way his balls felt in my palms, slick with oil, heavy and tight. I remember his voice when he called me sweetheart. I want to remember it forever.
