I dry off slowly, glancing at the open doorway every few seconds, half-hoping he’ll step in, half-fearing it. I wrap myself in a towel and bend over to gather my clothes, but something’s missing.
My panties. The ones I left on the floor, damp in the crotch, pale pink with lace on the waistband.
They’re gone.
I stand there, towel clutched at my chest, and stare at the empty patch of floor. A flush creeps up my throat, hotter thanthe shower, and I smile—small, wicked, secret. I know exactly what happened to them. I know who took them. The knowledge makes me bold, almost wild with pleasure.
I walk back to my room with nothing underneath the towel, hips swaying more than necessary, letting the fabric gap open whenever I pass a darkened doorway.
Tomorrow, maybe, I’ll leave something else out for him to take.
Or maybe I’ll just leave the door wide open, and see if he comes in.
Either way, I hope my stepfather never stops watching.
7
IS SHE REALLY SO F*CKING NAUGHTY?
KENT
The office is always cold because I like it that way. The chilly air is bracing and keeps me alert, but last night, I turned up the heat so that it was a fucking sauna in here. But now that it’s morning, the thermostat is basically back on freezing, with the air so dry it feels preserved.
What the fuck happened last night? I shake my head while staring at my reflection in the window, the city a faint constellation behind my own face, then drop my gaze to the expanse of desk in front of me. The morning’s coffee is already cold, abandoned at the edge of the coaster, an oily ring forming at the meniscus. I swirl it in my hand, then set it down again, unsatisfied. The file open in front of me—Peters, Terry; prostate biopsy, negative—hasn’t been updated in twenty minutes, and the pen I’d set down is bleeding into a blue Rorschach against the chart.
I push back from the desk, the chair creaking under me, and stand. The walnut shelves encase me like a judge’s box, lined with medical monographs and books nobody reads anymore:Campbell-Walsh, BJU International, the old, gold-stampedcopy ofGray’sthat belonged to my father. The rug is antique, faded red and blue, threadbare at the threshold. I stalk its length, desk to window, window to the massage table at the center of the room.
Holy fuck. The massage table. The site of last night’s sin. It looks like a piece of BDSM furniture, vinyl black and glossy under the low light, towel folded precisely at one end. The bottles of oil are lined up on the credenza. Sandalwood, as always, but also lavender and something labeled “neutral” in a discount-font label that offends me. I pick up the sandalwood, uncap it, and inhale. The memory of last night is thick as the resin itself—oil and sweat and a sharp, animal undertone that has nothing to do with the contents of the bottle.
I set it back down, resisting the urge to taste it on my tongue. Instead I press my palm to the padded table, the faint give of the vinyl under my hand, and stare at the spot where, just twelve hours earlier, my stepdaughter wrapped her hands around my cock and squeezed until I saw stars.
Was it real, what happened? Or did I hallucinate the whole thing out of want? I play it over, again and again: Mary Kate, feet bare and pink, coming into the office with the diffident shuffle of a girl pretending to be uncertain. The way a sheaf of her golden hair swung forward, hiding her face, only for her to tuck it back with a practiced flick. The careful folding of her arms over her chest, accentuating the roundness of her breasts under that thin t-shirt. And then, when I undressed, her eyes never quite leaving my dick. The small flicker of her tongue at her lip, the catch of her breath as I pulled my waistband low and exposed myself. She pretended not to look. She failed.
And after—oh, after. Her hands learning the routine with a nervousness that lasted all of ten seconds. Then the shift,the slow acceleration. I could feel her heartbeat through her fingertips as she rolled my testicles in her palms, the concentration giving way to a rhythm that was pure, practiced, almost eager. The way her knuckle grazed my shaft, not once, not twice, but four times, each more deliberate than the last, until finally she just curled her hand around it and stroked me, oil warm and slick, her thumb circling the head like she’d done it before.
She watched my face as I came, eyes wide and blue, pupils blown so big the color vanished. When I spurted, it caught her wrist, then her chin, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just stared as the semen ran down to her knuckles. She wiped it off with a towel, but not before I let her taste some of the good stuff.
And she liked it too. She savored the mouth feel of my semen, swallowing like a good girl. Then, she said something about homework. Homework! She left the office with a little skip in her step, me stunned and still horny inside.
But what happened after—that’s what keeps me pacing, keeps my pulse up, keeps my mind from ever settling. Because after the massage, after the dose of my semen, after her quick escape, I crept out of my office to the third floor. I was going to talk to Mary Kate about the truth of my condition. I was going to come clean and fess up about everything - my so-called “medical issues,” her mother, our marriage, everything. But then, I heard the young girl humming a bit in the guest bathroom and came to a complete stop just outside the door.
Why the fuck was she using the guest bath? She has her own, bigger, newer en suite. She could have locked herself away in the fortress of her bedroom. Instead she left the guest bath door open, just a sliver, just enough for the steam to billow out and hang in the air like temptation. I listened, standing silentoutside, and heard the shower start, then the muffled groan of pipes, then a new sound, small at first but growing, gathering force as it bounced off the marble and glass.
It was Mary Kate. Moaning my name.
No, not my name precisely. The word “Daddy.” A word that should have made my skin crawl, but instead it made every atom in my body snap to attention.
“Daddy, fuck, yes,” she was panting. “Kent, please, please, oh my god, yes, right there?—”
The sounds that followed were obscene, and I listened to every one. The slick patter of her palm against her own flesh, the wet gasp of her arousal, more desperate pants of “Daddy, please!” Then, unable to resist, I peered into the bathroom, the warm steam rendering my beautiful girl into a glow of ivory, pink and gold. Because there was Mary Kate, bent over with her bottom facing me. As I watched, she reached back with both hands and pulled her butt cheeks apart, giving me a full view of that lovely pink pussy, as well as the tight clench of her ass. I almost came again right there, just from the sight. I wanted to rip the door open and take her, to fuck her against the marble, to see how many times I could make her scream, but I didn’t. I just stood there, silent, dick throbbing, watching and listening.
But Mary Kate wasn’t done yet. She stepped into the shower next, with a naughty smile on those lovely features, and proceeded to rub her kitty like a crazed woman. Even better, when she came, there was a huge burst of fluid from her cunt. My baby is a squirter! Again, I almost came just from the visual of that heavenly spray. I couldn’t take it anymore. While Mary Kate was recovering from her massive orgasm, I stepped two feet into the bathroom and snatched her panties off the floor. Yes, Iwas a dirty asshole, and immediately pressed the contraband to my nose, inhaling the sweet scent of her wet cunt.
But did I go away then? Yes, sort of. When the water stopped, I ducked into the next room and waited. My sexy stepdaughter walked out, towel wrapped around her, hair wet and hanging, a look of dazed triumph on her face. I watched her from the shadows, watched the way her hips swayed, the way she walked on the balls of her feet, light and floating. Watched the way she didn’t glance back, not once. She knew I was there. She wants me, just as much as I want her.
I snap back to the present, my palm still pressed against the table. The memory has made me hard all over again, the kind of morning wood that refuses to be ignored. I reach down, cup myself, and stroke it once, just to see if it’s as sensitive as it was last night. It is. More, even.
I should feel shame, maybe, or something like regret, but I feel nothing but anticipation. A hungry glow, like the animal within has been awakened. After all, these interactions are the result of years of patience, careful cultivation. The whole structure of this family is my design: Jeannine was always a means to an end, the perfect blend of fragile and ambitious, desperate for a rich man to anchor her to the world. But I can’t blame her because the woman merely wanted more for herself and her daughter. They were barely getting by before we met, squeezed into a one-bedroom apartment with Mary Kate on scholarship at her high school. Marrying me was an easy decision for Jeannine, and my new wife was willing to pay the price: a life of luxury, provided that I got access to her daughter once Mary Kate came of age.
