But it took longer than I’d planned. I thought I’d swoop in when my stepdaughter turned eighteen, but Jeannine begged for more time for her daughter. It was clear Mary Kate was too naive backthen, and too childish still. Sure, she had the body of a luscious woman, but she was still thinking about Hello Kitty and getting mango fro-yo with her friends. So I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, at that Thanksgiving a while back, I sensed that things had changed. My beautiful stepdaughter was no longer a child. She was a young woman bursting with beauty and fertility, and needed a real man to take her to the next level. So I crafted this “medical” excuse, a reason to touch me, and now Mary Kate’s devouring the opportunity.
Another dude would feel bad about the ruse. Another man would feel guilty and berate himself for lusting after his own stepdaughter. But I’m not that guy. I’m a fucking asshole, and I don’t give a shit about who knows. So yeah, I hatched my plan, and to be honest, it’s not all fake. I do actually suffer from testicular stones, like a lot of other guys. They’re real, yes, but harmless—at worst, a trivia item for the boards, a curiosity for grand rounds. They don’t cause me pain or discomfort, and there’s no need for “treatment,” no protocol that requires a hand job a day from a pretty co-ed. But Mary Kate doesn’t know that. She wants to help, and because I’m a urologist, she thinks I know my shit. I do know my shit. I just haven’t been honest in a myriad of ways.
But now, we’re out of the frying pan and into the fire. My lust for the saucy brat has been ignited and fuck, even the mere thought of her turns me into a raging beast. I sit down, unzip, and picture the beautiful blonde kneeling before me. My hand isn’t as small or as gentle as hers, but I know exactly what I like, and I take myself to the edge in seconds, drawing out the memory, the image of her bent over the sink, spreading her ass cheeks and flashing her tight, perfect holes at me. I picture the gleam of her pussy lips, the desperate way she panted with her cheek smashed against the marble. I imagine what she’d look like withmy cock buried between those cheeks, with her mouth open and drooling, her eyes wild with lust.
I come hard, shuddering, into the tissue I’ve palmed from the box on the desk. The first spurt catches me by surprise, splattering across the inside of my wrist, hot and messy. The next few land in the tissue, and I roar like a fucking beast, uncaring of who hears.
“Goddamn!” I shout in the privacy of my office. “Shit shit shit!”
Hot reams of semen spurt wildly as I come again and again, growling and panting like a madman while picturing Mary Kate on her knees, lapping at the dripping ropes of come. She’d mewl happily and then swallow it all, like the horny little girl she is. I come again at the visual, my balls pumping wildly, the tissue drenched and almost transparent because it’s so wet with semen now.
But all things must come to an end. After the ecstasy subsides, I wipe myself clean, careful and thorough. I savor the afterglow for a moment, eyes closed, letting the heat fade from my skin.
Then I compose myself. Tuck myself back into my pants, use some hand sanitizer, and walk to the window to stare out at the rolling hills of my estate. I wonder how many fathers are jerking off to their stepdaughters this morning, and the thought makes me laugh.
There’s nothing left to do but prepare for tonight.
I spend the next hour arranging and re-arranging the office, cleaning every surface, restocking the towel shelf, refilling the bottle of oil. I double check the massage table’s hinges, make sure the vinyl is free of smudges, then sit at the desk and updatemy patient files, making notes in each chart with a surgeon’s precision.
But every fifteen minutes or so, I stop, look at the clock, and imagine what Mary Kate is doing. If she’s lying in bed, legs open, rubbing herself raw, or if she’s in the kitchen pretending to study, thinking about my cock. If she’s going to confront me about the missing panties that I stole from her last night. I hope she does. I hope she’s bold enough to try.
Suddenly, as I stare out the window, I see the object of my obsession walk from the main house to the garage, swaddled in her coat, hair loose and streaming behind her like a flag. She’s off to her shift at the plant store, The Fig Leaf, where she will smile at strangers and sell them succulents, her own body electric with the anticipation of what she’ll do to me tonight.
I watch her go, then pour myself a fresh coffee, black and strong. I take it back to the desk, sit in the chair, and breathe in the scent of sandalwood, and wait.
There are worse ways to spend a day.
And tonight, my golden girl will show me what she’s learned.
I intend to reward her.
8
IS KAYLEIGH GOING TO MASSAGE HER STEPBROTHER?!
MARY KATE
Steep & Stone is barely a coffee shop, more like a long corridor with a counter jammed in at one end and four mismatched booths lining the window. From the street, the windows are filmed with steam and the light inside is a bruised honey, barely filtering through the grime and the posters for poetry slams and lost cats. It’s just past three and the snow on University Avenue is melting fast, thick with road salt and dog piss, slush puddling around the curbs and the legs of the tables inside.
I push through the door, letting the last skin of cold air slap the back of my neck, and immediately spot Kayleigh in the farthest booth, her feet kicked up onto the cracked vinyl bench. She’s halfway through a blueberry muffin, crumbs scattered like birdseed across the table, and her hair is up in a loose bun, the way she does it when she doesn’t want to look like she’s trying. There’s an empty mug at her elbow, a refill already cooling next to it. When she sees me, her eyes go wide and bright, as if she’s been waiting for this exact moment all week.
“Jesus, MK, you look like a ghost. Come here,” she calls, and pats the spot across from her with both hands. “I need this story so bad I’ve been vibrating all afternoon.”
I slide in, dragging my bag after me, and shake the snow from my sleeves. My own face stares back at me from the mirror behind the counter, with full pink cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. I look like I’m glowing, which I basically am, ever since my naughty encounters with Kent.
“Sorry,” I say, not sure why I’m apologizing. “Class went long. Then some asshole hit the bus shelter with a Toyota, so the route was all fucked up.”
Kayleigh waves this away. “You’re here now. That’s what counts.”
The waitress shuffles over, sets down a chipped mug, and asks if I want “the usual.” I say yes, even though I can’t remember what that is, and she returns two minutes later with a latte in a paper cup and a square of something labeled “vegan lemon bar.” I thank her and wrap both hands around the cup, trying to draw some warmth back into my bones.
Kayleigh waits until the waitress is out of range, then leans in, elbows denting the sticky table. “Okay. Spill. I’m dying. Did you do it?”
I glance around the shop. Two grad students at the next booth are deep in a debate about climate change, one of them speaking in loud, deliberate bursts as if the world is a TED talk. The barista is arguing with her boyfriend on the phone. No one here is going to care about what we’re saying, but I lower my voice anyway.
“I did,” I say. “Last night. Like you told me to.”
Kayleigh’s eyes go huge. “The massage? You actually went through with it?”
