I don’t stop, kissing and sucking her cunt until she collapses on my chest, breathless and giggling.
I sit back, face slick, and watch as she slides off the table to her knees beside me. She grabs my cock and takes it in her mouth, deep and hungry, sucking like she’s been doing it all her life. She uses both hands—one on the shaft, one cupping my balls—slurping and bobbing, letting spit run down her chin.
The sight of her like this—lips stretched around my cock, blue eyes gazing up at me, mouth full of thick man meat—is almost enough to make me come instantly.
“Fuck, Mary Kate,” I gasp. “You’re so goddamned good at this. Are you sure you weren’t a whore in a previous life?”
She smiles around my dick, then plunges down again, taking me even deeper. She moans, the vibration running up my shaft, and I feel my balls tighten.
“I’m going to come,” I say, voice tight, and she only increases her pace, swallowing me greedily. “Get ready.”
She sucks harder, almost like she’s egging me on. When I do orgasm, I come hard, pulsing in her mouth, blowing like a madman. She holds me in place, drinking every drop, not letting a single spurt of creaminess escape. She milks me, her tongue swirling around the head, sucking until I’m empty.
“Fuuuuck,” I groan, my back arching as my balls pump. “Shit shit shit!”
When the tremors finally die down, Mary Kate pops me out of her mouth and sits back, a long strand of saliva and semen trailing from her lips to the head of my cock. She wipes it with her thumb, then sucks the thumb clean, never breaking eye contact.
For a moment, the room is silent except for our breathing.
But my stepdaughter’s not embarrassed at all. She licks her lips again and stands up, curves gleaming with sweat, hair wild and tangled around her face. There’s no trace of shame or uncertainty. She looks at me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, and smiles—a real smile, all satisfaction and pride.
I get up from the table, draw her close, and kiss her—deep, messy, tasting her and me at once. I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“You were incredible, baby. Your cunt and ass were made to get fucked.”
She giggles.
“How can you talk like that, Daddy? You’re so dirty!”
I pull her close into another deep kiss, loving the press of her big breasts against my chest.
“I’m a filthy motherfucker, as you’ll soon find out. But we’ll do something different tomorrow,” I say. “The sauna. I’ll get it ready for us.”
She nods, melts against me, and smiles. “Whatever you want, Daddy. I want to make you happy. My body is here for you to use for your pleasure.”
There’s no need for pretense, no rules, no boundaries. Not anymore because Mary Kate’s mine. This woman belongs to me … and tomorrow, I’m going to claim her for good.
10
ITALIANS DO IT BETTER
MARY KATE
The only thing colder than a Tuesday in February is the third-floor classroom in Arliss Hall, where the Century College Italian Club meets every week at four-thirty sharp. I settle into a creaky folding chair at the back, my butt already numb from the commute across campus, thighs shivering as the draft whips in through the half-cracked window behind me. At the front of the room, the club president is running late—again—so a grad student named Fede is running the slide deck, gesticulating wildly as slides from Rome flicker on the wall. No one is listening. Most of the club, in fact, is eyeing the folding table by the door, where someone’snonnahas supplied a supermarket sheet cake, a plate of cannoli, and a pile of jewel-toned biscotti that look like they could crack a tooth.
I’m not really here for the food, or the slides frankly. I’m here because the alternate is home, and the house is empty until Kent gets off work at seven or so. I could be studying, I could be doing the Italian homework I’m three chapters behind on, but I’m not. I’m sitting here, in a patch of fake sunlight thrown by the projector, trying to look like a human with a functioning brainand not a hollowed-out sex doll who spent a portion of last night fellating her sexy stepfather.
I grip the edge of my spiral notebook, knuckles pale, and force my attention to the slides: a grainy photo of the Colosseum at dusk, then a street in Trastevere slick with rain, then a tangle of hands raising glasses in some subterranean bar. I know I’m supposed to feel something, some pang of wanderlust or nostalgia for a study-abroad summer I never even had, but my mind is blank. Worse than blank. It’s on a ten-second feedback loop of last night’s encounter, which is to say last night’s most wonderful, hideous, perfect mistake.
I see Kent on the massage table, naked, every muscle strung tight as piano wire. I feel the slide of oil on my fingers, the impossible heat of his skin, the way he looked at me like he was never going to look away. I taste him in my mouth—salt and fruit and something male, a flavor so adult I almost coughed the first time but instead just let him grab my hair and guide me, gentle at first, then with a force that sent lightning down my spine. I remember climbing up, straddling his chest, spreading my knees wide as his hands found my ass and pulled me down, his mouth on my pussy, his voice low and filthy in my ear. “You’re so fucking wet for me,” he’d said, and I’d moaned so loud I thought the neighbors would call the cops.
“Mary Kate?”
I snap back. Emmeline, next to me, is elbowing my ribcage hard enough to leave a bruise. She’s the kind of Italian major who makes everyone else look like a fraud: black hair always in saucy ringlets, eyeliner done with insane precision, red claws for nails, every essay peppered with obscure references to Italian cinema. She’s been my designated “class buddy” since the second week of the semester, and my grades improved as a result.
“You okay?” she whispers. “You’re, like, a zombie.”
I blink at her, try to recalibrate. “Yeah, just tired. I was up late with a paper.”
