5. The Medical Massages” Begin #2
There’s a pause, and I sense she wants to say something, but instead she turns away, busying herself with the bottle and the towel, making sure everything is neat and ordered.
I watch her, the slope of her back, the flex of her shoulder blades under the t-shirt, and feel a hunger that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the need for connection.
After a minute, she looks back, eyes softer now. “Is there anything else?”
I shake my head, but the truth is I want everything else, every possible thing, but I say nothing.
She hesitates at the door, hand on the knob. “I can come back tomorrow, if you want.”
I nod. “Same time?”
She smiles, small and sly. “Same time.”
She slips out, closing the door behind her, and I hear her bare feet patter down the hallway. I lie back on the table, stare at the ceiling, and let the oil cool on my skin.
It’s only after the room goes silent again that I realize I’m still hard, my cock leaking against my stomach, and the ache is so intense I have to close my eyes and breathe.
Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow she’ll do it again.
And the day after that, and the day after that, until one of us breaks.
I hope it’s me.
I hear Mary Kate’s footsteps padding down the hallway, then silence—she’s gone.
I’m alone again, except for the pounding in my chest and the raw, electric memory of her.
I picture her: the way her jeans hugged her hips, the shadow of her breasts under that thin t-shirt, the look in her eyes when she realized how hard she could make me, how much control she had.
I squeeze my eyes shut and will myself to breathe, to relax, but the ache doesn’t leave. It won’t. Not now.
Fuck, what the hell have I gotten myself into?
I stare at the ceiling, contemplating my life choices, the taste of her still in the air, heavy as sandalwood, as heat.
My cock is still hard, glistening against the oil and the shine of my own need.
The aftershocks of her touch radiate from my balls up through my ribs, as if every nerve ending in my body has been mapped by her hands.
But I can’t stay in my office like a love-sick cow forever.
I clean up, shower off the oil, and pretend for a while that I can function like a normal human being.
I putter about my bedroom, reply to a handful of messages from the hospital, but nothing sticks.
All I can think about is the heat of Mary Kate’s hands, the oil between her fingers, the way she let her knuckle drag along the base of my shaft and then pretended it was an accident. She’s a terrible liar.
I pour myself a bourbon and sit by the window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance.
The glass is cold against my palm, but the bourbon burns all the way down.
I think of Mary Kate, her hands slick and shining, the tiny smile that crept onto her lips when she realized I wasn’t going to stop her.
I know it’s wrong. I know I should put a stop to it, draw a line in the sand and never cross it again. But the image of her lingers, and the line gets blurrier every time I try to find it.
The next night, my gorgeous stepdaughter shows up at my office at exactly 8:30, just as she said she would.
She’s wearing different clothes this time—black leggings, an oversized sweatshirt that swallows her frame, sleeves bunched at the wrists.
Her hair is braided to the side, a golden rope that falls over one shoulder, and she’s wearing lip gloss, the kind that makes her mouth look soft and swollen.
Her eyes flick up to mine, then away, as if she’s embarrassed to be here.
But she doesn’t hesitate. She steps into the office and closes the door behind her, locking it without being asked.
She doesn’t wait for me to say anything.
She walks to the table, pours the oil into her palm, rubs her hands together, and starts working it between her fingers as she approaches.
Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but she glances up at me through her lashes, just once, before she kneels beside the table.
I take off my sweatpants and t-shirt, lay back, and fold my hands across my chest, like a patient preparing for surgery. My cock is already half-hard, straining against my thigh, and I make no move to hide it.
Her first touch is more confident than before.
She cups my balls in both hands, the oil warm and slick, and starts to roll them in her palms, applying gentle but insistent pressure.
The sensation is instant, a surge of pleasure that makes my hips jerk involuntarily.
I stifle a moan, but it comes out anyway, low and guttural.
“Did I hurt you?” Mary Kate asks innocently.
“No, not at all, sweetheart. Keep going,” I reply in a rough voice.
She smiles, just a flicker at the corners of her mouth, and continues.
Her thumbs knead the space between my balls and the base of my cock, working slow, tight circles.
I feel the tension building, a pressure that has nothing to do with stones or blood flow, and everything to do with the way she’s looking at me, the way her cheeks flush when she realizes I’m watching her.
She lets her knuckle graze the shaft again, and this time she doesn’t pretend it’s an accident. Her fingers curl around the base, just for a second, and then let go, moving back to the balls, but slower this time, more deliberate. She’s testing me, seeing how far she can push.
I meet her eyes, and this time I let the hunger show. “You’re good at this,” I say, voice thick.
Her cheeks go pink, but she doesn’t look away. “You told me how.”
“That’s not what I mean,” I say, and my hand finds her wrist, just for a second. Her pulse is a hummingbird’s wing under my fingers.
She hesitates, then says, “What do you mean?”
I release her wrist, let my hand drop to the table. “You know.”
She’s quiet for a long time, her hands still working, gentle and rhythmic, oil warming with each pass. “Is it weird?” she asks. “What we’re doing, I mean?”
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.