ANOTHER DIRTY SESSION
KENT
The hour is late enough for it to feel like trespass.
My office—converted now, for these sessions, into a makeshift clinic—holds a stillness I can’t shake, even with the heat on high and the desk lamp burning a hollow in the gloom.
The only illumination is the ring of amber thrown by the bulb, just enough to outline the vinyl table in the center of the room and the neat, glinting row of oils lined up on the credenza.
There’s sandalwood, always; bergamot, in case she’s in the mood for something brighter; and, for tonight, a bottle of musk so rich and dark I can almost taste the elixir on my tongue.
I sit behind the desk, chair spun to face the table, and let my hands rest on my knees, palms up like I’m waiting to receive something holy.
I don’t have to look down to know that I’m already half-hard—I’ve been this way since dusk, since the text from Mary Kate confirming the appointment.
Even stripped down, the edge of detachment holds, but just barely.
The clock ticks. The house has gone so silent that it’s deafening: every small sound takes on the significance of a crash. The tick of the clock in the other room. The faint thrum of the almost-silent ventilation. The hiss of a random sprinkler going on outside.
I try to focus, but the mind is a traitor.
It loops back to the night that started all of this: Green Tree Country Club, summer, years ago.
I was two years divorced, staying functional by playing doubles with some orthopedic surgeons who drank more than they played.
I’d rolled my ankle on the curb in the parking lot and, more annoyed than hurt, limped to the medical office for an ice pack.
The nurse on duty was Jeannine Ashton: a woman in her early forties, pretty in a classic, Midwestern way, the edges of her beauty starting to blur, but still holding on pretty well.
She wore her scrubs one size too small and laughed too loud at whatever bullshit the Pro Shop manager was saying.
If you’d asked me then, I would have said I had no interest. None.
She was a cliché and I was tired of clichés.
That is, until I saw the photo on her desk.
It wasn’t even in a frame—just a 4x6, glossy, tucked into the frame of her first aid certificate.
The girl in the photo was maybe sixteen, but already fully woman, her blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail that accentuated the soft lines of her jaw, the impossible blue of her eyes.
She wore a Catholic school uniform: plaid skirt cut just above the knee, white shirt buttoned to the collar, though the buttons strained across a pair of breasts that seemed designed to make grown men lose their way in a sentence.
Her knees were together, toes pointed in a way that was demure and, for that reason, obscene.
White knee socks, and those little black Mary Janes that belong only to parochial schoolgirls and pornographic fantasy.
She was looking right at the camera. Right at me, it felt like, even then.
I forced my voice neutral: “Is that your daughter?”
Jeannine met my eyes with a look I’d later come to recognize as crafty, although she disguised it immediately.
She held the silence for a beat longer than most would, then shrugged.
“Yes, that’s my daughter, Mary Kate,” she said, like she was testing me somehow.
“Graduating next year. Wants to go to college out East. I keep telling her, she’ll just get herself in trouble.
” Another laugh. But this one wasn’t for the Pro Shop manager. It was just for me.
Even then, Jeannine knew. She knew I was desperately attracted to her daughter, and would do almost anything to have her.
The negotiations began slow though. I had money and a pedigree, and Jeannine wanted what all practical women want: a house, an end to worry, maybe a shot at climbing the social ladder a rung or two before her looks gave out and the ladder burned.
I provided her that, and in return she gave me what I wanted, which was Mary Kate.
Not in the biblical sense—never that, not until the girl was legal, not until even the fantasy had taken on the ring of inevitability.
But from the start, Jeannine understood the contours of the deal.
She’s a smart woman. She knew what she was getting into, and wanted it as badly as I did. Maybe more.
So I opened my wallet. I paid for Jeannine and Mary Kate.
I footed the bill for tuition, clothes, the bric-a-brac that filled every corner of my new wife’s existence, and moved them into my mansion.
It was hell living in close quarters with the young woman, but I kept my distance.
It was too early, and she wasn’t ready. So I waited.
I waited longer than I thought I would, longer than most men in my position ever do. But waiting only made it sharper.
Now, she’s down the hall, and the years of patience are at an end.
No more rehearsals. No more of Jeannine’s careful surveillance, the constant little tests, the transactional hugs, the way she would watch me whenever her daughter was in the room, looking for proof of what she already knew.
It’s just the two of us now, in this big, echoing house.
The rest of the world has no idea what’s about to happen.
Of the depravity I’m about to unload on the lovely young brat.
Mary Kate’s footsteps pause just outside the door.
I imagine her standing there, adjusting her clothes, maybe running a hand through her hair, shaking it loose.
The vision of her is so vivid it brings back another memory: I remember the first time I saw Mary Kate in a swimsuit, remember the way my jaw clenched so hard I thought I’d crack a molar.
She was gorgeous in a tiny yellow polka-dot bikini, and totally unaware that I was sporting a hard-on at the grill.
Instead, MK was so innocent back then that she actually splashed me with some pool water, and then climbed out and asked me to spread tanning oil on her back.
I mumbled my excuses, and beat feet back into the house asap.
I wanted to caress every inch of her ivory skin with my fingers, but back then, I was still under control.
I wouldn’t touch the gorgeous brat until the time was right.
Now, the time to claim is here. Three quick knocks, barely more than a tap. The kind of knock you use when you want to be caught but need plausible deniability.
“Come in,” I say, and the voice that emerges is lower than I intend.
The door opens and the games have begun.
The young woman steps inside, dressed in gray sweatpants and a Century College hoodie that looks about three sizes too large, sleeves bunched up around her elbows, hair in a sheet of gold down her back.
Her feet are bare. The effect is somewhere between college co-ed and exiled princess, and it lands like a fist to the chest because she’s so goddamned beautiful, even in shapeless sweats.
But things are different this time because I’m not sitting at my desk, waiting patiently for her arrival.
Instead, I’m sitting on the edge of the massage table, fully naked, erection twitching in time with my pulse.
She gasps upon seeing me, eyes widening until they’re enormous, but I make no attempt to cover myself, not anymore.
I want to pick up the speed of our interactions, and it seems Mary Kate agrees.
The beautiful blonde glances at my body, then at the neat array of oil bottles on the credenza, then at me—her gaze direct, hungry.
The air between us hums with a voltage of awareness, supercharged within thirty seconds.
She sets her phone on the corner of the desk, and then, without waiting for instructions, reaches for the hem of her hoodie.
She pulls it up in a single, practiced move, the fabric catching for a moment at her chest before releasing, her breasts jiggling slightly underneath.
There’s a pink bra today, a little lacy number that cups and lifts her Double D’s in a way that makes my cock twitch.
She drops the hoodie to the chair, then pushes the sweat pants down and off, bending to step out of them, a flash of pale thigh and ass framed by the high-cut panties.
She stands there, looking at me, arms loose at her sides. “I don’t want to get oil on my clothes, so I figured it’s better just to wear this,” she says, and her tone is as casual as if she’s explaining a laundry mishap.
For a second, neither of us moves. I drink her in: the long, strong legs, the faint tan line at her hip, the softness of her stomach, the fullness of her chest pushing at the bra.
The pink is a near-perfect match for the flush rising on her cheeks, and suddenly, I want to compare the pink of her bra to the pink of her pussy too.
I want to see if her open pussy is the same shade, and my cock goes fully hard, pressed flat against my belly.
I nod at the bra and panties. “You might as well lose the rest,” I say, trying to sound normal even though I know I don’t. “That looks like expensive lingerie, and I wouldn’t want to dirty it.”
She smiles sweetly, thumbs under the waistband, and looks at me again.
“You think so?” she coos.
“Yeah, definitely,” I rasp.
With another coy smile, she slips the panties down, letting them slither to her ankles before flicking them aside.
There’s a wet spot at the gusset, and my nose twitches because I swear, I can scent her aroused pussy from here.
The bra takes a little more work, but she unclasps it behind her back, then slides the straps off, letting the cups fall away from her giant Double D’s.
She sets the bra on the arm of the chair, then stands up straight, naked and unselfconscious, before cupping those huge tits in offering to me.
“I hope you like what you see, Daddy,” she mewls.