WHY DOES MY STEPDAUGHTER STILL HAVE HER V-CARD? #2
She looks so domestic, with a loose flowy dress on, and an apron covering her curvy form.
Her blonde hair is up, but tendrils curl around her neck and I have a strong desire to press kisses to that smooth column as she stands in front of the stove.
Hell, I’d love to see her with her belly full of my child, the glow of pregnancy on her cheeks as another child sits in his high-chair nearby, banging a spoon.
The image stops me short because where the fuck is this coming from?
I’ve had lustful desires for my stepdaughter since I first met her, years ago, but never did the imagery include visions of Mary Kate as my wife, much less as the mother of my children.
But my brain can’t unsee what I’ve imagined, and the rightness of the vision pounds through my veins.
Mary Kate, with my child in her belly. Mary Kate, smiling at me as I impregnate her again and again.
Our family, filled with tumbling tots underfoot, as the gorgeous girl laughs melodically.
Holy fuck.
It’s what I want.
But I can’t let on that I’ve had a massive shift in mindset that includes more than just savaging her luscious curves. As a result, I manage a neutral smile, even as the blood pounds in my head.
“Paninis sound good,” I say in a near-normal voice. “Just no pickles.”
She nods and plates the paninis before pouring a generous serving of potato chips into a bowl, and putting it on the kitchen island where I’m seated. Then, she slips onto the stool beside me, and smiles sweetly.
“Dig in, Daddy. I hope you like it.”
I take a bite of the gooey sandwich, and it’s amazing.
“Holy fuck, sweetheart. This is real good. What did you do differently?”
Mary Kate giggles while nibbling her own sandwich.
“Well, I’m using the expensive serrano ham I found in the fridge, and I buttered both sides of the bread before putting it in the panini maker. That makes a lot of difference. I hope it doesn’t ruin your diet.”
I mock-frown.
“I generally don’t consume a lot of butter, but for you, sweetheart, I’m up for anything. Besides, this sandwich is too good to pass up. I may need two.”
She giggles again, and we settle into a comfortable silence as we eat. She takes another bite of her sandwich, then props her chin on her hand and shoots me a playful glance. “Can I ask you something, Kent?”
I nod.
“Shoot,” I say, like it’s nothing.
She traces the lip of her mug. “Why urology?”
The question catches me sideways. I shrug.
“Why does anyone do anything? I was in med school, watching the world trip over itself to solve breast cancer. Every year, new campaigns, millions in research, a whole fucking month painted pink. Meanwhile, if a man had his balls cut off by cancer, nobody gave a shit. They called it karma. So I went into urology out of spite. I wanted to make sure men didn’t get left behind. ”
She grins. “You did it for the boys.”
I shrug, but the words hang there, truer than I want to admit. “Not just for the boys. I like fixing things. It’s mechanical. Cause and effect. There’s a problem, and I solve it. No drama.”
She props her chin on her palm, the sleeve of her shirt slipping up to expose her bare forearm, the downy hair catching the light. “But you like drama. You just want to be the one who controls it.”
I laugh. “Guilty.”
She takes another bite of sandwich, chews slowly. “You ever wish you’d done something else?”
I think about it, shake my head. “No. I like what I do. I like being needed.”
She laughs. “That’s weirdly noble.”
I shrug. “It’s also lucrative. You’d be amazed how much rich dudes care about their dicks.”
She’s silent for a moment, then: “I bet you’re a really good physician.”
For some reason, this hits me harder than any of the sex, any of the filthy things I’ve done to her. I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t. I just pour her another cup of joe, careful not to spill, and slide it toward her.
She sips, then looks at me cheekily over the rim of her mug. “You know, for a guy who spends all day around old men’s junk, you’re pretty hot.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks. I think.”
The beautiful blonde smiles, a real one, and for the first time since I’ve sat down, she looks relaxed. Her legs uncurl, and she leans back, stretching a bit. I decide to use the opportunity to turn the tables.
“So what about you, sweetheart?” I say. “Aren’t you working part time at a plant store? What’s that about?”
Mary Kate smiles sweetly. “It’s peaceful. I like being around things that grow, and that don’t talk back. Plus, they let me bring home stuff that’s half-dead, so I get to revive it. Kind of like you when it comes to saving living organisms, but with less testosterone.”
“That’s very noble as well,” I growl. “But is that what you want to do, long-term? Work in a plant store or maybe run a greenhouse?”
She glances up, like she can hear me thinking. “No, the plant shop isn’t my dream. It’s just something to do. A way to make money that doesn’t make me hate myself like most jobs. Ugh, I would not be able to handle a job at a customer service call center.”
I chuckle.
“Well, I think you’re a long ways from that because most companies have outsourced that shit to the Philippines or India. So tell me, what is your dream, sweetheart?” I ask. “I want to know.”
Mary Kate pauses and bites her lip, almost shy.
“Italy. I want to stand in the middle of a piazza, order a coffee in Italian, and not have the barista switch to English out of pity. I want to go to museums, not as a tourist, but as someone who belongs there. I want to be fluent. I want to feel at home somewhere.”
I let the silence linger. “Why not go?”
She shrugs. “Money. Timing. Fear of being kidnapped by the mafia and sold to a billionaire as his private sex slave.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I think you’d like that.”
She giggles, then blushes. “Maybe. If the billionaire was hot.”
I don’t laugh. Instead, I say, “Maybe I’ll take you to Italy someday, Mary Kate.”
Her face goes blank. Then, slowly, color rises from her throat, up to her ears. “Would you?”
“If you want,” I say, casual as I can. “You’d have to earn it.”
She bites her lip, staring at the plate. “How?”
I let my eyes wander over her body, make it clear what I mean. She shivers, but doesn’t look away. If anything, her pupils dilate and she leans in, big breasts heaving.
We eat in silence for a minute, the crunch of chips the only sound. Outside, a crow barks at nothing. The sun is all the way up now, flooding the kitchen with yellow-white light, and in the harsh glare I see that she’s even prettier than I thought. The hair, the cheekbones, the line of her throat.
“You ever think about what you’ll do after graduation?” I ask.
She sighs. “Not really. The future is like a fog. I’ll finish my degree, maybe go to grad school, maybe not. Maybe get married and pop out a kid.” She glances at me, quick, like she’s baiting me. “Who knows?”
The conversation is so normal, so mundane, I almost forget what we did last night. Almost. But the memory returns every time she smiles, every time her dress gapes a bit and I see the bare skin underneath.
I refill her mug without asking, the way you do for someone who’s lived in your house forever.
She watches me, her eyes warm. “Can I ask you something else, Kent?”
“Of course.”
“Were you always like this? So…confident?”
I think about it, about the years of shyness, the broken marriage from long-ago, my recent broken marriage. I think about the times I failed, and then rebuilt myself piece by piece until there was nothing left but steel.
“No,” I say. “I used to be a fucking disaster. Didn’t know what I wanted. Let everyone else decide for me. But eventually, you get tired of pretending. You become what you are, or you die trying.”
She considers, then nods. “I think I want to be like that.”
I look at her, really look. “You already are. You just don’t know it yet.”
She smiles, slow and secret.
We sit in the kitchen, finishing lunch, as the light shifts and the world outside thaws. The air between us is easy now, like we’re two soldiers in a foxhole, sharing a cigarette. I could stay here forever.
But nothing lasts forever.
My beautiful stepdaughter finishes her juice, sets the glass down, and stands. The dress rides up, exposing just a tantalizing glimpse of her ass cheeks. I can’t help but stare. She sees me looking, and instead of being embarrassed, she grins.
“I’ll see you later?” she asks in a sweet voice.
“Absolutely,” I growl.
Then, she pads out of the room, hips swaying. I listen to her footfalls on the stairs, the creak of the hallway, and wonder if she’s already thinking about tonight.
I hope she is.
I rinse the plates, wipe down the counter, and set the kitchen back to perfection. But the feel of Mary Kate remains in the air, in the scent of her natural perfume, and the sheen of her lip print on the mug.