Chapter 2 #2
There’s a tension there that shouldn’t be, but there are things I won’t ever forget or forgive.
Once she realized her piece of the financial pie wasn’t going to carry her lifestyle out in perpetuity, she made it clear to me one night after downing a bottle of Merlot solo that her intentions were to make a new family with me officially.
When I dragged her intoxicated ass back down the hallway to her own bedroom and threw her into the shower, making it clear, whatever she was peddling, I wasn’t buying, her sticky-sweet personality turned sour.
She dismisses my anger with a scoff. “I’m going to Vegas.
” She scratches her head with her inch-long, blood-red taloned fingernail, then continues, “There’s a flight in two hours.
I’m already packed. Just—” Her jaw sets, flicking her eyes to Winona, who is doing her best to ignore the drama, then to me, as I seethe because I already know what’s coming.
“You’re going to Vegas, or you want to go?” I grunt, hating how Winona sits there, tugging her lips back and forth, not touching her favorite dinner because of her mother’s comments.
“Just buy the ticket,” Catrina snaps. “I have someone I want to meet.”
“Okay, well, if Mr. Right is such a catch, why doesn’t he buy your ticket?” I throw out the jab just to annoy her as I’m already reaching for her phone, then quickly tapping in my card number for the reservation that’s ready and waiting on the screen.
I pay for her trip gladly. Right now, I’d get Catrina a ticket to the International Space Station if it got her conniving ass out of here for a few days.
A ticket to Vegas will do just that, giving me a free weekend with Winona, and that’s worth every penny, but I also know what she is like.
Winona turned eighteen a few months ago, and she’s received her first distribution from her trust, to which I am the executor, and that means she now has her own money.
And it wouldn’t be beyond Catrina to ask her daughter to pay for her booty call to Vegas.
I jab the phone back at Catrina, then nod to Winona, lowering my voice. “Eat, baby, before it gets cold.”
I wink and cock an eyebrow at her like we have a secret, and when she smiles back, the way the crystals on the chandelier above the table cast little rainbows on her cheeks turns me inside fucking out.
Winona works her fork into her lo mein, then takes a bite, wrapping her lips around the sterling-silver utensil with a happy little moan that goes straight to my cock.
“Baby?” Catrina hisses. “You treat her like she’s still six years old. She should be out on her own anyway, not commuting to college and living at home with—”
I wave her off. “Just get your bags and go. You sober to drive?”
Catrina glares but nods, then points her phone at Winona, who is gleefully chewing her second bite of noodles. “You be good. I’ll be back Monday.” She rests her eyes on her daughter, and I sense a shred of real concern. “You okay here with the grouch?”
Winona shrugs, but her cheeks brighten another shade. Her tits look fucking epic in that tight, plain white t-shirt she’s wearing, and my cock lengthens down the leg of my jeans, dripping precum onto the inside of my thigh as I think of being alone for the whole weekend with her.
“Well, don’t think you have to stay here the whole time I’m away. I’m sure you have college friends you could hang with, or whatever the kids say these days.”
Catrina grabs a pinch of fried rice between her thumb and fingers, dropping it into her mouth as she heads for the door, barely mumbling a quick “ciao” before she disappears into the hall.
My control is already unraveling, but I swear Winona’s fucking nipples must have a direct line to my inner thoughts, because as my mouth waters with thoughts of how sweet they must taste, they visibly harden under the thin cotton of her shirt.
Taking a deep breath, I only exhale when I hear the door close, and catch a flash of red as Catrina’s red Audi R8 picks up speed down the drive.
Then my attention refocuses on my pseudo-daughter, who is looking at me like the cat that ate the canary.
“What?” I snap my tongue against my teeth as she shrugs, wiggling her ass in the chair, and I wonder if I was too hard on her mother.
It has to be hard on Winona to see and hear us banter back and forth like that, but I’m not giving in to her bullshit.
Respect is a big thing with me, and one thing I’ve learned is that you have to respect yourself if you want respect from others.
It would be far worse for her to see me accept Catrina’s bullshit than to show her I’m the man standing between her and anything hurtful or harmful this world can try to throw her way.
We finish our dinner in pleasant chatter. Mostly her chatting, me asking questions, wanting to know about everything.
Our meals together have become another source of joy and torture for me, even when Catrina isn’t with us.
I vacillate between keeping my composure, giving her feedback on things that I think she needs guidance on, or telling her how proud I am of something she’s done or said.
That, and fighting off the burning, incessant urge to stick my tongue in her hot little hole before stuffing her full of ten inches of Coke-can thick cock.
But something has shifted. There’s a kindling of something more out of control than usual roiling around in my belly. An answer to a question I’ve dared not ask myself for too long.
My thoughts race, and sweat beads on my temples as she finishes her dinner and raises her glass of water to her lips, just as Linus, her Maine Coon, leaps onto the table, and in one smooth motion, hooks his claws into a dumpling before launching himself over my plate and taking off toward the open door to the kitchen.
I reach out to catch him, but only succeed in nearly toppling myself off my chair.
“Oh shit!” Winona exclaims as my darting eyes come back to see that she’s spilled half her glass of water down the front of her shirt, soaking the thin fabric over both her lush double-D breasts.
My first thought should be to grab a towel. It isn’t.
Jesus, I’m a monster. I remember when she came to me asking if I would order her this special, like flattening bra off some website four years ago, because her mother was on a girls’ trip to Turks and Caicos, and apparently, a couple of the boys in her class had started mooing at her when she walked down the hall.
They transferred out of her school the next day after I forced Winona to tell me their names, then visited each of them, standing over their beds in the middle of the night, appealing to their survival instincts with a nine-millimeter pointed at their balls.
Now, all I can think about is stuffing her full of baby-making meat and wondering how long it will take for her to start lactating after I root my seed in her womb.
Because if there’s one thing better than those epic, barely legal tits, it just might be suckling on them as they stream sweet cream into my mouth.
“Damn cat.” I shake my head, finally reaching for my napkin, then setting my hand down on top of it, re-thinking my plan. “Good thing he’s... cute...”
I struggle to form the words as her shirt turns completely see-through.
The outline of a bra cutting across her round tits is clearly visible, but it’s doing nothing to hide what’s underneath.
Even the darker pink of her areolas is on full display, along with the little tightening bumps around the hard, extended peak of her nipples.
When the fuck did that happen?
I mean, sure, I’ve kept close fucking tabs on her tits for longer than I should admit, but that? Her fucking nipple is poking out half an inch or more. It’s magnificent. Protruding like it’s trying to tear through the fabric to give me a personal, up-close viewing.
“He’s a menace.” She grins, tugging at the front of the shirt, peeling it off her skin, and rounding her shoulders as though she’s trying to shrink herself.
I need to get out of this room before I rip off those little yoga shorts right off her and take what I’ve been dreaming about for months.
The vision of driving my dick up and down through her cleavage as she squeezes those big orbs of fuckable flesh together for me has my fingers digging into the edge of the table.
Jesus, get it together.
“How about I clean this up,” I tell her through gritted teeth, “then you get the karaoke machine warmed up?”
Her eyes light up my world as she does this little wiggle and clap, which only serves to pull more of my attention to her jiggling tits.
“Really? I thought you had a spreadsheet calling your name tonight, as usual?”
I shrug.
I’ve been telling her the last month or so every evening I have work to do, mumbling about spreadsheets and contracts when what I’ve really been doing is beating off like a fucking lunatic until my dick is a stick of raw sausage.
Hoping like fuck if I empty my balls enough times and jerk off until I’m cross-eyed, the urges I have toward her will abate.
It hasn’t worked. Quite the opposite, in fact, because the only way I can bust my nut now is imagining her in some depraved way.
I even fantasized about her asking if she could have whipped cream and a cherry on top of her dessert, to which I agreed, then proceeded to decorate my dick with said toppings, putting her on her knees and teaching my little girl how to help Daddy relax.
Her throat and pussy aren’t the only places I’ve imagined forcing my cock. In my depraved fantasies, all her holes belong to me.
“No spreadsheets tonight,” I grumble as she pops up from the table, leaning over to wrap her arms around my shoulders, her fuckable tits so close to my mouth I nearly bite at the fabric of her t-shirt.
I might be spreading some sheets, but not the way she thinks. The gnawing beast inside of me is clawing at my insides, and for the first time, I understand I may not have the strength to fight him off.
“Karaoke night!” She bounces up and down, and I nearly pass the fuck out watching her tits bounce nearly to her chin in my personal wet t-shirt fantasy.
I push back from the table, my dick catching in the hem of my boxers, making me wince and grunt as her hands move to my cheeks, and before I can stop it, her lips are on mine.
My whole world explodes into technicolor. It’s innocent, a kiss she’s given me hundreds of times when I’d tell her how proud I was of her, celebrate some achievement she’d made, or tell her a story at bedtime before tucking her in like a good stand-in father should.
But this?
This is not that kiss. This is warmth turning to sin. I let her linger there, my hand instinctively roaming up to take a handful of her throat, just under her jaw, with a soft squeeze.
My guts rearrange themselves. Blood moves hot through my veins, my erection so painfully swollen, white sparks dot my vision as her own pulse moves under my palm.
I catch myself before I can take it too far, releasing her and stepping back. Her body softens, lips rubbing together as though she’s trying to figure out if an innocent kiss with her father’s best friend, and her stand-in Daddy, wasn’t so innocent tonight.
“Go,” I order, needing a moment.
“I’ll get the machine set up,” she chirps, pinning me with a long glance before she turns away, and I watch her plump ass cheeks wiggle in those yoga shorts as she starts to walk away.
I avert my eyes, but not before I see the flicker of a question in hers. She knows. She may not be ready to admit it, but she knows something has shifted, and sometimes, you can’t put that toothpaste back in the tube.
Or put that cum back in the balls, as it’s likely going to be.
Fuck, it’s going to be a long fucking night.