Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Reuben
My dick aches like a motherfucker as I finish putting the leftovers away and stacking the silverware and dishes in the kitchen sink.
I roll the crystal glass with a sip of my scotch left between my palms as I hear the high-pitched feedback pierce the space from down the hall where Winona is getting set up in the mini auditorium.
I designed the auditorium into the house when I built it for us. Winona has been a performer since she could hum Wheels on the Bus as a toddler, and somewhere around age six or seven, we all realized her voice was fucking magic.
It only gotten better from there, and her singing has danced in my dreams for years.
Now, though, it’s more. The way she moves when she gets on the stage, the sultriness of her womanly voice, and curves…
Fuck me, it hits me straight in the fucking balls, bouncing around inside me like a pinball hitting all the bells and whistles, until I damn near lose my fucking mind.
I throw back the last bit of the alcohol, savoring the burn, hoping the bit of a buzz will help loosen up the grip she has on my boner and let me regain a modicum of control.
“Testing, testing.” The amplification of her voice sends a new wave of possessive heat rushing through me as I work my way out of the kitchen and down the hall towards her.
“Fuck,” I whisper as I look through the curtains, watching as she moves on the stage, tip-toeing like she does most of the time.
Probably started out as a self-defense mechanism around her mom, but it’s more of a habit now than actually trying to be quiet. She does this happy little hop when she hits the center of the stage, securing the microphone into the tall chrome stand.
I stay at the doorway where the velvet curtains hang open enough for me to watch. The stage is lit, but the small auditorium is dark, so she can’t see me hanging back, stalking, perving.
I force steel into my spine. I’m so hard I could crack granite.
I reach down and lower my zipper, twisting my long fingers through the opening, then battling the other opening in my boxers until I can grab the pole of my shaft and force it out into the open air.
If she only knew the number of times I’ve done exactly this, thinking about her, looking at the depraved sea of photos I’ve taken of her since she turned eighteen that I keep in a private, ‘Finally fucking legal’ folder on my phone.
My tongue rakes along my bottom lip as she wiggles into her favorite standing position behind the microphone, and I start to stroke myself in the darkness.
When I built this house, I filtered every decision through the lens of her. Would she like it? Would it be good for her? Make her smile? Help her achieve her goals? Be safe for her?
I never imagined being a father, but once Winona entered this world, pride and protectiveness swelled in my chest. She wasn’t mine by blood, but she lit something in the darkness inside of me that would never be extinguished.
I have enough memories of my own shitty childhood to know what not to do as a stand-in parental figure. But I’m also smart enough to know that there’s a good portion of instinct involved in being a parent as well.
I seem to have a shit ton of instinct when it comes to her, that’s for fucking sure.
That all surely makes me more of a monster now, as I stand half-hidden, squeezing the root of my dick as my balls twitch, my erection throbbing evidence of the forbidden fantasies that will no longer be denied.
My cock is dripping like a goddamn leaky faucet, but it’s not enough.
As her soft breathing whispers through the massive speakers, golden light shimmers on the walls from the brass sconces I bought on a work trip to Seattle, rescuing them from a nineteen forties art deco theater they were tearing down.
I raise my hand toward my mouth, palm up, and release a generous glob of warm spit. Then I return to pulling at my cock, hard and fast, as she plants her feet and puts both hands on the microphone, doing her best Taylor Swift impression.
God, she looks so confident up there. So fucking beautiful, it nearly stops my fucking heart.
“Are you coming?” she chirps, squinting into the darkness, and the words are enough to put me over the fucking edge.
“Yes...” I grit out, my erection so thick my fingertips barely overlap as I imagine Winona, the girl who considers me her father for all intents and purposes, straddling me, tits in my face, as I bounce her up and down.
You want to bounce like a big girl on Daddy’s dick, do you?
My balls cinch up, and I’m way beyond the point of no return in more ways than one.
The vision of her hands guiding her nipple to my mouth as her dripping pussy clenches around me doubles me over as my orgasm ties knots down my back.
I nearly crumple to my knees as I cum so fucking hard I feel it like a punch in the gut.
A thick spurt of release covers my hand, the sticky, heated cream dripping between my fingers before I tighten them together to keep it all from falling to the floor.
I’m still spurting as I pump up and down, wondering if opening the curtain and letting her see what she does to me would be the better move here.
“Well, hurry the heck up!” Winona’s voice rocks through me as the waves of pleasure ricochet around, until finally my vision returns as my brain comes back online, my left hand cupping the warmth of my ejaculate, the rest of it in drops and strings on the floor.
I make a mental note to grab the steam mop and do a clandestine clean-up later.
Blood pounds in my temples as I choke out an answer. “Just sending a couple messages, I’ll be right there.”
I glance at the stage and see her crinkle up her face in playful irritation as I try to catch my breath.
“Isn’t it the star who is supposed to keep you waiting, not the other way around?”
Fuck, if she only knew how she has kept me waiting.
I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t think these things.
She’s not my real daughter, though. That makes it better. Right?
“Daddy! Come on!”
As if she’s reading my thoughts, the words hit me like jagged blades to the heart as I stuff my cock in my jeans with one hand, my other still cupping some of my sticky release.
What am I supposed to fucking do with it?
I don’t have the brain power to figure that out right now. Clearly, I’m out of my mind as I break through the burgundy velvet and stalk down the little aisle with matching velvet theater-type seating on both sides.
There are a hundred and fifteen seats. Enough to make it feel like a real concert venue. I still remember the day I brought her to the house while it was still under construction and showed her the space that would be her own private stage.
The velvet seats were delivered but not installed, the matching curtains hanging from both sides of the stage, the wood floor raw and unfinished, the scent of sawdust in the air. She looked at me like I was fucking God. At that moment, I knew I would never be able to let her go.
My thoughts then weren’t like they are now, but she was mine. My daughter, in every way but the law.
“What are you going to sing?” I collapse into my usual seat in the front row, letting my knees spread wide to give my still-throbbing dick some space, as the evidence of my obsession stays cupped in the palm of my left hand, my fingers loosely curling around.
“Something new I’ve been working on.” She clears her throat, her bare toes curling on the wood, and I wish I had brought another drink with me. Maybe that would calm me the fuck down.
“I’m ready when you are.” I heave a breath. “You know nothing pleases me more than hearing you sing.”
That’s not entirely true, but making my girl feel like the center of the universe and a queen is the central focus of my entire being. Plus, if I told her what pleases me more, she might take out a restraining order.
The first note takes solid aim at my balls, then by the time I figure out what song she’s singing, the chorus cocks back and delivers another shot directly to my heart.
The incessant ache in my chest and between my legs intensifies.
God, she’s the most beautiful woman to ever walk the earth.
When she sings, her whole being changes.
She’s no longer the questioning, somewhat off-balance, insecure girl that hides her mouth when she chews and came home crying so many fucking times from school from the teasing.
She walks on water when she’s behind the microphone. She shines like a million supernovas. Her eyes settle into sultry slits as she sways and locks them on mine.
We’re no longer the two people who have been walking around like father and daughter all these years. We are lust and awakening and fire.
As she winds down into the last verse, then the chorus, my dick is at full battle-ready length again, and her nipples are back to poking through the now-damp fabric of her shirt, longer and more pronounced than they were earlier.
She’s the sweetest, most magnificent creature, and there’s no more control left in me.
We are here, alone, for at least a week, according to the flight I booked for Catrina. I don’t need to go into the office, I have employees who can fucking handle things, and Winona’s classes are on break for another ten days.
I’m on my feet before she hits the last note, her lips breaking into a smile that reminds me of how she must see me. The man who’s always been there for her, the man who stepped in when her father died.
But not the man that wants to stuff his tongue in her cunt while she begs for Daddy to lick her good and clean.
“You liked it?” She jumps up and down, clapping as she bounces down the three steps from the stage onto the gold-and-jewel-toned carpet as I stand waiting, welcoming her next to me with one arm out, the other hand at my side, my spunk still clutched in my palm.
“Like isn’t the word I would use. Fucking life changing, baby. The world doesn’t deserve something as beautiful as you, first of all, then you add that voice...” I shake my head as her arms slide around my midsection and squeeze.
“Stop. You always exaggerate.”
I press my lips to the top of her head, inhaling her. Taking her in. Her black hair is scented with the peach and jasmine shampoo I have formulated just for her from a custom hair care company in Brazil.
“No exaggeration, baby. Just honest truth.”
Her softness presses against my side as that familiar pounding intensifies down low in my groin. I smooth her hair with my free hand as she raises her chin and meets my eyes.
The same eyes that looked at me with wide wonder as I read her the entire Lord of the Rings books after tucking her into bed at night, wiping away her tears as she grieved for her father, and my heart broke that my best friend would not be around to walk her down the aisle.
A few years later, it was me thinking about her walking down the aisle. Only, it was me at the other end waiting for her, too. No doubt my best friend would put a bullet between my eyes if he got wind of the things I imagine when I think of her now.
She shifts back, and for a second, I’m grateful for the space, because I’m two seconds from tearing those little yoga shorts off her ass and stuffing her full of all ten inches of Daddy’s grade-A beef stick.
I fight but fail to keep my eyes off her tits, those long, thick nipples making my breath catch and my mouth water as she takes her own deep breath on a tight smile, her hands tugging at the hem of her shirt as a long, tense silence stretches between us.
Her eyes drift down, and there’s no fucking way she doesn’t see the massive hard-on that’s tenting my jeans. She blinks, eyes flicking here and there before finally landing on my clenched left hand.
Fire sears over my skin as she reaches out before I can tug it away. “Is something wrong with your hand? Why are you holding it like that?”
Her soft little fingers pull at my wrist, flipping over my hand as she starts to unwrap my fingers from my palm.
How the hell do I explain this?
“What are you holding?” She crinkles up her nose as she tugs away the last fingers, exposing the quarter-sized deposit of jizz cupped in my hand.
My brain buzzes as I scramble for something that makes sense.
Tell her what it is, part of me screams inside my head, while another part stomps that voice down, reminding me this girl is mine to care for, not traumatize.
“Coconut oil,” I snap. We keep a little pot of it on the kitchen counter, so she can soften her hands if she does the dishes. “Thought you might want some, but then you were all ready to sing, so I just—held it.”
Pathetic. But now I’m committed, so…
“Looks like you have a little dry spot,” I say, trying not to look at her lips. Do not rub cum on your foster daughter’s lips, you fucking monster.
She draws a soft little breath, and I swear she moves fractionally closer. She gazes up into my eyes, her lashes fluttering, as she says in a small voice, “Nothing feels dry on me right now, Daddy…”