Stepdad's Somno Obsession (While She Sleeps #5)

1. Maisie

MAISIE

The villa sits dark except for a single light upstairs.

My bedroom.

I always turn off that light before I leave. Always. The habit's ingrained after decades of living alone, of controlling my environment down to the smallest detail.

My pulse kicks up a notch.

I park and head inside, loosening my tie as I climb the stairs. Each step brings me closer to that open door—another anomaly. I close my bedroom door every morning without fail, a boundary between my private space and the rest of the house.

Something's different tonight.

The amber glow from my bedside lamp spills into the hallway. I slow my approach, every sense sharpening. Not alarm, exactly. More like anticipation mixed with something darker, something I've been fighting for months now.

I reach the doorway and freeze.

Maisie lies on top of my covers, not underneath them.

The positioning feels deliberate, staged.

She's wearing a thin white tank top that clings to her small breasts, her nipples visibly erect beneath the fabric.

The cotton rides up slightly, exposing a strip of pale stomach.

Below that, plain cotton panties that look darker between her thighs—wet.

My cock hardens immediately, blood rushing south before my brain catches up.

Her brunette hair fans across my pillow in waves, those hazel eyes I know so well closed in sleep.

Her chest rises and falls in the deep, even rhythm of genuine unconsciousness.

She's petite in my massive bed, her 5'5" frame dwarfed by the California king that usually feels too large even for my 6'5" build.

Then I notice the bottle on my nightstand.

I step closer, recognizing the prescription label. Temazepam. Strong sleeping medication—the kind that knocks you out cold for eight hours minimum. The bottle sits beside a glass of water, both positioned carefully within easy reach.

Her phone lies on the pillow next to her head, screen still illuminated.

My heart pounds harder as I lean over the bed, reading the text displayed on the screen. It's a draft message, unsent, addressed simply to my name. Marcus.

I took something to help me sleep deeply tonight.

Really deeply. I won't wake up no matter what happens.

I've been thinking about your hands on me...

about what it would feel like if you finally stopped holding back.

I want you to use me while I'm unconscious.

I want to wake up sore and full of you. Please, Daddy.

The words detonate in my skull.

Daddy.

She's never called me that. Not once in the ten years since I married her mother. Not during the five years since the divorce. But seeing it there in black and white, in a message meant for me, in a fantasy she's apparently been nurturing...

My hands shake slightly as I grip the edge of the mattress.

This is wrong. She's my stepdaughter. I married Dorothy when Maisie was only ten years old, watched this girl grow from a quiet child into the woman lying unconscious in my bed.

I changed the trajectory of her life by entering it, became a fixture in her world during formative years when she should have been protected from men like me—men who look at her now and see not a child but something they want to own.

But she's twenty now. An adult. We're not blood-related—I never adopted her, Dorothy made sure of that during the custody battle she waged purely to hurt me. And we haven't been a family unit in five years, not since Dorothy's paranoia and manipulation finally drove me to file for divorce.

Maisie chose to keep visiting me afterward. At first sporadically, then more frequently over the past six months.

I noticed the change right after her twentieth birthday.

Or rather, I noticed her looking at me differently.

The lingering glances that lasted a beat too long.

The way she'd find excuses to touch my arm when we talked, her fingers trailing across my bicep.

The progressively skimpier outfits she wore around the house—tiny shorts that showed off her legs, tank tops without bras, bikinis when she used the pool that left almost nothing to imagination.

I tried to suppress what I felt. Tried to see her as the child she'd been, the little girl who used to do homework at my kitchen table while I made dinner. But that girl vanished, replaced by this beautiful young woman who watched me with heat in her hazel eyes.

The want I saw there matched the growing obsession in my own mind.

I've spent months fighting it. Months of cold showers and deliberately keeping distance, of reminding myself about appropriate boundaries and the power dynamic that makes this complicated. She was ten when I entered her life. Ten.

But she came here tonight. She set this up, took medication to ensure she'd be deeply unconscious, left her phone where I'd see it with explicit permission spelled out in her own words.

My hand moves before I consciously decide, reaching toward her shoulder.

My fingers hover just above her warm skin. One last moment of hesitation—I could walk away right now, pretend I never saw this, protect us both from the line we're about to cross.

Then I make contact.

She doesn't stir. Her breathing remains deep and even, undisturbed. The medication is working exactly as she promised.

I trail my fingers down her arm, testing. Still no response.

The possessive thought crystallizes with brutal clarity: she's offering herself to me. Trusting me completely. Wanting me to claim what she's laid out like a gift.

Decision made.

I sit on the edge of the bed beside her sleeping form, the mattress dipping under my weight. I say her name in a normal speaking voice.

"Maisie."

Nothing. Not even a flutter of her eyelids.

I touch her face, fingers tracing her jaw, her neck. She remains deeply asleep, only that steady rise and fall of her chest indicating life. I grip her shoulder and shake gently.

No response whatsoever.

The confirmation sends dark satisfaction through me. She really did this—drugged herself unconscious and presented herself in my bed like an offering.

My hands begin exploring her body with reverent fascination. I trace the curve of her neck, the delicate line of her collarbone. My fingers trail down to her chest, feeling her heartbeat through the thin cotton. It beats steady and strong beneath my palm.

I cup her breast through the tank top, thumb brushing over the erect nipple. The bud hardens further under my touch.

She makes a small sound in her sleep—not quite a moan, more like a soft exhale.

Her body responds even while her mind remains locked in chemical unconsciousness.

Mine. She's mine now. Has always been meant to be mine. No one else will ever touch her like this.

The possessive certainty settles in my chest like a physical weight.

I notice everything about her in explicit detail.

The softness of her skin, impossibly smooth under my rougher hands.

The way her body curves—subtle feminine lines that make my cock ache.

She smells faintly of vanilla body lotion and something uniquely her, a scent I've become intimately familiar with over months of proximity.

I carefully lift the hem of her tank top, pulling the fabric up and over her head. I have to navigate around her sleeping form, lifting her shoulders slightly to free the shirt. Her head lolls to the side, completely limp.

Then her breasts are bare before me.

Small. Perfect. Nipples tight and peaked in the cool air.

I pause just to look at her, committing every detail to memory. The way the amber light casts shadows across her skin. The gentle slope of her breasts. The vulnerable arch of her throat.

My hands cup her bare breasts, thumbs circling her nipples in slow rotations.

She sighs in her sleep, a soft sound that shoots straight to my cock.

I'm achingly hard now, my gray eyes dark with desire as I look down at my stepdaughter spread out unconscious in my bed.

Next I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties. I slide them down her legs slowly, watching her face for any sign of waking. She remains deeply unconscious, her breathing unchanged.

The wet fabric clings to her pussy, evidence of her arousal before the medication pulled her under. I peel the cotton away and drop the panties on the floor beside the bed.

Now she's completely naked before me. Vulnerable. Trusting.

My stepdaughter, bare beneath my gaze, offering me everything.

I stand and strip off my own clothes. My shirt hits the floor, then my belt, pants, boxer briefs. My cock springs free, hard and ready. The tattoos covering my chest and arms catch the amber light as I move—intricate patterns I got years ago, dark ink against skin.

I position myself beside her on the bed again, taking my time now. No rush. She's not going anywhere, not waking up no matter what I do.

My hands map every inch of her body. The curve of her waist and hips. The soft skin of her inner thighs. Between her legs, finding her wet and ready despite her unconscious state.

I part her thighs gently, settling between her legs on my knees.

Looking down at her pussy makes my cock throb. Pink and glistening, already slick. My fingers explore her folds, circling her clit with light pressure.

She moans softly in her sleep, her hips shifting slightly toward my touch.

I slide one finger inside her, feeling the incredible tightness that grips me immediately.

Realization hits with a jolt of dark satisfaction.

She's a virgin. Untouched. And I'm going to be her first.

The possessive pride that surges through me is primal and overwhelming. Twenty years old and she saved herself, waited for this, for me.

I add a second finger carefully, stretching her, preparing her. She's so tight around just my fingers, her sleeping body clenching on the intrusion. I work them in and out slowly, feeling her wetness increase.

Finally I withdraw my fingers and position myself between her spread thighs. I grip my shaft, guiding the head to her entrance.

One final pause. I look at her peaceful sleeping face, at the girl I've known for ten years who's become the woman I want to own completely.

Then I push inside her in one slow, steady thrust.

The resistance of her hymen stops me halfway. She winces in her sleep, a small sound of pain escaping her lips.

"Shh," I murmur, going completely still. Buried halfway inside her virgin pussy, I give her unconscious body time to adjust.

A small streak of blood appears where we're joined—proof of her virginity taken.

Mine. She's mine now. No one else will ever have this. I'm the first man inside her, the only man who'll ever be inside her.

After a long moment, I continue pressing deeper. I work my way fully inside her inch by inch until I'm buried to the hilt. She's impossibly tight around my cock, hot and wet and perfect.

Her sleeping face shows traces of discomfort—a small furrow between her brows—but no sign of waking.

I begin to move. Slow careful thrusts at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in.

Her pussy adjusts to my size gradually, growing wetter, starting to clench around me in involuntary responses.

She moans in her sleep, soft breathy sounds.

"Mmm..."

Her head turns slightly on the pillow, lips parted. I watch her face constantly, checking for any sign of true distress or waking.

But she remains deeply asleep while her body responds. Her back arches slightly off the bed. Her hips shift to meet my thrusts. Her hands move restlessly on the sheets, fingers curling into the fabric.

She murmurs something unintelligible, then softly: "...Marcus..."

Hearing my name from her sleeping lips breaks something in me.

My thrusts become harder, deeper, more possessive. One hand grips her hip tight enough to bruise. The other braces beside her head as I pound into her with increasing intensity.

My cock slides in and out of her tight pussy, stretching her around my girth. The wet sounds of our joining fill the room—obscene, primal.

She moans again, louder this time.

"Ahh..."

Her unconscious body starts to tighten around me, climbing toward orgasm even in sleep.

I reach between us, finding her clit, rubbing it in circles with my thumb.

Her body responds immediately. Her back arches more pronounced, her breathing changes—faster, shallower. Small whimpers escape her throat.

Then she's coming. Her pussy clamps down on my cock in rhythmic pulses, milking me.

"Ohhh..."

The moan is louder, more desperate. Her face flushes, lips parted, eyes still closed in sleep. She looks beautiful in her unconscious pleasure—lost to sensations her sleeping mind can't fully process.

The sight and feeling of her orgasm triggers my own release.

I thrust deep and hold myself there as I come, cock pulsing inside her. My cum fills her virgin pussy in hot spurts.

"Maisie... fuck..."

I groan her name, the primal satisfaction of marking her this way overwhelming every rational thought.

I stay buried inside her as my orgasm subsides, both of us breathing hard. She's still deeply asleep, the medication keeping her under despite everything.

I slowly withdraw from her body, watching as my cum begins to leak out of her. The sight is intensely possessive—my seed inside my stepdaughter's pussy, mixed with traces of her blood.

Evidence of what we've done. What I've taken. What she gave me.

I retrieve a washcloth from my bathroom, run it under warm water. Back in the bedroom, I carefully clean her between her legs. Gentle touches, wiping away the evidence. She stirs slightly but doesn't wake.

I find one of my t-shirts in the dresser and dress her in it—soft cotton that falls to mid-thigh on her smaller frame. Something that smells like me.

I tuck her under the covers properly now, arranging the blankets around her sleeping form. Then I slide in beside her, pulling her against my chest. My hand rests possessively on her hip.

She's mine now. Everything has changed between us tonight. No going back.

But come morning, we'll face what this means together.

For now, I hold my sleeping stepdaughter in my bed, exactly where she belongs.