7. Is She Really So Fcking Naughty?
IS SHE REALLY SO F*CKING NAUGHTY?
KENT
The office is always cold because I like it that way. The chilly air is bracing and keeps me alert, but last night, I turned up the heat so that it was a fucking sauna in here. But now that it’s morning, the thermostat is basically back on freezing, with the air so dry it feels preserved.
What the fuck happened last night? I shake my head while staring at my reflection in the window, the city a faint constellation behind my own face, then drop my gaze to the expanse of desk in front of me.
The morning’s coffee is already cold, abandoned at the edge of the coaster, an oily ring forming at the meniscus.
I swirl it in my hand, then set it down again, unsatisfied.
The file open in front of me—Peters, Terry; prostate biopsy, negative—hasn’t been updated in twenty minutes, and the pen I’d set down is bleeding into a blue Rorschach against the chart.
I push back from the desk, the chair creaking under me, and stand.
The walnut shelves encase me like a judge’s box, lined with medical monographs and books nobody reads anymore: Campbell-Walsh, BJU International, the old, gold-stamped copy of Gray’s that belonged to my father.
The rug is antique, faded red and blue, threadbare at the threshold.
I stalk its length, desk to window, window to the massage table at the center of the room.
Holy fuck. The massage table. The site of last night’s sin.
It looks like a piece of BDSM furniture, vinyl black and glossy under the low light, towel folded precisely at one end.
The bottles of oil are lined up on the credenza.
Sandalwood, as always, but also lavender and something labeled “neutral” in a discount-font label that offends me.
I pick up the sandalwood, uncap it, and inhale.
The memory of last night is thick as the resin itself—oil and sweat and a sharp, animal undertone that has nothing to do with the contents of the bottle.
I set it back down, resisting the urge to taste it on my tongue. Instead I press my palm to the padded table, the faint give of the vinyl under my hand, and stare at the spot where, just twelve hours earlier, my stepdaughter wrapped her hands around my cock and squeezed until I saw stars.
Was it real, what happened? Or did I hallucinate the whole thing out of want?
I play it over, again and again: Mary Kate, feet bare and pink, coming into the office with the diffident shuffle of a girl pretending to be uncertain.
The way a sheaf of her golden hair swung forward, hiding her face, only for her to tuck it back with a practiced flick.
The careful folding of her arms over her chest, accentuating the roundness of her breasts under that thin t-shirt.
And then, when I undressed, her eyes never quite leaving my dick.
The small flicker of her tongue at her lip, the catch of her breath as I pulled my waistband low and exposed myself. She pretended not to look. She failed.
And after—oh, after. Her hands learning the routine with a nervousness that lasted all of ten seconds.
Then the shift, the slow acceleration. I could feel her heartbeat through her fingertips as she rolled my testicles in her palms, the concentration giving way to a rhythm that was pure, practiced, almost eager.
The way her knuckle grazed my shaft, not once, not twice, but four times, each more deliberate than the last, until finally she just curled her hand around it and stroked me, oil warm and slick, her thumb circling the head like she’d done it before.
She watched my face as I came, eyes wide and blue, pupils blown so big the color vanished.
When I spurted, it caught her wrist, then her chin, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just stared as the semen ran down to her knuckles.
She wiped it off with a towel, but not before I let her taste some of the good stuff.
And she liked it too. She savored the mouth feel of my semen, swallowing like a good girl. Then, she said something about homework. Homework! She left the office with a little skip in her step, me stunned and still horny inside.
But what happened after—that’s what keeps me pacing, keeps my pulse up, keeps my mind from ever settling.
Because after the massage, after the dose of my semen, after her quick escape, I crept out of my office to the third floor.
I was going to talk to Mary Kate about the truth of my condition.
I was going to come clean and fess up about everything - my so-called “medical issues,” her mother, our marriage, everything.
But then, I heard the young girl humming a bit in the guest bathroom and came to a complete stop just outside the door.
Why the fuck was she using the guest bath?
She has her own, bigger, newer en suite.
She could have locked herself away in the fortress of her bedroom.
Instead she left the guest bath door open, just a sliver, just enough for the steam to billow out and hang in the air like temptation.
I listened, standing silent outside, and heard the shower start, then the muffled groan of pipes, then a new sound, small at first but growing, gathering force as it bounced off the marble and glass.
It was Mary Kate. Moaning my name.
No, not my name precisely. The word “Daddy.” A word that should have made my skin crawl, but instead it made every atom in my body snap to attention.
“Daddy, fuck, yes,” she was panting. “Kent, please, please, oh my god, yes, right there—”
The sounds that followed were obscene, and I listened to every one.
The slick patter of her palm against her own flesh, the wet gasp of her arousal, more desperate pants of “Daddy, please!” Then, unable to resist, I peered into the bathroom, the warm steam rendering my beautiful girl into a glow of ivory, pink and gold.
Because there was Mary Kate, bent over with her bottom facing me.
As I watched, she reached back with both hands and pulled her butt cheeks apart, giving me a full view of that lovely pink pussy, as well as the tight clench of her ass.
I almost came again right there, just from the sight.
I wanted to rip the door open and take her, to fuck her against the marble, to see how many times I could make her scream, but I didn’t.
I just stood there, silent, dick throbbing, watching and listening.
But Mary Kate wasn’t done yet. She stepped into the shower next, with a naughty smile on those lovely features, and proceeded to rub her kitty like a crazed woman.
Even better, when she came, there was a huge burst of fluid from her cunt.
My baby is a squirter! Again, I almost came just from the visual of that heavenly spray.
I couldn’t take it anymore. While Mary Kate was recovering from her massive orgasm, I stepped two feet into the bathroom and snatched her panties off the floor.
Yes, I was a dirty asshole, and immediately pressed the contraband to my nose, inhaling the sweet scent of her wet cunt.
But did I go away then? Yes, sort of. When the water stopped, I ducked into the next room and waited.
My sexy stepdaughter walked out, towel wrapped around her, hair wet and hanging, a look of dazed triumph on her face.
I watched her from the shadows, watched the way her hips swayed, the way she walked on the balls of her feet, light and floating.
Watched the way she didn’t glance back, not once.
She knew I was there. She wants me, just as much as I want her.
I snap back to the present, my palm still pressed against the table. The memory has made me hard all over again, the kind of morning wood that refuses to be ignored. I reach down, cup myself, and stroke it once, just to see if it’s as sensitive as it was last night. It is. More, even.
I should feel shame, maybe, or something like regret, but I feel nothing but anticipation.
A hungry glow, like the animal within has been awakened.
After all, these interactions are the result of years of patience, careful cultivation.
The whole structure of this family is my design: Jeannine was always a means to an end, the perfect blend of fragile and ambitious, desperate for a rich man to anchor her to the world.
But I can’t blame her because the woman merely wanted more for herself and her daughter.
They were barely getting by before we met, squeezed into a one-bedroom apartment with Mary Kate on scholarship at her high school.
Marrying me was an easy decision for Jeannine, and my new wife was willing to pay the price: a life of luxury, provided that I got access to her daughter once Mary Kate came of age.
But it took longer than I’d planned. I thought I’d swoop in when my stepdaughter turned eighteen, but Jeannine begged for more time for her daughter.
It was clear Mary Kate was too naive back then, and too childish still.
Sure, she had the body of a luscious woman, but she was still thinking about Hello Kitty and getting mango fro-yo with her friends.
So I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, at that Thanksgiving a while back, I sensed that things had changed.
My beautiful stepdaughter was no longer a child.
She was a young woman bursting with beauty and fertility, and needed a real man to take her to the next level.
So I crafted this “medical” excuse, a reason to touch me, and now Mary Kate’s devouring the opportunity.
Another dude would feel bad about the ruse.
Another man would feel guilty and berate himself for lusting after his own stepdaughter.
But I’m not that guy. I’m a fucking asshole, and I don’t give a shit about who knows.
So yeah, I hatched my plan, and to be honest, it’s not all fake.
I do actually suffer from testicular stones, like a lot of other guys.
They’re real, yes, but harmless—at worst, a trivia item for the boards, a curiosity for grand rounds.
They don’t cause me pain or discomfort, and there’s no need for “treatment,” no protocol that requires a hand job a day from a pretty co-ed.
But Mary Kate doesn’t know that. She wants to help, and because I’m a urologist, she thinks I know my shit.
I do know my shit. I just haven’t been honest in a myriad of ways.
But now, we’re out of the frying pan and into the fire.
My lust for the saucy brat has been ignited and fuck, even the mere thought of her turns me into a raging beast. I sit down, unzip, and picture the beautiful blonde kneeling before me.
My hand isn’t as small or as gentle as hers, but I know exactly what I like, and I take myself to the edge in seconds, drawing out the memory, the image of her bent over the sink, spreading her ass cheeks and flashing her tight, perfect holes at me.
I picture the gleam of her pussy lips, the desperate way she panted with her cheek smashed against the marble.
I imagine what she’d look like with my cock buried between those cheeks, with her mouth open and drooling, her eyes wild with lust.
I come hard, shuddering, into the tissue I’ve palmed from the box on the desk. The first spurt catches me by surprise, splattering across the inside of my wrist, hot and messy. The next few land in the tissue, and I roar like a fucking beast, uncaring of who hears.
“Goddamn!” I shout in the privacy of my office. “Shit shit shit!”
Hot reams of semen spurt wildly as I come again and again, growling and panting like a madman while picturing Mary Kate on her knees, lapping at the dripping ropes of come.
She’d mewl happily and then swallow it all, like the horny little girl she is.
I come again at the visual, my balls pumping wildly, the tissue drenched and almost transparent because it’s so wet with semen now.
But all things must come to an end. After the ecstasy subsides, I wipe myself clean, careful and thorough. I savor the afterglow for a moment, eyes closed, letting the heat fade from my skin.
Then I compose myself. Tuck myself back into my pants, use some hand sanitizer, and walk to the window to stare out at the rolling hills of my estate. I wonder how many fathers are jerking off to their stepdaughters this morning, and the thought makes me laugh.
There’s nothing left to do but prepare for tonight.
I spend the next hour arranging and re-arranging the office, cleaning every surface, restocking the towel shelf, refilling the bottle of oil.
I double check the massage table’s hinges, make sure the vinyl is free of smudges, then sit at the desk and update my patient files, making notes in each chart with a surgeon’s precision.
But every fifteen minutes or so, I stop, look at the clock, and imagine what Mary Kate is doing.
If she’s lying in bed, legs open, rubbing herself raw, or if she’s in the kitchen pretending to study, thinking about my cock.
If she’s going to confront me about the missing panties that I stole from her last night.
I hope she does. I hope she’s bold enough to try.
Suddenly, as I stare out the window, I see the object of my obsession walk from the main house to the garage, swaddled in her coat, hair loose and streaming behind her like a flag.
She’s off to her shift at the plant store, The Fig Leaf, where she will smile at strangers and sell them succulents, her own body electric with the anticipation of what she’ll do to me tonight.
I watch her go, then pour myself a fresh coffee, black and strong. I take it back to the desk, sit in the chair, and breathe in the scent of sandalwood, and wait.
There are worse ways to spend a day.
And tonight, my golden girl will show me what she’s learned.
I intend to reward her.