What My Stepdad Taught Me #2
“I’ve seen it hard before. Not free—just hard and long and thick.”
“And you want it inside you?”
“Yeah. Stretch me. I haven’t been fucked for ages. I take birth control.”
“What are you saying, Thea?”
“You know damn well what I’m saying.”
The moment was everything I’d imagined alone in my dorm room with the lights off and my hand between my thighs, his voice still echoing. My stepdad’s cock was hard for me.
“Do you want to fuck me, Daddy?”
“God, yes.”
My hands found his shirt buttons. He pulled back half an inch.
“Not here, Thea.”
“Where?”
“My bedroom.”
He took my hand. His fingers laced through mine—firm, certain, no hesitation left. We walked down the hallway past the photographs, past my bedroom door, and past the bathroom where he taught me to brush my teeth and to stand in front of a mirror and love the girl looking back.
Chet Baker’s trumpet followed us down the hall—“Almost Blue,” the saddest, most beautiful thing a horn has ever said.
He opened his bedroom door, and the air that came out was cool and still and carried seven years of a man sleeping alone. A book sat facedown on the nightstand, reading glasses folded beside it. The small ordinary evidence of a life lived without witness.
He reached for the lamp—the brass one with an amber shade Mom found at the flea market in Rhinebeck. Warm light pooled across the bed.
I stepped inside.
Dad closed the door behind us.
Down the hall, the record played on.
I reached for his shirt before the door clicked shut. Button by button, my fingers trembling, spreading the fabric and pressing my palms flat against his chest. The hair was coarser than I’d imagined—dark, going silver, warm under my hands.
I found the scar below his left collarbone and traced it with my thumb. The skin there was smoother than the rest of him. A different texture. A part of his body I’d never been allowed to know existed.
He lifted my shirt over my head. I wasn’t wearing a bra—I’d taken it off in the car two hours ago because I knew exactly what tonight was.
The air hit my bare skin. My nipples tightened. His hands went still at his sides.
“Christ, Thea.”
“Touch me.”
“You’re so beautiful.”
His palms cupped my breasts—rough, callused, the hands that poured the Barolo and built the bookshelves and the structure of my life.
His thumbs moved over my nipples in slow circles, and I gasped—sharp, involuntary—my back arching into him, pushing myself harder into the grip of hands I’d been dreaming about for two years.
I undid his belt. His jeans. He stepped out of everything and stood in front of me in the amber light, and I looked at his cock—long and thick, flushed dark, a bead of moisture catching the lamplight at the tip—and my mouth flooded, and my cunt clenched around nothing.
I knelt.
Not because he asked.
Because I needed to taste him.
My knees hit the hardwood, and my hands found his hips. I was looking up at the man who raised me from an angle that rewrote every memory I had of him. His hand came to my hair—not pushing. Just resting. Fingers threaded in. The same gesture as the doorway hug.
I leaned forward and ran my tongue across the head.
The salt hit my taste buds first—sharp, clean—then the deeper musk underneath, warm and dense and unmistakably James.
A bead of pre-cum leaked from his tiny slit and dissolved on my tongue.
The taste detonated across my palate. I took his cock into my mouth, slowly, feeling my lips stretch around his width, the heavy weight of him settling on my tongue, the ridge where the head met the shaft dragging against the roof of my mouth.
Dad’s hand tightened in my hair. His hips jerked—once—a controlled spasm, a man fighting seventeen years of restraint.
I pulled back and looked up. My lips were wet.
“Don’t hold back with me.”
“Thea—”
“Trust me the way I trust you. I will swallow you and take every drop of cum in any hole you want to fuck. You’ll be the first in one of them.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Fuck the daughter out of me and make me your girlfriend, Daddy.”
“I can do that.”
Something broke behind his eyes.
Dad pulled me to my feet, and his mouth crushed mine. I tasted myself on his tongue—salt and musk and the flavors of him and me together for the first time. His hands pushed my jeans down. My underwear—simple cotton, soaked through at the gusset—peeled away from my cunt with a sound we both heard.
His fingers slid between my thighs and parted my folds, and found my hole drenched.
“How long have you been this wet?”
“Since you hugged me in the kitchen.”
My father groaned against my mouth. His fingers moved through the slick heat of me—two of them parting my swollen lips, finding my clit, pressing until I sagged in his arms because my knees wobbled.
My hand grabbed his wrist.
Not to stop him.
To hold him there.
He walked me backward to the bed. I sat. Then lay back. He knelt between my legs and put his mouth where his fingers had been.
His tongue was broad, flat, and devastating as it swept from my trembling entrance to my clit in one long stroke. My hips came off the bed, and the sound that left me was something I’d never heard from my own throat.
Dad licked my cunt the way he cooked—deliberate, patient, thorough—his tongue working through every sticky fold, the tip curling around my clit, dipping inside me where my walls clenched and gripped at him.
Two minutes after he started eating me, the taste of my arousal coated his chin, his lips, and I could smell myself on his breath when he looked up.
As he stared at me, Dad slid two fingers inside me. The stretch was immediate—my walls gripping him, pulling him deeper. He curled them against my front wall, and the pressure hit a spot that whited out my vision.
“Daddy—I want your cock inside me when I cum.”
He rose and crawled over me. His weight settled between my thighs, and I wrapped my legs around him. The head of his cock pressed against my cunt—hot, hard, slick with me. He braced on one arm and looked down with the same eyes that had checked under my bed for monsters.
“I love you, Dad. Not the way I used to. Like this. Like this most.”
His voice cracked on my name.
“I love you too. Every version. Including this one.”
He slid his cock inside me.
Slowly. Inch by inch. My body opened for him—the head spreading me wide, the ridged skin of his shaft dragging against my walls as they stretched to take him.
I felt every pulsing vein and every degree of heat.
The fullness of James’s cock inside me was total—not just physical but structural, as if my body had been built around an absence his exact shape and was only now discovering what it was for.
As I shuddered, he drove his cock until it bottomed out balls deep inside me. His forehead rested against mine. His eyes were blown and sparkling.
“I feel your cock twitching, Dad.”
“You’re so fucking tight.”
He squeezed deeper, and his crown pulsed against my cervix. My walls clenched around his cock and held.
He started to fuck me using long strokes, pulling almost all the way out, the head catching at my entrance before sinking back in—deep, deliberate.
My hands gripped his back. The muscles worked under his skin with each thrust, and I remembered these arms lifting me onto his shoulders at the county fair and carrying grocery bags up the porch steps.
His arms holding me.
His cock inside me now.
He fucked me harder. The angle shifted, and he hit something deep. I cried out, and he did it again, and my orgasm built from the base of my spine outward—
“Cum for me, Thea.”
My cunt pulsed around his cock in waves—tight, rhythmic, clenching—and the orgasm tore through me, and I heard myself gasping his name—James, James, James—and he drove through it, steady, fucking me relentlessly, his eyes locked on mine.
“Inside me. Please—cum inside me—”
“I will.”
His cock swelled and kicked against my tight cunt walls.
I felt the first pulse before I heard him groan—a hot jet hitting the deepest part of me, spreading, filling.
His hips ground against mine with each spasm, his shaft throbbing between my walls, and I clenched around his cock and held, milking him.
My stepdad’s cum leaked around the seal of my lips and ran warm down the crease of my ass onto the sheets.
He collapsed against me, his face buried in my neck, his breath ragged and hot against my skin.
I held him tightly. Both arms. Both legs. His weight on me like the house itself—permanent, warm, the only structure I had ever trusted completely.
Down the hall, the record played on.