My Stepdad’s Laptop #2
I slid off the stool, left my shorts on the floor, and walked toward him in just my t-shirt—bare from the waist down, my thighs wet, my cunt aching with the orgasm I’d been thirty seconds from when he walked through the door.
I stopped close enough to smell him—sawdust and sweat and the chemical tang of the hardware store still clinging to his forearms—and close enough to feel the heat coming off his body, the tension vibrating through him like a cable pulled taut.
His hands were shaking. I could see the tremor in his fingers.
I touched his lips with my fingers, wiping the slick there. He groaned, his nostrils flared as he breathed me in, and his eyes closed.
I pressed.
His lips opened.
“Taste me, Daddy.”
“Oh, God.”
“This is what you do to me all the time.”
“It tastes—”
“Go on, Daddy.”
“I love it.”
After he sucked my fingers clean, I reached for his belt.
“Tell me to stop, Nate.”
He didn’t tell me to stop.
His belt opened under my hands. I pulled the leather through the buckle, popped the button, and dragged the zipper down over the hardness straining behind it.
I pushed his jeans and boxers down together—both hands, one motion—and his cock came free. The sight of it up close stalled my breathing.
“Fuck, Nate. That’s big.”
“We shouldn’t—”
“I have to have this. I want to suck and fuck it forever.”
My stepdad’s cock was long and thick. The head was flushed dark and swollen, a clear thread of precum stretching from the slit and catching the overhead light before it broke and ran down the underside.
The vein along his shaft pulsed visibly.
I could smell him—musk, skin, the concentrated heat of a man whose body had been answering a question his mouth refused to ask.
I dropped to my knees on the kitchen tile.
The first taste hit my tongue and spread—salt and musk and the dense, animal warmth underneath, the taste of a man I’d been imagining delivered to my mouth in a single overwhelming rush.
I closed my lips around the swollen head and sucked gently, and his hand found the back of my hair—not pushing, not guiding, just resting there, his palm warm against my skull, his fingers trembling in my hair.
“Oh God, Liv.”
I came up for air.
“I’m taking birth control. I hate condoms.”
“What the—”
“Just getting my cards on the table. When you fuck me—don’t even think about pulling out.”
I took his cock deeper. My mouth flooded with spit as his crown dragged over my tongue and pressed toward my throat, the shaft stretching my lips, every ridge and vein registering against the wet heat of my mouth.
I gagged when his head hit the back of my throat—spit spilling around the base of his shaft, tears blurring my vision. I didn’t pull back. I swallowed around him and felt his whole body shudder.
His hand tightened in my hair.
I looked up at him through the blur, his cock buried in my mouth, and his eyes were on me with an expression I’d been imagining since I was eighteen—raw, open, the last wall falling.
“Oh, God. Oh fuck—”
I held him there. Let him feel my throat working around his crown. Let the spit run down his shaft and drip from my chin onto my thighs. Then I pulled off—slowly, dragging my lips along every inch.
I sucked him clean and stood up.
I turned around.
I bent over the kitchen counter—my palms flat on the granite, my ass lifted toward him, right next to his laptop, right next to the coffee mug I’d been tasting his mouth on five minutes ago. I reached back with one hand and spread myself open. Let him see what he’d been searching for.
“Daddy. Please fuck me.”
He stepped forward. I felt his crown notch against my entrance—blunt, wide, slick with my spit and his precum—and he pressed forward. The head spread me open slowly, the rim dragging against the inside of my lips as they yielded around him, and the feeling was nothing I had a framework for.
It was nothing like my fingers.
Nothing like my vibrator in my nightstand drawer.
Nothing like the two boys who had fucked me.
This was his cock—Nate’s cock—thick and alive and sliding its thick length into me inch by inch, the ridged skin of his shaft catching against my walls, my body gripping him and yielding and gripping again as he sank deeper.
When his hips pressed flush against my ass, and the head nudged my cervix with a pressure that made my breath stall in my chest, I heard myself make a sound I didn’t recognize—low, guttural, the sound of a body receiving something it had been starving for.
He fucked me.
Not gentle. Not careful. Not the way a decent man would if he were easing himself across a line—my stepdad gripped my hips and drove his cock balls deep into me with twelve years of restraint breaking in real time, each thrust pushing me forward against the counter’s edge, each withdrawal dragging his shaft against walls that clenched around him and pulled him back.
The wet sound of his cock inside me filled the kitchen—the slap of his hips against my ass, the slick friction of my cunt gripping his shaft, the small involuntary sounds I made every time his head reached the deepest part of me and pressed.
“You feel—fuck, Daddy—you feel—”
“Say it, Liv.”
“You feel like I imagined. Every time you fucked me in my dreams. Exactly like I imagined.”
I came.
My cunt clamped down on his rock-hard cock, and the orgasm detonated through my pelvis and up my spine, and I heard myself say his name.
“Nate, Nate, Nate.”
Not a moan, not a performance, but the involuntary repetition of a word I’d been whispering in the dark for years, finally spoken out loud with his cock buried inside me and his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise.
He came inside me.
His cock swelled and kicked against my walls, and the first hot jet hit deep—right where his head pressed against my cervix—and then another, and another, each pulse flooding me with warmth that spread outward until I could feel the cum pooling and leaking around the seal of my swollen lips and running slowly down my inner thigh.
His hips ground against my ass with each spasm, driving every drop deeper, and his forehead dropped to the back of my neck, and his breath was ragged and hot against my skin, and neither of us said a word.
We stayed like that.
Bent over the kitchen counter. His cock softening inside me.
His cum leaking out of me in a slow, warm trickle that ran down my inner thigh and dripped onto the tile.
The laptop was glowing beside my hand, the screen dark now, the video timed out, the search history that started everything still listed in the sidebar.
His hand found mine on the granite. His fingers laced through mine and held.
“How long, Liv?”
“I don’t know.”
His grip tightened. Not shock—recognition. The same recognition I’d seen in every stolen glance, every look that lasted three seconds too long, every time he turned away and I watched him turn away, and we both pretended the air between us wasn’t charged.
“Me too.”
I closed my eyes. His heartbeat against my back. His cum inside me, slowly cooling. Years of silence ended with a laptop left open and a girl who didn’t look away.
His mouth found the side of my neck—soft, unhurried, the first gentle thing he’d done since he walked through the door. The kind of kiss a man gives when the urgency is gone, and something quieter takes its place.
I turned my head and caught his lips with mine.
We tasted like each other. Like coffee and salt and the beginning of something no one else would ever understand.