I Drained My Stepdad
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Sienna’s Point of View
I’d been doing our laundry since I was ten. Since the day my mother left my stepdad. Carlton was twenty-five that same day.
His birthday. July ninth. A hundred and two degrees outside and the air conditioning in our rental on Maplewood was struggling to keep up.
I remembered the cake I’d helped Mom make—lopsided, yellow frosting, his name spelled wrong because I was ten and she couldn’t be bothered to check.
She smashed it against the counter during the argument and left the mess for him to clean up.
I knew she was cruel long before that day.
She ruined every one of Carlton’s birthdays that I could remember, and I remembered back to when I was three. The year she invited her ex. The year she told Carlton his gift was cheap even before he opened it in front of his friends. The year she didn’t come home.
Kiara Fulton couldn’t stand anyone basking in the limelight.
I’d grown up quickly. Ten years old when Mom walked out the door, already got my period, but I was still far from being an adult. I saw her for what she was. I cried. Someone had to hold me together, and even at ten I understood that someone was my dad.
When Mom asked if I was coming, I shook my head and carried on reading a book—something about vampires and werewolves.
Carlton was happier the moment Mom left. Not happy. Happier. The line of his shoulders dropped an inch. The music came back—Motown on the kitchen speaker while he washed dishes, Sam Cooke on the porch after dinner. The house on Maplewood exhaled.
We had three bedrooms, one bathroom, a kitchen with a cracked tile floor that Carlton kept meaning to replace and never did because he spent every spare dollar on being a great dad.
My father’s bedroom was at the front, closest to the street, and at night I could hear the bass of his voice through the wall when he talked on the phone to a friend—low, steady, the sound that meant everything was still standing.
I did the laundry out of a sense of duty and decency.
That’s how it started, but gradually it became more than that.
I’d carry his work shirts to the machine and hold them against my face for a second longer than I needed to—sweat, fabric softener, the faint bite of the cologne he wore to his shifts at the warehouse.
I didn’t have a name for what that meant.
Not then.
I learned to cook and always had a meal ready for when Dad came home. I used slow-cooking recipes, planned up front when I shopped, assembled before school, cooked by the time I got home.
By twelve, I could feed us for fifty dollars a week. By fourteen, I could make my grandmother’s oxtail stew from memory, a recipe she’d written on an index card in handwriting I couldn’t read until I’d studied every letter.
I learned how to fix things too—with a needle and thread, making sure Dad’s clothes were always perfect.
He wouldn’t buy himself new. He bought me new.
New sneakers every semester. Dresses for homecoming.
A laptop when I started high school, and I know he worked double shifts for a month to pay for them because I looked at the wall clock in the kitchen waiting to eat with him.
The body I have now arrived without ceremony. I went from flat and narrow at thirteen to curved at fifteen—hips that pulled at the waistband of my jeans, breasts that filled a B-cup by junior year and a C-cup by graduation.
My skin is my mother’s color, white, but my build is heavier, wider through the hips and thighs. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and wondered when I’d started looking like a woman instead of a girl.
After that, the laundry wasn’t just laundry. The cooking wasn’t just cooking. Every meal I set on the table was an offering. Every shirt I ironed was my hands where I wanted them to be—on his chest, on his shoulders, on the broad plane of his back.
I was eighteen now. Graduated. Summer stretching ahead with nowhere to go and no reason to leave.
When I strolled into his bedroom on a Saturday morning, he lay sleeping, the comforter off.
His cock lay against his stomach—thick, black, the head flushed deep purple-brown, the veins raised along the shaft and visible even from the doorway. It was hard. Fully, heavily hard, an erection that lifted away from his body and held its own weight.
I could see the ridge of the head, the slit catching a thread of morning light, and the length of him—longer than my forearm from wrist to elbow. A bead of moisture sat at the tip.
I’d seen Dad’s cock before. Caught glimpses of it soft and hard, the way any girl does when living most of her life with a man in the house. Through sweatpants. Across the hallway. Once, through the gap in the bathroom door, soft and heavy against his thigh in the shower, the water running over it.
This was different. This was me standing still and staring at my father’s morning wood, my cunt and panties wet, my nipples hard under my sleep shirt, my breath shallow in my chest.
“Big, isn’t he?”
I spun around.
My sister smiled.
“I want Dad’s cock inside me too, Sienna.”
“I never said—”
She smiled.
“Come on. Don’t lie. We’re twins, remember. I know you. You know me.”
I looked back at Carlton, then at Harper. She was wearing an old tank top of his, the hem hitting mid-thigh, her hair wrapped in the silk bonnet she slept in. Her eyes were wide awake. She’d been awake for a while.
“Do you really want that—Dad inside you?”
“Yeah. I love him. Not as a daughter. As a woman, and I know you do too.”
My twin sister was always first. First out of Mom. First to get her period, by a matter of hours. First to express opinions and now first to claim our father.
“I see him how Mom saw him, but I see the rest of him too, Harper.”
“Mom liked his cock and that he was Black. I get it. I love that, even though I haven’t tried it, but Kiara missed the best part of him—the man.”
I looked back at him wistfully.
My cunt clenched tightly, and my stomach knotted.
“We can share him, Sienna.”
I looked at her, then at him again. My father’s cock was standing erect, a black column against his stomach, twitching faintly with his pulse.
“What do you mean?”
“I want Dad to wife me up. Not now. Maybe in five years after college and a job. I want to have his babies.”
“Fuck!”
Harper raised one eyebrow.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, Sienna.”
I looked down at the ground. She placed one finger under my chin and lifted my head until our eyes locked.
“We can do this together, sis. There is more than enough man lying in that bed to go around both of us.”
“You think?”
“You go first. I’ll help you.”
“First what?”
“Fuck our Daddy. Do it now. Take his cock inside your tight, virgin cunt and drain him.”
Carlton stirred.
His hand came up first—rubbing his face, fingers dragging across his jaw as they did every morning before his eyes opened. Then his eyes opened. He saw us. Both of us, standing at the foot of his bed, and his whole body flinched.
He grabbed the comforter and pulled it over himself in one motion.
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you were there.”
Harper pushed me forward again. My face burned. My ears burned. My chest burned under the old t-shirt I’d slept in, and I could feel my nipples pressing against the cotton because my body had already made its decision even if my mouth hadn’t caught up.
“Dad—”
“What is it, darling? Are you both okay?”
“Yes.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
I looked back at Harper. She nodded once. Slow and sure.
I turned back to Carlton. His eyes were soft with sleep and concern, the same eyes that checked on us every night for fifteen years after Mom moved us in.
After a kiss to my forehead, he stood in the doorway until our breathing evened out.
The same eyes that cried at our high school graduation and pretended they didn’t.
“I want you to fuck me, Daddy. Harper wants it too.”
The silence that followed had weight. Physical weight. It pressed against my chest and held there.
Carlton didn’t move. His mouth opened, then closed. His eyes went from me to Harper and back to me, and I watched him try to find the version of this morning where his daughters hadn’t just said what I’d said.
“Sienna.”
“I mean it.”
“You’re eighteen.”
“I know how old I am, Daddy. I am a virgin too. I want to give that to you.”
“Jesus.”
He looked at each of us.
“Both of you?”
Harper stepped beside me. Close enough that our shoulders touched.
“Both of us want you, Dad. We’ve talked about it. We’ve thought about it. This isn’t a game, and it isn’t a phase, and it isn’t because we don’t know any better. We know exactly what we’re asking.”
“Tell me.”
“Wife. You need one. We want you to have two.”
“Fucking hell, Harper.”
“We’re both virgins, Dad. We both kept that for you. Never been groped or fingered, don’t want any man except you.”
She trembled beside me.
I was glad I wasn’t alone.
“I was first out of Mom. I want you to be inside Sienna first. She wants you, too. She’s just letting me do the talking.”
Carlton sat up against the headboard. The comforter slipped to his waist. His chest was broad and dark and still rising too fast, the muscles across his stomach tight with something that wasn’t anger.
“This isn’t right.”
“How could anything be more right? You raised us, bathed us, told us stories at night, kissed us to sleep. I’m just asking you to go one step further and fuck—”
He held up a palm.
“I—I—I.”
I stepped forward and smiled.
“You don’t have a girlfriend, Dad. Now you get two that you know love you.”
He thought about that.
“If I say no, this never happened. We eat breakfast, and we never talk about it again.”
“You won’t say no, Dad. Sienna first. Then me when you’re recovered.”
“How do you know?”
“Because your cock is hard, Daddy. You’ve been hard since Sienna walked into the room, and the comforter isn’t hiding as much as you think it is.”
“I didn’t know she—”
He never lied. He looked down, then up, and looked ashamed.
“I knew one of you was there. I couldn’t tell which.”
“You’re still hard, Dad.”