17. The Parent Trap
THE PARENT TRAP
Stella
In the library, I’m split open, leaning back against the hard, implacable chest of my uncle with my legs wide, my pussy filled with cock, while our handsome pastor presses into me from above.
But there isn’t just one cock in my pussy. There are two.
Hunter’s in me from below, while Lachlan slides in right above him.
Yes, their dicks touch.
Yes, their dicks rub against each other as we fuck.
Yes, we’re coated in each other’s slick, and god knows how many gallons of semen.
But no one cares because it’s so fucking hot.
It’s late afternoon as we fuck like animals, the double vaginal making me pant and scream.
Gold light slants through the library’s west windows, making long bars across the Persian rug and the battered coffee table.
I can taste dust and old paper, and—above it—the salt-slick musk of sweat and sex, thick in the air.
My dress is bunched around my waist, nothing but Hunter’s hands on my hips keeping me from sliding right off his lap.
His thighs are a vise, dark-wash jeans rough against the bare backs of my legs.
My hair sticks to the nape of my neck, damp from the marathon round of being double-teamed.
I can feel my own pulse throbbing inside my cunt, and if I tilt my head, I catch the glint of the tree leaves outside, bobbing about innocently as I’m fucked to within an inch of my life.
Lachlan crouches in front of me, shirt half-open, his collar askew in a way that would make a nun weep.
He drives into me, and with every thrust his biceps flex under the rolled sleeves, a studied violence held just this side of control.
Each time he bottoms out, I see stars. My moans are breathless and feral; I have stopped pretending to be quiet, stopped pretending I’m anything but a girl being double-teamed by two men who want to ruin me.
Below him, Hunter’s cock pushes into the same hole as Lachlan’s, stretching me so wide I’m not sure if I’ll ever close again.
We’ve been at this for nearly an hour, rotating in and out of positions, chasing the line between pain and pleasure until I’m not sure which is which.
My clit is sore from overuse, and my ass is still faintly aching from last night, but none of it matters—not with this much sensation, not with the press and slide and friction and heat of having two cocks in my vag simultaneously.
Hunter’s fingers squeeze the base of my throat, making me gasp every time he pulses inside me; Lachlan alternates between fucking me and biting my nipple through the thin cotton of my dress.
There’s a moment where they both bottom out at once and I think I might black out, just for a second, from the electric shock of being so utterly, obscenely full.
“Good girl,” Hunter whispers in my ear, voice shredded, “take it, star girl, show us you’re made for this.”
My reply is a strangled yelp—words are impossible with both of them inside me, but I mean, does anyone need language at a time like this?
I could die here and not even care.
That’s when the front door slams, the sound a gunshot that shatters the library’s low, hot fog. It ricochets through the hallways, echoes off the high ceilings, and instantly, every muscle in my body seizes. Hunter and Lachlan freeze in place, as if the library’s air turned to stone.
Then there’s a voice—a man’s, low and unmistakable, booming across the marble entryway:
“Stella? Hello? Anyone home?”
My father. Back from vacation. They’re early!
A shaft of terror lances up my spine and I almost shriek, but both men clamp down on me in an instant: one palm over my mouth, one hand on my hip, steadying, shushing. For three heartbeats, no one moves, not even to breathe.
The voice comes again, closer, just outside the library. “Hunter? You here?”
Hunter swears under his breath and with a fluid, military efficiency, everything happens at once: Lachlan withdraws, cock slick and twitching, then tucks himself back into his pants, wiping my wetness from his shaft before zipping up.
Hunter quickly lifts me off his lap, sets me on the arm of the chair, then stands, pulling his own pants up, still wet and sticky, and begins buttoning his shirt.
He does this all with the calm of a man who has covered up much, much worse.
I scramble off the armchair, dress falling down to my knees, but my panties are still somewhere in the tangle of chair cushions and I can’t risk looking for them.
I try to finger-comb my hair, but it’s a mess, and there are tears of overstimulation running down my face, so I wipe them away as best I can.
Hunter grabs a decanter of whiskey from the side table, splashes some into three tumblers, then shoves the decanter behind a stack of old magazines, and wipes his hands on his jeans.
Lachlan, miraculously, finds a Bible—King James, leather-bound, gold-edged—on the coffee table and sets it out between the whiskey glasses like we’ve just finished a lengthy scriptural debate.
He smooths his hair and sits, folding his hands in his lap, face composed and serene.
I drop onto the sofa, clutching my knees together, willing my pulse to slow to human speed.
There’s a frantic, slapstick minute of straightening: me wriggling the straps of my sundress back over my shoulders and trying to dab the mascara from under my eyes; Hunter slicking his hair back, buttoning up, and taking a long, staged sip of whiskey as he settles into the armchair; Lachlan adopting the posture of a man halfway through a theological monologue.
The room still stinks of sex, thick and unmistakable, but I pray the ventilation will save us.
Then there’s a sharp rap on the heavy oak library door.
“Come in,” I call, my voice a thin, reedy version of itself.
My father steps inside: tall, black hair shot with silver at the temples, his tan still fresh from wherever he and Andie disappeared to, and a canvas carry-on in one hand.
His eyes do a fast, practiced sweep of the room, taking in the three of us—the two men and his only daughter—with a cool, analytical calm.
He smiles, but the smile is default, not real.
“Welcome back, Daddy,” I say, rising from the couch. My knees nearly buckle but I manage to walk across the room and kiss his cheek, trying not to think about the fact that I can feel my own arousal still dripping down my inner thigh. “How was your trip?”
He hugs me, squeezing tight, then holds me at arm’s length, his hands heavy on my shoulders. “Too short. How’ve you been? I thought you’d be out with friends.”
I shake my head, blond hair falling in a loose sheet over one shoulder. “No, because Hunter’s been keeping me on a short leash.”
Hunter grins, flashing all his teeth. “I take my role as the responsible adult very seriously,” he says, blue eyes flat as ice.
My father turns from Hunter and then, for the first time, really looks at Lachlan.
The big pastor rises from the sofa, shakes my dad’s hand, and introduces himself as if nothing is out of the ordinary.
I watch my father’s eyes linger just a half-beat too long on Lachlan’s hands—on the creases in his shirt, the slight red mark on his neck, a patch of sweat on his temple.
Lachlan extends a hand. “Mr. Moreland. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” The handshake is firm, but my father holds it a second longer than custom, his fingers turning the gesture into a contest of micro-aggressions.
“Yes, I think I’ve seen you at Trinity, assisting Pastor Pamela,” my father says. His face is neutral, but the force of his focus is a physical thing.
Lachlan doesn’t blink. “Yes, Pastor Pam is a mentor of mine. Has been, since the day I arrived. It’s been a blessing to serve the congregation.”
“Wonderful.” My father reclaims his hand, then turns to Hunter. “How’s the Bidwell project going?” It’s a test, to see if Hunter can remember what he claimed to be doing while he was here.
Hunter doesn’t flinch. “Smoothly. We’ll finish renovations next week. It’s not a big deal. It’ll be a massive moneymaker, per usual.”
Thomas lets the silence spin, just long enough for all three of us to sweat. “Excellent,” he says, at last.
I can tell he’s cataloguing every detail: the three whiskey glasses, the Bible open but not actually read, the faint, sour tang in the air that is absolutely not incense.
My father’s gaze lands on my bare feet, on the bruises at my knees, on the stripe of mascara I missed when I tried to clean up in a panic.
Then, for just a second, he looks me in the eye, and I swear he knows everything.
But he doesn’t call me on it. Not yet.
“Pastor O’Toole,” he repeats, then glances at the Bible on the table. “You’re not converting my daughter, I hope?”
Lachlan chuckles, all surface. “Just making sure she’s staying out of trouble, sir.”
I clutch the Bible to my chest like it’s a Kevlar vest, willing my face not to combust. My brain has gone into full blackout mode, and I am suddenly convinced that my dad can see every secret, every sin, written across my forehead in permanent marker.
There’s a long, hot second where no one moves.
Then my father sets his bag down, surveys the whiskey glasses, and gives a slight nod. “Glad to see you two keeping her occupied. She can be a handful, as you know. I don’t blame you for the alcohol.”
Hunter raises his glass, and the smile never touches his eyes. “No harm, no foul. It’s just a bit of Bible study. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
My father nods at Lachlan. “Well, you’re welcome here anytime. And Hunter, make sure she behaves.”
I nod, mute, as the men trade more pleasantries. I’m only half-listening, because the only thing I can focus on is the fact that my panties are still tangled somewhere under Hunter’s massive thigh, probably soaking wet. If he moves the wrong way, they’ll tumble out onto the floor!
But after a minute, my dad turns and says, “Well, I should get unpacked. Andie’s talking on the phone right now. She’ll be happy to see you.” He gives me another quick hug, and as he leaves, he glances back at us. Just once. The door clicks softly behind him.
We all exhale, almost in unison.
Hunter sets his glass down, then leans forward, elbows on knees. “That was close,” he says, voice soft.
Lachlan grins, and it’s the first time all day he looks a little rattled. “Too close. I think we need to work on our exit strategy.”
I let the Bible slip from my fingers, onto the cushion, and pull my knees up to my chest. I can still feel both of them inside me, phantom pressure, the soreness a live wire under my skin.
But the main thing I feel is this: I want to do it again. I want to fuck in this room, in every room of the house, just for the thrill of nearly getting caught. I want my father to walk in on us, see me split wide open, owned by two men. I want him to know.
This is so fucked up, but I don’t care. The risk just makes it hotter.
I lean back, the sofa still warm from before, and watch as Hunter and Lachlan start bickering about something or other. For all I know, they could be talking about the Minions and I wouldn’t care.
I close my eyes, the taste of sex and danger still hot on my tongue, and wait for whatever happens next.