A Reluctant Stepfather Ch. 01

A Reluctant Stepfather Ch. 01 byMJRoberts© This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Copyright belongs to MJ Roberts 2014. Please do not reproduce without permission from the author. Dear Reader, I listened to all the comments and emails and have made changes to hopefully make the characters more believable. This is the same story but there are small changes in the flow of the paragraphs, some small editions, and some grammatical edits. I worked hard with the plot to make sure it was not creepy, but rather a taboo story because of how the character Tom feels about his situation. As usual with my stories, I post segments as I write them and try to take into account how to best please as many readers as possible. Please be kind. I hope you enjoy. * I stood in the airport shifting my weight from one foot to another. I was so grateful when I saw the arrivals were delayed it was pathetic. The bleak wintery day matched my mood. It didn't escape me that the wind, with its harsh swirls of grainy snow, actually pushed me away from the airport on the way here. It was a great metaphor for my reluctance to leave the house at all today, and especially the reason. For a second I actually put my face in my hands, and tugged at my freshly shaven cheeks, and shook my head. I couldn't believe it. Standing here, waiting to pick-up my step-daughter. Fuck, my step-daughter. Of course I had been running late. I didn't leave until the last minute, not taking into account that the rotten weather would make everyone in Detroit drive like they'd never seen a car. So I was thankful that the first delay gave me a minute to compose myself. And I was grateful for the second delay, because, let's face it, I wanted to put this off. Yet now that her plane was delayed again I was getting antsy. Not good. The people were bustling back and forth with their bundled up jackets and scarves and rolling luggage and I was sweating inside my unzipped parka. Really sweating. I was not looking forward to this. The last time I saw her Stephanie had been a bratty ten-year-old who insisted on going to live with her dad in Europe. Frankly it had surprised me that Marie let her go. I hunched as a huge gust of wind with flakes of snow whooshed in. Some jerk had propped the big glass doors open for a few minutes while he went back and forth. The last time I saw Stephanie, she'd been a bratty ten-year-old who insisted on going to live with her dad in Europe. Of course the last time she saw me I was a self-centered guy in his mid-twenties who was focused on how crazy I was about her mom. When I married Marie her family wasn't exactly all open arms. Everyone thought I was too young for Marie. It shouldn't have been such a big deal, but Marie's family made it into one. Stephanie had been the worst. She hated me, and she just wanted to get away. I wasn't all that sorry to see her go. I tried to remember what Stephanie looked like the last time I saw her. Long, thick blonde hair pulled up in a high ponytail on top of her head. Sparkly stuff all in her hair. Sparkly pink body suit. Snotty expression. Some sort of middle-school cheer competition or something. I was so besotted with Marie then I could barely think of anything else. I didn't remember what her childhood face looked like as much as her attitude that anyone dating her mother must be a prick. I met Marie in a bar. Maybe that's cliché. She was with a bunch of college students, so it took a double take to realize she was in her thirties. But from the first second I saw her, I felt a kinship. Yeah, her family gave us a hard time. I was in my twenties and she was in her thirties. Big deal. If she was the guy, and I was the girl, no one would think twice about the nine-year age difference. Marrying your best friend is one of the most amazing things in the world. Having her die of breast cancer, a swift knife that cut her down seemingly overnight—one day here the next day gone—is about the worst thing that can happen in the world. I know because it happened to me. And I still miss her, every day. It's like an ache in the middle of my chest that never goes away. God, she was so beautiful with that flowing chestnut brown hair, kind eyes, and great laugh. Thinking about her, the ache in my heart got worse. The clicking sound of the arrivals board updating snapped me out of my reverie. Fuck. Stephanie's flight was here. I hustled to the right area and waited. It was a packed flight. I searched all the girls, looking for a gawky teen with an abundance of thick waist-length blonde hair. My eyes darted around, catching every glimpse of blonde and yellow. Jeez, would I even recognize her? Nothing. And then suddenly a woman with a black beret stood right in front of me, and I moved slightly to look around her. "Um, 'ello?" I did a double take. Holy shit. She looked exactly like Marie. Fuck. How old was she? My expression must have been comical. I pictured my eyes bulging out of my head, and my arms pin-wheeling backward. "You're supposed to be like, ten," I said. She laughed. "Eleven, twelve, fourteen—at most," I said joking. It's amazing how when you don't see kids, they never age in your mind. "Twenty," she said. She looked older, a lot older. "It's been ten years?" I asked. Oh, my God, fuck, ten years. How did I get to be thirty-seven already? "Yes, it has," she said. Tiny bit of an English accent. Nice. "Your hair," I said, pointing. It was short and very dark brown, peeking out the edges of her hat. She took the beret off and shook her hair, revealing a small pink streak. It made me feel better. She had a maturity about her that made her look like... well a woman. The streak brought her back down to her age a bit. I looked at what she was carrying, a huge black purse and a laptop case. "Let's go to baggage claim, get your stuff." "This is it for now," she said, the English accent against my expectation of previous American brat making me smile. "I'm having all my stuff shipped. A decade of girl stuff is a lot of crap," she said. "Right." Time to take my step-daughter home. The first few minutes in the car were awkward, the kind of silence that bites with the chill like the weather we were driving through. I knew why she was back. We'd been exchanging emails frequently for the past month. She wanted to live where her mother had been, and she'd been having a bit of breakdown in England. Still I wasn't sure that things would be much better for her here. After all, I wasn't exactly the say-the-right-thing kind of guy. But I wanted to help, I wanted to help so much. I mean, God, life had been so cruel, not just to me but to her. This had to be the right thing, right? I wondered. Maybe, maybe not. But it was done now. I tried to fill the conversation void, pointing out landmarks that she may or may not remember and new things: shops, movie theaters, anything, I thought she might like. We got home she grabbed an apple and stretched out on the couch. I practically ran to my room. Coward. The next day was a blizzard, and she spent most of the day talking on the phone with friends from childhood and on Facebook doing God only knows what—and eating all my Ben & Jerry's. She didn't talk much, which was fine with me, and as the day wore on our awkwardness became a pleasant camaraderie. I guess I half expected she'd be the same spoiled, mean, brat I remembered. Resentful, but passive about it, and a real pain in the ass. The only reason I agreed to let her come was out of respect for Marie's memory. Truthfully I'd dreaded it. But she was a perfect houseguest. It was how much she looked like Marie that was bittersweet. It was hard not to look at her and see Marie. But as the week went by I began to think of her more and more as herself, less and less like a shadow of her mom. The first week went well. The second week she went into her bedroom and barely came out. The third week was even worse. Even though it had been over a year since Marie's death, it was apparent that it was just now hitting Stephanie hard. She had dark circles under eyes and a hallowed look I didn't like at all. But I left her alone. Everyone grieves in their own way. It was the start of the fourth week that I really began to get worried. She'd been leaving her bedroom door open a little bit and every time I walked by she was in bed, curled up in a ball. Almost 24 hours a day she was in bed. Finally I knocked. "Stephanie?" No answer. I let myself in. When I got a good look at her up close, with her despair wafting off her like a wraith at midnight, I felt even worse. I sat down on the edge of her bed. "Listen, Stephanie, I get it. I do. But life goes on. And believe it or not, you HAVE to get up. You have to just...." Words failed me. "The longer you stay in bed, the worse it'll get. You need to get a job. A job where you will see other people, be accountable, challenged, something." She shook her head. I scooted closer to her. She was wearing a big pink T-shirt that came down to her thighs and had a blanket tangled up in her legs. She lifted her head to look at me. "I can't. I just can't find a job right now." "I'll help you." She nodded. She half sat up, still sort of propped on her side and looked at me. "I really need you." I put my hand on her shoulder. "Hey, and I'm here for you." She totally surprised me by launching herself at me in a big hug. I hugged her back. "It'll be okay, really it will." Suddenly she was sobbing. Oh shit. "No, God, Stephanie, don't do that. I'm no good with crying females," I said. She stifled herself, sniffling. "Listen," I said. "I changed my mind, you need to cry. Go ahead." She stopped. "Sorry," she said. "No, hey, it's all right. I said I'd be here for you, and I meant it. We're family." "Right." She nodded against my shoulder. Then she kissed my neck. What? It was just the barest brush, maybe I imagined it. I pulled her away and looked at her. Her eyes were begging. I was in shock. She leaned forward and kissed my mouth. I scrabbled off the bed so fast I fell on my ass. "Jesus Christ, Stephanie, what are you doing?" She followed me down to the floor, half crawling, her feet getting caught up in the blankets for a second. Her movements were cat-like. She kissed my jaw. I was still in shock. Then she rubbed her hands up my sides and kissed me hard. My cock stiffened. I grabbed her arms hard and held her away from me. She strained toward me. "God Steph, don't." "Please...." she said softly. The need in her expression and the soft begging in her voice were almost enough to undo me. I jumped up. "I get it, you're hurting, but this is not what you want, not really." She nodded. It looked like a yes-I-do-want-it nod, not an agreeing-with-me nod. I pointed a finger at her, stern. "You're my stepdaughter. Do not do this to me." I walked out and shut the door. Hard. I forced myself to forget about it. I pulled some strings, and got her a job at the local university processing admissions. She really liked it. I wasn't surprised. She was good with people, and the job meant working with a lot of people her own age. As winter turned into spring we grew into an easy routine. I read the paper during breakfast while she rushed around and then out the door in order not to be late. She cooked fabulous dinners that made me think I should exercise more. I renewed my Netflix streaming subscription and every night she chose something I never heard of, thought I would hate, and liked more often than not. She let her hair grow out and dyed it the same rich medium brown shade that Marie's had been. I didn't say anything about it, but after I got over the weirdness, I liked it. The more we had dinner together every night, week after week, the more I liked her. She cracked me up, she was kind, and she was extremely intelligent. It was kind of nice to have someone around. So I pushed that one day out of my mind. It was an aberration locked away. I didn't think of it again until one day in March when I bumped into her, a full body slam really, when she was coming out of the shower. She was covered armpit to ankles in a huge robe-like towel. She was looking down, using a small towel to dry her hair, and I remembered something I forgot in my office. I'd turned quickly and almost ran her over. I reached out my hands to steady her and touched the wet, bare skin of her upper arms. "My fault, sorry," I said quickly and promptly hustled my way back into my office and shut the door. But the zing of electricity I felt when I touched her brought back to mind, full force, that moment months ago I had locked away. I murmured to myself a lot that night. Stephanie's few weeks of midwinter depression had morphed into a healthy, balanced adult who was getting along fine in the world. It made sense that I was so attracted to her. She had a lot of the same traits that made me originally fall in love with Marie: a smart brain, a good soul, a wicked sense of humor, a beautifully female take on everything around her. Just having a hot twenty something as a roommate would be hard on any guy. The more she stayed close by, the harder it was going to be for me to resist her. After dinner the next day I asked her if maybe she would be better off finding her own place, getting a roommate her own age. I was expecting some resistance but I wasn't expecting it to be so vehement. "I don't want to go! I like it here. You want me to leave?" "It's not that I want you to—" "Then why?" I could see it dawn on her face. A wicked smile of understanding. "I'm trying to think of what is best for you. Maybe it's the best thing for you to live with people your own age." She shook her head. "Think about it, okay?" "Mmhmm," Stephanie said. But I had been around women long enough to know that 'mmhmm' meant a lot of different things depending on the tone. I pretended that conversation never took place. I was fine until one day on spring break when she came into the kitchen, half asleep, with sleep-mussed hair, wearing just a grey sleep shirt that barely reached the top of her upper thighs. Then she reached up to a high cabinet... The shirt rose up to reveal a glimpse of tight bare bottom cheeks and a strip of pink thong, and she turned around and caught me looking. I quickly turned away and snapped my newspaper up. But I could imagine her smile. I could almost hear her thinking. Game on. The next day she walked by past me toward the pool in a red string bikini. Her nipples were prominent through the fabric. She must have teased them before she got to me because it wasn't cold in the house. I tried not to stare at her backside as she passed, but the jaunty walk was hard to ignore. The following day she stopped at my office door wearing a slightly bigger blue bikini bottom and I pretty sure, no top. A long white beach towel wrapped around her neck strategically covered her breasts. "Hey Dad, some girlfriends from school and I are going to have a party in the pool, want to join us?" Yes, no, yes. "No, thank you," I said pointedly. "Whatever," she said. She flounced out with an even jauntier walk. I am not drooling. A little while later I peeked out the back door. Yep. She and her girlfriends. Topless. I am not an animal. I will not succumb to my baser desires. Who are you kidding? I watched them splash and play for a minute and then turned away and went back to work. The onslaught continued. Tighter short nightshirt at breakfast the next morning. White. I heard a singsong voice in my head. I can't see you. And another voice. It's not a big deal. She wants it. We're both adults. It's not like she's blood. It's not exactly.... Shut up. Just shut up. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew I would break. It was just a question of when. Spring break couldn't end soon enough. I'm a good person. While I only wanted to think with my dick, I also had Stephanie to think about. The war within grew, and the tension I felt from holding myself back did not ebb; it only got more voracious. I was like a dog worrying a bone with my inner conversations. Many times a day I told myself letting go of my logic and following my instincts would be okay. I remembered once hearing that every action you do, you should be able to be proud of. If you did something, but did not want it written out in blazing gold letters above your head, you shouldn't do it. I used that thought to cool off. I held on for another month. Strangely enough it was when she stopped trying that she became even sexier. One Thursday, when she was cooking dinner, the tides turned. She was at the stove, her back to me. Stephanie wasn't doing anything special. She was wearing loose-fitting jeans and a University sweatshirt, cooking and humming to herself. I wanted to grab her away from the stove, brace her against a counter and take her from behind. BAM! One moment I was looking at her like an appreciative father, and the next moment I was rock hard. I wanted to throw her down and bite her. I hustled out of the kitchen, thankfully without Stephanie noticing the quick change in my pants. I took a very, very cold shower, and told her I had to skip dinner. I was going out with the guys, and I wouldn't be home until late. Phew. That was a close one. But the relentless rationalizations started immediately after that, getting worse and worse. I drank a lot that night, and then sat in my car for a good long while until I was sober. When I got home that night I had trouble going to sleep. I played that kitchen scene over and over in my mind. What would she have done if I had come up behind her, brushed her hair out of the way and gently kissed her neck? What would she have done if I grabbed her and fucked her like I wanted to? She had her own life now, maybe she didn't want me like she did when she was messed up. My hand slid down my chest to my stomach. I saw myself coming up behind her. "Keep cooking," I said in her ear. My hand hovered on my low stomach as I imagined grazing her neck with my teeth. In my mind I could smell the food cooking and her perfume. I let my teeth scratch her harder. My hand glided over my hip. I told myself to stop. This was wrong. I should stop. It's okay. No one would know. "You better stir that," I said, slipping my hands under her sweatshirt, over the lace of her bra, massaging her breasts together. I unsnapped the front hook of her bra and her tits spilled forth into my hands much bigger, heavier and lusher than I thought. She moaned. "That's it, baby." I palmed my cock. I should stop. Oh fuck. Too late now. I pictured myself opening her jeans. In my dreams she was soaked. Impossibly wet, an ocean. I took her away from the stove and hoisted her up on the counter. Her clothes magically disappeared. I opened her legs wide and then I was drinking from her, cups and cups of liquid. Then the dream changed. She was blowing me, the suction getting tighter and faster and faster. I realized it was my hand but at the same time I saw her sweet mouth bent over my hips and I pushed her all the way against me as I came hard. In the dream she drank it all down. I should have felt ashamed, but I didn't. I fantasized about her the next night, and the next. The dreams got even kinkier each time. Hotter, faster, more electric. I dreamed she was watching me palm myself. In the way of dreams, sometimes I dreamed more than one thing happened at once, so I dreamed that she watched me jerking off to her at the same time we were having a threesome, or I grabbed her, or any other dark variations of something else. My grip on my resistance was slipping. I thought more and more of Stephanie, not just sexually, but in every way. There wasn't just the step-father with his step-daughter relationship to consider. There was the age difference. There was the fact that I had certain inclinations, necessities even, and she was young to learn about the world of dominance and submission. Perhaps that level of trust, mentally, physically, spiritually, the light and darkness that world encompasses, might not be right for her. Then again, it might. It was late Sunday afternoon. She was at the stove again, in a way a mirror of the first turn down this road, when I snapped. Her hair was half up and half falling out of a loose bun and she was just wearing a long, loose black Guns & Roses T-shirt and nothing else. Stephanie was making an omelet, minding her own business, and she never saw me coming. I felt my body heat up. There was an increasingly loud roar in my head. I lunged at her, startling her, so she made a noise between a yelp and a squeal, and I turned off the burner and shoved the pan away. I squeezed her whole body tight to mine, and I mean hard, just for a millisecond, and then I forced her arms together grabbed both her wrists together in one big hand and then slammed them down on the handle bar on the front of the oven and grabbed her hips and lifted her up and yanked her body away, fast, her feet coming off the floor for a second. She squeaked. The balls of her feet landed hard on the tile, and I slammed my hips into her ass and locked my hands over hers on that bar before I even knew what I was doing. I had her where I wanted her. Then I plastered my body against hers. I was breathing heavy. "Wha—" she said. I growled at her. "Keep your hands there." Part of me couldn't believe I was doing this. Some animal had taken over. I ran my hand down her front, right over one free swinging breast. Yes, they were bigger, softer, fuller than they looked. Yes, I was going to bite that. I grew hard against her ass. I continued to slide my hand down to the bottom of the shirt, up under it, right around the top edge of her panties, buried under, dipped into her. Just a little. Soaking. "Is this what you want?" I whispered. My voice was rough. She pushed against me. I dipped my hand into her further. She whimpered. I pulled my hand away. "There are only two rules," I said. "One, you do not come without my permission." My voice was harsh. I slipped my fingers back inside her, took her honey and ran a circle around her clit, teasing lightly, then firmer. "Do you understand me?" She nodded. "Say it." "I won't come without your permission," she panted. "And two, you will come exactly when I tell you to." It was ridiculous. Even with my dom tendencies this wasn't me. But it was like I was caught in some game I couldn't escape. I was asking too much, too far out of control, felt my brain slip past okay into unreasonable but my absolute need took over and the monster in me said and did what it wanted. "Steph," I said, and my voice was rough. "If you want to say no, the time is right now." "Yes," she whispered. "Fine," I said directly into her ear and my voice was even gruffer. "Then you are going to OBEY me. If I fucking tell you to come now, you are going to explode right then." I found her exact sweet spot and worked it mercilessly. She moaned and pressed back against me. "Understand?" She nodded vigorously. "Yes." "Yes, Sir," I said. "Now say it." "Yes, Sir," she said. "Good. Now say the whole thing." She seemed confused. I worked her harder. She was so wet now she was starting to drip over my hand. Her legs shook. "Say it." "What...?" "Two, I will come exactly when you tell me to." I scraped a nail over that spot and she screamed. Her head fell suddenly, as if her neck went suddenly boneless. "Say it." She started panting and I could tell she was having trouble processing. She started shaking all over, violent shakes. "Please..." she begged. "Please let me come." Her knees gave out under her. I grabbed her hips, holding her up, but I didn't stop the onslaught. If anything I increased it. "Say. It." The electricity was running so high throughout her body I could feel the current galloping from her head to her toes, burning every cell of her body and into mine. Her words were a cry. "Two. I...will"—her breasts heaved up and down with the effort swinging—"will...will... I... will... ha... come," she took in a deep breath, battling for air. I stilled my fingers. "Exactly when you tell me to." I slipped two fingers deep inside her. "NOW!" I yelled. Her whole body shuddered around me, over and over, and while she was still coming I guided her down to the floor and plunged into her. # # # Dear Reader, If this story tickled you, then please be so kind as to honor me with a high five. It's only a mouse click away. It would mean a lot to me. Thanks in advance. If you have positive suggestions, corrections, or feedback you can contact me. MJ