#tw stepdad

It started during that in-between time, when summer, losing your job, and having to move back home pushed you to figure out what the fuck you actually wanted to do with your life seemed to come together like the planets aligning. The precipice of a turning point, a ticking clock counting down the days until your childhood bedroom would be turned into a gym, or an office, or a guest bedroom. The lukewarm welcome from your mother would ice over and you’d really have to get your shit together. 

Your mother was what people who didn’t know her would call ‘a free spirit’, what you called her, was a fucking mess. 

Your earliest memories consist of having to remind her to buy milk or to pay the bill because the electricity had turned off while watching cartoons in front of the tiny, living room tv. You’d had to remind her, in not so many words, that she was the mother, and you were the child. 

To your friends, she was the cool mom. The party mom. Your house was the place to be because she didn’t ask questions, she left her cigarettes unattended and didn’t mind if a few went missing. She kept the bar cart stocked, even if there was nothing but flies in the cupboard and nothing but half-empty condiment bottles in the fridge. Your friends loved it. 

She flirted with the boys your age, she gave sex tips to the girls. 

You smiled when they congratulated you on having the cool mom, and when they all went home, you retreated and pretended to be happy. 

Joel settled her down. Met her in a bar and moved in quick. He came into the picture when you were fifteen and you were almost sure he’d be just like the rest of the lovers she’d taken over the years. You’d given the whole thing six months. Half a year for him to see what a fucking disaster she was. Six months to be a fucking creep, to cheat or get cheated on. 

The only differences you could clock at first were that he was self-employed, and marginally better looking than his predecessors.

He was firmer though, less malleable than the others she’d brought around, he seemed immune to her charms and that only inflamed her. It made her desperate for his approval and his attention. She would throw a tantrum, or play one of her mind games but he’d never rise to her bait. He was patient for the most part, until he hit his breaking point and his temper reared its head. A temper only she seemed to bring out in him. 

To you, it was pathetic. 

He didn’t try with you though, there was no flattery or strong hand, only a silent respect. In a sense, he treated you as the adult, and her as the child. It worked for you, if he’d expected you to call him dad he would have been laughed at mercilessly and he seemed to know this. 

The disturbing part was his respect and his healthy avoidance of you worked its own kind of magic. It made him an enigma, made you curious as to what he got out of the whole thing. A home, sure. A woman who was obsessed with him, yes. Sex–yes. You heard it enough for it to turn your stomach. By the sounds of it, he knew what he was doing.

The thought sickened the healthy part of your brain. The other part though, the part flooding your body with hormones, making it come to life with curiously intense sexual feelings, that part wanted to know what it was he was so good at. How could he pull those sounds out of anyone? It was easier to imagine him with some faceless woman. 

It was shameful to imagine yourself. 

The thought–although enough to fuel a desperate journey of self-exploration–always filled you with an insurmountable guilt. 

For those first few years you could barely look at him. Your mother took it as a healthy dose of teenage rebellion. That only aggravated you more. She never asked questions, never dug to see what the cause of your obvious distaste for her partner was about and so again, you retreated. He, however, kept to the outs of your path. He followed your lead, he let you control any and every part of all of your interactions. He didn’t ask questions. He kept the lights on. He kept the fridge full. 

He burrowed his way in, whether you liked it or not. 

When you turned eighteen, you moved out. He helped, did his ‘fatherly’ duties and moved you into the apartment, he urged your mother to take you on an extensive grocery trip, spoke to your landlord about the safety of the building. You supposed you should have been grateful, you should have said thank you, given him some sort of acknowledgement that you appreciated his help but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Instead you said your mumbling goodbyes, and promptly closed the door on them. Neither of them complained. 

The euphoria of venturing out on your own had lost its shine depressingly quick. A string of chronically unserious boyfriends came and went, the rent climbed higher than you could keep up with, and while already living paycheck to paycheck, you lost your job. Your cellphone had taken the brunt of your frustration at having to call your mother, begging her to let you come back home while you got back on your feet a little more than two years after you’d left. 

Your teeth gnawed at your lips, your fingernails dug into the skin around your cuticles in the attempt to keep your voice sweet and pleading, in the end it was his voice that you’d heard in the background, telling–no, commanding her to say yes. That he would be your champion twisted at your insides. Maybe a small, healthy part of you hoped he’d put up a fight, tell you that you were too old to be coming back home and that you had to figure it out on your own like an adult. 

A healthy part of you hoped that he’d save you again, only from yourself. Hanging up with a heavy, resigned sigh, you set about starting the trek home, ignoring the swirling mess of annoyance, confusion, and perverse glee in your stomach. 

-

The first few days were spent in a depressive episode, a seemingly inescapable loop of sleeping in late, leaving your room only when the house was empty to raid the kitchen for something to eat, scrolling mindlessly–blindly–on your phone and then staying up way too late only to do it all over again. 

They didn’t bother you, but if the annoyed sighs and narrowed eyes from your mother were anything to go by, the talk was coming soon. After the third day of the cycle, you circumvent it and wake up early-ish to shower and dress in something other than ratty old sweats long forgotten by an ex you couldn’t quite remember. 

You came down to find Joel sitting at the kitchen table. His eyes tracked the lines of you, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. 

Your heart leapt. He should have been at work by now. 

“Good morning.” It came out croaky, your voice almost reluctant to come out. 

“Mornin’.” His hair was slicked back, the gray almost sparkling in the golden light. You fiddled with the hem of your shirt. His eyes were so intense, you found yourself stuck in place, like a deer in headlights and that ever present, deep-seeded anger reared its head. It was irrational that he should frustrate you so much with his calm presence. 

“Coffee’s fresh, if you want some.” He jut his chin out to the pot, lowering his eyes to his paper once more. Once his gaze had shifted, you found you could breathe again. You mumbled a thanks and moved to pour yourself a cup, thankful, if unsure why, to focus on something concrete instead of abstract self-reflection.

“Your mama’s gon’ be late tonight. I thought I could pick up a pizza on the way home.” He says it offhand and again, your heart races. 

“Whatever.” You scrunch your face up in annoyance, it sounded like such a bullshit, teen response. He doesn’t comment on it, and that somehow makes it worse. You beat yourself about it as you root around in the fridge for the milk. The cereal you liked was in the top cupboard, and you’re not quite tall enough to reach it. 

You heard his chair scoot back and then suddenly he’s there, beside you, pressed up tight. You follow the long line of his throat as he stares up, reaching the box with ease while one big, warm hand lands on your lower back. He smells like the laundry detergent your mother insists on buying mixed with something else. Manly, smoky, with coffee laced through. Your cunt clenches nonconsensually as he stands there and stares down at you, his whole front pressed against your side, his hand still holding your lower back. Your mouth hangs open, stupidly, and he raises an eyebrow again forcing something to kickstart deep in your gut. 

“You okay there babygirl?” The endearment feels unwholesome.

It triggers something strange, strengthening the underlying conflict for him. There’s a lilt in his tone you don’t like, maybe because deep down you like it too much. Maybe you don’t want to admit that, or analyze anything about what the fuck is happening in your body. In your psyche. 

“Yeah.” You step out of his bubble, barely managing not to trip over yourself in your haste to get away and put a healthy distance between you. 

“Yes. Thank you.” You take a deep breath, pressing your lips together tight in what you hope to God is a neutral expression. 

He lets out a bemused huff through his nose, a mischief in his eyes shining out at you that you’ve never seen directed at you. You’ve seen it used on your mom. You’ve seen her go giggly and flirty whenever he looked at her like that. A half-formed escape plan starts to form but he saves you from the need, he puts his things in the dishwasher, and nods his head in goodbye. 

You practically hold your breath until you hear his truck rumble out of the driveway, and down the street. 

-

You manage to avoid him for a few days, staying out late catching up with friends, or feigning a need for rest. You’ve convinced your mother that your days are now spent job hunting, and for the most part they are. You leave in the morning, avoiding any and all contact and you get home late, creeping up the stairs much like you did in your teens even though you’d really never needed to. Your mother never enforced a curfew, and when Joel joined the picture, he didn’t pry. 

The luck didn’t last though, you got over-confident. He was sprawled out on the sofa, up uncharacteristically late one night when you padded through the house. 

“You’re up late.” You quickly check the accusatory tone, “Don’t you have to get up early?” Better, it comes out more concerned than annoyed and he nods. He wore a threadbare t-shirt, the fabric of it having been through the wash too many times to keep its shape. Light, gray sweats were stretched almost obscenely tight over his spread thighs, pooling at his crotch from being shoved up by the couch. 

“Couldn’t sleep. Come sit, we can watch some tv.” He pats the seat next to him and despite the deep desire to retreat into the Joel-free haven of your bedroom, you cannot seem to disobey him. 

You settle beside him on the couch, a little further away than was necessary. He chuckles softly. 

“I ain’t gonna bite you, girl. Not unless you ask nicely.” 

You pretend you don’t hear it, choosing instead to compartmentalize whatever game he’s playing and stare at the screen. He flips through the channels, settling on one thing for a few minutes before moving to something else until he finds a movie that’s already close to midway. There’s an electricity in the air, something about him galvanizing the space between you, charging it enough to make the hairs on your arms stand on end. You frown to yourself, barely paying attention while fighting an increasingly confusing mental battle. Why is it so hard to be around him? Why does he inspire such scorn? Is it scorn at all?

You rub at your eyes, scrubbing your hands down your face in a feeble attempt to wipe the slate clean. 

He’s just a man, a man your mother had chosen and for better or worse they seem to work. She is happy with him and he is seemingly happy with her, why then is it so hard to accept him for what he is? Something slithers around in your brain, something that laughs darkly, something pulsing through the network of thoughts and ideas that threatens to crack open your subconscious and throw it right in your face. 

“Well now, ain’t that somethin’?” You pull your hands away from your face to see a very explicit scene playing out on the screen. Heat floods every inch of your body. 

“Almost looks like she’s enjoyin’ herself.” He leaves it on, and you feel stuck, your body betraying you yet again to see the way the woman on screen moans wantonly while under a very handsome man. You let out a non-committal sound, teetering on the edge of madness. You scold yourself, you are an adult, an adult that has had sex before and this isn’t even real. 

“Looks like fake bullshit to me.” The strength in your voice lends credence to the illusion that you aren’t affected. He laughs, calm and completely at ease and that only pulls the anger to the forefront again. 

“They can’t show the real stuff on these channels. If it were real, he’d be doin’ what she needs.” 

“And what’s that?” It comes out before you can stop it. 

“Well,” He smiles to himself, winning a duel you hadn’t even known you were fighting. 

“If it were real, he’d be pressin’ on her clit, he’d be makin’ sure she felt every inch of him and make her take his cock like a good girl.” You let out a heavy breath, half shocked, half grateful it wasn’t a whimper. 

Warning bells go off in your head, just as a heartbeat starts in your cunt because you can see it. You can see him. His face twisted up in pleasure but cocky, his hips moving, his thumb dipped into your mouth and then swirling around your clit. He smiles at catching you looking at his hands and you want to yell at him. You want to smack him across the face and kick him in the balls for saying something like that to you, his partner's daughter, but you don’t. 

Your body almost catapults you out of your seat. Barely unintelligible words come out, something about needing sleep, about being tired and then you hightailed it out of there like a bat out of hell. 

The shower was cold enough to make your teeth chatter, but it did nothing to cool the heat blooming in your core and it was with a terrifying desperation that you ground against your fingers. The slick pooling at the mouth of your pussy was enough to feel even with the water washing everything away except your shame. 

You bit your tongue to keep from moaning out the taboo and entirely inappropriate name you were dying to say out loud. His firm thighs spread on that couch filled your mind, the calloused, work-roughened hands you could practically feel on your hips, on your thighs. You could feel them holding and spreading your legs open so he could make you make those same noises you’d heard over the years. Make you take it like a good girl, his good girl. 

You came with a shudder, sagging against the chilly tile. You warmed the water with a sigh, disappointed and ashamed with yourself, trying, and failing, to put the whole thing out of your mind. 

-

You doubled down on avoiding him after that. 

Your mother worked most of the time but when she was home, things were easier. He reverted to the healthy avoidance, the proverbial disinterest that she didn’t seem to have a problem with. You still heard them some nights, the bed creaking, throaty cries, deep grunts but now they haunted you in a different way. Now you heard his words on that couch and couldn’t help but picture all manner of unsavory things that both disgusted and thrilled you. 

Being unemployed didn’t help. There was nothing to keep you out of the house most of the day, and there were only so many places that would accept you looking for a job in person. 

There was only so much time you could spend with friends too, they had their own lives and jobs and relationships. Too busy to save you from unwanted free time. 

Old habits resurface, and you retreat within yourself while pushing yourself harder. A job would fix things enough to help, you could save up enough money to leave for good and take yourself out of the equation. 

-

The powers that be momentarily take pity on you, and after what seems like a lifetime's worth of job hunting you blessedly get a call back. It’s a part time job, but at this point beggars can’t exactly be choosers. It’s a steady, if insufficient source of income that hadn’t been available to you before. Determined, you buckle down, you channel every guidance counselor you’ve ever had and ace the fuck out of that interview.

It’s not taxing work, but you put your head down and focus with the hope that if you worked hard enough, if you made a good enough impression, made yourself indispensable they’d throw you enough shifts to make up a full time job. 

It helps. Time spent away from the house, from your mothers dried up welcome, from Joel altogether genuinely helps. You feel a bit lighter, less guilty, less prone to imagine the unimaginable. You find comfort in the absence of self-imposed temptation. There is peace in the mindless work, in the life outside of the house that no longer feels like a home. 

It's a double edged sword though, because at the end of every shift, the luck–the peace–runs out. If being at work and out of the house is a respite, returning home only thickens the tension. Time spent outside the house only sharpens the discomfort, clarifies the glaring wrongness of it all when you enter it at the end of the day. What it all is, you won’t name. That way madness lies. Issue is, with every interaction, with every chance encounter in the hallway, or living room, every second spent with him in the kitchen watching his lips touch the rim of his mug the thing inside grows. Parts of him fill the corners of your mind. The curve of his shoulders filling out the flannel shirts he favors. The fullness of his bottom lip when he purses them, something he does while squinting at the paper that you’re almost sure he isn’t aware of. His neck, his hands, the dimple in his cheek when he laughs at something really funny. 

These things jump out, innocent as they may be, but other not so innocent things start to creep in. The bulge in his jeans is a mental mine, it lies in wait and every so often when you think you’ve avoided it, it detonates and you catch yourself staring, both ashamed and so inappropriately curious it eats away at you like acid. 

What you needed was something to fill the emptiness, both emotionally and physically. So you did what any modern, adult woman would do; you bought a sex toy. 

Nothing too crazy, or expensive. After perusing the site for a while you finally settled on a plain, non-threatening dildo. Nothing too big, nothing noisy, just something to be able to focus on, something to use while imagining someone giving you what you need. You ignored that dark thing inside that hissed his name, shooed it away and ordered the package for express delivery. With your mom constantly working, and Joel keeping to himself you figured it wouldn’t be an issue. Neither of them would question a package addressed to you. 

You still aren’t sure whether or not you’d do it all over again had you known the Pandora’s box that little package would open. 

You all but rushed home after work. All day, you’d imagined the relief that toy would bring. You imagined yourself using it in the shower, steam swirling as you took your pleasure. You imagined yourself laying in bed in the safety of the dark, setting a towel down on your chair and riding it to your heart's content. 

Joel’s truck is in the driveway when you pull in, but it’s secondary to the excitement at the chance to sequester yourself with your new best friend and so when you walk into the house, you don’t give him much attention. Until he opens his mouth. 

“You got a package today babygirl. I put it on your bed.” He sits on his spot on the sofa, a funny little smile on his face. A bad feeling swells in your chest, and you look up the stairs before meeting his eyes again. 

“Thanks.” You drop your bag on the little bench near the front door, trying, and failing to keep the nervous feeling out of your voice. He nods, and you make your way up, stopping yourself from taking the stairs two at a time. 

Ice flows through your veins when you see the package is open. 

He’d opened your package, he knew what you’d bought. 

Blood pounds in your ears as you stand there, limbs cold and numb at the realization that he saw it. He saw it. He opened it, and he placed it here, on the very place you fantasized about using it. Sweat beaded on your brow, the bottom of your stomach fell out of your ass as you stood there, barely feeling the soft, worn carpet under your feet. 

“Little small, f’you ask me.” His voice at the mouth of your room made your head twist fast enough to hurt your neck. You hadn’t heard him follow you up the stairs, hadn’t heard him open your door and lean against the frame, arms crossed in haughty amusement. 

“Why would you open my package?” You clutched at it, as though he could forget what he’d seen if you held it tightly enough. 

“I didn’t open it on purpose, I’m expectin’ somethin’ and I didn’t read the name.” He pushes away from the door frame, making his way closer and it’s like the air thins as the space between you shrinks.

“I mean, I could tell you been frustrated, but this doesn’t seem like it’s gon’ help much.” He reaches out, and takes the package from you. You watch him do it, watch him, frozen as he plucks it from your hands and takes the toy out. 

“This all you can take?” He holds it, contemptuously–pityingly. 

You wanted to snatch it out of his hands, the dimming voice of reason urges you to push him out of your room and remind him that he needs to keep a healthy distance but you say nothing, you stand there, and watch him. He puts it all down on your dresser, before stepping a little closer, close enough for you to have to crane your neck up to look into his eyes. 

“No boyfriends around to give you what you want?” His hand comes up, the tips of his fingers sliding across the apple of your cheek, slipping down until his thumb pressed against the cushion of your bottom lip. 

“No one around to give you what you obviously need?” He steps a little closer, until your bodies meet. This is wrong, your mind screams it but your body is frozen under his eyes, under his touch. That part, the frozen part is cheering, it’s running victory laps as it floods your cunt with slick in preparation for something unholy. 

That same, writhing, traitorous thing whispers that this is your chance, the house is empty and your body obeys. You look your fill, you take in the curve of his nose and the furrow in his brow. His eyes are black as a crow's wing, lust-blown and completely focused on your parted lips and your shallow panting. 

Adrenaline spikes and you do something you cannot take back. You rise on your tip-toes and press your mouth to his. 

He hums into it, smiling and once again you get that feeling that you’d made the exact move he’d expected you to. A vague, but fleeting inkling that you were just a pawn on his chessboard. 

At any other time you would have stepped away and repented, ate yourself alive with guilt but his hands pulled you closer, his tongue swiped at the seam of your mouth and you opened up for him. That only made it all the more real, the taste of his tongue in your mouth, feeling his hands lower to hold onto your ass. 

The rational part of you shrinks down to nothing, and that other part, the wrong part–it swells and preens under his hands. He pulls away, and embarrassingly, you chase his mouth in a daze. 

“Oh honey, you’re just dyin’ for it aren’t you?” He herds you towards your tiny bed, the twin mattress that has been the stage for every taboo fantasy about this man, your stepfather. You shoo the word away with a shiver. 

“It’s wrong-” You almost whisper, but you don’t push him away, you let him lay you down in that bed and he laughs. 

“It is, isn't it?” He pulls at the hem of your shirt, you raise your arms for him and the picture of it is wrong, daddy taking off your clothes. The thought, the word,  should disgust you but it only pulls your hands to him. You join in, and pull his shirt up and off, biting your lip at the broadness of him. You take in each freckle, the sprinkling of hair on his chest, the dip of his throat calling out for your tongue like a siren. 

He presses his lips to yours again, licking into your mouth obscenely. Unseemly. 

“You been wantin’ this for a long time, haven’t you babygirl?” He pulls your bra off, and the shock of cold air hardens your nipples. He bites his lip to see it, unable to stop himself from flattening his tongue against a hardened bud. A sound you’ve never let yourself make out loud in this room fills the space between you and that slithering thing luxuriates. 

He moves, languidly, unhurried to the other breast and holds the plump of it in his big hand and sucks at the second bud, sucks as much of the peak as he can into his mouth, breathing through his nose while you slowly spiral into madness.

When he lets go, he presses a kiss to your nipple and his facial hair tickles your skin. 

He pulls your leggings off along with your underwear in one go and the reality of it all hits you when the air hits your soaked core. That’s when the urge to put a stop to it is the clearest, when he kneels between your legs and spreads them wide, stares at the place where he’s already filled a million times in your mind. The place that’s drenched at the mere thought of him. 

“Joel-” You start, but he pushes your legs up, folding you and then he lets a glob of spit fall from his mouth slowly, aiming it, a bullseye right on the lips of your cunt. It’s too much, too filthy and you let out a whimper. 

“I think you wanna call me somethin’ else right now.” He undoes his belt and his jeans, keeping his eyes on where his saliva slides down over the open mouth of your cunt, down towards your asshole. He pulls his cock out and part of you shatters. Your eyes flit to the toy sitting on your dresser, your eyes flit to the open door of your bedroom. 

“Don’t worry, your mama ain’t gonna be home for a while.” He smiles, conspiratorially. It's too real, it’s too hypnotic, seeing him there with his cock in his hand while your legs already ache from holding them up and open. He slides the blunt end of it through the mess he’s caused, through his spit and he groans at the sight of it. 

Your heart races so hard to feel him there, that you see the pulse of it in your vision. 

“Deep breath baby.” he warns before slipping inside the tight fist of your pussy, the size of him making you gasp. This is it, there’s no coming back from this and right now, with him seated deep, his groin pressed up tight and the tip of his cock kissing your womb you cannot even think of why you’d ever care.

This is where he's meant to be. This is where you need him. 

“Oh baby, that’s so good huh?” He thrusts shallowly, pulling out a little more than halfway before shoving his hips forward again. You don’t really know how to form words, you don’t know how to take in what’s happening. This is Joel, your step-dad, fucking you in the bed you grew up in. One hand sits heavy on your shin, holding it, the other slides up and holds onto your breast. 

“Look how fuckin’ wet this little pussy is for me,” he moans the words, “you like daddy fuckin’ you?” He thrusts harder and you moan despite the word hitting you in the stomach like a big drop on a rollercoaster. He shouldn’t say that, shouldn’t call himself that, not now. 

“No-” it doesn’t come out like you mean it to, it sounds wrong, like a caress. 

“No? But I think you do-” He leans forward, keeping his pace while pressing his chest to yours, his mouth all but lining up and despite your bullshit protest, you hitch your knees high on his ribs to make room because if he stopped you’d probably die. 

“I think you want me to be your daddy, don’t you baby, it’s okay, I want to be.” He speeds up and the sounds between your legs are so wet, so filthy. 

“You can say it, I want you to say it.” He holds himself up, his elbows caging in your skull and before you can complain or moan or cry he sticks his tongue down your throat again. Your hands finally join the fray and you wrap your arms around his neck, holding him tight to you. 

“Come on baby, say it for me, tell me how good daddy fucks you.” You moan, closing your eyes while your cunt floods him with wave after wave of slick, enough to drip down your ass and onto your bed, down his balls. Enough for it to soak the curls at the base of him. 

“Look at me when I’m fuckin’ you honey.” His hips speed up and it's hard now, his thrusts making your bounce, hitting a part of you that toy would never touch in a million years. 

You open your eyes, and look at him above you, sweat beading on his hairline. Never has he looked more fucking appealing than he does right then. The word is there, in your mouth and you know it’ll taste sweeter than anything in this world. 

The wrong thing wins.  

“Yes daddy.” You moan it, and the shameful thing sets off fireworks in your being, he smiles, and tucks his head into the damp crook of your neck, feeding his lovely filth right into your ear. 

“That’s my babygirl, that’s it, fuck baby you take it better than your mama.” Something inside recoils at that, but something else, another facet of that fucked up thing inside rejoices.

“Let me hear you say it again, say it when you come.” He licks a hot stripe up your neck. His words are a filthy groan, something to tuck away for later.

He reaches down, pressing his thumb to your clit just like he said on that couch and you keen, the slip and the pressure enough to toss you over the edge with an almost painfully intense orgasm. 

“I’m coming, daddy.” It’s a shuddering whisper as your cunt clenches around him. 

He moves quickly, kneeling between your legs to pull out and then he’s stroking himself over your cunt. It’s still pulsing when he paints it in his come. You catch your breath as he tugs at himself a few more times, milking himself against you with a disturbingly familiar groan. 

The fog clears altogether too quickly. The lights are too bright, you’re naked, and he’s still got his jeans around his thighs while the guilt creeps into your veins, replacing the euphoria. 

"So that's her, huh?" Kisame lounged back on his chair, the seat groaning quietly under his weight as he sipped on his chilled beer, his gaze never leaving the sight of your shorts hiking up the plump fat of your ass. The summer heat did nothing to satiate the warmth that settled in their abdomen, especially with the sights of you prancing in the scantily clad fabric you called clothes.

The older men watched you hungrily, imagining all the ways they could bend you over this very patio, your wails reaching over the other gardens as they fuck you wild. They would take turns to paint your insides white until their balls emptied, satiated and panting with your pussy gaping in front of them, stretched to the shape of their fat cocks.

"Yeah", Kakuzu gruffed in return, sunglasses hiding the hungry stare that bore on your back when you stretched over the fence to throw meat to the neighbour's dog, exposing soft skin he ached to sink his fingers in, "There she goes, wasting my fuckin' meat".

"You gotta admit it's kinda cute".

They both watched you coo at the dog, hopping on your toes, your ass bouncing with every move. Up, down, up, down, jiggling plushy flesh that's probably just as soft as they imagined. Both men sat back on their chairs, gripping on their beers long since heated by the sweltering rays of the sun, ignoring the uncomfortable tightness in their pants─ thick cocks rising, dreaming of stuffing your pretty cunt full of their hot cum.

Kisame stifled his groan when you bent over to fix your shoe, ripping his gaze away to retain some semblance of control with his cock jerking against the confines of his shorts, "Fuck", he rasped, "Yeah, she's definitely fucking with you, man".

His friend confirming his suspicions eased him somewhat, but that didn't sedate the ache pulsing from his cock every time you pushed your body against him. A devious little minx that battered her lashes and whined Kakuzu's name whenever she wanted something─ which was often.

Your innocence was all an act─ the way you walked around the house, your mother's house, doe-eyed and barely dressed, complaining about every little thing so Kakuzu would become forced to stand and help while you stood pressed so close he could feel the swell of you breasts brush on his arm. He would grit his teeth and indulge your needs, begrudgingly fulfilling his duties as the man of the house while simultaneously disguising his lust with dismissive glares and low grunts.

"I fucking told you", Kakuzu hissed, once again being subjected to the coy smile you shot him over your shoulder before you went back to carefully placing the skewers of meat on the grill. "She does this shit all the time─ dressing like a slut, touching my arm when she walks past, inviting herself over when her mother is away─" Kakuzu bit his tongue, the familiar prickling of anger being washed away when a beer can sprayed all over your top, making you cry out and pout before peeling off the sticky shirt to reveal your bikini top.

"God-damn, lil' thing isn't wearing panties to match", Kisame groaned low, thankful that it was just the three of you lounging in the garden, "When─" he cleared his throat, watching you fix the straps of your bikini, reigning indifference towards the older men fixated on your every move. Kisame clawed at the label of the beer bottle, gaining a mischievous glint sparkling in his eyes, "When does your wife return?"

"Three days", Kakuzu answered cautiously, knowing what his friend was up to and lowering his tone, matching the darkness behind his shades, "You're not fucking my daughter─ not in my damn house, you dick".

Kisame laughed, sitting up on his chair to lean in closer, lowering his voice too so you wouldn't hear their perverted conversation, "You mean, before you can fuck her, right?" another laugh rumbled from the answered scowl on the man's face, "Sick fuck─ that's your daughter", he sneered teasingly.

"Step-daughter", Kakuzu snarled with gritted teeth, anger rising from Kisame's relentless teasing, "She's my wife's kid─ not mine".

"Still doesn't stop you from thinking about fucking her stupid, huh? Bet she makes the cutest noises, all teary and drunk on dick, calling you daddy─" Kisame howled with laughter, blocking the punch that almost struck him in the face, "You gon' sit there and tell me I'm wrong?"

"Kakuzu!" you sang cheerily, ripping the tension that swirled between the two burly men behind you─ calling to your step-dad in that sing-song, whiny tone that had the grown man flinching every time, knowing the dreaded words that were to follow─ "I need your help!"

Kakuzu groaned before standing, taking off his shades so he could settle his darkest glare on the grinning man, "Don't fuckin' touch her", he growled, "I'm warning you, Hoshigaki".

Kisame lifted his hands up in mock surrender, leaning back on his chair again with the calmest smirk gracing his features, never once losing the mischief that made his friend snarl─ "I won't touch her", he promised, "Not before you do─ then she's free game", Kisame flashed him a roguish grin, not even trying to hide the predatory hunger that buzzed from him, "Don't start pretending like you don't want to".

"Kakuzu", you whined again, "The grill won't start!"

Kakuzu rolled his eyes, "Shut up, Hoshigaki", he turned away from the grinning man, knowing he lost the argument and was only pushing his denial for his pride's sake and not for a fake sense of morals. "What's the fuckin' problem then, girl?"

For the rest of the afternoon, the three of you enjoyed cold beers under the hot sun and a tasty barbeque with your soft laugh filtering between them. Though, in the darkest corners of their minds, both men thought about smearing their leaky tips on the seam of your lips. Maybe you'll finally shut up with a dick down your throat─ a thought that crossed both their minds whenever you so much as opened your mouth.

Cold sweat collects as the minutes tick by, an itch, a stinging that clouds your thoughts with the mindless tasks you use to fill the time. A little part of you urges you to get out of the house, to escape the self-imposed torture of that toxic proximity. That cruel, brutally emotionless thing though, it reminds you of the freedom, of the access you’ll have. A vision of you in their bed, in your mothers place with her man, with your daddy comes unbidden, and accompanied by a full body shudder. 

You lock yourself in your room instead. Coward, the thing whispers. With a huff, you fall back onto your pillow and drown in the guilt. 

The slam of the front door wakes you from an unplanned nap. 

He’s smiling when you come down the stairs, smiling in that way that makes your stomach drop, in the way that makes your blood pound.

“Why don’t you go get dressed, we’re goin’ out.”

“Where are we going?” You fidget with the bannister, curl your toes into the worn carpet. He narrows his eyes a touch, but only gestures to the top of the stairs in response. With your lip between your teeth, you move to do as he says. 

-

His truck smells like him, like sawdust, like the half empty bottle of cologne you’ve seen amongst your mothers things in the bathroom, like that masculine edge that lingers in his neck and behind his ear. Your thighs press tightly together while his are relaxed and open, spread as much as they can be in his seat. You try not to look at him, but it’s useless. The axe is hanging over your head again and there’s a morbid curiosity as to when it will fall. 

His phone trills, and he answers it. 

“Hey baby, how was your flight?” He tucks the phone between ear and shoulder, turning down a mainstreet. Your heart pounds. 

“Yeah, she’s here. We’re spendin’ some quality time. Thought I’d treat her to dinner since it’s just the two of us.” His hand lands on your thigh then, a tight squeeze that makes your breath freeze in your lungs.

“Yep, she’s good, you wanna talk to her?” He huffs out a laugh at the wide-eyed, startled expression on your face. 

“Well alright, call me before bed and enjoy your dinner, honey. Bye.” 

You let out a shaky sigh, breathe deeply again to calm your stuttering heartbeat. His low, knowing laugh doesn’t help. 

“Why are you like this?” He whistles at the clipped tone, at the clear anger in the question. 

“Why am I like what, babygirl?” His hand is so big, so strong and firm on your thigh, slides further between, curling enough that his fingertips brush the cracked leather under you. 

“You know what I mean. Why are you touching me, why have we…” It dies in your throat, smothered by the memory of him in your bed, in the shower. 

“Why have we what? Go on, say what you’re meanin’ to say.” You clench your jaw, eyes averted from him, but oblivious to the passing scenery. He waits for an answer that you don’t want to give.

“Looks to me like you like it, looks to me like you been thinkin’ ‘bout it a long time, and maybe you’re so uptight because I didn’t do it right.” He laughs a knowing, self-satisfied laugh as he pulls into your favourite burger place, the one you used to beg your mom to take you to when you were younger.

“Don’t worry, we got a couple of days to get you sorted right out. Daddy’ll take care of you.” With another squeeze, he kills the engine and hops out of the truck. 

The worst part isn’t that he’s bold enough to say those things to you and mean them, it isn’t that he’s so unbothered by it all, the worst part is the effect that promise has had on you. The seat of your underwear floods, your skin tingles, your nipples harden. 

He holds out his hand when he finally reaches your door, and you take it.

-

It smells the same way it did the first time you’d gone. Hot oil, salt, charbroiled meat, that milky sweetness of a fresh milkshake. The place is filled with families, young ones with little kids celebrating a little league game or a soccer tournament. 

“Joel?” Someone calls out, the urge to step away, to keep things appropriate almost wins until you realize there’s nothing actually wrong with what you’re doing. 

“Sal, hey there.” He shakes hands with someone you’ve never met, someone about his age, someone who came with their own family. They chat idly while the line moves, about work and family. The man’s wife is introduced, Audrey, she looks about your mothers age.

“And this?” Sal smiles at you. 

“This is my little girl, say hello sweetheart.” Joel’s arm wraps tightly around your shoulder. 

“Hi.” Your jaw is tight enough that you think you might crack a tooth. They smile and shake your hand, happy to see you out with who they think is your dad. The ease with which he plays the part, the convincing way he pulls you in, presses his lips to your temple, rubs your shoulder, it’s truly masterful. These people would never know the things he’s done, the things you secretly hope he’ll do again.

He excuses himself when it’s your time to order, he doesn’t let go of you.

“Go on honey, order whatever you want.” He smiles and for a second you can almost believe him, can almost pretend this is a normal outing, a father treating his daughter to her favourite meal. There’s a little bit of heartbreak in that, but not as much as there should be. Not nearly enough. 

You order; a deluxe with cheese and fries, a strawberry milkshake too. 

“I’ll have the same.” He smiles, benevolent, generous, proud.

Sal and Audrey wave when you move away. 

When they call out your order, he guides you to a booth, leaves you picking at steaming hot fries while he grabs napkins and ketchup. Tells you to dig in when he comes back. 

It’s so fucking good, better than you remember. Maybe it’s because with your mother everything was measured. She never let you get the deluxe, never had enough for a milkshake. It was a treat, sure, but measured. 

He eats, but smiles at your obvious enjoyment and you see that glimpse again, the paternal pride of providing. 

“Good huh?” He smiles through a bite, wipes the grease off his cheek with a napkin, dips his fries in your ketchup. It’s safe enough to be honest. 

“It’s really fucking good.” You put the rest of it down on the wrapping paper, take a breath and sip at your own shake. “I haven’t been here in so long.”

“I know.” He eats more fries, “Your mama mentioned you likin’ this place, she didn’t see the appeal.”

“She hated it. Only brought me on my birthday once.”

He says nothing, merely listens.

“She never really took an interest in anything to do with me.” You aren’t sure why, but it feels important to tell him. Maybe it’s a lifeline, a way to convince yourself the feelings, the urges you have towards him are justified. Maybe it’s okay to fuck your stepdad if your mom doesn’t really care about you. It feels unfair to think that, and instantly there’s a need to rationalize her behaviour. 

“She was young when she had me though.” You add before taking another big bite.

“Not that young.” He raises an eyebrow. “She’s in her head a lot, your mama. I think she might just think you’re more mature than she was at your age.” 

You scoff at that, unsure what his angle here is, so you keep quiet. Enjoy your burger.

He finishes before you do, balling up his trash. There’s still some left, and you start packing it up—

“You done?” He asks.

“I can take the rest to go if you want to leave.” He stills your hands.

“No, you take your time. Eat it here while it’s hot, babygirl. Won’t be as good if we take it home.” He sits back, surveying your expression, the semi lost way you hold yourself within the warm booth. 

“Okay.” Despite everything, that strange comfort is still there. It coats the back of your throat like a lozenge, maybe this is what it’s like to have a patient, caring parental figure. The thought is almost enough to make you roll your eyes. He can’t really be a parent, can’t really be a father. Girls don’t want to fuck their fathers, girls don’t want to be fucked by their fathers. 

He finishes his milkshake while you finish up, smiles and eats the last few fries you leave behind. 

“I’m done.” You scrunch up the paper, gather all the trash onto the tray. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” He grabs the tray, throws out the garbage, leads you out while waving his goodbye to Sal. 

-

Something curious happens on the ride home, the urge, the craving grows. He’s perfectly well-behaved, he cracks jokes and blasts the music. He asks if there’s anything else you want, even though you know the pantry and fridge are full. There’s an openness you don’t often see in him, a playfulness that feels special, secret and only for you. The open mouth of a trap stares you in the face, you can almost feel it.

He’s still smiling wide when he pulls into your driveway, that hidden part of him you so desperately want to believe only reveals itself for you on full display. 

“Why don’t you go get all cozy, we can watch a movie.” The palm of his hand lands a crack across your ass. The jolt of which almost makes you smile and it makes you a little sick. 

He’s showered when you reconvene, silver hair slicked back, warm from the water and in soft clothes. Tentatively you sit beside him, a healthy distance, hyperaware of his movements. The flex in his arm as he holds the remote, the spread of his legs, the long line of his throat. 

“Looks like we caught one just startin’, let’s see.” He puts the remote down beside him, and settles in. You can’t help but brace yourself, ears pricked, skin tingling for him to make his move. Your skin crawls with it, that expectation, that…craving? 

The movie plays, scene after scene unfolding, none of which you’re following because you’re too busy waiting for his hand to land on your thigh, for him to say something that makes your blood sizzle–but it doesn’t come. You frown, and a doubt creeps in, a curious insecurity, a confusion. 

“You okay babygirl?” His tone is almost innocent, almost genuinely curious. 

“Yes.” You lean back, bring your legs up. The fact that you lean towards him isn’t lost on either of you. 

“You sure? Come on over here.” He holds his arms open, and the pin drops. There’s a chance, an opportunity to tell him you’re just fine, to set the boundary but you don’t. You crawl right over to him, and bury your face into his neck. 

“Just wanna be Daddy’s little girl huh?” He rubs your back, it burns clean through, pulls on that string behind your bellybutton, soaks the seat of your underwear. You bury your face deeper, practically claw at him. He tsks, squeezes you tight.

“My baby girl just needs some attention.” 

His hands slip under your shirt, rub a soothing circle across the expanse of your back, wholesome, comforting, then slip just under the band of your bottoms, massaging the swell of your ass. You nod into his neck because yes, you do need attention, his attention. His lips press to your forehead, dry, warm, perfect. 

The pressure of his embrace smooths out the sharpness, melts you into a puddle of a girl, makes you sigh. 

When his big hand dips into your panties, when his fingers slide between your legs you moan into his ear. 

“There it is huh baby, that’s what my little girl wants.” It’s not a question, because he knows the answer. The rough edge of his voice when he dips into that wet heat, when he parts you and glides the tips of his finger over your achy clit almost makes you tremble. It makes your toes curl where they’re tucked under his thigh.

“Such a good girl for me.” The words ghost against your skin, crawl into the depths of you while his fingers glide you closer to nirvana. 

Your arms clutch at him tighter, your tongue tastes his neck, teeth scraping softly against his ear. 

“My eager little thing.” It’s said with a fondness that sounds like love, like caring. 

“Faster—“ you beg, voice thin and needy.

“I think you can ask a lil’ nicer than that, use your words baby.” There is no hurry in his task. He holds you, cradled and cared for, legs spread around his wrist. It burns inside, the wrongness, the fucking rightness, feeling this good in the middle of your livingroom. The circuit of his fingers, the blood pounding in your ears, the sharpness of your breath in contrast to his self-control. You lick your lips, swallow thickly around a moan.

“Please Daddy, please, a little faster.” It feels wrong to say it, it feels fucking amazing to say it. He rewards you, speeds up a little, tight circles and your cunt floods, your skin tingles. 

“That’s it baby, that’s it, come for Daddy.” His face dips and he presses his mouth to yours, soft, chaste compared to his fingers and when you come he hums into your mouth, squeezes you tighter, laughs at the way your thighs tighten around his hand. 

“That’s my good girl, so good for me.” He tastes his fingers before hugging you tight, before pressing another chaste, paternal kiss to your forehead. 

“That’s enough movie time, I think it’s time I put you to bed. Hm?” You rest against him, face tucked into his neck again, relishing the steady beat of his heart, the strength in his chest, the broadness of his shoulders. A soft sweep of his hand at your brow, a loving tap against your thigh before he’s urging you to move. 

Slow steady steps up the stairs behind you after he shuts everything off guide you not to your room, but his; your mothers.

It’s different in his bed. Less speaking and more kissing. Less chaste, more tongue. It’s heady, all consuming, it’s his turn now for release and he will have it. Within a moment he has you naked, himself too. The apprehension of being in his bed, of smelling your mothers perfume mixing with him in the sheets is secondary to the way he spreads your legs open, the feel of his cock slipping in the mess he made. 

“This tight little cunt was made for me, wasn’t it sweetheart?” He slips inside in one brutal thrust, sharp snaps of his hips drive away any voice you had. His lips find your nipple, brush softly against the peak before his tongue glides, before he sucks at the plump of your breast. 

“Take it so fuckin’ good baby, take this dick so fuckin’ good.” He bites at your skin, ruts into you just how you wanted him to, just how you knew he would. 

You can’t speak, all you can do is hold your thighs up and open, clutch at the grey of his hair, remember to breathe. 

“You ready for it baby?” He moans, loud, obscene. You nod, opening your legs wider. 

“Here it comes–” You hiss at the swell of it, at the hot spurt of it, commit to memory the exact look on his face. It’ll be the thing you focus on when your mom gets home, when you’re alone in your bed once more.

-

He’d known about her attraction, even though she’d been closed off from the moment he’d stepped foot in her life. Joel could see it clear as day and there was something about this girl he couldn’t ignore. 

When he’d met her mother, he’d only wanted a good time. A quick fuck, maybe an occasional phonecall, an arrangement that worked for both of them but she’d surprised him. She’d made him laugh, she’d offered more than the occasional quickie and he’d been roped in against his better judgment. 

Her teenage daughter had been different. She acted as though Joel didn’t exist, and he respected that. 

When the girl had finished highschool, he’d noticed the change. It was small. Lingering looks, a quiet curiosity about the man in her home, the one her mother slept beside. At first he’d thought she was warming up to him, accepting him as a much needed father figure after the years of providing the food and security her mother had obviously not. 

He’d caught her peeking out the crack in her door once after he’d showered, and the look in her eyes told him everything her avoidance hadn’t but he left it, he didn’t push, didn’t crowd or scare her. She was practically a kid still, and Joel knew what teenage curiosity was. After he’d helped her move away he hadn’t thought about it much, not until she’d come back. 

She clung to him in her sleep, warm, naked, comfortable and so soft. He supposed he should feel guilty, not only with the age difference between them, or the role he was supposed to play in her life, the relationship he had with her mother, none it bothered him though. He lips pressed to his neck, soft and plush and a nagging suspicion took hold of him. Maybe she was the reason he’d stayed so long. 

-

It’s too comfortable, too natural to be alone with him. His big warm hands, callused and rough, find any little bit of skin they can. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head when he sets down your cereal, smiles when you pour yourself a bowl. Coffee steams from the mug in his grip, a smile curls around his lips; a tableau of a father having breakfast with his daughter. 

He pulls your foot up from where it rests at the bottom of his chair and he holds it, massages it while you eat your cereal. You raise the other foot to join. There’s a perverse pleasure in it all, the potential he has to be a great dad, loving and supportive, but then you squirm, feel the remnants of his come pool in your panties and it shifts, a glimmer of impropriety that regrettably makes you ache for him to fill you again. 

“Any plans today darlin’?” He sips at his coffee, squeezes your feet in his lap. 

“I’m off today. No plans. Don’t you work?” The milk is sweet, cold enough that it almost hurts your teeth. 

“Yes, gotta take off in a few or Tommy’ll have my ass.” You knew Tommy, his younger brother, he’d come around a few times over the years. You push the cereal around, curiously hopeful for what, you’re not sure. More time? For him to skip work for you? The idea of it curdles in your gut. This whole thing, this whole interlude wasn’t something you were supposed to want. 

With a deep breath you recall the guilt, the face of your mother, remember just who he is. His smile widens, a conspiracy within himself and you just know he sees everything you’re thinking clear as day. You pull your feet away, rise quickly to rinse your bowl, get away from both him and your own guilt. 

His hand catches yours when you try to walk past, pulls you into his orbit. 

“It’ll be a short day today, we can do somethin’ fun.” You land in his lap, hate yourself for how good it feels. His lips press against your brow and despite yourself, you bury your face in his neck. Those big hands hold you close, slip around your ribs, under your shirt. 

“Be good while Daddy’s at work.” He breathes the words onto your skin, soft while his palm spans your lower back, your hip, your belly. Up it travels until his fingertips find your nipple. You moan into his neck while his thumb caresses the sensitive tip. Your cunt aches, your body turns, opens itself up for him to have more access. He lets out a little huff of laughter but you can’t care enough to be embarrassed, it feels too good. 

“So soft.” He muses, pulling your shirt up to see his handiwork, a soft pinch, gentle plucking.

You watch, enraptured, lip caught between your teeth. 

“Time for me to go.” He dips his head, tastes your breast while you whine. “No touching while I’m gone.” You frown, he smiles. 

“You’re joking–” The words spill out, he knows full well how wet you already are.

“I am not. I want this little pussy aching for me when I get back.” He presses a kiss to your nose, pulls your shirt down and then taps your thigh. “Be good, don’t want Daddy to have to punish you do you?”  

It does something to you, that thought. 

“See you soon, babygirl, lock the door.” He presses a kiss to your forehead again before grabbing his things, and walking out the door. 

-