I don’t remember much about my biological father; I was quite young when he skipped town. What I do recall is probably best forgotten. I remember shouting matches, the crashing of dishes and shattering of glass, mom crying, and doors slamming. For years, I thought my mother’s name was, “lying, cheating whore.” I have to agree with what everyone told me. I was better off without him. My sperm donor was exactly the type of man that turns girls into man-hating women. My mother, despite having been through that sort of hell, loved cock too much to give up on them.
Mom was a beautiful woman with a heart of gold, a gentle disposition, and wore her heart on her sleeve. A hopeless romantic, every man she dated would be “the one.” This meant that my mother was the definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over but expecting different results. My mother, Kate, could have been a model. Long-legged, blessed with curves, sparkling, blue eyes, and long, straight, naturally blond hair, mom was blessed with an amazing body to match her stunning personality. I inherited her looks, except for red hair, and some of her brains, but tended to have quite the cynical outlook towards the masculine half of the species. I rarely dated and had little use for boys my age, or men, as I grew older.
Mom went through boyfriends at a breakneck pace all through my childhood. I abandoned all attempts to memorize the ever-changing roster of names. I resorted to calling them “Skip.” My father skipped town, and they’d all skip away as soon as they got into her panties. Aside from her issues with men, mom gave me a pleasant childhood, filled with love and respect. We were each other’s best, and sometimes only, friends.
Then came Jeff, my stepfather. I had just turned sixteen a few months earlier, new driver’s license in my purse, both hands on the wheel of mom’s car. It was more of a fender-bender than a wreck, but our cars “kissed” each other while mom and I were talking, and I was driving us to the grocery store. My mother’s furious ire quickly melted into her typical “lonely slut” mode as soon as the smiling, roguish Jeff exited his hardly-dented vehicle.
Jeff was hot, eye-candy sexy. Wild, long, dark-blond hair, dreamy, hypnotic eyes, and his scoundrel’s smile made me wet at first sight. Further down, his chiseled chest, muscular arms, nice bulge, and tight, spankable tush made him look like he was photoshopped. His gentle nature, self-deprecating sense of humor, and big heart made him a real catch.
Mom latched onto him like a drowning woman thrown a life preserver. Jeff was more than willing to let her; they hit it off like soul mates. I remained caustic, knowing that as soon as he got some of her pussy he’d skip away like the armies of men before him. “Skip” lasted for a few months, then, he became ”Jeff.” Jeff stuck around, sleeping over most nights. Even better, he treated me with respect, supported me, and I grew to see him as more than “the guy mom’s fucking.” Jeff was mom’s boyfriend, and they were happy together.
Less than a year later, Jeff moved in. Later that year, after a very special dinner and the foreshadowed, “Krys, we have to talk about something serious,” it happened. I became the maid of honor at mom’s wedding. I had a stepfather; Jeff became “Daddy,” my Daddy. We were the perfect family, with one exception. Jeff made me horny as fuck; Daddy made me wet.
All my life, my mother was very open about her sexuality, and she condoned and supported mine, not that I was very sexual with others. However, Jeff was just so magnificent, and he treated me as a woman, an equal. Always prone to saying and doing the perfect thing, I was jealous of mom. I sometimes let guys have sex with me, but it was never a burning need. Daddy, Jeff, got me so horny that I fantasized about him, constantly. I needed him.
Mom was a screamer and dirty talker in the bedroom. Jeff was her willing accomplice. Almost every night, they’d fuck and suck each other through half the night. While I hardly ever dated, I had ten lovers, five on each hand. I’d creep out of my room and down the hall, stopping at their door. With my ear pressed against the door, I’d eavesdrop on their sexual Olympiads, fingering myself to one orgasm after another, picturing myself impaled on his massive cock, being made to cum over and over. Jeff would be fucking my ass, not mom’s. My stepfather would lick my juicy cunt, not hers, and I’d be the one screaming “Yes, Jeff, you fucking stud, fuck my hole. Fuck me like a whore.” I’d be the one drinking his cum, not mom.
Very regretfully, mom died in a work accident, a few months later. My stepfather and I were devastated. Embittered at the world for obviously singling me out for misery, I nearly lost my sanity. Had it not been for “Daddy,” I would have been a life-loathing wreck. Jeff saw me through the hard times and stayed by my side, treating me as his own flesh and blood until life resembled something normal. Slowly, eventually, we found our way once more. The father-daughter dynamic was quiet and peaceful. I missed my mother, but Jeff was always there for me, and I for him. He didn’t even attempt to date, although I did my best to get him laid.
I tried to set him up with my Chemistry teacher to no avail. One of my friend’s mothers was single, and I invited them over for dinner. Yet, again, no sparks flew. Daddy wasn’t interested in other women, it seemed. His heart still ached for his Kate, my mother. I found it to be romantic, sweet, and infuriating. I desperately needed to hear him fucking somebody into oblivion, so I could get off, hard.
I had to resort to surreptitious voyeurism to get off to my Daddy. When he was mowing the yard, shirtless, wearing just shorts, I’d follow him with my eyes, watching him from the window, with my fingers buried in my cunt. When Daddy showered, I’d sneak into his bathroom and finger my clit while he rubbed soap all over his body. Every time he’d clean his cock, I’d cum so intensely that my legs grew weak. Mom, the Goddess rest her soul, was right; he had a massive cock, much larger than any of the boys I’d let fuck me.
Then, one random night, things changed. At least twice per month, we’d have a “family night.” Our usual ritual was take-out food, Chinese that time, and sitting together on the couch, talking, laughing, and mostly streaming silly movies. After dinner, I’d take a shower, change into my bedclothes, usually just a t-shirt and pajama pants or shorts, and we’d lounge around, a huge bowl of popcorn between us, and just relax. We’d go to bed, and I’d finger myself to sleep, quietly fantasizing about him.
This night was no different from the others, except I hadn’t finished doing my laundry and all my sleep pants and comfy shorts were in the washer. Comfortable and not self-conscious around him, after I showered, I put on a loose t-shirt and thong panties. Some clothes, yoga pants, for example, require a thong unless you want obvious garment lines. I didn’t intentionally wear them to tease Daddy, it was the only clean bottoms I had. The movie was a scary vampire movie with lots of jump scares and bloody horror violence.
I was leaning away from my stepfather, my head resting on the arm of the couch. If I were sitting normally, or standing, the shirt covered my butt, going down to just past the tops of my thighs. Leaning as I was, the shirt exposed my butt and pointed almost directly at Daddy. When I turned my head to reach back and grab a handful of popcorn, I caught him staring at my ass. I’ve caught others gawking at my butt before, even some teachers. Once I hit eighteen, the male teachers were a little more obvious about it. This time was different. As soon as I caught him leering at my behind with hunger in his eyes, my pussy caught on fire and got wetter than it ever had.
Loving the thrill of him looking at me like that, I suddenly became very anxious, wiggling and shifting around. My efforts had the desired effect. Soon, my legs were drawn up, making my ass stick out more, and the hem of my shirt had ridden up over my waist. I felt my nipples grow hard and my body heat up to the point that my skin felt fiery.
“Let me move this bowl, Krys, before you knock it on the floor.”
“Yeah, Daddy, that’d be a good idea.”
I knew that when he moved the bowl that he’d have an unobstructed view of my thong-covered ass. I wondered if he could see the wet spot forming on them and smell my dripping pussy. We relaxed that like for a while, him staring at my butt and me pretending not to notice but loving every second of it.
During a particularly tense scene, one where you know the vampire is about to strike and your nerves are on high alert, I sat up to take a drink. When the monster jumped out, it startled me. I shrieked, taken aback at the vampire pouncing on his victim, and instinctively buried my head in his lap. My mouth made contact with a huge erection. I could feel his hard cock under his lounge pants with my lips and cheek. I almost had an orgasm on the spot.
“Why do you always want to watch scary movies when they freak you out,” he laughed as he stroked my hair with his hand and then protectively placed it on my exposed hip. The heat from his skin touching my flesh made me moan, which I quickly turned into another shriek, pretending it was the movie that had me all worked up, not him touching me.
“You’ll protect me, won’t you, Daddy?”
He almost needed somebody to protect him from me. We spent the rest of the movie like that. I could smell his manly scent, feel his hard cock throbbing against my cheek, as I lay with my head in his lap. Every time I’d exhale, I could feel my hot breath blowing onto his turgid shaft. His hand moved to a more comfortable position, running from my hip, over the waist strap of my thong, and resting on my ass. I couldn’t help but wiggle around some, stopping when his palm was resting on my ass cheek.
