I grew up in a very poor household, raised by my mother as a single child. I can remember being hungry all the time and never getting what I wanted for Christmas and birthdays. That is until my mother met Patrick Donnelly. Pat was a wealthy man who afforded us all the things we’d never had before. My mother fell in love with him and they married a year later.
Being twenty-two years older than my mother, Pat was actually old enough to be her dad, and old enough to be my grandpa. My mother was far too young and attractive to be with a dirty old man like Pat, but I suppose it was his bank balance that attracted her to him. She was thirty-eight and he was sixty when they married.
I was eighteen when my mother met Patrick, and nineteen when she married him. I was sexually inexperienced at the time, but I always found myself strangely drawn to my stepfather. I never knew my real father so I took to Patrick as though he was my own.
He was nothing special to look at. In fact, he was quite ghastly. He was short and dumpy, with a bushy grey beard, pockmarked nose and a potbelly. But he treated me so well, and he loved to cuddle me and play-wrestle in bed. He would grope my breasts and pinch me between my legs when we wrestled and I’d get a warm tingly feeling in my belly. It was great fun. I would sometimes feel his erection inside his trousers pressing and prodding against my body when we roughhoused. And he loved it when I wrapped my legs around his face and sandwiched his head between my thighs. It wasn’t anything sexual – or at least I didn’t think it was – but I enjoyed it. It felt great and was a real bonding experience.
Back then, the Internet was still in its infancy, so porn was not readily available like it is nowadays. Sex education was a practical lesson, by means of trial and error, limited to chatter on the school playground or a quick feel-up and a bit of tonsil hockey behind the bike sheds or sports hall.
I myself never experimented with boys at school. Being shy and taciturn, I pretty much kept myself to myself and was satisfied to sit on the sidelines, reading books, relying on second-hand information from the other pupils. Plus I grew up in a small, rural town, in a conservative community. It was a very tight-knit and Christian church community, where sexual desire was condemned and rules were rigid about sex before marriage. So, by the time I reached nineteen, I had never even gone as far as kissing a boy.
When my mother married Pat, I was treated to my first sexual experience – hearing them screw every night through the wall of my bedroom.
My mother and stepfather’s bedroom wall ran adjacent to mine, so I could hear everything that went on in their bedroom at night. It sounded like absolute carnage in there at times. I’d hear my mother gasping and groaning, my stepfather grunting and snorting like a pig, the headboard slamming against the wall, the bed squeaking, as the stout little man rutted my mother like she was a piece of meat.
I knew Pat was a real brute in bed, like a wild animal at times, just by the commotion coming from their bedroom during the night. Sometimes it would go on for hours and he would give my mother one hell of a pounding. The loud rhythmic slapping sounds, accompanied by mother’s squeals and shrieks were testament to that. On several occasions, I even heard things being smashed and knocked over, clamouring to the floor. Mum would sometimes beg for mercy and scream for him to slow down. I’d hear her gagging and choking and spluttering. Sometimes he would smack her bottom and demand she call him daddy, until she begged for forgiveness.
But strangely enough, the noises seemed to intrigue and excite me. Being sexually inexperienced, the noises were like listening in on a strange new world, a world I had yet to experience. I would sometimes find myself kneeling by their bedroom wall with my ear against it, listening to the groans of passion and moans of lust emanating from the other side, while caressing the soft peach between my legs.
That’s what I called my vagina back then – the peach.
I sort of knew, deep down, that one day my stepfather would turn his sexual desire towards me. He treated me like a queen, like his little princess, and I sometimes wondered whether he married my mother just to get inside my teenage knickers.
It finally happened six months after Mum and Pat married. Mother came to my room one night, flustered and drunk, to tell me she had to go away for a few days and I was to be left home alone with my stepfather. She told me to do everything he asked and, in return, he’d be gentle with me. I may have been young and naïve, but I was far from daft, and I knew she was telling me to be pliant and give my body willingly to my stepfather in exchange for an easier life.
It was later on that night, while lying on my bed reading a book, wearing nothing but a babydoll nightgown, when I noticed the silhouetted figure standing at my bedroom doorway shrouded in darkness. At first, I couldn’t make out who it was. Though judging by the shortness of the figure and the rotund shape of the body, outlined with a big, bushy beard, I knew it had to be my stepfather.
He stepped into my room, into the light, and I gasped in shock at what I saw. He was naked except for his string vest and shabby white socks, his body covered in a thick mat of wiry grey hair.
“Do you mind if I join you in bed, sweetheart?” he asked kindly.
I was scared shitless, frozen to the spot, yet the thought of my stepfather touching my body appealed to me, made me moist between the legs. I recalled all the times we had wrestled in bed fully clothed, and wondered what it would feel like wrestling naked with him, skin-to-skin, rubbing our sweaty bodies against each other in a frenzy of excitement.
Without waiting for my reply, he joined me on top of the sheets. The bed groaned under his weight when he crawled up on it and started stroking my bare feet and legs. I heard his breathing become heavy and laboured as he caressed my skin.
I gazed up and had an unhindered view of his body. I had never seen so much body hair. His entire body was matted with wiry grey fur. His groin was a tangled bush of grey fuzz with an angry-looking cock, hot and rigid, protruding from its base of coarse pubic hair, standing firm beneath a potbelly that looked like a big balloon. The foreskin was snagged behind the rim of the glans, exposing a plum-shaped bellend that was fatter than the shaft and glistening with moisture.
Sweat trickled down his weatherworn forehead and pockmarked nose. “You ever seen a cock like this before, darling?” he asked, as his hands roved gently over my feet and legs, while his other hand toyed with his cock and balls. He hefted his balls in his palm then rolled his foreskin back and forth over the helmet head, displaying his raw genitalia for my pleasure.
It looked horrific at first. I had never seen anything that looked so mean and nasty. The shaft of his cock was like a spaghetti junction of thick veins. The balls looked like two heavy stones, weighing down the wrinkly sack in which they rested.
“Open your legs,” he demanded, as he clambered between my parted feet and placed his hands on the inside of my thighs and gently pulled them apart. He then lifted the hem of my nightgown up to my waist and gazed down at the peach between my legs. He reached for it and spread my pussy cleft apart with his thumb and forefinger, baring the pink, tender flesh inside.
