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“You look just like your mother.”
That right there is something I have gotten used to hearing. I mean, it is true after all, and my mom is seriously hot anyway, so I don’t mind. But like I said, I get it all the time. What I never expected was that those six words would come out of my step-daddy Peter’s lips right before he fucked me and filled me up with that creamy, hot load of his. I also never thought that right now, eight months into carrying my daddy’s baby that he would still be in my bed almost every night. Poor guy just can’t keep his hands off of me.
I’ve never had a man make me feel like Peter does, but I’m getting a little ahead of myself. It’s just that when he runs those fingers over my big, baby-filled belly, looks into my eyes and slips his cock inside me he takes me away to some other place. Some place that I never knew existed.
This might sound very strange for me to say, but I love my step daddy more than anything else in the world. Before I get into all that, let me take you back in time. Back to the first time, actually, that I ever felt a cock inside me which also happens to be when my step daddy gave me this baby boy. I think when you know the whole story everything will start to make a lot more sense.
***
My real dad left when I was very young. My mom says I was eight sometimes, other times she says seven, but either way, I don’t remember him much. For a few years it was she and I in the house. She was a good mom, but she had her hands full. She worked a lot, never had much time at home, and so I grew up in my own little world. I read a lot, even wrote a bit. One day, she met Peter, and the whole world turned upside down.
My mom’s a nurse, and Peter at the time was a drug company salesman, so they’d seen each other a thousand times before either of them made a move. On my twelfth birthday, on little Liz Branly’s birthday, they got married. I wanted that, by the way. Mom asked what I wanted for my birthday and I told her I wanted her to marry Peter. They both thought that was tremendously sweet, and had been planning a wedding anyway, so it just worked out perfectly.
It was a good way to be brought up. Mom kept working, Peter took over most of the “dad” type things – taking me to practices, going swimming in the summers – and I loved him. I think I didn’t fall in love with him for quite a few years, but I definitely had feelings for him that I couldn’t explain to anyone, especially my mom. He’s a burly guy, kind of a barrel chest with big arms, dark blue eyes and a sweet face that could make the world’s most terrified-of-everything cat feel safe. And that’s just what he did for me. Peter, my daddy, gave me all the safety and security that I’d always wanted.
We grew apart a little as I got older, but nothing out of the ordinary. He was still always around, and he was still the one I went to when some jack-ass boyfriend cheated on me, or dumped me for a bigger-breasted girl or whatever. He’d hug me, tell me I was beautiful and give me a little pep talk. He’s that kind of person – the sort that can always make you feel better, even on the worst days of your life.
Looking back, he was probably terribly lonely. My mom worked all the time, sometimes taking double and triple shifts at the hospital, even though she didn’t really need the money. They both did pretty well, but my mom got away from everything by going to work. In a strange way, that’s how she relaxed – by working. She was increasingly absent from my life and from Peter’s, so even though we weren’t as close as we were when I was smaller, we still held on to one another for company if nothing else.
The other thing I realize when I look back on those days is that I teased him horribly. Even though I went to college late, I grew early. I had full, beautiful tits by the time I was sixteen, and by seventeen, my face had matured. At eighteen I discovered how magically I controlled boys when I wore tight, ass-hugging jeans and thin cotton t-shirts that were too small. Peter was no different. I could tell he wanted me, or at least wanted someone, every time I’d swish around the house in a towel that was rolled up just so that the cleft of my tight little pussy almost showed. I tied them around me like that on purpose, of course, and made sure my tits were pushed up under the towel, almost spilling out. He never did anything but look me in the eyes though.
His chronically absent wife wasn’t giving him what he needed. What he wanted from her. Twenty-three years older than me, she didn’t look it at all. She’s fit, elegant and sexy, but she just wasn’t ever around. It isn’t like they never had sex, not even close. But, he wanted her every time he saw her. His eyes trailed down her body, his cock perked up in his pants when she walked past. I made a point to check his crotch when I’d go past on my trampy missions to arouse him, but Peter never reacted much. At least while I was looking, anyway.
My little game went on for years. The poor guy had no way out. My mom got a promotion in the hospital to some sort of administrative position early last year, and so she was forever going on these long business trips for weeks, sometimes months on end. At that point, I was getting ready to leave for college, and taunting Peter had become almost a strip-tease exhibition.
I heard him sometimes in the bathroom or in his room late at night tugging on that dick of his, sometimes saying my mom’s name, and sometimes calling out “Liz” instead. I couldn’t believe it the first time I stumbled across him, but I understood. I was a little over twenty at that time, and one of the horniest girls you’ve ever known. Problem is though, I was so shy and so lacking in self-confidence that I’d never let a boy give me a good hard fucking. I’d done oral a few times, and one guy had gone down on me badly twice, stuck a finger or two in me and fumbled around a little, but nothing serious. I wanted it so, so bad, but I just could never go that one last step. I guess part of it is that of the boys I brought home or met out somewhere, none of them ever stacked up to my daddy, Peter.
I’d listen to him in the bathroom. Close my eyes. Imagine what his cock looked like, what he looked like without any clothes on, and what having him split my pussy open would feel like. If I really concentrated, I heard his hand moving up and down his dick – that smooth rubbing sound. When he came, he always sucked air in through his teeth in a hiss. Then he’d grunt and sigh. I liked to pretend that while I was out in the hall with my fingers buried in my soaking wet, aching-for-him slit, that he imagined me underneath him, my legs pushed back so my knees were near my head, and he was so deep inside me that his balls slapped against my asshole every time he pumped.
When I listened to him grunt out those orgasms and sigh, I grinded the palm of my hand hard on my clit, made myself cum just when he did. I’d drive my fingers deep and try to envision him spurting inside me, his jizz dripping down the walls of my cunt and out on to the sheets.
Sometimes he went for a second round immediately after the first. When he did that, I’d keep going too. My thoughts made it so that he used his own cum to lube me up again and fuck me so hard, and so fast that when he grinded into me again, his balls sticky and hot from a mix of his cum and my pussy juice, he wouldn’t be able to take it for more than a second before he had to flip me over and take me from behind so he could get as deep as
possible and fill me up with another gush.
By then we were done, my pussy would usually be so sore, and feel so rung out and good that I’d just go to bed. Lie there, pretending that I was in Peter’s arms, covered in sweat, my hole red, tired and sated. I’d dream about the mess I wanted him to make between my legs. The bite marks I wanted on my nipples and how I wanted him to suck my lips in his mouth, stick a finger inside me and watch my face when I lost control. Every now and then, I’d lie back on my bed and listen to him stroke himself off and slip a couple of fingers in my asshole, because I wanted him there too.
I knew I could never have him though. Until right before I left for college, the only orgasms I had ever had – the only real ones – were from the private time Peter and I spent with him imagining fucking me and me hiding in the hall outside, grinding out climax after climax thinking about exactly the same thing.
But, it was just a fantasy. It could never happen.
That’s what I told myself. Over and over. Just a fantasy. I’d never have Peter.
One day, it happened. I learned in the space of a few moments that everything I’d dreamed about him, all my fantasies and imagined encounters – all of it paled in comparison to actually being fucked by my daddy.
