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Eventually she lets out a shaky breath, closes her legs and slumps against me.
I turn the shower off and grab a towel from the counter. I easily lift Cara out of the tub and wrap the towel around her. Then I pat her mound through the fabric. I consider insisting on adding lotion to the freshly shaved skin, but my cock is throbbing so hard, I know it will be difficult to stop with just the lotion. What I really want is to rub my cum into her skin.
‘Now, that’s how you use the razor,’ I say instead as I try to calm my breathing and step away from her.
‘Thank you, Daddy,’ Cara whispers shyly, glancing at me through her lashes. This unusually meek version of the teenage brat bites her lip as her eyes drop to my tented sweatpants. I swallow and force myself to take another step back.
‘If you need something done properly, you ask your daddy, right?’
‘Yes, Daddy.’
I exit the bathroom and quickly walk down the hallway. I close the door behind me in the large en-suite attached to the master bedroom – the only room in the house that my mother had restored to its historic glory back when she lived here. An antique claw-foot bathtub stands majestically on a dark solid wood floor and a pink marble sink sits against white tiled walls. Valerie has laid claim to the room, forcing me to share the bathroom – that hasn’t been updated since the eighties – with her daughter. Valerie has also laid claim to the one spare bedroom that has new draft free windows – the room that was going to be a nursery – and turned it into her own personal walk-in wardrobe. And every corner of this house has one of her hideous potted cactuses. It wouldn’t surprise me if she uses their needles on voodoo dolls that look just like me. My life sure has been hell since she moved in.
Why on earth did I think it was a good idea to marry her? I had been enthralled by Valerie’s energy and sexual appetite. She bewitched me, bound me to her with her long legs and deep throat. Despite being five years older than me, she injected life into my groundhog days.
I thought it was a sweet package deal – a horny wife and a cute teenage daughter. Or a ‘starter pack’, before we extended the family.
That never happened.
I lean over the sink. Reflected in the gilded mirror is my brown hair with sun bleached tips that frame my face with its two-day stubble. There’s a wicked grin on my face and my eyes are darker green than normal.
Perhaps my life won’t be that hellish going forward.
If only my wife knew what I’ve just done to her daughter! She would be livid.Enraged. A low chuckle is bubbling up my throat. I free my hard cock from my sweatpants. It’s heavy and hot in my hand, leaking pre-cum. I smear it along the thick shaft and move my hand up and down, squeezing the swollen cockhead. I hold on to the counter and increase the pace of my strokes. I imagine Cara’s wet body trembling in ecstasy, my cock pumping in and out of her shaved young cunt. I imagine my wife walking in on us – her anger, her fury… My laughter fills the room as my balls draw up, my cock pulsing in my hand, and I shoot my cum all over Valerie’s gilded mirror.
3
Chapter 3
‘Fucking bitch!’
I count the money one more time, making sure no notes are stuck or hidden, then slam my wallet on the counter. Fifty pounds missing.
It was Cara, I know it was. She had ample opportunity to go through it when I was outside working. My wife would rifle through my wallet and pockets any chance she got, but I was in the house earlier when Valerie got ready for her usual weekend piss-up. She was taunting me, trying to rile me up, and partly succeeding, with her badly veiled hints of what she’d be up to tonight. My stomach burns as if full of acid, thinking about how her behaviour is publicly making a mockery of both me and this marriage. I hate how my mates look at me with ill-hidden pity whenever my wife is mentioned.
Unlike Valerie, Cara’s never stolen from me before. Is she her mother’s daughter through and through and thinks it’s her right to take my money now, after what happened in the bathroom a few days ago? I shift my junk in my pants, as the image of her breasts heaving and her pink young pussy appear in my mind. Shaving Cara was the most fun I’ve had in what feels like years. I can’t stop thinking about it, and every time I do, I go hard.
I should feel regret, but knowing my wife has most likely got a stranger’s cock down her throat this very moment makes it difficult to concoct any remorse, and I’ve been tapping down my guilt towards Cara by telling myself that she is beyond legal at nineteen. Still, I’m thirty-five, twice her age.
And I’m her stepfather.Yeah, that kind of makes my cock harder.
The teenager has been avoiding me the last few days, yet I know she’s kept eyes on me. I saw her, a shadow hiding behind the curtains in her room, when I was sawing fence boards in the backyard. The wood was reclaimed cladding from a shed I demolished a couple of years ago. Waste not, want not and all that. I pretended not to notice Cara in the window as I cut through the wood. Instead, I made a show out of taking my shirt off, flashing my toned abs and flexing my muscles as I gripped the saw handle. There was a faint tremble of the curtain. Maybe from the fan in her room? Or maybe from Cara touching herself while watching me, her stepdad? It had caused a stirring in my pants, imagining her sinking her slim fingers in between her shaved, plump folds. Was she focusing on her clit, or did her fingers seek out her wet hole? One finger? Two? I sawed with more vigour. Was she squeezing her breast, like in the shower?
I couldn’t help but stand straight, pushing my hand down the happy trail and into my sweatpants. Stroking my swelling length and never letting on that I knew I was being watched. Shortly after, the curtain stilled. I had walked into the barn and used my right hand while imagining my stepdaughter in all sorts of positions.
The grinding of gears draws my attention to the present. I step to the window. Scott’s beat up sixteen-year-old Skoda, probably a hand-me-down from his mother, is making its way up the gravel drive. He parks right outside the front door, as if it’s his birthright. As I watch, he leans over and picks something out of the glove compartment. The corners of my mouth tilt down. It’s a small plastic bag, and I’d bet my missing fifty pounds that the content is weed.
I open the front door before Scott has a chance to touch the lion-shaped knocker on the weathered oak.
‘Oh… hiii, Mister… Kilpatrick.’
The words are drawn out and a stupid grin is on the loser’s face. He’s sampled the contents of the bag already. Anger simmers in my veins.
The granite stone is cold and wet under my feet and drizzle cools my face as I walk out and close the door behind me, forcing Scott to retreat down a step. He laughs nervously, running a hand through his overgrown hair.
I smirk, I’ve never felt more like king of the castle than this moment. With the exception of the three years I was away studying for my economics degree, I’ve only ever lived in this house – it’s always been ‘home’ to me – but now I bask in the superiority it imposes. Scott doesn’t know Kilpatrick House only has a handful of liveable rooms; he doesn’t know that three of the five ornate stained glass windows in the turret tower on the west corner have been boarded up to preserve them until I find the money to restore them. All he sees is a massive historic building with vines growing around the double front door, and the lord of the manor – although barefoot and in comfy sweatpants – staring down his nose at him.
‘She doesn’t want to see you anymore.’
