Forbidden Desires

Wanting My Stepdad

It was morning. The kitchen was a symphony of normal: bacon sizzling, coffee percolating. However, the air was heavy with the weight of what happened last night. I pushed the door open.

"Morning, Daddy," I said, my voice sounding a little husky.

I walked behind him and wrapped my arms around his body, pressing into the space. I hadn't worn a bra; just this flimsy, white, transparent shirt that was more a covering than anything. My breasts pressed into the broad surface of his back. The immediate friction sent a surge of electric heat through my body.

“Fuckkkk,” I thought, this feels so good.

I closed my eyes and just inhaled him. I stood there breathing for a moment, letting the heat from his body penetrate through my shirt and into my skin. My n*****s were already peaking against his back. I just breathed and let myself feel connected.

“Everything ok, honey?” he asked, his voice a deep vibration I felt in my own chest. He did not move, just froze at my touch.

“Yeah, Daddy, everything is ok,” I forced myself to say as I peeled away, unable to prolong the moment without seeming overtly suggestive.

We sat for breakfast, but today the tension between us was observable, unlike anything we'd felt the day before. I looked at his hands. And the thought entered my mind that I couldn't just do nothing. I picked up my mug. I intentionally spilled hot tea all over my chest.

“Ouchhhh”, I yelped.

The surprise made me gasp, a genuine, high-pitched shriek. His head whipped up. He saw the black stain spreading on my white shirt, and he didn't waste a second rushing to me. He grabbed a towel and dropped to his knees beside my chair. His eyes were wide with alarm. He began wiping the liquid away from my chest in big sweeping motions.

I tried to wail a little, just like a whiny child, but in my head, it was pure electric fire. I leaned into him and started to press my breast more insistently into his palm, following the rhythmic movement as he continued to swipe the towel across my chest, through the wet shirt.

Now, every bit of my chest, my breasts included, was completely exposed through the see-through wet fabric of my shirt.

“Godddd,” I thought, this feels so gooddddd. I could feel the calloused, rough skin of his fingertips against my n****e. With every sweep of his hand, I felt a surge of electricity straight to my core. I watched his eyes, waiting for the moment his concern would morph into something else. His thumb continues circling my t**s.

“Jesus! This feels sooooo good.”

I knew exactly how much my stepdad lusted for breasts. I had observed it over the years, in those candid, silent moments where by chance, I would stumble upon them in the guest room after hours when all the lights were dim. I would stand in the shadows, watching him kiss, suck, and pump my mother’s breasts like a baby, though I had never actually seen him f**k her.

Still, the intimacy of his attention to her, in front of my very own eyes, remained etched in my memory. It was a blueprint to a lust that I never imagined was to be bestowed upon me.

Now it was finally my turn.

I was holding my breath so tight that my lungs were burning; it was a confusing mix of utter thrill and pure terror. I held as still as a statue, afraid even to breathe much, lest I cause some minuscule movement which would break the trance and reveal the true circumstances of the situation.

“Forgive me, Lord.” I prayed in silence, squeezing my eyes shut until I saw stars, but the prayer felt like nothing more than a pathetic attempt to cover up something too wonderful to deny.

His hand was a hot, substantial pressure clamped around my breast. The warmth was not limited to the surface but went straight to the core of my flesh; my blood became a surging flood of fire. Even through the sweat-saturated fabric of my shirt, I felt the individual creases of his hand, his slightly rough hand against my n****e. It was a slow, agonizing pull, as he continued to wipe at the spilled drink, his focus shifted from wiping up to touching.

My head tilted back, a low, involuntary whimper escaping my throat. I felt him pause; his hand resting for one more second, then a long, sensual second against my chest. All I could hear was the rapid drumming of my heart attempting to force its way through my ribcage. I waited, every nerve ending alight, for him to finally break the line I had meticulously drawn for him.

The tiny, steam-filled room seemed to have the densest air I had ever encountered; the smell of spilled tea, mixed with the heady, cloying odor of our closeness, was almost chokingly goodddddddd. I can't stop myself anymore, the pretense of control finally crumbled, and I pressed myself harder against him.

My breasts pushed against his fingers until the sensation was almost unbearably wet, and I strained my neck back to give myself better access, desperately seeking friction that would bring me over.

“Ahhhhhh. Goddddd.” his hands were on my n*****s already; the dry, callused skin chafing against my tender peaks almost too much to bear. My n*****s cried out for attention, and I had to clamp down on the inside of my cheek so that the scream of pleasure would not erupt from my throat.

Minutes pass like syrup while the world beyond the door disappears. Eventually, his chest begins to inflate and deflate in the slow, uneven way that he does when his breathing is labored, and he whispers.

“Sweetie, are you feeling better now?” His voice seems like it's miles away, as if he were calling back to me from the edge of the highest cliff.

I just nod, my brain not functioning properly to construct words. “I have to go to the bathroom,” I told him, as that will give me a moment of quiet to try to compose myself, but as he withdraws his warm hand and lets me take a tentative step back, I feel a huge sense of emptiness. This is not good enough; I want him, I need more than a touch through a wet shirt.

As we head for the door, I don't let him escape. Deliberately, my legs go weak, and I crumple onto the warm tile, allowing my entire weight to shift backward onto him. It is hardly necessary, as his arm is around my waist almost immediately, and I am yanked up against his chest again, my back flush against his solid frame.

“Are you okay, honey?” You've been a little odd since morning, he murmurs, his tone one of desperation and deep concern that I am not well. He turns me in his arms and scrutinizes my face with his dark, penetrative eyes.

“Yes, Daddy,” I whisper, letting my head rest on his neck, and my nose grazes the skin there. I press my entire body into his until every curve presses against him, and I sigh, leaning my full weight into him to make him feel each curve: "I haven't been feeling like myself since last night". The words feel slick and honey-sweet leaving my lips, and they are all there to keep him precisely here; exactly where I want him.

"Do you want to go to the hospital?" His voice was thick and strained, and he pulled me into his embrace more tightly, his fingers digging into my side as if he let go, I would actually evaporate.

"No, Dad." I c****d my head back to look him straight in the eye. The bathroom was already fogging with steam, coating my skin in a sheen of moisture. "I just need a hot shower."

I watched the jump of his Adam's apple as he swallowed and held my gaze with the intense look that had always been the closest to a physical touch in this relationship. And it was his uncompromising protectiveness that weakened my knees, that was so easily weaponized.

He didn't object; he swooped me off my feet from where I was splayed out on the floor and carried me toward my bathroom. He set me on my feet just in front of the shower, his cheeks flushed, and started to turn for the door to give me my privacy. My heart pounded a heavy rhythm against my ribs. I couldn't let him leave.

"Dad, my hands hurt... Can you undress me?"

He hesitated at first, and I knew it was a given, he'd never refused me before-but the air around us in the small bathroom was charged with a tension that had the potential to combust, and I held my breath, sure this was the moment he'd see sense and bolt.

He didn't. I felt the slow reach of his large, shaking hand, and I watched it carefully strip the damp, tea-stained shirt from my head. Next, my shorts came off, pooling on the wet tiles around my feet.

He stopped then. His breathing was shallow, and his gaze never rose from the tiles on the floor where his eyes were locked, where he hesitated to remove my panties. The silence was so dense it was deafening, punctuated only by the steady hiss of the shower.

"Dad, it's alright... I'm your daughter." I used what should have held him back as the only tool I had for approval.

Seeing the expression on his face I don’t know if he would agree or not.