Twice As Dirty
1246 Words
EXCERPT:
Hugh told me to call him 'Dad' when he tucked me in at night. He told me to call him 'Sir' when he unzipped his trousers under the desk.
I thought that was the limit of our sin. I was wrong.
Last night, Cole, my stepbrother, cornered me in the laundry room, pinning me against the washer, his knee grinding between my legs, while Hugh was just down the hall on a business call.
The fantasy of a ‘happy family’ died the night Hugh walked in on us.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t drag Cole off me. He just loosened his tie, leaned against the doorframe and asked the question that doomed us all.
'Is there room for Daddy?'
Now, I wasn’t a daughter. I wasn’t a sister. I was the only thing keeping the King and the Prince from killing each other... while they took turns ruining me.
We were a family, alright. As long as 'family' meant me on my knees between the two men who raised me.
——————-
My skin crawled, but in a way that made me want to peel my clothes off, not put them on.
I sat at the head of the table, right next to Hugh, my stepfather. The Vance dining room was massive, cold, and filled with the smell of money and roasted duck. Twelve men in suits talked about Singapore, but I couldn't hear a word.
Because under the heavy linen tablecloth, I was being ruined.
Hugh’s hand was on my thigh. It wasn’t a pat. It was a claim. His palm was heavy, sweating slightly against my skin, and his pinky finger, the one with the heavy gold Vance ring, was hooked dangerously close to the wettest part of me.
My p***y throbbed so hard I thought I might pass out.
"Gentlemen," Hugh boomed, his voice rich, authoritative, and completely fake. "This is Elara. My ward. The light of the house since we lost my dear wife."
Applause rang out. I offered the smile I’d practiced in the mirror a thousand times. "Thank you, Daddy."
Hugh turned to me, his eyes crinkling with a warmth that didn't reach his black, hungry pupils.
He patted my hand. "She’s been through so much," he told the room, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "Losing her mother... it broke my heart. But she’s a strong girl. Daddy’s brave little soldier, aren't you, sweetheart?"
"Yes, sir," I breathed.
And then, the mask slipped.
While he launched into a monologue about "market volatility," his left hand drifted. It left my hand, slid down my wrist, and landed on my bare thigh.
The fabric of the cream dress he forced me into was cool, but his palm was scorching. He wasn't petting me; he was claiming me.
His fingers dug into the soft muscle of my inner thigh, massaging me with a possessive hunger that made my stomach flip.
"Elara, pass the butter, please," he said aloud, cheerful.
I reached for the dish. As I stretched, his hand slid higher.
Oh, goodness.
He moved with agonizing slowness. Inch by inch, his pinky finger, the one with the heavy gold Vance family crest, and dragged the fabric up with it.
The air hit my skin, and I realized with a jolt, I wasn't wearing stockings. He dressed me like this on purpose.
"Is the duck to your liking, darling?" he asked, his eyes locking onto mine, dark and unreadable.
"Yes, Daddy. It’s... very tender," I stammered. My breath hitched because his thumb just brushed the crease where my leg met my hip. The sensation was electric, a spark jumping straight to my c**t.
"Good," he purred, a sound that vibrated in my chest like a growl. "You need your strength. You’ve been looking pale. Perhaps Daddy needs to... supplement your diet."
His hand moved again, higher.
He bypassed the modesty of the dress. He was on bare skin now. The heat radiating from my p***y was palpable, even through the heavy tablecloth.
I could feel the dampness gathering, the slickness of my p***y was betraying me, and I was terrified he could feel it through the chair.
Across the table, Cole shifted.
I felt his eyes before I saw them. Cole was watching Hugh’s elbow. He saw the way my spine went rigid, the way my knuckles turned white around my fork.
"Actually, Dad," Cole interrupted, his voice smooth as silk but edged with steel. "I think Elara looks flushed. Maybe the room is too warm for her? Or maybe she’s just overwhelmed by all this... business."
Hugh didn't even look at his son. He kept his eyes on me, his hand now resting dangerously high on my thigh, his thumb drawing small, torturous circles near the junction of my legs. He was so close. So dangerously close to the wet heat that was aching for him.
"Nonsense," Hugh chuckled, a dark, rumbling sound. "Elara loves the excitement of the boardroom. Don't you, sweetheart?"
"Yes, Daddy," I gasped, my eyes watering. The pressure was building. I was terrified someone would see, but the wetness pooling in my panties betrayed me.
I was a bad girl, and we both knew it. I was letting the most powerful man in the room play me like a violin while he ate dinner.
"She’s blushing," Cole noted, leaning forward, his eyes burning into Hugh’s arm. "Maybe you should cool her down, Dad. Or maybe you should stop... and let her go to her room."
The table went quiet. But no one could catch the implication of Cole’s words and I terrifyingly hope they don’t.
Hugh finally turned his gaze to Cole. The air between father and son crackled with a rivalry that went deeper than money.
"Are you telling me how to treat my ward, Cole?" Hugh asked, his voice dropping an octave.
"I’m just saying," Cole smirked, taking a slow sip of his wine. "The help is staring. And I know how you hate it when people stare at what belongs to you."
Hugh’s hand tightened on my thigh, a silent warning to stay still. His pinky finger dipped lower, grazing the damp lace of my panties for a split second.
He felt it. Of course he felt the damp heat.
I had to bite my lip to keep from gasping. My p***y clenched around nothing, desperate for pressure.
"Elara belongs to this family, Cole," Hugh stated, his voice a whip-crack. "And I take care of my family. In public... and in private."
He turned back to the CFO. "Now, about those shipping lanes..."
But his hand didn't move back. He slid his finger under the lace edge.
I froze. The world stopped.
He wasn't just touching me near it anymore. He was touching the p***y itself. His rough, calloused fingertip traced the slick, swollen heat of my slit, right there, in front of God and everyone.
I was dripping. I was soaked. The lace was sticking to me.
"Yes, Daddy," I whimpered, the word catching in my throat as he found my c**t and began a slow, rhythmic stroke that had me seeing stars.
I sat there, paralyzed. A "good girl" smile plastered on my face, while my stepfather fingered my p***y under the dinner table, and my stepbrother watched, knowing exactly what was happening.
I was dripping. I was ashamed. And I had never been more turned on in my life.
And that’s how our sin started.
- Writer
