My heart was thumping like crazy. “That’s crazy talk. Your mother is your mother. She cares. People care.”
“No, they don’t. And I don’t blame them.” She twisted her fingers on her lap. “I am the stupid, bad bitch everyone says I am.”
I’ve always hated the victim mentality. Even coming from her with a tear-streaked face, it irritated the shit out of me.
“It’s always a choice, sweetheart. You choose who you want to be. Only you can change your behaviour.”
Only that was bullshit, and I knew it. I could change her behaviour with a few decent slaps on her ass and some proper fucking discipline.
She opened her legs a little, almost imperceptibly. Almost. There was something unspoken between us. A tension building. That’s when I guessed she knew the only you can change your behaviour crap was bullshit too. She knew as well as I did that someone like me could change her behaviour with a decent amount of guidance.
I didn’t think she’d risk voicing it out loud. The alcohol must have been flowing rampant through her brain to even consider it, but she did.
“Maybe I want to be bad, hey? Maybe I hope one day someone will care enough to stop me... to put me in my place and make me behave.”
“You’re drunk,” I stated the obvious.
“So? What if I am? It doesn’t make any difference, does it? I’m only telling the truth.”
“You need to go to bed,” I said. “Now.”
“I have secrets, Kyle...”
“Don’t we all,” I muttered, then took another breath. “Get your ass up to bed, Aimee. Sleep it off.”
“I’m not lying. I have real secrets. I write about them in my diary. I write about you, too.”
“Go to bed, Aimee.” I fixed her in the most serious stare I could muster, part of me begging her to leave, the other part daring her to stay.
She sighed and steadied herself, pulling her legs away from me and raising herself from the sofa. “Fine. Goodnight then, Daddy.”
I held my breath until she was long gone.
Aimee’s bedroom light was on as I made my way upstairs. I walked past quickly, not entirely trusting my urges. Stepdaughter, stepdaughter, stepdaughter. The mantra should have rammed some perspective into my swollen fucking balls, but all it did was stoke me higher. I ditched my suit and took a shower, a cold shower – scrubbing my skin to citrus-scented purity, desperate to scrub her out of me. But the glimpse of her white lace panties held firm, blazing bright behind my eyeballs. My mouth watered, hungry for the scent of silky young pussy, hungry for the dirty little girl down the hallway. She’d be satin soft, her tight little cunt so eager for my fingers, so eager for me. I turned up the shower to hot, lowering my head until the force of the jet scorched my shoulders. The water surged around my ears, drowning out the world, but I was all out of fight.
With a groan I relented and reached for my cock. In my deviant mind Aimee was reclining on her bed, head lolling back against frilly white pillows, blonde curls splayed like a clichéd golden halo. Her legs were spread wide, nightdress hitched around her waist as her glitter pink nails circled her sweet clit. She’d look at me through hooded eyes, breathing hard and fast. And then she’d say the words; words I should never hear but fuck, they’d sound so fucking sweet. Fuck me, Daddy, please. Please, Daddy, give it to me. Jesus Christ. My cock leapt in my hand, jerking and twitching and pulsing into oblivion. White hot release shot through my balls until I was a wreck, a grunting hulk of sin, coming like a fucking animal. Dirty girl, so fucking dirty.
I caught my breath, my brow pressed to the tile. The forbidden fruit always tastes so fucking juicy. Hell don’t I know it. I’ve been filthy my whole life.
I slung a towel around my shoulders, stopping at the sink to brush my teeth. I wiped a streak in the steam on the mirror, ready to meet the eyes of the dirty fucker who’d shot his load over stepdaughter pussy, but instead I saw beyond. Beyond to the crack of light in the doorway and the flash of blonde hair stumbling from my bedroom.
What the fuck?
Aimee was fragile in the morning. She was waspier than usual, scowling at me as I fried up egg and bacon. My optimism was shelved in seconds. I’d been a fool to think anything about our seemingly heartfelt chat would last through the night. She was back to her usual bratty self, loud and clear.
“Do you have to cook right now?” she snapped. “I think I’m gonna barf.”
I pushed down my indignation, turning to face her with a spatula in hand. “Did nobody ever teach you manners, or are you simply this obnoxious by choice?”