Stepdaughter Catches Him Masturbating

Terrence had the house to himself, and he was using it.

He was forty-two, a businessman who took half his calls from the spare room he’d turned into an office, and the afternoon had gone slack after the last one. His wife was at a conference two states over until Thursday. Elise—twenty-one, a junior at the state university, his stepdaughter only by her mother’s first marriage, not a drop of his blood in her—had a seminar that ran until early evening. He had checked the shared calendar the way a man checked a lock. Empty house. Door downstairs shut. He told himself that was enough and then he stopped telling himself anything at all.

The porn filled the monitor, crude and close, a woman bent over a desk with her panties dragged aside and a cock driving into her in wet, steady thrusts. Terrence had his own pants open and shoved to mid-thigh, dress shirt untucked, belt hanging. His cock stood thick in his fist, flushed dark at the head, a strand of precum stretching from the slit to his thumb every time he stroked up. He wasn’t lazy about it. This wasn’t the half-hearted tug he sometimes managed in the shower between meetings. His wrist worked in long, greedy pulls, grip tight, balls drawn up, the wet sound of his hand loud against the computer fan. On the screen the woman moaned. He matched her without meaning to, a rough sound scraped out of his chest, hips lifting off the leather chair to fuck his own fist.

He was close. His jaw locked. Heat coiled low and mean in his gut. The head of his cock swelled, shiny, and he twisted his grip, chasing the edge, completely gone, eyes half-shut, not thinking about emails or the conference or the fact that he hadn’t even closed the office door all the way.

The hinge moved.

He heard it a second too late.

Elise stood in the doorway with her backpack half off one shoulder and her keys still hooked on a finger. Twenty-one, flushed from the walk up from the car, a cropped sweater and a short skirt and bare legs, home hours early because a professor had canceled the seminar and sent everyone out. Her eyes went to the screen, then to his hand, then to his cock, and they stayed there. She didn’t scream. She didn’t spin around and vanish down the stairs. She went very still, and the color rose hard in her face, all the way to her hairline.

Terrence’s fist stopped at the base. He didn’t cover himself fast enough to matter. His cock throbbed in the open air, wet and obvious, a bead of precum welling at the tip, and the porn kept playing behind him like it had a right to. Their eyes met. The taboo of it hit the room all at once—the man who paid for the groceries and sat across from her at dinner when she was home from campus, caught with his pants down and his need in his hand, and the young woman who had every right to walk back out and never speak of it.

“Elise.” His voice came out wrecked. “You’re early.”

“Class got canceled.” She didn’t look away from his cock. Her throat moved when she swallowed. “I texted. You didn’t answer. I heard you from the stairs.”

He should have grabbed his pants. He should have killed the video. He did neither. Shame and heat fought in his chest, and the heat was winning because she was still standing there, still looking, her lips parted, her bag sliding the rest of the way off her shoulder to thud on the floor. His cock didn’t soften. If anything it jumped, betraying him, a visible pulse under her stare.

“You should go,” he said, and it sounded like a lie even to him.

“I don’t want to.” She stepped inside and pushed the door shut behind her with her heel. The click was soft and final. Her voice shook, but not from fear. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you. For months. Since I turned twenty-one and came back for the summer and started noticing the way you look when you think nobody’s watching. I’m an adult. I’ve been an adult the whole time I’ve wanted you. Not before. After. I haven’t told anyone. I touch myself to it in my apartment near campus and I feel insane, and I came up those stairs and heard your hand, and I could have left. I didn’t.”

The confession sat between them, raw and bright. Terrence stared at her—at the skirt, at the rise of her chest, at the fact that she was twenty-one and clear-eyed and not moving toward the door. His cock ached. The woman on the screen was still taking it, and he couldn’t have said what she looked like anymore.

“You’ve been fantasizing about me,” he said.

“Yes.” She took another step. Her gaze dropped again, hungry, lingering on the shine of precum, the thickness of him, the way his loose fist couldn’t hide what he’d been doing to himself. “And you’re hard for a video, but you’re looking at me like you want to put it in my mouth. So tell me I’m wrong.”

He wasn’t. He had been careful for a long time not to let the thought finish itself. She was grown. She was not his blood. She was still the last person he was supposed to want, and none of that stopped the throb in his cock or the way his mouth had gone dry.

“You’re not wrong,” he said. He made himself hold her eyes. “I’ve thought about you too. Not when you were younger. After you came home from university a woman and started walking through this house like you owned the air in it. I told myself it was nothing. It isn’t nothing. I’m sober. I’m awake. Nobody’s pushing me. I’m choosing to say it.”

“So am I.” Elise’s chin lifted. “Sober. Awake. I want this. Nobody’s making me, and I’m not making you. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave and we can pretend I never opened that door. If you want me closer, say it out loud.”

He reached back without looking and killed the video. The sudden quiet made his breathing loud, made the wet shine on his cock impossible to ignore. His heart slammed. He could still stop this. He looked at her mouth and knew he wouldn’t.

“Come here,” Terrence said.

She crossed the room. She didn’t rush the last few feet. She let him watch her decide, skirt brushing his bare thigh when she stopped between his knees. She looked down at his cock, flushed and leaking, and her tongue touched her lower lip.

“I want to suck it,” she said. “Say yes if you want that. Say it so I hear you choose it.”

“Yes,” he said. “I want your mouth. I’m choosing this. Don’t do anything you don’t want.”

“I want all of it.”

Elise dropped to her knees on the office rug. The small sound of it was filthy. She pushed his hand off his cock and wrapped her own fingers around the base, testing the weight, the heat, the way he filled her grip. A soft, wondering noise left her. Then she leaned in and licked the head, slow, gathering the precum on her tongue like she had been waiting months to taste exactly that.

“Fuck,” Terrence said.

She didn’t tease long. Her mouth opened and she took him in, wet and eager, lips stretching around the crown. Spit gathered fast. She bobbed, shallow at first, learning him, then deeper, her hand stroking what she couldn’t swallow. The sounds were sloppy—slick, wet, obscene—saliva slipping down his shaft and over her knuckles onto his balls. She moaned around him and the vibration went straight up his spine. Her eyes flicked up, dark and wanting, and she didn’t look away while she sucked, cheeks hollowing, tongue pressing the underside on every pull back.

Terrence sank a hand into her hair. Not to force. To feel her there, real, on her knees because she had asked and he had said yes. He stroked through it, thumb at her temple, and his voice came out low and honest.

“I want you,” he said. “I’ve wanted this mouth. Look at you. Taking it like you mean it. So wet. So greedy.”

She pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting her swollen lip to his cock, and stroked him hard and fast while she breathed. Her chin shone. “I do mean it. I want you to fuck my mouth and then I want you to fuck me. Tell me you want that too. I need to hear it.”

“I want to fuck you,” he said, the words rough and clear. “Right here. I’m sober, I’m sure, and I’m not going to pretend I don’t. Say it again so I know you’re still choosing it.”

“I want you to fuck me,” Elise said, no shake left in it. “I’m choosing it. Don’t stop unless I say stop. Use me. I came home early and I’m glad I did.”

She went back down. Deeper. Her throat fluttered and she gagged once, pulled back, spit shining on her chin, and went down again with more purpose, drool stringing from her lip to his balls. Sloppy, eager, her free hand cupping him, rolling, squeezing gently while she sucked like she was starving. Terrence’s head tipped back against the chair. His fingers tightened in her hair and then eased, petting, praising her without pretty words, hips twitching up in small helpless thrusts she took without complaint.

“That’s it. Just like that. God, your mouth is soaked. You’re going to make me lose it if you keep that up, and I don’t want to come yet. I want your pussy. I want to feel how wet watching me made you.”

She sucked him for another long, filthy minute, tongue swirling, lips tight, the office filled with the wet sounds of her enthusiasm. When she finally came off, her mouth was messy and her chest was heaving, nipples stiff against the thin sweater. She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and smiled like she’d won something she’d been chasing since summer.

“Then take it,” she said. “I’m dripping. I’ve been dripping since I saw your fist on that cock.”

Terrence stood. His pants tangled at his ankles and he kicked them off, impatient, cock jutting and slick from her mouth. He turned her toward the desk. She bent without being asked, palms flat on the wood beside the keyboard, skirt riding up over her ass. He hooked his fingers in her panties—plain cotton, already dark and damp at the crotch—and dragged them down her thighs. She stepped out of one side and left them hanging off the other ankle like she couldn’t be bothered with anything that slowed this down.

Her ass was bare, smooth, tipped up for him. Her pussy glistened, pink and swollen, and when he ran two fingers through her folds she was soaked enough that they slid in with almost no resistance, hot and clutching. She pushed back onto his hand and moaned, forehead dropping toward the desk.

“You’re dripping,” he said. “All over my fingers. You really did want this.”

“Because I watched you stroke that cock and I wanted it in me,” she said, voice muffled against her own arm. “Put it in. I want it. Hard. I’m asking. I’m sure.”

He lined the head up and pushed. She stretched around him, a gasp punched out of her, and then he was inside, thick and deep, her pussy gripping him in a hot, wet clutch that made his vision blur at the edges. He held there for a breath, both of them shaking, his hands locked on her hips, and then he drew back until just the head remained and drove in again.

He pounded her. There was no gentler word that fit. Deep, rhythmic thrusts that slapped his hips against her ass and shoved the desk an inch across the rug. The monitor rattled. A pen rolled off and hit the floor. Elise cried out, not careful, not quiet, pushing back to meet him, her pussy taking every inch and fluttering when he bottomed out. He gripped her hard enough that he knew she’d wear the marks and fucked her like the video he’d been watching, except this was hotter, real, her cunt sucking at him, her voice breaking on his name.

“Yes—yes—harder—” she got out. “Don’t you dare go gentle. I want to feel it tomorrow in class. I want to sit there sore and know it was you.”

“You will.” He reached under her and found her clit with two fingers, rubbing rough circles while he thrust, the angle awkward and perfect. She jolted, a broken moan, and her pussy squeezed him so tight he had to grit his teeth to keep from spilling. “Feel that? That’s how bad I want you. You’re squeezing me like you’ve been waiting all semester to get filled.”

“I was thinking about this on the drive home,” she panted, shoving back, taking him deeper. “About you bending me over this desk and not stopping. Fuck, Terrence, right there—don’t move your hand—God—”

He gave it to her there. Long strokes that dragged along every sensitive inch, then shorter, meaner ones that ground his cock against the spot that made her legs shake. The wet sound of her pussy filled the office, louder than the porn had been, obscene and steady. Sweat gathered at the small of her back. He watched his cock disappear into her, shiny with her, the lips of her pussy clinging on every withdrawal, and the sight nearly undid him. His balls slapped her. His thumb kept working her clit. She was close; he could feel it in the way she trembled, in the high, helpless noises she couldn’t swallow.

“Couch,” he said, voice shredded. “I want your eyes. I want to watch you come on my cock. Say yes.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, move me, just don’t stop wanting me.”

He pulled out. She whimpered at the loss, empty and clenching around nothing, a string of her wetness connecting them for a second before it broke. He walked her the few steps to the couch against the wall—the one he sometimes napped on between calls—and she went down on her back without hesitation, skirt bunched at her waist, sweater shoved up. He unhooked her bra and pushed it aside. Her tits spilled free, full and flushed, nipples tight, and she arched to offer them, eyes locked on his, wide and wrecked and completely present.

“Inside me,” she said. “Now. I want it. I’m right here and I’m asking. Look at me while you do it.”

He climbed over her and pushed back in, one long stroke that seated him to the hilt. Missionary, her knees up around his ribs, her eyes on his. The eye contact hit harder than the porn ever had. He could see every flicker—want, the shock of how good it was, the open filthy pleasure of being filled by the man she’d caught with his cock in his fist. He fucked her deep, grinding on the in-stroke so his pelvis mashed her clit, and his thumb found her again, rubbing in tight, relentless circles while his cock worked her pussy in a hard, rolling rhythm.

“Look at me,” he said.

“I am.” Her nails dug into his shoulders. She didn’t blink. “Don’t stop rubbing. I’m close. I’m so close. Your cock is so deep I can feel it in my stomach. Don’t you dare pull out until I come.”

He didn’t stop. He pounded her and rubbed her clit and watched her face come apart under him. Her mouth opened. Her eyes went wide and then squeezed shut and then opened again because she wanted him to see it, because she had asked to be seen. The orgasm hit her hard. She climaxed loud, a raw cry that bounced off the office walls and probably carried down the stairs, her pussy clamping down in rhythmic pulses, her hips bucking up to take him deeper while she shook and swore and held his gaze like it was the only thing keeping her in her body.

“That’s it,” he growled, still thrusting through it, still rubbing, drawing it out until she was gasping and oversensitive and still pulling him in with her heels. “Come on my cock. Let me feel every bit of it. Fuck, you’re milking me. You feel incredible.”

“Don’t come inside,” she managed, wrecked and clear, even as aftershocks rippled through her. “I want it on me. On my tits. I want to see it. Please. I’m begging you. Cover me. I’ve wanted your cum on me for months. Give it to me.”

He lasted three more thrusts, maybe four, the plea ripping the last of his control out by the root. He pulled out with a wet sound, fisted his cock, and stroked hard and fast over her chest, the head aimed at her tits, his other hand braced on the couch. The first rope hit her hot and thick, striping across one nipple. The second landed higher, on her collarbone and the upper curve of her breast. He groaned, raw and animal, and kept stroking, painting her, cum spilling over her skin in heavy spurts while she held her tits up for it and watched with her mouth open, begging even as it was already happening.

“Yes. Give it to me. All of it. I want your cum on my tits. Don’t waste a drop. Mark me. I want to wear it.”

He didn’t waste it. He wrung himself dry over her, the last weak pulses dripping onto her sternum and sliding warm between her breasts, his fist slowing, his breath ragged, his eyes on the mess he’d made of her. She looked ruined in the best way—flushed, fucked-out, his cum shining on her chest, her pussy still fluttering empty between her spread thighs, panties tangled at one ankle, the smell of sex thick in the small office.

They caught their breath like that, him braced over her, her chest rising under the mess. The monitor had gone dark. Somewhere downstairs a clock ticked, ordinary and absurd. Elise smiled. It wasn’t shy. She reached up, curled a hand around the back of his neck, and kissed him deeply, tongue slow, tasting sweat and want, unhurried and sure. When she pulled back her eyes were bright and steady.

“Zero regrets,” she said. “I wanted that. I still want it. We’re doing this again. Soon. Not a one-time panic we apologize for. I mean it. I chose it and I’d choose it again tomorrow.”

“Soon,” Terrence said. His voice was hoarse. He meant it too.

They cleaned up together in the small bathroom off the hall, washcloths and running water and low, stunned laughter, her wiping his cum off her tits while he tucked himself away and tried to remember how to look like a man who had spent the afternoon on spreadsheets. When their eyes met in the mirror they both broke, a conspiratorial laugh they had to smother with their hands, the kind that meant the rest of the family was never going to hear a word of what had happened in that office.

She leaned in, mouth at his ear, still smiling, still filthy, one finger dragging through a streak he’d missed on her chest and lifting it to her tongue.

“Next time you stroke that cock at your desk, you wait for me,” she said. “I’m going to sit on it and make you watch your own cum leak out of my pussy onto your keyboard.”