Home Alone with my Stepdad 1
1020 Words
Lila’s POV
I stepped off the bus from campus feeling like my skin was too tight. First year of college had been one long tease, boys my age who fumbled with condoms, came too fast, and thought “foreplay” meant thirty seconds of clumsy fingering. None of them knew how to take control. None of them made me feel small and safe and filthy all at once. I was restless, aching, and so horny I could barely sit still on the ride home.
Mom was already gone when I got there—two weeks in Singapore for some big merger. The house felt huge and quiet without her chatter filling every room—just me and Ethan. My stepdad has been with me since I was twelve. The man who used to help me with algebra now looked at me like he was trying not to look at all.
I dropped my bags in the foyer and went straight out back. The pool shimmered under the late-afternoon sun. I stripped down to my tiniest bikini bottoms, peeled off the top, and stretched out on the lounge chair. The heat soaked into my bare breasts immediately. I knew he might come home early from the office. I knew, and I didn’t care. Maybe I even hoped.
I heard the sliding door open twenty minutes later.
I didn’t move. Didn’t cover up. Just let my eyes stay closed behind my sunglasses while I felt his stare like a physical touch. It dragged over my n*****s, down my stomach, and lingered where the bikini fabric clung to the lips of my p***y. I could practically hear his breath catch.
“Lila,” he said, voice rougher than usual. “You’re… uh… You should put sunscreen on. You’ll burn.”
I opened my eyes slowly, propped myself up on my elbows so my breasts lifted and shifted. His gaze flicked down, then snapped back to my face like he’d been caught stealing. There was already a thick ridge pressing against the front of his shorts. He shifted his weight, trying to hide it.
“I’m good,” I said, letting my voice come out soft and lazy. “But thanks for worrying, Daddy.”
The word hung between us. His jaw tightened. He muttered something about a call he had to take and disappeared back inside so fast I almost laughed.
Dinner was worse. Or better. I couldn’t decide.
I wore a thin white tank top—no bra—and tiny cotton shorts that barely covered my ass. He sat across from me at the kitchen island, picking at grilled chicken as it had personally offended him. I twirled pasta around my fork and let my bare foot slide up his calf under the table.
He froze.
“So,” I said, smiling sweetly, “all my friends keep asking about you. They think you’re, like, the hottest stepdad ever. The whole ‘tall, dark, and broody’ thing really does it for them.”
His fork clattered against the plate. “Lila.”
“What?” I dragged my toes higher, brushing the inside of his thigh. “I’m just saying what they say.”
“Behave.” His voice dropped low, gravelly. The warning made heat bloom between my legs.
I pulled my foot back, but not before pressing it lightly against the hard length straining his jeans. Just for a second. Long enough to feel him twitch.
We finished the meal in silence, buzzing with static. When I stood to clear the plates, I bent over farther than necessary, letting him see the way my shorts rode up. I felt his eyes on me the whole time.
Later, in my room, I couldn’t wait anymore.
I locked the door, stripped naked, and crawled under the covers. My fingers found my c**t almost immediately—already swollen, slippery. I pictured Ethan’s big hands instead. Rough palms pinning my wrists above my head. His weight pressed me into the mattress. His mouth on my neck, growling that I was a bad girl, that I shouldn’t tease him like that. I imagined him spreading my thighs wide, lining himself up, pushing in slow and thick until I was stretched and full and whimpering, “Daddy, please.”
I came hard, biting my pillow so I wouldn’t cry out loud enough for him to hear.
But I wanted him to hear.
Across the house, in the main bedroom, I knew he was doing the same thing. I pictured him gripping his c**k—thick, veined, angry-red at the tip—stroking himself fast and guilty while he remembered my bare t**s by the pool, the way my foot had grazed him at dinner. I wondered if he whispered my name when he came. I hoped he did.
I couldn’t sleep.
Around one in the morning, I got up, thirsty. Or pretending to be. I didn’t bother with shorts. Just pulled on one of his old college t-shirts I’d stolen years ago. It hit mid-thigh, loose enough to hide everything, tight enough across my chest that my n*****s poked through. No panties. I didn’t want them.
The hallway was dark. I padded barefoot toward the kitchen, heart hammering.
He was there.
Leaning in the doorway of his bedroom in nothing but black boxer briefs. The hall light from the bathroom spilled across his chest, his abs, the prominent bulge tenting the front of his underwear. He looked like he hadn’t slept either.
Our eyes locked.
I stopped walking. Just stood there, letting the hem of the shirt ride up a fraction when I shifted my weight. Cool air kissed the bare skin between my thighs.
His hand gripped the doorframe so hard the wood creaked.
I bit my bottom lip, slow and deliberate.
“Night, Daddy,” I whispered.
Then I turned and walked back to my room, feeling his stare burning holes in my back the whole way.
I didn’t look behind me.
But I heard the low, tortured sound he made just before I closed my door.
And I smiled into the dark.
- Writer
