Ron Taylor: Stepdaughter in bondage

Two days ago. Seemed like a million years, but it wasn't. It was Tuesday evening. Mom was working afternoons, as usual, and Tony had managed to switch back to his usual day-shift job. Which meant that once again I had to share the house with him each and every evening. I used to pray for a layoff at the Westinghouse plant so Mom would be home too. Lately it had been getting worse – a lot worse. I was conscious of his eyes on me, almost all the time. I wasn't a budding young innocent any longer. I wasn't a virgin any more. I knew what I had between my legs and what men would like to do with it. And somehow it seemed obscene to know that my stepfather was interested in that same thing. Obscene, and disgust.

I was getting ready or bed that night. My door was shut but somehow I could sense that he was on the other side of it, looking through the crack. Maybe I could hear his breathing. Maybe it was just a sixth sense operating inside my head. But I knew that as I slipped off my blouse and stood there bare to the waist, I was suddenly aware of being watched.

My breath froze up in my throat. All I could do was stand there. It was like having a spotlight suddenly shined upon you. One moment you're lazing in the darkness and the next, ZAM!! Every eye is staring right at you. I turned as quickly as I could and stood there trembling, afraid to reach back for my nightie, afraid that I'd display myself to him again, the way I'd displayed myself all unknowing a few moments ago.

He frightened me very much. I think it was in his eyes – the way he would stare at me, times when my mother was doing something else. He'd look at me and I could read what was in his eyes, and it wasn't a pretty fairy tale. Why? I used to ask myself. Why me? And so I forced myself to look at Mom candidly. I wished I hadn't. She was no longer a girl. Her waist was thickening and sometime since the last time I'd looked at her, she'd grown old. She was almost forty now, and it was showing. Her face had taken on wrinkles, her skin was spotted here and there. Gray glimmered in her dark hair. If she didn't wear any makeup, her age seemed to double, and if she wore too much makeup, then she looked twice as old as she did without any paint and powder.

Today, I thought, today! I'd gone to school with no bra under my blouse, boobs jiggling around. I did it because it felt nice to be free and unrestrained and because this was the nicest, warmest October day I could remember and I was princess of the world, heir apparent to the throne.

But when I came home, Tony's eyes had dropped at once to the points of my nipples, outlined under the shirt's cling, and I'd gotten red-faced and left the room, and now he was doing more than looking at the outline of my breasts under supple clothing. He was standing on the other side of my bedroom door and he was looking at me and somehow I knew that lust was building his heart and his loins. Lust for me, the daughter of his wife. The fresh, ripe daughter of his graying, aging wife.

The doorknob rattled and my heart jumped into my throat. I spun around, clutching my nightie, as the door opened and Tony slouched against the frame.

He was wearing a tight t-shirt that showed off his broad chest and well-developed biceps, as well as the tattoos on his upper arms. A cigarette dangled from his lips and he held a can of beer in one hand. I held the nightie up, shielding the tits he'd already spied on through the door crack, and my face was scarlet.

"Get out of here," I said weakly. "You have no business in my room."

He tilted his head to one side, then removed the cigarette from his mouth. He dropped it into the beer can. I heard a quick sizzle and he grinned. He put the beer can onto the top of my dresser, just inside the door, and he took three steps toward me. I shrank back, looking up at him. He's six-two, almost a foot taller than I am, and I could smell the beer on his breath. It reminded me of that other time, when I was younger, when he'd spied on me through the window and then tried to feel me up in the kitchen. Two years, and he'd not laid a hand on me in the meantime. But his eyes, oh, God, his eyes! They'd made up for the inactivity of his hands! And now, as I looked into his eyes, I could read a whole novel written on them, a novel set in the future, a novel that starred me and my stepfather and was so dirty, so filthy.

Tony grabbed the nightie I was holding and he tore it out of my fingers. I screamed and threw my hands up to shield my breasts. I didn't know why I had such an urge for modesty. It should have occurred to me that he'd already seen my tits, more than once. But I didn't have any choice about those other times, and I did have a choice now. I covered my breasts and stepped back. The wall blocked me. If I moved back another inch, I'd fall right through the window which Tony had peeked at me.

He looked at me, then before I could move to stop him, he took each of my hands in one of his and spread them wide, very wide. I moaned in protest and started to turn into jelly, but it didn't prevent him from getting an eyeful of my breasts.

They're large breasts, 36-Cs, big, round, high-set, with tip-tilted nipples of a very delicate pink color. I had the remnants of my summer tan, but I'd only tanned with a bikini on, so there was a white patch at the end of each tit. The blue veins showed up very clearly in the untanned flesh, and my titties jiggled as he stretched my arms almost to the breaking point. I looked down, and something was starting to bulge in his pants. I'd seen it before, but the last time I noticed it, I had been a virgin. I wasn't a virgin now, and I knew with sickening clarity what that bulge was, what he intended to do with it.

I began to struggle, saying, "No, let go of me! Damn you, let go!"

"You're too pretty to let go," he said. His eyes were focused low, down my front, one eye apparently glued to each pink nipple. The tension, the strain was causing my nipples to pucker and thrust outward. I could feel a throbbing anxiety at the end of each breast and I didn't have to look down to know that my tits were stiffening in fear. Tony fiddled a second, and without my realizing it, he had both my wrists in the strong, steely grip of one of his fists. He held my hands up, high over my head, and with his free hand he started to paw my body. His fingers dragged with unbearable slowness across my books, lingering to tickle and pinch at my fat swollen nipples, fitting like a tight glove round each heaving mound of flesh in turn. I twisted and squirmed and tried to kick him.

"Goddamn you, let go!"

He only laughed. And his hand tightened on my wrists, tightened till it felt as if the bones were on the verge of snapping in two. I gasped and stood up on tiptoes, and Tony gave me a jerk. "Please," I said.

"I've waited too long for this," he said with a leer. "When you were just a little flower girl at your mother's wedding I took one look at you and said to myself, She's gonna grow up to be a pretty one. And when you got a little older, I told myself, By God, she already is a pretty one! Your titties are bigger than the last time I saw them, Becky." He smiled as he called me "Becky", because he knew how much I hated it, and as he smiled he gave a vicious pinch to my right breast. It made me squeal like a stuck pig.

"Has anybody got into you yet?" he asked, leaning close. So close I could count the number of beers he'd drunk this evening. "Have any of them high school boys drove a cock up your tight little hole? Mmmm, I'll bet it is tight. Tight and juicy. Is that right, Becky? Are you tight and juicy between the legs? Does your little pussy ooze juice when it gets squeezed on? Let me squeeze on it a little, and I'll tell you. But I bet you already know, don't you, Becky?"

His hand was crawling down my belly, toward the snap of my jeans. He unfastened me, started to pull my pants down. I squirmed and fought, I kicked and cursed him, called him a Goddamned motherfucking son of a bitch, but he only laughed.