Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Her soft little fingers pull at my wrist, flipping over my hand as she starts to unwrap my fingers from my palm.
How the hell do I explain this?
“What are you holding?” She crinkles up her nose as she tugs away the last fingers, exposing the quarter-sized deposit of jizz cupped in my hand.
My brain buzzes as I scramble for something that makes sense.
Tell her what it is, part of me screams inside my head, while another part stomps that voice down, reminding me this girl is mine to care for, not traumatize.
“Coconut oil,” I snap. We keep a little pot of it on the kitchen counter, so she can soften her hands if she does the dishes. “Thought you might want some, but then you were all ready to sing, so I just—held it.”
Pathetic. But now I’m committed, so…
“Looks like you have a little dry spot,” I say, trying not to look at her lips. Do not rub cum on your foster daughter’s lips, you fucking monster.
She draws a soft little breath, and I swear she moves fractionally closer. She gazes up into my eyes, her lashes fluttering, as she says in a small voice, “Nothing feels dry on me right now, Daddy…”
Chapter Four
Winona
Daddy’s staring at me. And it’s the good kind of staring, the kind that always makes me a little bit squirmy, and sometimes leaves me needing to get some alone time to take care of myself.
This is not a new situation.
I came to live with Daddy Reuben when I was twelve years old, but he was in my life long before that. He was really always there. Reuben and my dad were my touchstones, like I guess it must be for kids who have gay dads, except mine were both straight. I knew Dad loved Mom, and she loved him, and they both loved me, but Mom was always… a little bit in her own world. And that was fine, until Dad died, and I needed someone, and she wasn’t up to the job.
I don’t blame her for that. I really don’t. I love her for who she is, not for who I wish she was. Dad taught me that. But I was still a little girl, and she wasn’t there, and Reuben stood in for my dad.
Even at twelve years old, I was already starting to look at him as the ideal man. As tall as a house and built like a grizzly, and ready to fight the world if it made me cry. Of course, I thought that meant any boy I got involved with would have to live up to his standard, but as I got older, I realized that’s impossible. Because there’s only one Reuben. Only one Daddy.
Then, when I turned eighteen, something changed. I don’t mean with him, I mean, I changed.
I guess you could say I had an epiphany. I’m an adult now, not a child. And that means, if I want to walk around the house in my panties and a t-shirt, I can. And if I want to pout and tease and try to show him that I’m not a little girl anymore, I can do that too.
Because the way he looks at me sometimes… I can’t help the thoughts it gives me. And I know—I know—he’ll never accept that. But I’m still allowed to want it.
I squeeze my thighs tight, hoping to stem the heat that’s building in my core, but it only serves to add friction. It feels really good, and I want to rub my legs together more, but Reuben’s still staring, and his eyes drift to that spot, and… Oh, God… I feel like I’m about to wet myself.
“What do you mean, nothing is dry, princess?” His voice is a low growl that shakes my spine and nearly makes me fall to my knees.
Except if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself. I’ve noticed things. Things a daughter—even a sort of guardian daddy-daughter—shouldn’t want to notice. The bulge in the front of his pants is huge.
I have absolutely zero experience with such things.
Well, I’ve examined what I’ve been able to see in pictures, and nothing even comes close. Daddy has them beat. And I can’t even count the number of times I’ve imagined taking out what’s behind that zipper, opening wide and sucking on his cock like it’s one of those orange Push-ups he used to buy me from the ice cream truck when it would come jingling through the park.
I lick my lips and watch his gaze follow my tongue as I try to remember what I said. Nothing feels dry on me right now.
God, did I really say that out loud to him?
“I just… I--” I shrug as I struggle to cover for my filthy admission, gripping tight to the microphone that’s still in my hand, still connected, occasionally sending static through the speakers when it brushes against my t-shirt. “I shouldn’t tell you these things. I’m sorry.”