The rain had been falling for hours, turning the roads into slick, black mirrors. Dylan, Amy’s fairly recent boyfriend, was supposed to drive her home, but he was wasted. The party had been fun; she even let him finger her while his two best friends watched. It had been hot in the moment, but now she was just pissed that he’d gotten trashed on her, leaving her stranded.
She knew who to call. Her stepdad’s voice echoed in her mind, as it always did. ‘No matter how late, call me. I’ll come get you. Never drive with someone who’s been drinking.‘
She’d texted him, “Can u pick me up? No one sober.”
He’d never let her down before, not once in the half-dozen times she’d called, and deep down, she knew he wouldn’t tonight either.
Mark’s reply was immediate. “Address.”
Twenty minutes later, he pulled his pickup to the curb outside a rundown duplex, music still thumping faintly from within. The passenger door opened, and a gust of cold, damp air followed Amy inside. She slid onto the seat, the scent of cheap beer and perfume clinging to her. She was seventeen, but in the light leaking in from the street lamp, she looked older, her makeup perfect, her sweater damp, clinging to her, accentuating her breasts.
“Thanks, Mark. Seriously.”
“Don’t mention it, kiddo,” he said, his voice tight as he pulled away from the curb. The wipers beat a steady rhythm.
“I know, I know,” she murmured, leaning her head against the window. “But you came. You always do.”
The silence that followed was thick, filled only with the swish of tires on wet asphalt and the soft hum of the heater. Her gratitude felt like a physical presence in the car, warm and heavy. He kept his eyes on the road, his hands at ten and two, a model of responsible stepfatherhood. The suburban streets blurred past, houses dark, the world asleep.
“I feel bad,” she said softly, breaking the quiet. He glanced over. She had turned to look at him, her expression unreadable in the shadows. “You drop everything. You always have. And Mom never… she just gets mad.”
“She worries,” Mark said, the automatic defense feeling hollow.
“She bitches.” Amy shifted in her seat. “I don’t know how to thank you for this. For… everything.”
“You don’t have to thank me. It’s what…” he started, but the words died in his throat.
She noticed the bulge in the crotch of his thin pajama pants, her gaze lingering a beat too long. “Were you sleeping when I called?” she asked, her voice teasing but with an edge of something else.
“No,” he said, shifting slightly in his seat, his tone casual but tinged with a hint of self-consciousness. “I was up.”
Her lips curved into a sly smile, her eyes glinting in the dim light of the car. “Oh, up watching porn, I bet,” she said playfully.
Amy leaned back in her seat, her smile deepening as if she’d won some unspoken game. She crossed her arms loosely over her chest, her posture relaxed but her eyes still fixed on him, glinting with mischief.
“So, was it stepdaughter porn?” she asked, her voice dripping with playful accusation. “I bet it was stepdaughter porn. That’s what I usually watch. That or gang bang porn,” she said with a laugh.
Amy’s eyes dropped back to his crotch, her smirk widening as she noticed the growing bulge in his pyjama pants. “Oh, look at that,” she said, her voice low and teasing. “Does that turn you on, Daddy? Are you thinking about it now? Your stepdaughter in her room next to yours, rubbing her little pussy to step daddy porn?”
Mark’s breath caught, his jaw tightening as he tried to focus on the road. “Amy, don’t…” he started, but his words faltered as her hand reached over, brushing against his thigh.
She didn’t stop. Her fingers trailed higher, slipping under the waistband of his pyjama pants with a boldness that made his heart race. Her touch was deliberate, cool fingertips grazing over the heat of his skin. He shivered, his grip on the steering wheel tightening until his knuckles turned white.
“I can feel how hard you are,” she whispered, her voice dripping with a mix of innocence and mischief. Her hand closed around him, her palm hot against his throbbing length. She gave a slow, deliberate stroke, her gaze never leaving his face. “Does it feel good, Mark? Does it feel wrong? Isn’t that what makes it hotter?”
He stifled a groan, the conflicting emotions warring inside him: guilt, desire, and a raw, unrelenting need. “Amy, we can’t…” he began again, but his protest was weak, half-hearted.
“Why not?” she interrupted, her voice soft but insistent. Her hand moved again, her fingers curling around him in a way that made his hips jerk involuntarily. “It’s just us here. No one has to know. Don’t you want this? Don’t you want me daddy?”
Mark’s resolve was crumbling, his body betraying him with every stroke of her hand. He wanted to pull away, to stop this before it went too far, but the heat of her touch was intoxicating. Her thumb brushed over the sensitive tip, and a shudder of pleasure ran through him.
“You’re so fucking hard for me,” she murmured, her voice a sultry purr. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you’ve always wanted this.”
His breath came in ragged gasps, the car veering slightly as his focus wavered. He forced himself to keep driving, even as her hand worked him with a rhythm that threatened to undo him completely. “Amy…” he whispered, his voice strained.
“Just let go,” she said, leaning closer, her lips brushing against his ear. “Let me thank you.”
A low groan escaped him before he could stop it. This is wrong. This is so wrong. But his body was betraying him, hardening rapidly under her touch, the blood rushing south, drowning out the voice of reason.
She freed him, her small hand wrapping around his stiffening length. The contact was electric, a jolt of pure, illicit pleasure that made his hips jerk. “Fuck, Amy,” he breathed, the curse torn from him.
“I’ve thought about this,” she confessed, her voice a husky murmur against his neck. “For so long. How would you feel? How would you taste?”
Then she lowered her head.
Her lips, soft and impossibly warm, brushed the head of his cock. He gasped, his foot slipping on the pedal for a second before he righted the car. Then her mouth opened, and she took him in, slowly, inch by exquisite inch. The wet heat of her mouth was a revelation, a velvet vice that made his vision blur. Her tongue swirled around the tip, a slick, torturous circle that had him biting back a shout.
She began to move, her head bobbing in his lap, her hair spilling over his thighs. One hand braced on his leg, the other cradled his balls, rolling them gently in her palm. Every pull of her lips, every flick of her tongue was a masterclass in sensation. He could hear the soft, wet sounds, smell her perfume mixing with the musk of his own arousal. The car drifted slightly toward the shoulder, the rumble strips vibrating the entire frame, shocking him back to awareness. He wrenched the wheel, correcting their course.
“God, yes… just like that,” he moaned, his hand leaving the wheel to tangle in her hair, not guiding, just holding, feeling the motion of her. Her pace quickened, her mouth taking him deeper, her throat relaxing to accept him. The pressure built, a tight, hot coil in his gut. The streetlights flashed overhead, strobing the scene in brief, pornographic snapshots: her head in his lap, his hand fisted in her blonde hair, his cock glistening with her saliva each time she pulled back.
He was close. So close. The world narrowed to the feeling of her mouth, the sight of her submission, the forbidden thrill of it all. “Amy… I’m gonna…” he warned, his voice ragged.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she hummed around him, the vibration shooting up his spine like lightning. That was all it took. With a ragged cry he tried to stifle, he came, pulsing hotly into the back of her throat. She swallowed, taking every drop, her throat working around him until he was spent, soft and sensitive.
Finally, she released him, sitting up slowly. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a slow, deliberate gesture. In the dim light, her lips were swollen, her eyes dark and satisfied. She reached over and carefully tucked him back into his pyjamas.
For a long moment, the only sound was their mingled, heavy breathing and the relentless rain. He guided the car onto their quiet, tree-lined street, their house coming into view at the end of the block.
Amy turned to him, her voice calm, clear. “Mom can’t ever know,” she said, stating it as a simple fact.
“Never,” Mark agreed, his own voice hoarse with spent passion and stunned disbelief. His house keys were held tightly in his hand.
