Ron Taylor

Stepdaughter in bondage

CHAPTER ONE

It was about eleven-thirty when we got back from the funeral home. I wished I could have stayed there all night, but the undertaker assured me it wasn't permitted. "We close at eleven," he said, in the oily, unctuous way undertakers have of talking. Fuck you! I thought, clenching a fist, turning away. And when I turned, Tony was there, waiting for me. I looked up at his face and it made me sick.

I got out of the car in the driveway and hurried into the house while Tony parked. With any luck I could be in my room before he came inside. He was the last person in the world I wanted to spend a night with – tonight, of all nights. My mother was dead and lying in a coffin back at the mortuary, but as far as Tony seemed to be concerned, she might as well have been out late, bowling with the girls from the plant.

Tony is – was – my stepfather. Mom married him three years ago, when I was fifteen. I guess they were happy together. He worked days at the mine and she worked nights at the Westinghouse plant. Which meant that when I got home from school around four, I could count on at least eight hours in the company of my loving stepdaddy. The last year or two I'd been seriously considering night school. Only, in our town, there wasn't one.

My name is Rebecca Lee Butler. I don't like to be called "Becky" and "Becca" makes me cringe. I'm five feet three inches tall, I weigh 104 pounds, and I'm slender, as long as you don't count my tits, which are a little over-developed for my frame. Not big enough to be ungainly or silly looking, but full and thrusting, just made to nestle inside the cups of a 36-C brassiere.

And this evening, this awful, awful evening, Rebecca Lee Butler went into the house where she had lived all her life, closed the door behind her, and made ready to go to bed. Like, fast! Before Tony had time to get inside from parking the car.

He's good-looking in a crude way, I guess, sorta like Sylvester Stallone, only taller and a lot mote stuck on himself. When Mom met him, she was thirty-six and he was thirty-one and he must have seemed like a fantastic catch for a woman slipping into middle age and kinda desperate. My daddy died when I was ten and I guess she was getting lonely. This younger, muscled hunk comes along and she just falls like an apple in season. It happens all the time, they tell me. And so one day I had a brand new daddy in the house and Mom didn't have to sleep by herself any longer.

I used to hear them going at it all night long, sometimes. I suppose he really socked it to her. She used to moan in the dark, and it sounded like a coyote on the prowl. The bedsprings rattling and creaking, Tony making soft little grunting noises like a bass-line for Mom's higher-pitched cries. For a while she looked as if she'd been able to turn back the aging process altogether. Her cheeks pinkened and her eyes sparkled and she looked very, very happy.

Me? Well, I was fifteen when they got married, and I was already starting to blossom a little, if you know what I mean. My breasts were still small, mostly swollen, aching nipples, but they were too big to hide under a cotton undershirt or camisole any longer. My waist began to nip in and my hips to fill out, and I had my first period about two months after the wedding, and I knew that I was swiftly turning into a woman.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. I think the first time I caught him, I was around thirteen. In my room, innocently getting dressed for a sock hop at the junior high. I remember I had just slipped out of my sweatshirt and was reaching for my pink, flower-cup bra. My jeans were laid out on the bed, and I wasn't wearing anything except my panties and fluffy slippers. I picked up my bra and there was a curious sensation at the roots of my teeth, a kind of nervous tingle. What's that? I wondered, and then I made a half-turn and looked at my bedroom window, and there he was. Tony. My stepfather. Leaning on the window frame, watching me through the glass. His mouth was turned up at the corners in a dirty, knowing smile.

My first reaction was sheer panic. The bra was the only thing I had in my hands and I threw it, right at his grinning face. My brassiere hit the window glass and fluttered to the floor and lie still stood there, grinning like a possum eating shit. I covered my tits with one arm and slouched down to the floor in a desperate, embarrassed crouch and huddled there, sobbing, till he went away. It seemed like hours.

When I got home from the dance, he was sitting up in the kitchen with a bottle of beer. "Hi, kid," he said. "But then, you're not a kid any more, are you?" He got up from his chair and started toward me. I was frozen with fear. I wanted to scream for Mom, but it was Friday night and she was still at the plant. Tony stretched out his hand. His fingers touched my shoulder. I shrank down, gurgling with terror.

"C'mere," he said, beer-breathed. His fingers tightened on my shoulder and he gave a little pull. I stumbled, lurched toward him. He reached up with his other hand and the fingers closed on the soft little swell of my left breast. Even through my sweater and I could feel the heat of his fingers the defiling dirt of them.

I shivered, said "No," and tried to wriggle loose, but my body felt like a hundred pounds of jello. He clenched with both hands, one on my shoulder, one on my tit, and I arched back, a scream fluttering on my lips, ready to burst forth at any moment.

"Not so little at all." Tony grinned, and he leaned his face toward mine. I'd never been kissed for real at thirteen, but somehow I knew he was going to kiss me. And I didn't want it, didn't want those beer-flavored lips on mine, didn't want his hands touching me in naughty places.

There was a sound from the other end of the house. It was the living room door, opening then shutting Mom had come in!

Tony heard it too. He cursed softly – "Goddamn it!" – and then he let go of me. The scream I'd been ready to make died on my lips and all I could do was stand there and shiver. Cold sweat was flooding my armpits and I felt chilly and hot, chilly and hot, in quick alternation, all over. Tony brushed past me, through the swinging door, into the hallway. "Hello, babe," I heard him say jovially, and then there was the sound of bodies coming together.

When I slipped into the hall I had a quick flash of him and my mother, entwined, kissing passionately, where the living room empties into the hallway. Her back was to me and I saw his hands, stroking and cupping her ass while they kissed. Once he looked over his shoulder, right at me, and the look in his eyes was horrible. It seemed to say "You're next!"

I shouted my greeting and parting to Mom and I hurried into my own room. I locked the door behind me and then sat on my bed, still afraid to get undressed and under the covers. They did it a long time that night, while I sat across the hall listening to the scarcely-muffled sounds of passion and sex.

He's doing it to her, I thought. And he'd be doing it to me, if he had the chance. The reality of that stung me in the belly while I lay in bed and it was like a hot knife plunging into my body. I doubled up, knees tight against my little breasts, and I sobbed into my pillow. All night long. I was red-eyed and shivery when morning came. It was the first time I'd ever seen the gray light of dawn come creeping into my bedroom window.

That was not quite two years ago. For a while, Tony seemed content just to sit back and watch me grow. His eyes sparkled each time I had to get a bigger-size bra, each time Mom made me come out and model some freshly-purchased dress or pantsuit. And in the summer – well, once I made the mistake of lying in the backyard sunning in a new, string bikini.

The sun was so warm and pleasant, my body throbbing as the solar rays played across me, that I lost sail track of time. All of a sudden I turned over and there he was, standing in the doorway with a can of beer in his hand. And there was a huge lump in his pants, not far below his belt. I was fourteen then, and I knew exactly what that lump signified. I sat up fast, grabbing a towel, hiding myself behind it.

Tony grinned again – I knew that grin too well – and he pinched hard with his fingers, crushing the beer can between them. I felt a twinge in my belly. Those fingers had pinched hard on me. Only once, but I'd never forgotten how they felt. I could never forget that.

"Stay away from me," I said as he stepped down onto the grass. We were maybe eight feet apart. I drew my legs back defensively, looked at my fingernails, wondering if they were sharp enough to do him any damage.

"Hello, Rebecca," said a voice behind me. I turned, and it was Mrs. Swanson, from next door. She was leaning on the fence that divided our backyards, her fat pink face shining. You can't imagine the sigh of relief that I breathed then, the delight I felt to see her chubby features. She was just like a guardian angel. I stood up, wrapping myself in the towel, and I chatted across the fence for a few moments. During the conversation I heard the back door of the house slam and I could sense, without looking, that Tony had gone inside.

Tony bid off on a new job at the mines and for the next six or eight months he was on afternoon shift. Those were happy months. I could come home from school, knowing that I was alone in the house. I could do almost anything I wanted, provided I got it done before twelve or twelve-thirty. I guess I took advantage of it.

I learned to drink beer and wine. I learned to smoke grass like a pro. I even got fucked. Twice. Once because I wanted to see how it felt. I mean, I was the only virgin left in Reckardsville, so I let Bucky Rothman do it to me on the living room couch one Friday evening when we should have been studying algebra. It was his first time too, though I didn't know that till later.

It wasn't much. He came too fast, spraying me with his semen as he tried to get his rod out of me before it went off, and the only thing I kit was a sharp, stinging pain as his cock ripped through my cherry. The pain only lasted a few moments but it was very unpleasant and, wiping my belly with a tissue, I remember assuring myself that I would never go through anything as demeaning as this again, no matter if all the other kids were doing it. I could think of lots more pleasant ways to spend my time. It seemed so Goddamned silly. Spreading my legs while a boy worked his rod into my tight hole, gritting back the urge to scream in pain as he drove up me, feeling the jerk of his cock as it neared ejaculation while I just lay there numb and frustrated? I could do a lot better with my middle finger and a warm bathtub.

The second time I let myself be screwed, it seemed like a good idea. There was this boy named Norman, of all things, and from the time I met him he was all I could think about. So one night I invited him over to the house for a study date. We watched TV for a while and then started kissing and making out, and in short order he was really stiff in his pants and I was rubbing him with the flat of my hand, making him even stiffer, if that could be possible.

"Rebecca," he murmured into my mouth, "unzip me – feel me – oh, God, I don't believe this is happening! Is it really happening? Is it?"

"Mmmm-hmmmm," I purred, sliding his zipper down and reaching inside. I had felt a few cocks since my first sexual experience, but I'd never gotten serious with any of them. I fished him out of his tight shorts, pulled the hard throbbing rod into the lamplight. He seemed pretty well hung to me at the time, though I didn't know an awful lot about hung then. I slid my fist up and down his length, felt the tingle and throb of his pulse as it pumped fresh blood into his pecker and kept him rock-hard, and we kissed a little longer. Sometime during the kiss he started easing my head down, toward his cock.

I knew about cocksucking, though not from personal experience. I knew enough to be aware that it didn't really hurt you, though to have a boy squirt cum into your mouth was a pretty sickening things all my girlfriends agreed. Norman seemed determined that I should suck him now.

"Lick me," I heard him groan. "Just lick me a couple of times. Please?" And all the while he was pushing my head down.

What the hell? I figured. It wouldn't kill me. I thrust out my tongue and slid it across the warm, damp head of his penis.

Mmmmm, I thought. It's not bad. A kind of fresh, slightly salted meat taste to him. Most of the salt seemed to be concentrated on the very tip of Norman's rod, where it was deeply, boldly cleft and where a little trickle of wetness seemed to be oozing rhythmically from inside his cock. I tapped it again with my tongue, felt once more that curious little tingle as his flavors assaulted my taste buds. Could be worse, I thought, opening my mouth. I brought it down over him, lodging the tip of him inside my teeth. I closed my mouth and sucked, very hard.

"Owwwwwww! Yeahhhhh!"

That was Norman, getting excited. He still had me by the head and he was trying to stuff his entire cock into my mouth, lunging up from where he sat on the couch. Norman – five inches or so of lunging thrusting meat Rebecca – trying her best to suck a dick the way it was supposed to be sucked. I didn't know very much about it, but I don't believe Norman did either. And you know, I can't tell you what he looked like, because I don't remember. While, at the time, I thought I was head over heels in love with him.

Anyway, I ate him. Not deeply, because I was afraid to get more than the swollen tip of him into my mouth. God, it felt like I was gonna strangle just sucking that much of his dick! My mouth had never felt so full in all my life. But the taste – well, the taste grew more and more – should I say pleasant? – the more I sucked. I think he was squirting off a little cum into my mouth and I was too innocent to realize it. All I noticed was that the meat occasionally tasted as if it were moistened with a light coating of thick gravy.

Somehow we managed to get his cock out of my mouth and then it was just naturally time for me to get undressed. He helped, if you can call it helping. Mostly he fumbled around, and it was really pathetic when he got his fingers onto my bra and tried to undo the clasp. For one thing, he seemed to think I was wearing an old-fashioned bra, where the clasp is in the back.

"Here, dummy," I told him with a sigh, pulling one of his hands around to the flat space between my tits. That was a mistake. He put both hands on my boobs and he didn't seem to care if lie ever got my bra off. He squeezed me as if I were a banana at the fruit market and he were a careful topper testing for freshness. His fingers stuck to my tits as if they'd been glued on and, in the end, I had to undo the clasp myself.

"Let me kiss you," he whispered, kind of reverently, jiggling my titties in his nervous fingers. I nodded, leaned forward and brushed my boobs across his face, my hand dropping into his lap and grabbing the cock I'd had in my mouth.