The Lesson She Skipped School For
Your stepdaughter called in sick today, but she’s not sick. She’s been counting the minutes until her mother’s car pulled out of the driveway—until the house belonged to just the two of you. Now she’s standing in the living room wearing nothing but a thin tank top and panties, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her cheeks flushed with something that isn’t fever.
She didn’t come here to talk. She came here because she heard you through the walls last night. Heard you making her mother scream. And instead of disgust, she felt something dangerous twist low in her stomach—something she’s been touching herself to ever since. Now she’s asking the question that’s been burning her tongue for months: will you show her what you showed her mom?
You don’t pretend to hesitate. Neither does she.
Show Me What She Gets
She crosses the space between you in three steps and drops to her knees, her palms sliding up your thighs with a confidence that wars with the tremor in her fingers. When your hands find her breasts—small, firm, desperate for your touch—she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for years. The kiss that follows isn’t shy. It’s starving.
She undresses you with maddening patience, asking in that sweet, corrupted voice if you like what you see, if she’s doing it right, if her mouth feels as good as she’s imagined. It does. Better. She takes you deep enough to make her eyes water, then deeper still, her tongue swirling over your balls while she admits through gasps that she’s been practicing on bananas, on her fingers, on anything she could fit inside herself while thinking of you.
The Skirt Stays On
She keeps the pleated skirt—the one that makes her look like she belongs in a classroom instead of here, impaled on you, riding in cowgirl while her nails dig crescents into your shoulders. She’s tight. So tight you have to work yourself into her inch by inch while she throws her head back and moans through the stretch, her pussy fluttering around you in helpless spasms. She comes hard—harder than she expected—then spins around and demands more in reverse, her ass slapping against your hips while she fingers her own clit to a second, shuddering peak.
Your Mouth, Her Rules
She climbs off dripping and positions herself above your face, her thighs bracketing your ears, her scent overwhelming. “Lick me where you fucked me,” she commands, and you do—long, filthy strokes that have her grinding down against your tongue while she narrates every sensation in that ruined voice. *There. Harder. Now my ass—no one’s ever—fuck, don’t stop.*
She decides you deserve more than the quick release her mother settles for. She sucks you again, tasting herself on your shaft, then mounts you facing away so you can grip her hips and slam her down onto you, watching your cock disappear into her from behind while she plays with herself for your viewing pleasure.
When she turns to face you, it’s for the finale—riding you with her breasts in her own hands, her eyes locked on yours, letting you see every expression as she uses your body to chase another orgasm.
Three Positions, One Secret
Missionary comes next, her legs over your shoulders, your weight pressing her into the couch cushions while you fuck her hard enough to break her vocabulary—just gasps and wet sounds and the occasional *Daddy* torn from her throat. Then doggystyle, her back arched, her face pressed into a pillow, your hands imprinting bruises on her waist as you take her the way she begged for—slow, then brutal, then relentless.
She asks for it in her mouth at the end. You give her everything, and she swallows with practiced greed, then lets it spill over her lips just to play with it, smearing it across her tits while she smiles up at you through heavy lids.
By the time you both notice the sun has set, she’s already planning her next absence. “Mom leaves for work at eight,” she whispers, her finger tracing patterns on your thigh. “We could have all morning to practice.”
