It was Monday, Day 4 of the affair with my beautiful, tight, eighteen-year-old stepdaughter, Christy. Friday and Saturday, we were able to freely give in to all our passions, because her mother, Sarah, was out of town. But Sarah came back Sunday night. I expected that I would give Sarah a full dose of my love that night, to welcome her back home, but she fell asleep early, and I was able to secretly enjoy my stepdaughter once more. But this couldn't go on forever. I knew that. Still, it was Monday. I was at the office. Neither Sarah nor her delicious daughter Christy were anywhere in sight. I could focus on work, and think about our complicated situation later.
It was nearing the end of the day. I was in my office, reading a report from the field on my computer screen. Someone had screwed something up. It was one of the usual work-related crises that seem so important at the time, but later appear to be quite trivial.
I was occupied by my thoughts of how to handle this latest issue at work, when, from outside my office, I heard my secretary, Priscilla, say, "Christy! What a nice to surprise to see you again. I'll tell your dad you're here."
Shit, I thought. There was no escape. Even at the office, the drama of my personal life would find me.
My distress at my work sanctuary being invaded by Christy immediately vanished when I saw her walk into the room after Priscilla. Immediately I remembered why I gave into her seduction in the first place. That soft, smooth skin. Those bright eyes. Those full red lips. Her long, silken hair. Her tiny tight frame. Her cute round ass. Her firm legs. Her youthful, flowery scent. It came back in a flash, and, thank goodness I was sitting behind a desk, or Priscilla would have immediately seen the erection growing in my pants. I was trained like a dog at this point. The sight of my stepdaughter got me hard, and there was nothing I could do about it.
She bounded into the room, carefree, energetic, full of spirit and life. "Hold his calls, Priscilla," Christy said jovially as she walked in.
Priscilla gave me an inquiring look.
"Very funny, Christy," I said. "Priscilla, calls can come through of course."
"Thanks for walking me in Prissy," Christy said, using the familiar nickname that she gave her at the company picnic two years ago.
"You're welcome Christy," Priscilla answered, as she started to close the door.
"You can leave the door open," I told her. For goodness sake, I thought, I certainly didn't want rumors starting at the office because I was behind a closed door with my stepdaughter. Granted, I was probably being paranoid. No one would think twice about my door being closed when I had any visitor, my stepdaughter or anyone else. As a matter of fact, it might be more weird to keep it open, which would disturb the other people around. I realized that too late, though. I already told Priscilla she could leave it open.
Fortunately, my stepdaughter, as usual, was a step ahead of me.
"But dad, I want to talk about something private."
Well, what kind of monster would I be to insist on an open door when my precious angel wanted to discuss something private? I told Priscilla she could close the door.
The door closed, and Christy turned towards me. Gone was the bright and cheerful look she brought to the office when she was talking to "Prissy." Now her eyes were cast down, and she pouted, as she slowly walked her way to my desk. Her hands were folded in front of her, her shoulders slumped forward, and her head was down. Her long hair was covering one side of her face, like she wanted to hide herself from the world. She looked sad and defeated.
Now, I'm not naïve about women, and I'm especially not naïve about Christy. In my experience, about 95 percent of all female sadness and tears are used to manipulate men. I'm long past the time in my life when I would do anything to make a woman stop crying. As much as I loved her, I suspected she was up to no good. I hardened my heart, wondering what fresh scheme Christy had cooked up.
She walked up to the desk, shuffling her feet the whole way, and, instead of taking a chair opposite me as a normal visitor would, she walked around to my side, and sat down on the desk, right next to me, her feet dangling in mid-air. Her long, lean legs were crossed tight together - the crossed leg just grazing my arm.
Oh god she was beautiful. She was still in high school, and it was a Monday, so she was wearing her traditional school uniform. Short, blue pleated skirt that was cut just above the knee. White, button down blouse with the school insignia on the chest. Part of the uniform was a blue blazer, but she wasn't wearing that now. On top was just a short-sleeved thin white blouse, exposing her soft arms.
She looked at me with sad eyes, clearly wanting me to ask what was wrong. I played along.
"What's wrong honey?" I asked, as sympathetically as I could.
She quickly whipped her head in my direction, the hair covering the side of her face whipping around behind her to the other side and landing over her opposite shoulder, just like this was a shampoo commercial. Of course I noticed her lush hair and its youthful lustre. God she was good. She even practiced how to turn her head for maximum effect.
"I feel like you don't love me," she answered.
"Of course I love you sweetie."
"You didn't come into my room last night and give me cuddles like you promised."
"Your mom was sleeping. How could I? She could have woken up. We could have fallen asleep and then got found in the morning."
"So? Then we would just have to tell her."
"That would be a horrible way for her to find out. And we're not ready to tell her yet."
"When are we going to be ready?"
"Not yet. I mean, look, we've only been doing this for four days." She gave me a sour look when I pointed this out. My answers were not satisfying her. Young people are so impatient.
Throughout the conversation, she kept kicking her cute little feet up and down. She was wearing open-toed shoes, with freshly painted gold nails. And, she continued to run her fingers through her hair, no matter what either of us was saying. Every tiny move of hers was designed to capture my full attention. And it worked.
She stopped playing with her hair and kicking her feet. She looked at me very seriously.
"Daddy," she asked. "Do you think we should break up?"
That was an unexpected question. I figured Christy was going to keep pushing me until we ended up eloping and running away to Brazil together. Now she was giving me a way out. Maybe she was thinking what I was thinking. That this betrayal of her mother was wrong, that we had our fun, but before things went too far we should call it quits. I was impressed by how mature Christy was about this.
"Well, sweetheart," I said, trying to think how best to let her down easy. "You're a very pretty girl. Very pretty." She nodded her head, eyes still downcast, as she sniffed her first sniffle. She smiled weakly as I continued.
"But, what we did . . . it can't last," I said, as I placed a comforting hand on her thigh - oh god, what a firm, supple thigh Christy had. Was I crazy to end this so soon? No, I wasn't crazy. Our relationship was crazy. Why was I even calling it a relationship? It was a fling. A crazy fling.
I squeezed her tender thigh one last time, as I gave Christy the eye contact that this sort of speech deserved. The least I could do was look into her eyes like a man to a woman.
"I think we should break up."
"I knew it!" she screamed, jumping from the desk, swatting away my hand. "I knew you didn't love me!"
"Christy," I said, rotating my chair to face her directly. "Calm down. Your voice."
