Xavier
i take a highball of scotch up to my room with me, pausing for just a moment in front of Hazel’s door. If she were a child, I would walk into her room and sit on the edge of her bed so we could talk it out. So that no one was going to bed angry.
But she’s not a child. She so very clearly is not a child, since I caught her giving a boy a blowjob in my basement, and I have no idea how to talk about this with her.
Kids have sex at Hazel’s age. Lord knows I did. She’s not eight years old anymore, and I feel like now I don’t know the rules.
I drink my scotch in bed, watching the news and trying to distract myself from the irritating events of the night. I should never have agreed to go out with Cynthia. The truth is I’m lonely. I’ve been lonely since Melanie and I separated. But that’s no excuse for my lapse in judgment.
I stare mindlessly at the TV, thinking bitter thoughts about the teenage douchebag sniffing around my daughter and my own loneliness, but not even the endlessly bad news of the world can take my mind off things. Eventually I get ready for bed, and drift off into a restless sleep.
I dream about Cynthia.
We’re in the car and she has her head between my knees.
“Mm, Daddy,” she murmurs, wrapping her lips around my shaft and sucking me down deep into the warm embrace of her mouth.
“Good girl,” I tell her, squeezing my eyes shut and running my fingers through her hair.
But her hair doesn’t feel as straight and slippery as I’m expecting. It’s soft and thick, and I open my eyes and look down to see Melanie’s red hair in my lap. It’s not Cynthia, it’s my wife.
“Mel,” I breathe, groaning and grinding my cock deeper into her mouth. I’ve missed my wife’s mouth.
She raises her head, lifting her eyes to me and pulling back as she runs her tongue up my shaft. Big, bright blue eyes framed by surprisingly dark lashes…
“Daddy,” she purrs.
It’s not Melanie.
It’s Hazel.
Hazel running her tongue over the head of my cock and then sitting up and looking at me with a delicious smile on her face. Precocious and self-satisfied, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Hazel!” I shout, and wake myself up…
My eyes fly open in alarm. For a moment, I’m frozen, unable to move. I take a deep breath, aware that my heart is racing, and try to calm down. I have that feeling you sometimes get after a dream where you’re still not sure it isn’t real, and I shift my eyes over to the side without moving my head, for fear that Hazel might really be there.
“Fuck.”
Of course it’s not real. It’s just the sickest fucking dream. It’s my own sick fucking head making up twisted fantasies. Goddamn it.
I run my fingers into my hair, pulling on it and feeling the tiny pinpricks of pain across my scalp with satisfaction. I deserve all the tiny pinpricks of pain.
It doesn’t help that I have a raging fucking erection. My cock is throbbing, a pulsing, aching, needy thing, and when I wrap my hand around it it jolts in my hand.
Fuck, I’m hard. I haven’t come tonight and clearly I need to, so I start stroking my dick knowing it’s just what I need to fall back asleep.
I jerk myself to the memory of Cynthia in the car, grinding against me. Cynthia in the restaurant telling me that “Daddy’s going to have his hands full.” I liked the way she said that.
The memory of Cynthia in her little red dress is nice. Imagining her in something even naughtier is better. I imagine Cynthia wearing a little school girl uniform. We’re outside the car now, and she’s bending over the hood, showing me her little white panties under her skirt.
“Oh fuck,” I breathe out loud, my need building like a pressure inside of me. I stroke myself faster still, harder, needing to come, imagining myself pushing those little panties to the side to expose her sweet, tight little cunt.
But it’s not Cynthia I’m imagining now. Cynthia, who’s twenty-six and who’s had lots of sex before. It’s Hazel. Hazel who, in white panties, would truly be all innocence. Hazel, my stepdaughter. Hazel, who is completely forbidden.