Page 2 of Step-Crush (Wanting What's Wrong)

I’ve planned everything down to the minute. I haven’t slept in a week. She’d opened her mouth to the wrong person and it was time for her lessons to begin.

I grit my teeth as I shift in my seat, trying to get my balls to stop aching because they’re ready to fuckingbust.

Implementing measures for the last year on how to increase your sperm count has its pros and cons.

I switched to boxers.

I chilled my nutsack until it damn near froze off.

I ate fucking clean, whatever the hell that means.

I worked out and took some Eastern medicine supplement that made everything taste like maple syrup. The fucking works.

But now that the time is drawing near for my swimmers to march into her womb and conquer, I wish I’d done more.

I need her bound to me right fuckingnow.

The pounding obsession with impregnating my stepdaughter pushes me to the edge of reason, blurring my vision and darkening my already-black soul.

I stare at my phone where it sits on the console, her fresh face on the screen as I reach down and flip through the file of her photos.

The first one I ever took occupies the front of my phone screen, taken when she woke up on her eighteenth birthday.

She’s cross-legged on her bed, sporting a wicked bedhead and a Rammstein t-shirt from the concert the night before. It’s been her favorite band since I introduced her to German industrial metal when she was fifteen.

The tickets, backstage passes and the private suite equipped with a full battalion of security from Moreno Consolidated Industries was my gift to her and ten of her closest friends.

All who I vetted carefully.

She doesn’t know it, but I’m with her every moment. She’s grown into herself in the two years since that first picture. Her round ass deserves fucking shrines built in its honor. Her thick thighs and D-cup tits fill my dreams day and night.

My dick weeps as her golden green eyes stare back at me from the photo, those little creases at the tops of her lips when she smiles teasing how her mouth will look stretched around my thick dick.

There are at least a hundred pictures of her watering her plants. Fuck, she loves those plants, and I feel a rush of hot rage.

I’m jealous of a Philodendron.

My cock grows harder, knowing she won’t come with me easily. That’s not her way. She’s a hellcat disguised as an angel but anticipating her fight has only fueled my lewd and inappropriate fantasies.

I flip through some more pictures, biding my time, gathering my calm.

Ah, this is one of my favorites.

She’s in the kitchen, making ramen, cracking the eggs into the boiling water with one hand the way I taught her when we lived together.

In many ways, she’s more like me than her mother. More my daughter than hers, even if we’re not biologically related.

I was the one who gave Bijou a safe, calm space. I taught her about field dressings and how to properly clean a gun.

What did her mother give her, except those golden green eyes?

Then, I was gone, and I broke all those unspoken promises I made to always be there for her. I had to. She was off limits. I am a bad man. She deserved better.

Ripping my eyes from the images on my phone, my blood begins to boil as I sit across the street in the driveway of a house I bought just for the purpose of having a secure point for keeping an eye on her. I scan the front of the Mediterranean-style stucco mansion I bought for our new family when I married her mother.

I willingly let her keep it when she divorced me. I didn’t give a shit. I bought the monstrosity of a Playboy-style mansion across the street the same week I moved out, making sure I could always have eyes on her. I had to convince the occupants to sell in ways they eventually couldn’t resist.

I don’t live here, I just use it for watching her and housing my security team that keeps her always under surveillance.

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