Page 40 of Off Limits

Jean-Luc

THE FIRST TIME I had sex with Melanie, she’d claimed to be surprised by how raw and animalistic it was. “You have a beast inside,” she’d said, delighted, “that I wasn’t expecting.”

She was a new-agey kind of woman, confident in her assessments of people and with an air of spiritual superiority. We met at a party where she’d arrived with another man, one who wore jeans and had tousled hair and called her babe. In hindsight, the fact that she went home with me should have been a clue to her future infidelity, but at the time it felt like a conquest.

I’ve always been Melanie’s opposite, the stiff guy in a suit who rarely cracks a smile, but Mel and I, we had wild sex. Crazy sex. The kind where we tore at each other’s bodies and got off on dirty talk and even introduced risks, like public sex and trying to get caught. In Melanie’s view, I was more rigid than most on the outside because I was more wild than most on the inside.

In the early days of our relationship, she loved discovering the side of me that could completely let go. But towards the end, it was the outward control she focused on. “You’re such a control freak,” she would tell me. “You’re anal-retentive. You’re repressing me.”

I disliked the way she put me into two distinct boxes, Wild Jean-Luc and Repressed Jean-Luc, the way she didn’t seem able to understand me as a whole, complete person. But now, with her teenage daughter wet and quivering on my lap, and my blood pounding in my ears and my heart hammering against my chest, the term comes back to me. The beast inside. It feels accurate.

I’m just on the brink of control, like I might transform right before Dani’s eyes into the Incredible Hulk, clothes ripping and guttural roar uttering from my throat as I give in to the powerful gravity of my lust. My cock is straining against my pants, my balls tight with need, and my hand in Dani’s hair is twitching with the urge to grab and pull. It’s as if every cell in my body is calling to me to rip her wet panties off and slam my hard cock deep into her still-pulsing pussy—pulling at her hair, squeezing her hips, using her for my relief, the relief that’s screaming out for me like a siren song.

It takes every ounce of willpower I have, every trained reflex as Control Freak Jean-Luc, to loosen my fingers in her hair, and shift my legs, and lower her skirt. To say—as gently as I can muster, with the rebel yell pounding inside of me—“Up you get, sweetheart.”

I can tell she’s dazed as she stands up, cheeks flushed and eyes gleaming. She pushes her hair off her face, which has gotten wild and curly, and I notice that her nipples are poking two small, hard points against her school blouse.

She’s absolutely dripping with sex. Aroused, but with that freshly-fucked look, too, and it’s the hottest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

She’s everything.

Including—the thought enters my head with a sobering iciness—my wife’s daughter.

And I am a beast. I am a monster, after all.

Panic claws at my throat. I wasn’t supposed to go any further. I wasn’t supposed to spank Dani and touch her and make her come on my lap. I went too far.

“Time for your bath,” I say abruptly, standing up with the kind of cool, neutral demeanour I might have if I was ending a business meeting. Surprise flickers across her eyes. It hasn’t been ‘bath time’ in our house for years now, but she doesn’t say anything and follows me as I walk up the stairs without looking back, fingering my cell phone in my pocket.

When I met Melanie, Danica was already eight years old, and didn’t seem to have any established routines. She delighted in the bedtime rituals I set up: bath time and story time. It was obvious she’d never had that kind of structure before. I didn’t hold it against Mel at the time. I thought it was more evidence of her free-spirited nature versus my uptight one. But I knew instinctively that kids need routines.

She’s eighteen now and it seems like she’s in the shower three times a day. She certainly doesn’t need bath time anymore, but the words were out of my mouth before I could think it through.

Perhaps, I think, if I can’t have her the way I want her, indulging my forbidden fantasy in a safe way will help keep my urges in check. My cock, already aching from the spanking on the couch, keeps throbbing as I pour the bath my little girl will sit in naked.

She drops her skirt without reservation when she walks into the bathroom and starts unbuttoning her shirt. My vision goes foggy as my desire roars back to life. I’ll never be able to resist her, I think desperately. I need her.

But what I really need is to be a better man—more disciplined and less self-indulgent. With self-reproach, I back away from Dani and reach for the door.

“I’ll get dinner started,” I choke out, and leave the room, closing the door behind me.

I can barely focus on cooking. Filthy, obsessive thoughts are running through my head, my hand unconsciously finding my phone in my pocket as I turn the idea of phoning Cynthia over and over in my mind. I don’t want to be a creep, but I desperately need an outlet for the need that’s thundering through me. By the time Danica comes down from her bath, every inch of me is aching and throbbing.

She’s glowing as she approaches the table—cheeks rosy, in stark contrast to her ivory skin, her wet hair dark and heavy down her back. She’s wearing pyjama shorts and her long, bare legs underneath are absolutely sinful. I immediately visualize them spreading wide for me.

“Take a seat, please,” I say, as I turn off the stove. I scoop rice on a plate, and then a chicken breast, and hear her slide a chair out with a scrape across the floor. I really need to put felt pads under the chair legs. There are already scratches showing in the polished floor under Dani’s chair.

When I place the plate in front of her, I run a hand affectionately over her hair but try to hold my body away from her, as if an inch or two will keep me from throwing her onto the table and mauling her.

“I’ve got to do some work,” I say austerely, and when I look down I see a blank look of confusion on her face. “You made me lose work time because you were a such a bad girl, and now Daddy’s got to make up for lost time.” Fuck. It kind of slips out. Daddy.

“You’re not going to eat?”

“I’ll eat later.”

I climb the stairs, knowing I can’t wait another minute. I need release now. It feels natural to hide out in the bathroom where I can have more privacy, and I close the door, and text Cynthia.

Can you talk? It feels desperate and creepy, but I am desperate—so hard I’m not thinking straight.

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