Fucked by My Stepdad and his Priest Brother – {1}

AVERY POV

I shouldn’t be doing this.

The thought looped in my head like a guilty prayer, but my fingers didn’t stop. The house was quiet, the kind of heavy silence that only settled after midnight when Mom had already gone to bed and the only light came from the faint glow of my phone screen.

I was sprawled across my bed, legs parted, one hand sliding slowly between my thighs while the other pressed my pillow against my mouth to muffle the soft sounds I couldn’t quite hold back.

It had started innocently enough—an innocent search that led me down a rabbit hole of forbidden fantasies. Stepdad p**n. Taboo. Wrong. The kind of thing I told myself I’d never actually want in real life. But tonight, the ache between my legs had grown too insistent to ignore. And the worst part? The face I kept picturing wasn’t some anonymous actor.

It was him.

Marcus.

My stepfather.

I bit down harder on the pillow as my fingers circled my clit, slick and swollen. God, I was soaked. The shame only made it hotter. I imagined his deep voice, the way his eyes sometimes lingered on me a second too long when Mom wasn’t looking. The way his broad shoulders filled out his shirts. The quiet authority he carried without even trying.

A soft moan escaped me before I could stop it. I arched my back, pushing two fingers inside myself, curling them just right. My hips rocked against my hand in shallow, desperate thrusts.

The fantasy sharpened: Marcus walking into my room, catching me like this, his dark eyes darkening further as he watched me fuck myself thinking about him.

I was so close. My breathing came in quick, ragged gasps. The tension coiled tighter and tighter in my belly.

The door creaked open.

I froze.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I thought it might crack them. My fingers were still buried inside me, my panties shoved down around one ankle, my tank top pushed up over my breasts. The cool air of the hallway hit my exposed skin like ice.

Marcus stood in the doorway.

He was wearing nothing but gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, his chest bare and sculpted from years of early morning workouts. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d just woken up. One hand still rested on the doorknob. For a long, terrifying second, neither of us moved.

His gaze dropped.

Slowly.

From my flushed face, down to my heaving chest, then lower. To where my hand was still trapped between my thighs, fingers glistening. I could feel my pussy clenching around them involuntarily, as if my body hadn’t gotten the memo that we’d just been caught.

“Oh my God,” I whispered, the words barely audible. I yanked my hand away, but it was too late. The evidence was everywhere—wetness shining on my inner thighs, my nipples hard and obvious under the thin fabric I hadn’t even bothered to pull down.

Marcus didn’t speak at first. His jaw tightened. I watched his throat work as he swallowed. His eyes flicked back up to mine, and there was something in them I’d never seen before. Not just surprise.

Heat.

“I… I thought I heard a noise,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, like gravel dragged over velvet. “Are you okay, Avery?”

The question was absurd. I was lying there half-naked, caught masturbating, and he was asking if I was okay?

I couldn’t answer. My face burned so hot I was sure it was glowing. I scrambled to pull my tank top down, but my hands were shaking. The movement only drew his attention back to my breasts, to the way my nipples strained against the fabric.

“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I didn’t— I thought everyone was asleep.”

He should have left. Closed the door. Pretended this never happened. That’s what a good stepfather would do.

Instead, Marcus stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him.

The click of the latch sounded deafening in the small room.

He leaned against the door, arms crossed over his chest, and just… looked at me. Not with disgust. Not with anger. With something darker. Hungrier.

“You don’t have to stop on my account,” he murmured.

My breath caught.

“What?” The word came out as a squeak.

His eyes never left mine. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself. Before I interrupted.”

I couldn’t breathe. My pulse thundered in my ears. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. But the way he was watching me—patient, intense, like he was waiting to see what I’d do next—made fresh heat flood between my legs.

I should tell him to get out.

I should scream for Mom.

Instead, I stayed frozen, thighs still slightly parted, my body betraying me with every shallow breath.

Marcus tilted his head. “Were you thinking about someone, sweetheart?”

The endearment hit me like a spark to dry tinder. Sweetheart. He’d called me that before, casually, like it meant nothing. Tonight it meant everything.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

But my silence seemed to be enough.

He took one step closer. Then another. Until he was standing at the foot of my bed, looking down at me like I was something he wanted to devour.

“Show me,” he said softly. It wasn’t a command. Not quite. But it was close.

My fingers trembled as they hovered over my thigh. I was terrified. Embarrassed. And so turned on I could barely think straight.

Marcus waited.

And in that heavy, charged silence, I realized I wasn’t going to tell him to leave.