My Stepdad Is My P**n Partner 2

The moment Jess called “action,” the warehouse shrank to nothing but the couch, the lights, the camera lens, and him.

I walked toward Marcus exactly the way the script demanded: slow, hips rolling with fake confidence, sheer robe slipping off one shoulder like I’d practiced in the mirror a hundred times. My heart was slamming so hard I was sure the boom mic picked it up. Every step made my lace panties rub against my swollen clit. I was already soaked. I had been soaked since the second I recognized his voice behind the mask.

He sat sprawled on the grey leather like he owned the room. Legs wide. One arm draped along the back of the couch. The black boxer briefs did nothing to hide how thick and hard he already was. The outline of his cock pressed obscenely against the fabric. The head was clearly defined. A dark wet spot spread at the tip. He watched me approach with that same lazy, predatory tilt to his head he used to give me when I came downstairs in sleep shorts and a tank top on lazy Saturday mornings.

I stopped right between his spread knees.

He looked up at me through the eye holes of the leather mask. His mouth curved in that small, knowing smile. It was the one that used to make my stomach flip when I was seventeen and pretending I didn’t notice how his eyes lingered.

“You look nervous, sweetheart,” he said. His voice was low. Smooth. It was the same voice that used to ask if I needed help with homework while his hand rested a little too long on my lower back.

The pet name landed like a match on gasoline.

He had called me sweetheart when he drove me to soccer practice, when he helped me study for finals, when he hugged me goodnight and I pressed my tits against his chest just to feel him tense.

Now he was using it while his cock throbbed visibly under his briefs, waiting to split me open on camera.

I forced a shaky smile, playing the nervous newbie. “First time with someone like you.”

He chuckled. The sound was low, dark, filthy. He reached out with one finger and hooked it into the tie of my sheer robe. He tugged slowly. The knot gave. The robe parted like curtains, sliding off my shoulders and pooling at my elbows. Black lace bra. Matching thong so thin it was basically decoration. My nipples were already peaked, pressing against the cups like they were begging for attention. A dark wet spot bloomed at the crotch of my panties.

Marcus’s gaze dragged down my body. Slow. Deliberate. Appreciative. It was the same way he used to look at me when he thought I was asleep on the couch, legs slightly parted, shorts riding up my thighs.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. His voice was rougher now. “Come here.”

I straddled his lap.

The second my thighs settled over his, heat exploded between us. His hands slid up my sides. They were warm, rough, callused from years of manual work. He pulled me closer until my lace-covered breasts pressed against his bare chest. His cock was thick, hot, leaking. It throbbed right against my soaked pussy. Only two thin layers of fabric separated us. I could feel every vein, every ridge. The blunt head nudged my clit through the lace.

I gasped. Real. Loud. Not acting.

He leaned in. His mouth was so close to my ear the camera wouldn’t catch the words.

“Relax, baby girl,” he whispered. “Just follow my lead.”

Baby girl.

The name he used to growl when I was grinding against his lap in secret, years ago, before Mom ever suspected. The name that used to make me come untouched just from the sound of it in his throat.

My clit pulsed hard against his cock. A fresh gush of wetness soaked my panties.

I nodded against his shoulder. Small. Helpless.

He kissed my neck. Slow. Open-mouthed. Tongue tracing the pulse point. Teeth grazing just enough to sting. One hand cupped my breast through the lace. His thumb circled my nipple in slow, maddening spirals. The other hand slid down to grip my ass. Hard. Fingers dug into the flesh, spreading me wider over his lap so his cock pressed even more insistently against my slit.

I moaned. The sound tore out of me. Raw. Needy. Unmistakable.

He rocked his hips up once. Slow grind. The thick ridge of him dragged along my clit through the soaked lace. My eyes fluttered shut. My hips rolled forward without permission. I humped him shamelessly.

Jess’s voice cut through from behind the camera. “Good. Keep that energy. Marcus, lose the briefs. Lila, help him.”

My hands shook as I reached between us.

I hooked my fingers into the waistband of his briefs. I pulled them down slowly. Inch by inch. I watched his cock spring free.

Thick. Veined. Darker at the base. The head flushed angry red and shiny with pre-cum. A thick bead welled at the slit and dripped down the shaft. It was exactly the way I remembered it from that one stolen glimpse years ago when he stepped out of the shower and didn’t realize I was in the hallway.

I wrapped my hand around him.

He was so hot. So hard. My fingers didn’t quite meet around the girth. I stroked once. Slow. From base to tip. Pre-cum coated my palm, slick and warm. I stroked again. Slower. Twisting my wrist at the head the way I knew he liked.

Marcus groaned low in his throat. Real. Guttural.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he said for the camera.

But his eyes behind the mask were locked on mine. They told me it wasn’t acting. They told me he remembered every time I had touched him in secret, every time I had jerked him off under the kitchen table while Mom was on the phone in the next room.

He pulled my panties to the side with two fingers. The lace stretched taut, digging into my skin. Cool air hit my soaked folds. He slid those same two fingers through me. Slow. Parting my lips. Spreading my wetness.

“Already dripping for me,” he murmured. Loud enough for the mic. “Such a good girl.”

He pushed one finger inside me. Then two. Slow. Deep. He crooked them immediately to rub that spot that made my thighs shake.

My head fell back. A real moan tore out. High. Broken. Desperate.

He finger-fucked me with steady, relentless strokes. His thumb circled my clit on every inward thrust. The wet, obscene sounds of my cunt taking his fingers filled the set. My hips rocked down to meet him. Greedy. Shameless. My tits bounced with every movement. My nipples scraped against the lace bra until they ached.

I was close already. Dangerously close. But I fought it. I clenched my inner muscles. I bit my lip. I didn’t want to come yet. I wanted to drag this out. I wanted to feel every filthy second of my stepdad fingering me open on camera.

Marcus leaned in again. His mouth was against my ear.

“You’re doing so good, princess,” he whispered. Too quiet for the mic. “So fucking wet for your stepdad.”

The word detonated inside me.

Stepdad.

He knew.

He had known since the moment I walked onto the set.

And he was still knuckle-deep inside me, still rubbing that spot, still making me drip down his wrist.

I clenched around his fingers. Hard. Almost coming right then.

He smiled against my neck. Slow. Dark. Victorious.

Then he pulled his fingers free with a wet pop. He brought them straight to my mouth.

“Suck.”

I opened. I took his fingers inside. I tasted myself on his thick, rough fingers. Salty. Musky. Sweet. I sucked them clean while he watched with dark, hungry eyes.

He lifted me like I weighed nothing. He laid me back on the couch. He spread my legs wide. Wide enough that the camera caught everything.

He knelt between my thighs.

His mouth hovered over my pussy. His breath was hot against my clit.

And the real scene began.