All Chapters of Stepfamily Stories: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

I showed up at my godfather’s house with two bags and a semester that had already ended.The crash was weeks old. The funeral was done. No dorm. No lease. Cole Hale had paid for the coffins and the flights and the quiet after. He was the emergency name on every form. I hated that this address was the only one that still made sense.He opened the door in a black shirt like he had been standing there since the rideshare pinged.“Rory.”“Hi.”The house was wood and clock-quiet. He took one bag. I kept the smaller one against my hip because the toy was in it, wrapped in a hoodie like cloth could make it decent.“Spare room is upstairs. Bathroom’s attached. You eat what I cook or you say so. You don’t disappear into campus hours in a house that isn’t a dorm.”He went up. I followed.The room was white sheets and a street window. A grown guest room. He set the bag down and looked at me until I looked back.“Two rules.”I waited for quiet hours.“No locked doors. Not yours. Not the bathroom

I knocked.Not because I was brave. Because the toy was still on the nightstand and my body had spent the whole day clenched around the memory of it in his hand. Dinner had been ordinary. I had said Daddy at the table and he had passed the salt. The door to my room had stayed open. I had not touched myself. By ten the house was quiet and the quiet was worse than the motor.His door was shut. I stood in the hall in the same T-shirt and nothing under it and hated the sound my knuckles made.“Come in.”Cole was sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows on his knees, like he had been waiting and refusing to look like it. Lamp on. Shirt still buttoned. The spare-room toy was not in here. This room smelled like him. Soap. Wood.I closed his door. Then I opened it again an inch because the house rule was the house rule.“Say it,” he said.My throat worked.“Daddy. Fuck me.”He looked at me for a long second. Not surprised. Checking I had used the sentence he had sold me.“Shirt off. On

The sweater hid the collar. It did not hide the walk.Cole drove. The plug sat heavy in me on the leather seat, a solid secret every time he took a corner. No underwear. My slick had already painted the inside of my thighs before we left the driveway. He kept the remote in the cup holder like spare change. He did not touch it until we parked.“You need jeans,” he said. “And something that isn’t a funeral dress or a campus shirt. You try on what I hand you. You say yes Daddy if it fits. You don’t come in a mall.”“Yes, Daddy.”He clicked the remote once before we got out. The glass hummed to life inside me, low, and my knees forgot the asphalt for a second. He pocketed it. His hand at the small of my back looked like guidance. It was a reminder of the flare seated between my cheeks.The store was bright and stupid. Music. Racks. A girl folding sweaters who did not know I was plugged for my godfather. Cole pulled denim, a black dress, a blouse. He put them in my arms.“Fitting room. End

The guest was a lawyer named Harris who had known Cole since before I was born.Cole told me at four. Sweater. Collar hidden. Plug still in — he had checked it after the office like a man checking a lock. No underwear. Dress this time, the short one from the store, because jeans after the meeting were a crime scene.“You sit. You smile. You do not squirm unless you want him to ask if you’re sick. After he leaves I use the chair. Not before.”“Yes, Daddy.”Harris arrived with wine and a laugh. I shook his hand and felt the glass shift inside me. We sat. The dining chair pressed the flare deeper. I cut chicken and tried to look like a goddaughter on break. Cole carved. He asked about a contract. Harris talked. I said campus was closed and the house was kind. My cunt was a wet open mess around nothing. Every time I clenched on the plug I thought of the desk, of choking on Cole until my eyes ran, of swallowing him in an office while men talked Chicago.I dropped my fork.It hit the wood t

I woke in his bed with his spend still tacky on the back of the T-shirt and the bag still on the stairs.Morning did not come first. He did. Cole was already awake, sitting against the headboard, looking at me like the zipper had been dealt with and the inventory was not. The collar was still on. My throat remembered the foyer. My cunt and ass remembered the table. I was sore in a way that felt like a list.“Shirt off. Tonight we finish the sentence on the cover. Mouth. This.” He put two fingers against my cunt through nothing, because I had never put anything back on. I was wet already. He felt it and his mouth didn’t change. “Then the last one again, in this bed, so you don’t confuse a door with a choice.”“Yes, Daddy.”He pulled me over his lap facing his feet. Not a spanking pose — a mouth pose. I took him in while his hands spread me open from behind and his mouth found my cunt from below. Upside down. Filthy. He was heavy on my tongue, salt and heat, the head dragging the back o