Shepherd's Pie Ch. 06: Daddy's Girl

Meanwhile, Cynthia leaned on the table, nipples almost as red as the fruit.

"I was just thinking," she said, head down, staring at the bowl. "You know what these strawberries could really use?"

I shook my head.

"Something creamy on top." Turning her head, her lips curled, leveling her pretty blue eyes. "Any idea where I could find something like that?"

"Mm hmm," I said, watching her twirl her finger through her hair, "but you'll have to work for it."

"Oh, I will," she said, arching her brow. "Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe," I said. "Maybe not...why don't you kneel down over here and we'll found out?"

Enjoying my new sense of power and dominance, I watched Cynthia step forward, kneel down, and place the bowl by her side.

Growing up, I'd discovered porn fairly early, with legends like Peter North and Rocco Siffredi who helped me to realize my cock was in fact bigger than average. Yet, in spite of learning I was well-hung, during adolescence, I also developed a crippling fear of women, tied to my sinking suspicion that Mom's increased physical demands, nearing her sexual peak, had ultimately threatened my father so much that he ran off and married a younger woman, content with being his pretty accessory.

Thankfully, through therapy, I'd gradually gained comfort with the notion of supplanting my father and no longer felt the same reservation at the thought of being the new alpha male.

Kneeling in front of me, posed by the challenge of my length and girth, Aunt Cindy (which had a nice ring to it) leaned forward and widely opened her mouth. A blanket of wetness warmly enveloped the ridged upper half of my swollen penis, buttressed against her throat, where the feat of she had pulled off somehow with Dante wasn't so easy to repeat.

"gGluNkK," she gurgled, choking hard, spit bubbles foaming from her mouth.

Feeling no pity, I let her struggle, knowing her taste for discomfort. Watching from above, she wiggled her head, searching for just the right angle, coughing and wheezing, squirting on the floor, clearly enjoying the pain.

Sounding impatient, Mom reappeared, offering free advice.

"Don't push," she said, shaking her head. "Your throat has to open naturally. It won't just go down by force. Pretend you're eating something you love, like ice cream or chocolate. Then breathe in, relax, and swallow."

With a simple food reference, and a short, muffled grunt, my dick sunk balls to her chin.

Grabbing my thighs, Aunt Cindy went ballistic, deep-throating clear to the back of her skull, moaning and dribbling, springing back, gasping for air, then greedily doing it all over again.

"sHLoOmPh sHLoOmPh gGluNkK gGluNk," Aunt Cindy fucked her own throat.

The euphoric pleasure of witnessing the violent piston-like action of Cindy's head rivaled the dizzying, ecstatic tingle each time I felt my cock plummet well beyond her tonsils.

The first second Aunt Cindy paused for a moment, simply to get her bearings; Mom eagerly lunged in to demonstrate her unmatched skills, picking up where Cindy left off.

Like a MILF version of "Lord of The Flies," both cougars savagely competed for whom was most worthy of my cock, pushing and shoving, snarling like wild animals, feverishly switching back and forth.

"God, it's so hot how you ram your dick down your mom's throat," Cindy said. "Seeing her take down all that meat makes my mouth water."

Switching again, Aunt Cindy moaned as I forcefully plugged her mouth up again. Blonde hair and big tits swung in all directions, sucking with all the ferocity of a violent tornado.

"Yes, baby! Fuck her face! Just the way Mommy taught you. God, I can't wait to taste your cum."

With Aunt Cindy bobbing at a rapid pace, slobbering all over my meat, wanting her to bed, milking the moment, I looked down and taunted Mom on purpose.

"You really want it that much?"

"Oh, sweetie. You know I do. You know how much Mommy loves your cum. You know I'd do anything to drain those balls and taste your hot creamy load."

Reaching out, Mom grabbed my shaft, half stuck in Aunt Cindy's mouth. Stepping back, I pulled out, seeing the head slathered with spit, as Aunt Cindy held up the bowl.

"God, I can't wait much longer," said Cindy, as Mom urgently beat me off. "Please, Chris. Give it to us. Give us your hot fucking cum!"

The needful and desperate hunger in Cindy's voice added to the rabid determination of Mom's furious, persistent strokes, as I bellowed hard, from the pit of my stomach, groin muscles tightening all at once, seized by a blinding, painful contraction, then the blissful surge of release.

Shutting my eyes, I still heard the weight of semen splashing across bare skin. Through groans and convulsions, needing to watch, I looked down and witnessed the spectacle of cum falling like sleet, white cream spurting all over, wet, thick, and gloopy, dumping over Mom's face, soaking Aunt Cindy's tits, then rolling down, filling up the bowl, glazing the plump red fruit.

Lifting a strawberry covered with cum, Mom dropped it straight in her mouth.

"Mmm, that's good," she smiled, munching away. Then Aunt Cindy ate one too.

Like a bowl filled with warm ambrosia, for two minutes, I watched in amazement as each of them took turns savoring the taste of my creamy nectar, swooning and dribbling, feeding each other, licking the sticky bowl clean.

"God, that was yummy," Aunt Cindy said, rising to her feet. "If you give me a second, I need to go check on the baby," she added, rubbing my arm. "I was thinking though...about the muffins...I'm sure they'd taste even better if you stuck around and covered them with your hot butter..."

* * *

One week later, sometime between 10:30 and 11PM, after waiting all night for her to finally loosen up, Mia Vincent turned and asked me a startling question.

"So, uh, I know this isn't polite," she stammered, the two us riding in back of a cab. She hadn't been drinking, though I'm sure the driver probably thought otherwise. "Um, I was just wondering, like, how many times have you...you know...had sex?"

Stalling on purpose, I blinked back, silencing the guilt, noting how different she seemed in less than 24 hours.

The night before, while waiting for Doug and Mia to join us for a late dinner, Mom sat beside me, casually sipping merlot, blithely accepting the indiscrete fall of my gaze, as I quietly pretended to listen, while openly staring down her neckline, tits swelling out of her push-up bra, perched from the front of her tight, low-cut, sweater dress, olive green, turning heads with envy all around, while also serving as a welcome distraction, at a table for four, with two conspicuously empty seats.

For dinner, she'd chosen "La Dolce Vita," this charming little Italian bistro in the North End, owned by an old, balding, grey-haired soprano, with a smile as big as his stomach, who graciously stopped at each table, crooning romantic love songs in his native tongue.

By candlelight, hand in hand, we waited our turn, till he finally came over. Moved by the passion in his voice, Mom and I listened as he sang a cappella, feeling the meaning behind words resonating in any language.

Though not purpose, I looked up and spoiled the moment, drawn toward the seemingly lost blinking eyes of a short, pale, strawberry blonde, thin as a rail, turning her head this way and that, flipping her ponytail, neatly restrained by a tasteful white satin ribbon.

Plainly dressed for my taste, she showed up wearing a denim jacket over a long, strapless, peasant dress, yellow as a daisy, with little ruffles over the bumps of her small, under grown chest. Cinched at the waist, then draping loosely, flaring over the knee, her long yellow dress thankfully hid the unattractive pallor of her legs, baring only her skinny ankles, with a pair of nondescript, ugly ballet flats, possibly black, though I honestly wasn't looking that closely.

Waving and smiling, Mom called her over, spotting her soon after me.

Recalling my manners, I stood up, as Mia flitted toward the table. Offering my hand, she unexpectedly leaned in and gave me an awkward hug, grinning as I pulled out her chair.

Facing Mom, she sat down, laying the napkin across her lap, head down, leading with a sigh.

"Dad missed his flight," she said. "Something about an urgent conference call...I don't know."

Hearing this, Mom opened her purse, frowning as she checked her phone.

"I never got a message," she said, shaking her head.

Mia rolled her eyes. "Join the club. I only found out when I texted him to ask where he was. Told me tell you he'll be here first thing in the morning."

"Hmm," Mom answered, tilting her head. "I know he's been trying close to a deal with those Japanese investors. Did something go wrong?"

"Could be," Mia shrugged. "We don't really talk business," she added, scanning the room. "Nice place. I love Italian," she said, changing the subject. "Did you guys order already?"

"No, we were waiting for you," Mom said. "It's so nice to finally meet you." She glanced down, taking Mia's hand, admiring her French manicure. "I love your nails. They look so pretty."

"Thanks, I did them myself," Mia said, letting Mom take a moment to look them over. "It's one of the few things Mom taught me before she died," she added, drawing her hand back across the table.

"Is that right? Well, she did an excellent job. And I must say, after seeing the pictures Doug showed me, you're even more beautiful in person."

Mia blushed. "Oh, um, thank you. But you'd probably feel different if you saw me during the week. I really don't dress up. Dad doesn't like it...says it attracts the wrong kind of attention."

Mom frowned, leaning back in her seat. "He said that...recently?"

Mia nodded. "He's always said it, but especially since I moved here. He won't even let me date. If I go out, it has to be with a group."

"So you've never had a boyfriend?" Mom asked, folding her arms.

Mia shook her head. "Dad wants me to finish school. Apparently, having a boyfriend would be a huge distraction. Honestly, I'm lucky he let me go to Berkeley. He wanted me to go to NYU."

"Well I think that's a really good start," Mom replied. "Maybe you need to do more of that, show him you're old enough to make your own decisions," she said, turning to me. "Chris, you don't have anything important going on tomorrow, do you?"

I lifted my head up from the menu. "Um, no," I answered, scratching my temple, "not during the day. Why?"

"Because," Mom said, leaning in, arms dropping to her sides. "I think you should take Mia out tomorrow...show her the city...help her get out of her shell."

Lighting up, Mia looked at me, pleading with her light green eyes.

"That would be so amazing!" she said. "All I do on the weekends is study and learn new music. I never do anything fun."

"Well, there you go," Mom said. "I'll even let Chris take my car. Then the two of you are free to go wherever you want." Again, Mom turned to me. "Are you good with that?"

"Um, yeah, sure," I said, reluctantly agreeing to participate in what suddenly felt like entrapment.

"Sheesh," Mia smirked. "Way to make your future step-sister feel welcome."

"Step-sister," I scoffed. "That's news to me," I said, looking at Mom.

"She's right," Mom smiled. "I mean obviously Doug hasn't proposed or anything. It's definitely too soon for that. But she does have a point. Potentially, she could be your future step-sister."

"And you really think she's ready to join this family?"

I could see in Mom's eyes that she knew exactly what I was thinking.

"I'm only asking you to show her the city, nothing more."

"Okay, that's fine," I said nodding back. "But I'll need to have you back around seven, if that's all right?"

"Seven?" Mia turned, squinting at me. "Why so early?"

"Oh, um, I'm going to see this band tomorrow night...probably not your kind of crowd."

"My kind of crowd...what's that supposed to mean?"

"It's nothing," I said, waving it off. "Can we order now? I'm starving."

"Um, no," Mom said. "You can wait another minute. I'd like to hear this myself."

"Fine," I said. "Granted I just met you, but, uh...you just seem a little...I don't know...conservative, I guess."

"Oh," Mia nodded perceptively. "Is that just your nice of way saying I'm not hot enough to be seen with you in public?"

Determined to make me squirm, both women had me boxed in, eyes glaring, seemingly cut from the same cloth.

Turning the tables, fueled by a sudden rush of adrenaline, I sat up and bravely fought back.

"Okay, I'll make you a deal," I said, turning to Mia. "If I take you with me tomorrow, you'll have to wear something I like. That's my offer. Take it or leave it."

Naturally, Mom butted in, sensing the danger, knowing me better than anyone.

"Chris, I don't know if that's such a good..."

"Quiet, Mom," I shot back. "You just said she needs to start making her own decisions. Let Mia speak for herself."

Shaking her head, Mom leaned back, arms folding in a huff.

Turning to Mia, eyes steady, waiting for an answer, she dropped her head, voice muted, barely above a whisper.

"To be honest, I do kind of like the idea...but this is the nicest dress I own."

Looking for guidance, I turned to Mom, where I'd come to expect only her full, unconditional support.

Lips parted, she breathed in and out, opting to let me tempt fate, with an answer so perfect I wanted to kiss her, stopping myself before I did.

"Take her to Chelsea's store," Mom said. "I'll give you my credit card. Consider it an early Christmas gift."

After dinner, instead of going home, Mia accepted Mom's offer to sleep on our couch.

The next morning, I woke up half nervous, half excited, preparing for what I fully expected to be a highly eventful day.

"You still want to do this?"

Mia nodded, seated beside me in the car.

"I think so," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Why? Should I be nervous?"

Starting the car, I rolled down the window, lighting a cigarette first. Until then, I hadn't mentioned anything about the band I was taking her to see. Though I was tempted to leave her in the dark, my conscience ultimately won out, swaying me to tell her as much as I possibly could.

As usual, the whole coincidence led back to Megan, beginning when she'd brought up her daughter Emma during our last session.

At Megan's suggestion, I'd sent Emma a friend request, which she'd quickly accepted right away.

Thursday, the day before Mom and I met Mia for dinner, I opened Facebook, just killing time, going through pictures on Emma's account.

Surprisingly, in several albums, with multiple pictures to prove it, a ton of drinking and partying went on between Emma and Kendra Saint James. Curious as hell, I instantly sent Emma a private message, calling her that afternoon.

"Sure, I know Kendra," Emma explained. "We met at the mansion. She's one of my best clients."

It may have been an obvious question. Yet, I asked anyway, not wanting to assume.

"The mansion...as in Playboy?'

"Mm hmm," Emma said. "It's a great place to network. I'm there at least once a month."

"And what do you do exactly?"

"Oh, I do hair and make-up," she said. "Most of my clients are in the adult industry."

"No shit," I said. "Kendra's in porn?"

"Actually no," Emma said. "Hef wanted her to be a playmate. She did the test shots and everything. Then she met this Armenian software developer, filthy rich...bought her a ring, talked her out of it."

"Hmm," I nodded, phone to my ear. "That doesn't surprise me. She always was pretty shallow. She ever mention her sister?"

"Bethany, yeah, all the time," Emma replied. "She's still in Rhode Island. She actually started her own band. They don't have a deal, but Kendra's says it's just a matter of time."

"What are they called?"

"All Saint's Day," Emma said. "I know they're on Facebook, if you're curious."

Curious didn't begin to cover it. After hanging up, within ten seconds, I'd pulled up the dates and times for every upcoming local gig, the next being at 8 PM, Saturday night, in Kenmore Square.

Playing it down, as Mia rode shotgun, I casually mentioned I'd once dated the band's lead singer back in high school.

"But don't worry," I said. Mia seemed lost for words. "I'm sure she's over it by now."

Changing the subject, I purposely started asking her personal questions, hoping she'd open up.

For several minutes, she jabbered on about growing up a child prodigy, able to play Mozart and Beethoven by age 6, performing at numerous recitals before her mother died, then getting into competitive swimming and diving, when her father felt she needed more structure. She even mentioned earning brown belts in both Tae Kwon Do and Jiu Jitsu.

Leading Mia toward Chelsea's boutique, approaching double glass doors, it seemed like a good omen as I looked up and read the name Surrender in sliver letters, written in cursive, Classic Styles for Modern Women, in smaller letters beneath.

Entering the store, which I'd best describe like the place models go in the afterlife, with Mia beside me, in loose jeans, flat sneakers, and a baggy T-shirt, it didn't surprise me as, one by one, a series of photogenic, angular faces all swiveled and scowled in her direction, each seemingly trying to determine if she was a girl or a boy.

Understanding sex sells, for her part, Chelsea also wore jeans, crisp, black, anything but loose, over classic black, sharp-angled pumps, shimmering patent leather, paired with a sleeveless wet-look top, low-cut, silver like the sign, soft titties bouncing as she rushed over, smiling, greeting us with open arms.

"Chris fucking Shepherd!" she yelled, turning several heads. "Oh my God! What are you doing here?"

Being the owner, I figured she didn't care if her language offended anyone. Though none of her half dozen female customers, scantily clad, all in their mid to late twenties, seemed capable of being easily offended, wearing outfits pulled from the cover of Cosmo.

For a minute we stood there hugging and exchanging pleasantries. Then I told Chelsea that Mia's father was dating my mother, the two of them being out of town for the night.

Chelsea being her mother's daughter, as soon as I brought up the concert, explaining how Mia was greatly in need of a new outfit, she grabbed Mia's hand and whisked her off, before I had time to blink.

"Say no more!" Chelsea said, smiling and dashing off, with Mia stumbling, tiny legs hustling to keep up.

For the next few minutes, I stood there with neither girl in sight. Instinctively, I made my way over to the hosiery section, pleased to discover a bevy of leg wear in literally every brand and conceivable style, from Hue to Givenchy to DKNY, even Oroblu, Aristoc, and Wolford. A flood of emotions hit me so hard that I literally had to talk myself out of kneeling down and joyously weeping before the altar.

Surrounded by pantyhose, naturally, I thought of Mom. Regardless of seeming too needy, I promptly called her on speed dial.

Worried she'd try to rush me off, my heart fluttered over the lilting tone of her voice, laced with a subtle hint of sexual familiarity, skipping the usual hello.

"Miss me already?"

"We're at the store," I said, calmed by the ease of her charming wit. "Chelsea pretty much kidnapped Mia as soon as we got here. You should see all the pantyhose they've got here. It's unreal."

"Ah, that explains everything," Mom said. "It's too bad you're not alone to buy some for me. You keep destroying all my old ones."

"True," I said. "Anyway, how's it going? Is it nice out there?"

"Gorgeous," she said. "Doug's been a real sweetheart. He's just concerned that you're keeping an eye on his little girl."

"I'm keeping two eyes on her," I answered. "I just hope it doesn't get weird tonight."