In for a Penny

And thanks to internet porn and my mother's secret vibrator, I had acclimated as I had gotten older. Around the time Tina and I had experimented with each other, I tried to give a boy a blow job one afternoon after school. I hadn't even gotten my mouth all the way around it before he came all over my lips and chin. I cried myself to sleep that night thinking I had done it wrong.

I had had sex a total of three times since high school started, if you could call it that. The first time, I was so tight he couldn't get it in and he came twice trying.

The second time the guy was so small he only thought he got it in, and he blew his load all over my pubes as he rubbed himself against my clit.

The third time was with a Junior who knew a little bit more about what he was doing. But he was so frantic and rough about it that he made me bleed.

Thankfully he didn't last much longer than the other two and it was over as quickly as it started. The best part was him pulling out of me, the exiting sensation as he withdrew was as pleasurable as the pain of his penetration.

After that, I gave up. Tina's self-destructive selfishness had become all consuming and I just didn't have the time or energy to devote to dating or sexual exploits.

Not that I really wanted to anyway. Not with what I had seen her going through with her own sexcapades, not with the way the typical high school boys acted. Everything they said or did was just a a ploy to get into somebody's panties.

They didn't even act like boys. They acted like children. Spoiled entitled tantrum throwing children. They weren't mature. They weren't men. They weren't real men, like Mr. Matheson.

At the thought of him, I shook myself from my reverie and looked across the room at him. He had kicked off the blanket and was once again exposed.

My breath caught at the sight of his sex, even more prevalent than it had been before now that his boxer shorts had ridden up and bunch around his upper thighs.

It could have been a baby's arm, with it's little hand all balled in a fist at the end. I rolled my eyes at the absurd, and quite frankly disturbing, comparison.

I looked away. I bit my lip and looked back. I tried to forbid the fantasy rising in my mind. I reminded myself that Mr. Matheson was a father to me. I blamed the alcohol and my own hormonal angst. I tried to block the desire to see what it would feel like in my hand.

Would it be warm? Would I feel blood pumping in the veins? Would it get hard? Would he be too drunk to know?

I was literally gnawing on my lip now as I fought to keep my knees together. My legs twitched and my thighs trembled as my sex begged me to open them so I could touch myself. So I could massage the escalating pressure I felt rising wetly between them.

Mr. Matheson snorted and rolled to his opposite side, turning his backside to me. His manhood now hidden from my sight, I slowly exhaled the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and stood.

Testing my weight on trembling legs, my heart thundered in my chest and ears as I slowly and haltingly approached him. I knew what I wanted was wrong, on so many levels. I tried to deny my own thoughts, to tell myself that these hedonistic feelings were the product of weariness and alcohol and under appreciation from his daughter.

I stood over him, looking down, pretending like I was checking his well being and not looking at his cock. Pretending that I wasn't soaking through my panties with the urge to fuck him.

I could see it, languishing along his thigh. I told myself I was just going to touch it, and nothing more. I wasn't going to grab it, or stroke it, or squeeze it. I was just going to lightly lay my fingertips against it to see if I could feel it pulsing. And if he woke up and caught me, I would just say I was covering him with the blanket.

Time stilled and I watched my hand float towards it, like I was about to pet a puppy that I wasn't sure was friendly but just had to pet anyway. As I drew closer, I could almost sense its need for attention, imagined that it was reaching out to me just as I was to it.

I was close enough with my fingers I swore I could feel warmth coming off of it. My mind somersaulted with delirium that I was about to touch a real penis. A man's penis.

He snorted so loudly I gasped and jerked back, almost falling over the coffee table. I grabbed the blanket off the floor, threw it over him and sprinted from the room before he could open his eyes and question me.

Sitting at the bottom of the stairs with my arms wrapped around my knees, I waited for the war drums in my ears to cease their pounding as I rocked back and forth. My heart felt like it was trying to beat itself right out of my chest as I mentally shamed myself for my actions.

What the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you? That's your dad, you sick fuck! I repeated that impromptu mantra over and over in my mind as I waited for him to stumble around the corner, demanding to know what I had been doing.

I had my excuse at the ready, waiting to hurriedly explain that I was just getting him a blanket, when I realized several minutes had passed. He had yet to appear, and furthermore my heartbeat and breathing had begun to settle.

As they did, I realized just how good my rocking back and forth felt. Loosening my grip on my knees and letting my legs open just a bit, I could almost hear my own wetness as much as feel it as I slid and scooted back and forth on the stairs.

My sex, squished between my thighs and mashed against the wood, seeped. My panties were thoroughly soaked and my thin cotton pajama bottoms were becoming damp with my juice as well.

Stop! Stop it! I screamed at myself as I lurched to my feet so quickly I had to grab the rail to keep balance. Tentatively, I peered around the corner.

Mr Matheson was still passed out on the couch, snoring ungracefully. Thankfully the throw blanket was still over him and I wasn't able to see anything I shouldn't. I swallowed the lump in my throat along with the denied half hope that he would be uncovered and fully erect.

I audibly sucked my tongue against the roof of my mouth in self disgust and disdain as I turned around and softly crept up the stairs.

I wondered if I should just chance fate and head home. At least there I could masturbate shamelessly. But I was already upstairs and heading for Tina's room, intending to sleep off my frustrations and ill conceived desires in the bed I had slept in so many times before.

As I entered her room, the nightlight she kept cast a soft glow over the whirlwind disaster it had become.

Everything was a shambles. The dresser drawers had been pulled free of their housing and were piled atop each other with overhanging articles of clothing like entrails of a gutted fabric beast.

There was a pile of knick knacks and dolls and stuffed animals on the desk, either her laptop was under it all or gone completely. Mounds of clothes lay atop the bed, and even more strewn about the floor in front of her closet, most of which were regurgitating hangers.

I half expected one of the sliding doors to be hanging askew as I turned on the light and peered around, noting that the closet in question was absent of the triple set of luggage she kept there.

I could feel the twinge of tears welling behind my eyes as I slowly lowered myself to the edge of the bed and continued surveying the mess.

She was gone. For real gone. Packed her bags and ran away.

As I fought the tears, I realized they did not fall for her. They fell for the man downstairs. Heartbroken, hurting, devastatingly destroyed and dead drunk to cope with the loss of not only his wife but his daughter as well.

How could she do this to him? How could she be so selfish as to think she had been the only one hurt? How could she do this to us?

My tears of sorrow were quickly becoming tears of rage as I thought about the past year, all the pain and worry and anger and stress she had caused me. And not only me but her father as well. Our father.

I stood up abruptly and wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand as I turned to leave. I would not be sleeping in this room ever again I decided, just as my eyes lit on a the neck of a bottle jutting from one of the dresser drawers.

I pulled it out, shoving the drawer on top of it aside as I freed it from its stash spot. It was a half empty fifth of spiced rum.

Or half full rather, I thought as I unscrewed the cap. The strong scent of liquor made me wrinkle my nose as I thought better of what I was about to do.

In for a pound, I thought as turned the bottle up and took a deep pull before I could talk myself out of it. I told myself it would help me sleep, since I was too angry and horny to drift away easily. Besides, I had already committed to staying the night here anyway, so why not?

I drank heavy and gagged on the alcohol, spitting a mouthful all over my hand. It was absolutely rancid, much sweeter than the whiskey I had earlier but only half as smooth. It burned like liquid fire and hit me almost instantly.

I reminded myself what a lightweight I was as I wiped my chin with my palm, screwed the cap back on the bottle, and cleaned my hand on a cotton nightshirt hanging out of the top discarded drawer.

I stepped across the hall to the spare guestroom and flipped on the light. As always, it was quaint and clean. I hated it.

I had never been fond of it in the first place. It was always perfect. Too perfect. I never wanted to be the one to rumple the comforter or wrinkle the sheets or leave a water ring on the nightstand from my glass.

But now, now it was a glaring idealistic facade that belied the hell that had befallen this home. A pristine beacon of perfection that tried to mask the turmoil within. I hated it with a passion.

I switched off the light and turned, hitting myself in the thigh with the bottle of rum I didn't realize I was still holding. I looked to the end of the hall, the only other option for a bed to sleep in. The master bedroom.

I shrugged to myself before turning and shambling towards Mr. Matheson's room. It wasn't like he was going to be using it tonight, anyway.

It was a mess. No where near the disaster Tina's room was, but a mess of neglect none the less.

There were dirty dishes and discarded clothes everywhere, a few random empty bottles here and there, the blanket tossed over the foot of the bed, sheets that probably hadn't been changed since Tiff left.

I took a deep breath and shrugged again as I prepared to lay my head here. I pulled the comforter back up on the bed as I walked around it before setting the bottle I was holding on the nightstand.

I kicked off my house shoes and pulled my feet free of my socks as I pushed my pajama pants down. I pulled my loosely buttoned flannel shirt over my head, taking care not to knock my bonnet askew, before reaching behind myself to unclasp my bra.

I half turned as I did so and caught sight of myself in the large mirror over Mrs. Matheson's dresser and realized what I was doing.

I was buzzing from the alcohol, stripping naked, and getting in my best friend's dad's bed. I stopped and refastened the eyelet I had unhooked. While I absolutely hated sleeping in a bra, the underwire digging into my itty bitty B-cups every time I moved, I didn't think it would be prudent to get completely nude in case Tina or Mrs. Matheson happened to come home, which thanks to the rum seemed somehow completely plausible.

Speaking of, I thought as I grabbed for the bottle and unscrewed the cap before turning back to the mirror. I stood, regarding myself, in my somewhat white cotton panties and bleach white bra.

They stood out brilliantly against the backdrop of my dark skin. I wished I had worn underwear that was less little girl and more grown woman. But no matter, I sighed, it wasn't like anyone was going to see me anyway.

Not that I had much to offer even if they did. I was cute in the face, with big eyes and pouty lips and dainty chin under my crown of a bright turquoise bonnet that hid my messy go-fro hair. There weren't exactly a lot of beauty shops out here in white suburbia, and Tina's goddamn antics kept me too busy to do much of anything with my hair myself.

My build was athletic, if I was being generous. My shoulders were shapely and my arms slender but my tits were small, more nipple than boob. My tummy was taught but my hips were narrow.

From the side, my ass looked absolutely bodacious, perfectly shaped, perfectly buoyant, perfectly delectable. But from the back one could see just how tiny it truly was, almost non existent. I bet Mr. Matheson could palm my whole booty like a basketball with his great big man han-.

Stop it!

My legs were long and lithe, shapely even, but not much bigger around than my arms. People said I was tall for my age and maybe I was, taller than Tina anyway, but that's all I was. A cute face and long legs.

I stood on my tip toes, staggering a bit from the liquor, trying to make my legs even longer. I may have been as dark as night but my skin was smooth and unblemished, so I guess I had that going for me too.

Standing as tall as I could, I took another harsh pull off the bottle. Only a small swallow though, I was mostly just holding it to my lips to see if I looked more grown up than I felt. I didn't.

I lowered the bottle and sat back down on my heels, watching my thighs flex as I did so. Wondering if they would flex the same way if Mr. Matheson was between them, pushing them apart with his pale white fingers, squeezing the soft meat of them as he opened me for his-.

Fuggin stop! I commanded as I whirled from the mirror and rushed to turn off the light.

I hurried back to the bed and jumped in it to avoid looking at myself again. I could feel heat rising in my cheeks and wondered if it was rum or blush as I jerked at the blanket so hard it billowed before engulfing me.

After burrowing comfortably into the mattress and pillows, the smells began to register.

Having spent half my life with Tina and her family had made me familiar with their scents. Tina's cheap floral body spray, her mother's demurely deep perfumes, her father's powerful aftershave, and the mix of all three when they were together were as natural to me as the smells of my own home.

But here, in this bed that now belonged only to Mr. Matheson, I could smell only him. I could smell his soap, his aftershave, his musk. I could smell the tang and must of many sleepless sweaty nights in the folds of the soiled sheets I rolled.

It was poignant, but not repugnant. Much like the scent that would waft from my own fingers the morning after I rubbed myself to sleep. A sensual assault of sexual sweat.

I fought the tremendous desire to rub myself now. Clenching my sex and squeezing at it with my thighs, I tried to halfheartedly convince myself it was necessary to fall asleep, and nothing more. But I knew what, or rather who, I was going to think about while I played with myself. And I knew it was wrong, so very wrong, to rub one out to the fantasy of my second dad taking me like a lover.

Still, fighting temptation, I decided that another shot of alcohol would help wash away my rearing hormones and put me down until daylight. My head emerged from under the blanket as I tried to remember where I had sat the bottle.

And that was the last thing I thought about before sleep took me.

The next thing I felt was the springing bounce of the mattress as I was jostled awake by someone climbing into bed and crawling under the blanket with me.

My eyes snapped open and my breath stopped as I remembered where I was, why I was here, and who it could only be that was now beside me.

OhGodOhGodOhGod! My mind raced and tumbled with half formed thoughts tripping over each other. Does he know someone's here? Does he know it's me? Will he be mad at me? What do I do? Do I slip out and run away? Do I pretend to be asleep? Do I ignore him? Do I tell him it's me? What if he tries to touch-?

His arm snaked around me and he pulled me close as he slid into spooning me. His arm, his impossibly steel cable arm, was so hard and heavy as he pulled me against his solid body.

OHGODOHGODOHGOD! WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?WhatdoIdo?

"Mmm, Tiff. Baby. I missed you," he murmured against my bonnet covered hair.

His legs bent at the knees, bending mine in the process. I could feel his sex pressing against my ass, poking me. He straightened his legs and I could feel it slide against me, straightening as well. My pussy gushed and flowed as he ground his hardness against me.

My head was swimming and my thoughts were dimming and I realized I was still holding my breath. I forced myself to exhale, slowly, evenly, like I was stirring in my sleep. He needed some sort of response, but I dare not speak. I was too scared he would be furious to find out it was me in his bed and not his estranged wife.

"Mmmf," I moaned softly through pressed lips, trying to feign grogginess. If I spoke actual words, I was sure he would know it wasn't his wife he was dry-humping. My white-girl voice had never been convincing.

It was hard to think through my own frightened exhilaration. I wished I was home in my own bed. I wished I had taken my panties off so I could feel his dick against my skin. I wished this wasn't happening. I wished he was already inside me.

I was still filtering my thoughts when I realized I was humping him back, grinding my ass against him, against his erection. It felt amazing, all soft and hard at the same time, like a thick warm rope we were pushing back and forth between us, fighting to flatten it.

"Babe, wait," he mewled. "We can't. The girls'll be up soon," he whispered as he moved his arm and grabbed my hip to stop my increasingly faster grinding.

I grabbed his hand and moved it back to where it had been, holding it there and interlacing my fingers with his. I was scared he would realize how bony I was in his grasp, that my hip wouldn't feel like his wife's.

I desperately wanted to tell him that the girls didn't have school today, or that they had already left, or that they had stayed the night at Sammy's, but I dare not speak. I dare not give myself away.

"Mmmf?" I whined, indicating disappointment. I noted that while we slowed our grinding, neither one of us had stopped completely.

In for a penny, I told myself as I pulled my hand free from his and started pushing my little cotton panties down my hip. I needed to feel it. I need to feel him against me, his flesh on mine.

He moved his arm and I froze, thinking he was going to try and stop me again. But then I melted at the realization he was pushing down his boxers to free his own sex.

We both lifted up together as we jerked our underwear down our thighs. I could feel the heat of his sex against my thigh for a moment as our waistbands crossed over it, then it was gone, then I felt it again back where it had been, across my ass and poking at my side as he replaced it with his hand.

We sank back into the mattress, him grinding against my naked body and me letting him. I bit my lip at the sensation of it, his exposed manhood rubbing and sliding against my skin.

I could feel it throbbing, Christ, I could feel it pulsing. Pushing, shoving, jabbing, so hot, so hard, so alive. It felt like there was a goddamn puppy caught between us trying to get free.

And I could feel his heartbeat in it. With every throb, every pulsating pound, I could feel his fucking heart beating against my ass.

I could hear the wet sluicing sounds of my own sex as I worked against him. I don't think I had ever been so wet. The insides of my thighs were slick with my own juice, sliding against each other. Several times when we thrust against each other just right I could feel my sex, exposed from behind, graze against him and realized my engorged lips must be kissing his balls.