Ron Taylor
Stepdaughter in bondage
CHAPTER ONE
It was about eleven-thirty when we got back from the funeral home. I wished I could have stayed there all night, but the undertaker assured me it wasn't permitted. "We close at eleven," he said, in the oily, unctuous way undertakers have of talking. Fuck you! I thought, clenching a fist, turning away. And when I turned, Tony was there, waiting for me. I looked up at his face and it made me sick.
I got out of the car in the driveway and hurried into the house while Tony parked. With any luck I could be in my room before he came inside. He was the last person in the world I wanted to spend a night with – tonight, of all nights. My mother was dead and lying in a coffin back at the mortuary, but as far as Tony seemed to be concerned, she might as well have been out late, bowling with the girls from the plant.
Tony is – was – my stepfather. Mom married him three years ago, when I was fifteen. I guess they were happy together. He worked days at the mine and she worked nights at the Westinghouse plant. Which meant that when I got home from school around four, I could count on at least eight hours in the company of my loving stepdaddy. The last year or two I'd been seriously considering night school. Only, in our town, there wasn't one.
My name is Rebecca Lee Butler. I don't like to be called "Becky" and "Becca" makes me cringe. I'm five feet three inches tall, I weigh 104 pounds, and I'm slender, as long as you don't count my tits, which are a little over-developed for my frame. Not big enough to be ungainly or silly looking, but full and thrusting, just made to nestle inside the cups of a 36-C brassiere.
And this evening, this awful, awful evening, Rebecca Lee Butler went into the house where she had lived all her life, closed the door behind her, and made ready to go to bed. Like, fast! Before Tony had time to get inside from parking the car.
He's good-looking in a crude way, I guess, sorta like Sylvester Stallone, only taller and a lot mote stuck on himself. When Mom met him, she was thirty-six and he was thirty-one and he must have seemed like a fantastic catch for a woman slipping into middle age and kinda desperate. My daddy died when I was ten and I guess she was getting lonely. This younger, muscled hunk comes along and she just falls like an apple in season. It happens all the time, they tell me. And so one day I had a brand new daddy in the house and Mom didn't have to sleep by herself any longer.
I used to hear them going at it all night long, sometimes. I suppose he really socked it to her. She used to moan in the dark, and it sounded like a coyote on the prowl. The bedsprings rattling and creaking, Tony making soft little grunting noises like a bass-line for Mom's higher-pitched cries. For a while she looked as if she'd been able to turn back the aging process altogether. Her cheeks pinkened and her eyes sparkled and she looked very, very happy.
Me? Well, I was fifteen when they got married, and I was already starting to blossom a little, if you know what I mean. My breasts were still small, mostly swollen, aching nipples, but they were too big to hide under a cotton undershirt or camisole any longer. My waist began to nip in and my hips to fill out, and I had my first period about two months after the wedding, and I knew that I was swiftly turning into a woman.
I wasn't the only one who noticed. I think the first time I caught him, I was around thirteen. In my room, innocently getting dressed for a sock hop at the junior high. I remember I had just slipped out of my sweatshirt and was reaching for my pink, flower-cup bra. My jeans were laid out on the bed, and I wasn't wearing anything except my panties and fluffy slippers. I picked up my bra and there was a curious sensation at the roots of my teeth, a kind of nervous tingle. What's that? I wondered, and then I made a half-turn and looked at my bedroom window, and there he was. Tony. My stepfather. Leaning on the window frame, watching me through the glass. His mouth was turned up at the corners in a dirty, knowing smile.