Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
KENT
The office is always cold because I like it that way. The chilly air is bracing and keeps me alert, but last night, I turned up the heat so that it was a fucking sauna in here. But now that it’s morning, the thermostat is basically back on freezing, with the air so dry it feels preserved.
What the fuck happened last night? I shake my head while staring at my reflection in the window, the city a faint constellation behind my own face, then drop my gaze to the expanse of desk in front of me. The morning’s coffee is already cold, abandoned at the edge of the coaster, an oily ring forming at the meniscus. I swirl it in my hand, then set it down again, unsatisfied. The file open in front of me—Peters, Terry; prostate biopsy, negative—hasn’t been updated in twenty minutes, and the pen I’d set down is bleeding into a blue Rorschach against the chart.
I push back from the desk, the chair creaking under me, and stand. The walnut shelves encase me like a judge’s box, lined with medical monographs and books nobody reads anymore: Campbell-Walsh, BJU International, the old, gold-stamped copy of Gray’s that belonged to my father. The rug is antique, faded red and blue, threadbare at the threshold. I stalk its length, desk to window, window to the massage table at the center of the room.
Holy fuck. The massage table. The site of last night’s sin. It looks like a piece of BDSM furniture, vinyl black and glossy under the low light, towel folded precisely at one end. The bottles of oil are lined up on the credenza. Sandalwood, as always, but also lavender and something labeled “neutral” in a discount-font label that offends me. I pick up the sandalwood, uncap it, and inhale. The memory of last night is thick as the resin itself—oil and sweat and a sharp, animal undertone that has nothing to do with the contents of the bottle.
I set it back down, resisting the urge to taste it on my tongue. Instead I press my palm to the padded table, the faint give of the vinyl under my hand, and stare at the spot where, just twelve hours earlier, my stepdaughter wrapped her hands around my cock and squeezed until I saw stars.
Was it real, what happened? Or did I hallucinate the whole thing out of want? I play it over, again and again: Mary Kate, feet bare and pink, coming into the office with the diffident shuffle of a girl pretending to be uncertain. The way a sheaf of her golden hair swung forward, hiding her face, only for her to tuck it back with a practiced flick. The careful folding of her arms over her chest, accentuating the roundness of her breasts under that thin t-shirt. And then, when I undressed, her eyes never quite leaving my dick. The small flicker of her tongue at her lip, the catch of her breath as I pulled my waistband low and exposed myself. She pretended not to look. She failed.
And after—oh, after. Her hands learning the routine with a nervousness that lasted all of ten seconds. Then the shift, the slow acceleration. I could feel her heartbeat through her fingertips as she rolled my testicles in her palms, the concentration giving way to a rhythm that was pure, practiced, almost eager. The way her knuckle grazed my shaft, not once, not twice, but four times, each more deliberate than the last, until finally she just curled her hand around it and stroked me, oil warm and slick, her thumb circling the head like she’d done it before.
She watched my face as I came, eyes wide and blue, pupils blown so big the color vanished. When I spurted, it caught her wrist, then her chin, and she didn’t flinch, didn’t look away, just stared as the semen ran down to her knuckles. She wiped it off with a towel, but not before I let her taste some of the good stuff.
And she liked it too. She savored the mouth feel of my semen, swallowing like a good girl. Then, she said something about homework. Homework! She left the office with a little skip in her step, me stunned and still horny inside.
But what happened after—that’s what keeps me pacing, keeps my pulse up, keeps my mind from ever settling. Because after the massage, after the dose of my semen, after her quick escape, I crept out of my office to the third floor. I was going to talk to Mary Kate about the truth of my condition. I was going to come clean and fess up about everything - my so-called “medical issues,” her mother, our marriage, everything. But then, I heard the young girl humming a bit in the guest bathroom and came to a complete stop just outside the door.