Chapter 1

Look at that bitch with her well-shaped tits and her hot, hungry cunt, Tiffany thought while glaring at her stepmother.

The big oak door slammed behind them and Tiffany stood frowning as she stared around the paneled entrance hall; then she shivered. "It's creepy," she murmured, almost to herself, then she added, "I don't like it." As she spoke, she glared at Patricia, who chose to ignore the remark.

"Come on, dear," said Patricia, pushing past her and gazing up the broad staircase. "It's late and we've all got to be up early tomorrow." She turned, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, "Eliot, for chrissake, come on."

Tiffany continued glaring at her stepmother, thinking for the hundredth time that she could be the most impatient and annoying person. Perhaps there would be a chance to get even with her soon, to pay her back for marrying her father, Eliot, who hadn't even discussed it with her. He had said he loved her more than anyone else, and he knew that Tiffany worshiped him, would do anything for him. She gazed at her father's handsome face and smiled. Maybe before the trip was over, she could show her father just how much she really loved him, what she was willing to do to prove it. And it she could do that and maybe make Patricia look bad at the same time, well. . . there was no telling what might happen then. She knew her brother shared her dislike of their new stepmother, who, even though she was beautiful, was still nevertheless a bitch. Yes, Axel disliked Patricia also.

"Eliot, come on." Patricia's voice echoed harshly once more.

"Just shaking the snow off my shoes, dear." Eliot grinned at her, and then winked at Tiffany. "What do you think of the place?"

"I just said it was creepy," said Tiffany shortly. "I don't like it."

Patricia frowned. "It's a very elegant mansion, young lady," she snapped. "And it's also been my family's home for three generations." She began moving up the stairs. "You don't get homes like this in California."

Tiffany raised her eyes to her father and smirked. "Just as well," she said softly, as Eliot ruffled her hair with a gruff gesture of affection.

"Relax. We're only going to be here a few days."

Tiffany followed her father up the stairs, noticing how their footsteps echoed eerily through the house. She shivered again. "I'm scared," she murmured.

From the landing, Patricia snorted loudly. "Any thirteen-year-old who's scared in this house must have problems," she said tartly, "but then . . . "Her voice trailed off as she saw Eliot's face tighten up and a warning glint appear in his eyes. "If it's any consolation, Tiffany, your bedroom is right next to ours."

"She'll be all right," said Eliot. "Won't you, Tiffany?"

"I s'pose so," was her grudging reply, and in silence she followed him down the hallway to where Patricia was already banging around in the large master bedroom, turning up the heat and opening closet doors, grumbling at the dust which the servants were supposed to have taken care of before their arrival. "Honestly," she complained, wiping her glove across the dresser, "the folks have been gone only two weeks, and I bet those servants haven't touched this house. Probably sat on their butts downstairs, drinking up Father's good sherry." She turned to Tiffany, who had been standing staring around the enormous room, looking with suspicion at the antique furnishings, the large four-poster bed, the plush Oriental rugs and the heavy velvet drapes over the windows. "Tiffany, your room's in there, through the bathroom," she said, pointing as she pulled off her gloves. "Unfortunately, we have to share the bathroom but then.. . " She shrugged again. Tiffany had noticed how her stepmother was forever leaving sentences unfinished, but carried her meaning more than adequately by the shrug of those exquisite shoulders.

"Come on, sweetheart," said Eliot, putting his arm around his daughter. "I'll take you in and get you settled, and then it's bedtime. I'm bushed."

"I'm more than bushed," said Patricia, sitting on the bed and slipping off her shoes, "I'm positively exhausted. I don't think it was such a good idea, coming along."

"But you came, didn't you?" said Tiffany, disappearing through the bathroom with her father before Patricia could think of a suitably cutting retort. "Little bitch," she muttered to herself, staring after Tiffany, and thinking for the thousandth time that it would have been so much nicer if the man she married had not been a widower with two teen-age children . . . But then not many men had the money and position that Eliot could boast of, and Patricia had known for many years that it was just as easy to marry a wealthy man, especially for an actress with her looks and charm.

She looked up as Eliot came back in, closing the connecting door to the bathroom. "You know, Eliot, that child can be positively annoying at times," she said sharply.

"Be patient with her, Pat. She's going through a difficult time." Eliot came over and took his wife into his arms. She let him embrace her and put her arms around his broad shoulders, a tempting smile on her lips. "After all, Tiffany has been through more than just puberty this past year."

Patricia broke away and laughed dryly. "From the way she behaves, I think she went through puberty five years ago," she said. "I'm willing to bet she's made out with every kid on the block."

"That's not very nice," said Eliot chidingly. "Tiffany may be precocious, but she's not promiscuous."

"Like every father," replied Patricia, shaking her head sadly. "You're blinded by paternal feeling. Believe you me, that daughter of yours is going to be a nympho very soon."

"Well, don't you worry about that." Eliot sat down and began undressing. "I can handle Tiffany. And . . . "He rose and walked over to her in his shorts. "I can handle you, too." His hands were firm on her bare shoulders and she felt his cock pressing against her panties.

"All right," she murmured easily, feeling a familiar glow spread through her, "I know."

He dropped his shorts and jumped enthusiastically onto the large bed, staring at her with pleasure as she shucked off her bra and slid her panties down; then she turned, naked, her tits quivering, and came to him, sliding up against his body with a contented sigh.

"I'm tired," she murmured lazily. "But never too tired."

"Just as well," he said teasingly, rubbing his prick against her. "Because I've got something for you."

"Don't you always?" She giggled and let her hand slip down between their bodies, her fingers closing around his hardening prick and feeling a thrill of pleasure, as she always did, at its size and eager virility. "I'm glad I married you," she whispered. "Even though I had to wait."

"You talk too much," he said dreamily, "Do something with that mouth of yours, huh? My cock's just in the mood."

"Your prick's always in the mood," she said, her voice muffled as her head slid down over his stomach, her tongue licking, searching, and finding. "Oh, Christ, you've got a beautiful cock," she said thickly just before her lips closed around his throbbing flesh.

Tiffany lay in the large bed, staring up at the vague shapes that danced on the ceiling, elongated leaf images that the street light projected through the trees outside. She gazed at the moving patches of light and shadow, eerie against the darkness of the room, and imagined an evil ballet of little men dancing above her bed, each looking lasciviously at her as she lay beneath the covers, her fingers touching her body with more than adolescent curiosity, exploring her pussy between her thighs and kneading occasionally the burgeoning tits that had already caused Patricia to comment enviously: "If you're like that at thirteen, God help us when you're twenty-one," and Tiffany had giggled, but had felt a glow of pride. Patricia, though beautiful, did not have a particularly large bust. But Tiffany knew that she herself would have a good figure; she had heard girls at school say that if you had good boobs at twelve, you'd end up with real groovy tits later, especially if you played with them, something Tiffany liked to do almost every night before falling asleep.

She would squeeze the rounded tits, touch the nipples, and marvel how they became firm and hard. At the same time, she would experience a glow in her loins, and her eager fingers would press between her tight, incredibly soft folds of cunt flesh, touching her clitoris and sending shivers of anticipation through her. She imagined how it would be to have a man's prick enter her; oh, yes, a nice, big man, like her father. She had seen him naked once, only once, and the image had stayed with her, recalled during her moments alone when she played with her body and let her fantasies carry her off . . .

She sometimes even imagined herself lying in her father's arms, while his muscular body descended upon her, covering her totally, his rock-hard prick sliding between her legs and lifting her into a world of unutterable pleasure. He was so handsome; no wonder Patricia had married him after the accident. He was a good catch: wealthy, talented, respected, and above all, handsome and virile. He should have been a movie star, Tiffany often thought, instead of managing performers. He should be a performer himself, and above all, a performer in bed. Oh, Daddy . . . Tiffany sighed as her fingers pushed deeper into her pussy, exciting her beyond belief. She closed her eyes, blotting out the shapes on the ceiling, and thinking only of her father's face above hers, his body next to her own, and his sex bringing her to a peak of bliss . . .

Suddenly she heard a loud cry, then a laugh; her blood seemed to freeze for a second and her mind flashed a picture .of her father and Patricia, their bodies embroiled in the act of fucking, and Patricia's arms around that broad, tanned back while he plunged his cock deep, in and out of her, bringing forth those cries of ecstasy.

Furiously, Tiffany sat up in bed, staring through the darkness at the door to the bathroom. Only twenty feet away, she thought; they're in bed, screwing, fucking . . . He's fucking that woman, the woman who replaced her mother.

She slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the bathroom door. Her hand reached for the handle, then drew back; why not? She had to go to the John, so why shouldn't she? But quietly now-just in case. With infinite care, Tiffany turned the handle and the door opened silently. She moved forward, feeling the icy touch of the tiles on her bare feet. The muffled sounds were louder, and she heard the faint creaking of the bed. She went over to the far door, her heart pounding, her breathing jerky. Even more carefully, she turned the handle and pulled. The door glided on well-oiled hinges and a faint glow came through the crack. Tiffany bent down and stared into the master bedroom.

In the faint glow from the street lights, she saw the outline of the bed, and the two figures entwined: her father, his rounded buttocks silhouetted, driving up and down, and beneath him, Patricia's body, thrashing, arms clutching, nails clawing at the skin, and soft moans coming from her mouth. "Oh, Eliot . . . Eliot . . . " she was whispering. "Deeper, baby, deeper, fuck me, fuck me good. Oh, it's so good. More, more cock, baby, more-"

Tiffany found herself trembling, and, suddenly afraid, she closed the door quietly and turned, going back into her room and scooting under the covers, lying there, shivering, her mind teeming with hot desire. She had seen them! Not very clearly, but she had seen her father fucking her stepmother. She had heard those forbidden words being mouthed like some common whore. That's all she was: a high-class whore. Axel had said so once, and Tiffany knew her brother had been right. Patricia might be a good actress, but she was still a high-class whore had had traded her career to become Mrs. Eliot Cartwright. And she was in there now, screwing with her father, fucking for him . . .

With a sudden, uncontrollable and confusing rush of emotion, Tiffany turned over, buried her head in the pillow and sobbed. The moment passed, and she lay still, sniffing; then anger pushed her hatred even higher.

"I'll get even," she whispered to herself. "I'll get her. I will. I'll get rid of her and then there'll just be me and Daddy, and Axel-and no more Patricia. No good fucking whore." Her loins glowed as she whispered the words. "Fucking whore." Her hands slid down to her crotch and her fingers probed her cunt again, and suddenly her body was awash with desire, with angry emotion. Frantically she pushed her fingers in, touching her clitoris, rubbing, squeezing. She felt her limbs tremble. She was still trembling slightly as she drifted off to sleep, her mind filled with the thought of herself in the bed in the next room, her own body being fucked by her father, his large, hard cock pushing into her . . .

The noise of the shower gently brought Tiffany out of a deep sleep. For a moment, she lay still, staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling. She was in Evanston; she was not in California. She was lying in a guest room in the home of her stepmother. The woman her father had married. Cheap common whore. Not even high-class. Just a common slut who happened to be beautiful and who had made a name for herself in a few films.

Tiffany rolled over, gazing briefly out of the window and frowning. No California sunshine. Just bleak, wind-swept clouds with the promise of rain any minute. Oh, why did they have to come to this dreadful place? Why couldn't her father have booked Axel in Florida or someplace warm? Much as she loved her brother, Tiffany felt little enthusiasm for his upcoming engagement, the first

"big gig" as her father had called it. Despite some of the big names Eliot handled as manager, he took the greatest pride in his son, whose career as a pop singer and musician had blossomed without any particular help from his father. The boy had talent, determination, and sex appeal.

Tiffany remembered how the girls at school carried on over Axel. "He's your brother?" gasped Estelle O'Leary, her eyes glowing with ecstasy at the thought. "I'm mad for him. Can you get me a date, Tiffany?" And when Tiffany had hesitated, Estelle added, with all the lechery possible for a teen-ager, "I'm a good lay, you can tell him. I bet he screws all those girls who come to see him."

"Which girls?" replied Tiffany innocently. She was .very good at feigning innocence when she wanted to, but she couldn't brush away the image of the horde of teenyboppers who had invaded the backstage area at the club in Van Nuys where Axel had played to packed houses for over four weeks. Yes, Axel probably did screw those girls, who were obviously after more than merely autographs.

Tiffany snuggled into the bed, her mind wondering what it would be like; her fingers explored her body once again as she thought of Axel, who was very mature for his age. A lot of people could hardly believe he was not out of his teens. His rugged physique, his flashing, inviting eyes, and his tight, tight jeans that showed off everything his cock had, which Tiffany knew was more than average, just like her father. Both were big men, and had big cocks. Suddenly Patricia's face flashed into her mind, and she felt a glow of resentment once more, remembering the scene she had witnessed the night before.

Maybe one day she could get Axel to show her what it was all about. And if not Axel, then perhaps her father . . . Why not? If she could only get rid of that woman for a while. Fantasies flooded her mind. What if Patricia could go away for a while, and Tiffany could make the excuse that she was scared, and crawl into bed with her father, the way she used to do up until a year or two ago . . .

She remembered those moments. Usually it was on a Sunday morning, when he would sit up in bed and read the papers. She would crawl up next to him, pretending interest in Peanuts and Dennis the Menace, when in reality she was thrilling to the feel of her father's strong arms as her fingers lay on his flesh, and her legs pressed against his own under the blankets.

He was such a good-looking man, and so tender and kind. And he was also sexy, a fact that Tiffany had only recently begun to realize. No wonder all those women went wild over him; no wonder Patricia had married him. Yes, there would have to be an opportunity, and maybe she could work it out. She remembered Patricia saying once, "That child is anything but dumb, Eliot. She's smarter'n you give her credit for." Yes, Tiffany was smart all right. . .

Impatiently, she threw back the covers and stepped out of the bed onto the plush Oriental rug. She heard the muffled sounds of water in the basin. She pictured her father scrubbing his teeth, or perhaps drying himself after his morning shower, and her heart beat a little faster, picturing his naked body standing beside the tub, snaking as he toweled himself dry, the movements making his prick jiggle up and down, flopping around like it had that day she saw him by accident. It was such a nice big prick, too, thick, with lots of skin over the end. She wanted to touch it, to hold it, to . . .

She heard the bathroom door click, and her father's head appeared round the edge.

"Hi, sugar. You're up?"

"Yes, Daddy."

"See you downstairs for breakfast. Don't be long. We've got a busy day."

"Okay."

She walked across the room and into the bathroom, as her father disappeared through the door into his bedroom, closing it quietly behind him.

Ten minutes later, washed and dressed, Tiffany descended the stairs and, hearing the clatter of knives and forks, turned right down the wide hallway until she came to the dining room. Eliot and Patricia were already seated, talking in low tones. They glanced up quickly as Tiffany entered and sat down.

"Morning, dear," said Patricia with a forced smile. "I hope you slept well."

Tiffany nodded. "It was spooky, but I got used to it."

"We get used to everything in time," said Patricia. "Even Chicago."

"I thought this was Evanston," said Tiffany, eagerly grasping at some excuse to rile her stepmother.

"It is, but there's not much difference, really. In fact, your father and I have just been discussing the matter. I think I'm going back to California today."

Tiffany was too slow to hide the look of pleasure from her features, and Eliot glanced awkwardly across the table.

"I thought you liked it here," said Tiffany. "In your family ancestral home," she added cuttingly.

"I do, little girl, but not when the weather's like this." She turned to Eliot. "You'll be back in a week, won't you?"

He nodded. "No reason to stay after the concert." Then he smiled. "Especially if you're not with me."

"Idiot." She squeezed his hand and they exchanged a look of love. Tiffany flushed, remembering the fucking sounds the night before, and the silhoutted shapes she had seen on the bed.

"Axel's arriving on the noon flight," Eliot said, turning his attention back to his bacon and eggs. "Perhaps I could drive you out for a flight around eleven, then pick him up. It would save me a trip."

"Fine with me." Patricia looked over at Tiffany. "Oh, I'm sorry, dear. Here you've been sitting here with not even your coffee." She sighed impatiently and pressed the buzzer on the edge of the table. "These servants. They get worse every year."

"I'm glad we don't have any in California," said Tiffany. "It's easier to fix your own breakfast."

"For once I must agree with you, dear," said Patricia, with something approaching a warm smile on her lovely lips as she stared over Tiffany's shoulder at the butler who appeared through the door. "Carstairs, please bring a plate of bacon and eggs and some more coffee, will you?"

The man nodded and silently withdrew. Eliot pushed his plate away, took a sip from his coffee, and lit a cigarette. He smiled over at Tiffany.

"After we pick up Axel, perhaps I'll take you 'round Chicago and show you the sights," he said cheerfully. "It's really worth seeing. All the new buildings, the lake front. Michigan Avenue."

"Big deal," said Tiffany, "I'd rather go to a movie."

Patricia frowned and exchanged a look with Eliot. "You can improve your education," she said primly, "God knows it needs it. You might take her to the museum, Eliot."

Tiffany groaned dramatically; then further conversation was halted by the arrival of her breakfast, and she began eating ravenously. Her mind teemed with the new possibilities. Patricia would be leaving, which meant that she and her father would be alone ine this big old house. Oh, Axel would be around, but that wouldn't matter. He would have his own room, and she knew that he would not want to bother with her; he had said once, in a rage, that he had no time for kids, and he considered her still a kid. She'd show him; she was just as capable as he was, she knew, even though her experience with sex was nonexistent, except for her own nightly fingering of her pussy, and her squeezing of her tits, a practice she not only enjoyed, but which she rationalized as being good for their development. She was going to have big tits, because she knew from what she'd heard at school that boys like girls with big tits. And one day she would have a figure that would stop traffic, she swore; just as she also knew, staring across the table at her father, that it would not be long before she would have his arm around her and his strong body on top of her own and his big prick in her young cunt.

"You're looking wonderful, Axel," Eliot said for the tenth time. Tiffany gritted her teeth, wondering why her father was so hung up over his son, but also knowing instinctively that she was only feeling the tension and jealousy that stemmed from her plan . . . A plan which she had formulated carefully all day, from the long drive out to the airport through the interminable tour of the windy city (such a drag!) during which Eliot had gone over production details with Axel almost excluding her from the conversation. And Axel had lapped it all up, overwhelmed by the prospect of a major appearance, and a possible major recording contract in the works.

Axel had tried to talk to her, but there hadn't been much opportunity. It didn't matter, Tiffany thought; there was only one thing that mattered-one thing that hung heavily on her mind and chased all else from her consciousness.

Now they were back in the old house again. Eliot was showing Axel his room, and then they all said good night. Eliot bent down to kiss her before closing the bathroom door and going to his own room, alone, leaving her with heart beating unnaturally loud, and biting her lips nervously.

She walked over to the bed and began undressing slowly. She heard the muffled sounds from his room; then his quick journey to scrub his teeth. The sound of the John flushing, and then the door closing once more and she pictured him crawling into bed, stretching out and putting out the light, and relaxing-alone.

She wondered whether he missed Patricia; whether he missed having that warm, voluptuous body, eager and willing, next to him, the way it had been the night before when they had fucked so long and so athletically. Maybe he was lying there, playing with his cock and imagining Patricia's hands straying over his body.

Tiffany pulled on her pajamas and slid under the heavy covers, shivering slightly. She knew she had to wait until her father had at least settled down, and was heavy with sleep. Then she would act. Too soon would kill it, she knew. He had to be drowsy, to be in that semi-sleepy state when he would just lift the edge of the sheet and say gruffly, "Oh, all right, crawl in . . . "

The minutes ticked by, while outside the wind whistled through the trees, sending the dancing leaf shapes once more jumping about on the ceiling, and making her yearn desperately for the warm California climate. But then-if it hadn't been for the weather, Patricia might still be here, and she would be unable to try what she wanted-and at that moment, Tiffany wanted her father more than anything she could imagine. She wanted those strong arms about her-

Impatiently she slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the bathroom door; she opened it noiselessly and went inside, her ear straining for sounds from the other room. With a slight smile of satisfaction, she heard the heavy breathing. Her father had dropped off to sleep, she knew. She knocked on the connecting door and, hearing no response, she opened it and went in. "Daddy."

There was a rustle of bedclothes and in the dimness, she saw her father look at her. "What is it, Tiffany?"

She walked over to the bed and stood, looking down at him.

"I'm scared, Daddy. Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"What d'you mean, scared?"

"It's spooky in there. Can't I stay here with you?"

"Oh, all right." He moved over across the bed, making room for her to scoot eagerly under the sheet.

"Daddy."

"What's it now?"

"Daddy, I'm cold."

"Oh, Tiffany."

He moved closer and she felt his hand slide under her neck and around her shoulder. Gratefully, she snuggled close to him, fitting into the curve of his body, and feeling his warmth surround her body.

"There. That better?"

"Hm."

She took his hand in her own and held it tightly. "Go to sleep now, baby. We've got a long day ahead."

"All right, Daddy. Good night."

She leaned around and kissed him quickly, then snuggled her body closer against him, feeling the slight bulge of his cock against her soft buttocks.

Suggestively she moved and she felt him pull his hips away.

"Go to sleep."

A note of impatience entered his voice, but she could tell he was almost asleep. She remained still and minutes later, she was rewarded by the sound of his heavy breathing and the hand she held was limp.

Now what? she thought. Do I wait? Do I move? Do I reach over and grab his cock . . .

Her heart was still pounding, and the thought of what could happen caused her entire body to shiver with anticipation. The heavy breathing behind her deepened and then, with a slightly muffled rasp, the breathing turned to a faint snore and he rolled over on his back.

Slowly, with nerve-shattering precision, Tiffany moved her body around so that she was lying on her side, facing him, his arm still across the pillow under her neck. Her hand moved across his chest and rested on his body, her fingers touching the smooth cotton of his pajamas, sensing the rise and fall with each deep breath.

Slowly Tiffany found her fingers moving down. Between the buttons, she touched the smooth flesh beneath, and with each contact, she felt a glow in her pussy, an incredible surge of desire such as she had never experienced before. Then her hand was on the knot that tied his pajama pants, and she paused, waiting breathlessly. Then, as his deep, faint snores continued unabated, she moved her hand lower, feeling the roughness of hair in the slit in his pajamas.

Hair! She was almost at the point she wanted-she was almost there! She let her fingers trail through the thick hair and then she felt the smooth flesh again, touching her fingertips. One more inch-and then she let her fingers slip down, around the smooth shaft, and she held her father's prick in her hand. Ever so gently, her heart about to burst within her, she began closing her fingers, savoring the incredible thickness, the smoothness, the loose skin around it. She remembered the time she had seen him naked before, and she never dreamed his cock was as big. It filled her whole hand. Carefully she moved up and down its magnificent length to the end, where the skin was folded over, covering the wide head that she knew lay underneath.

With infinite care, she eased the skin back and felt the slick bulb beneath, and at that point, she felt a slight jerk and the flesh began hardening. She squeezed it gently and felt it respond. It was getting bigger . . . harder . . . it was starting to stand up! Carefully she let her hand slide down to the side, and she felt the hair again, and also the soft sac beneath it. Her fingers touched the sac, pressing his round balls. Oh, how big they were! How wonderful to hold them in her hand, to caress their heavy strength, and then to slide back around the shaft of his prick, now rock-hard and standing up.

The snores suddenly reached a climax, and he moved in his sleep. Instinctively, Tiffany moved her hand away from him, but his eyes remained closed. In a few seconds, the deep heavy breathing resumed, and very gently she let her fingers once more enclose his cockshaft, and this time she squeezed it, rubbing the skin up and down slowly, feeling his prick jerk beneath her touch.

Her own body was trembling uncontrollably, and she held herself away, afraid that this might awaken him. Her loins were on fire, and she felt a curious wetness between her legs, something she had only felt once before when she had masturbated herself for a long time. But now, something deeper, something way inside, was giving her the strangest feeling. She felt her legs automatically wanting to move apart. She wanted to fuck . . .

Tiffany moved her one hand down and pressed her fingers into her burning cunt, touching her clitoris and letting her middle finger touch herself, rubbing that tiny nodule of passion until her entire body was heaving beneath the waves of desire that flooded her.

Her other hand was continuing its gentle massaging of her father's prick, marveling as she did so at the fantastic firmness beneath her fingers. She had never dreamed that it could get so hard, feel so good. It was big, too; she wondered how it could ever fit into her tight little cunt, but she knew it could. She also knew it would, but perhaps not right then.

Suddenly he moved, and groaned, and she heard incoherent whisperings coming from his mouth. "Oooh, Pat," he said. "Pat-"

Tiffany's hand froze and within her, anger rose like a venomous poison as she realized that he must be dreaming, and in his mind, he was thinking it was . . . that woman-in bed with him! For a second, Tiffany wanted to burst out crying in sheer frustration. Then she paused, and her hand closed once more around his penis, this time firmer, more sure. She felt his hips begin to rotate faster and she remembered the time that Axel had told her what happens at the end of fucking, how that wonderful, glorious feeling floods every nerve and then that stuff shoots out of the end of the prick. Tiffany had never seen it happen, even though she had asked Axel to show her, but he had laughed and said, "Later, little sister," but she knew that something happened that was the most wonderful thing any man could feel. Now, as she held her father's shaft in her hand and massaged it quicker and quicker, she knew that it was going to happen; that soon he would shoot that stuff out and she would know. And she wanted it to happen, she wanted him to know that it was her and not that woman who was making him feel so great. She almost wanted him to wake up, to see her next to him, her hand around his cockflesh, bringing him to that peak of passion.

Tiffany felt her own body responding to the eroticism of the moment. Her fingers caressed her clitoris, sending shivers of delight through her, amplified by her touching her father's cock and balls, holding that magnificent prick in her grasp, feeling it jerk and quiver with each movement. Desperately she wanted to roll over on top of him, to let the cock thickness slide into her hot little pussy and know for the first time what it felt like, what sex was all about. But she knew she couldn't, not now. This was not the time, not the right moment, but she knew the moment would come, later . . .

His body was moving quicker, his hips driving his prick up and down within her tight grip. She felt the skin slide back and forth around the hardness, while the large head flexed and pulsated. He was moaning softly, and still calling out, "Pat-Pat-" which only infuriated Tiffany, making her close her fingers tighter, wanting to drive the image of her stepmother from his mind, and somehow make him know it was not that woman who was sending chills of pleasure through his limbs . . . it was her, Tiffany.

Suddenly his movements stopped as he raised his hips and pushed his prick up into her hands, high, as it seemed to grow thicker, harder, and then Tiffany felt the end burst and streams of hot jism poured out, oozing down through her fingers. Her eyes opened wide, and in her mind she pictured the wide slit at the end of his cock spurting forth its load of cum, shooting load after load while her fingers held it tightly, still massaging the skin back and forth. He moaned loudly and then his body slumped, and she felt his prick begin softening. Almost too afraid to move, Tiffany lay still, her hand still enclosing the subsiding shaft, while she felt the warm stickiness dripping across her flesh. Then, with a grunt, he rolled over, away from her, and her hand was free.

Tiffany wiped her hand on the sheet and then brought it up to her nose, sniffing suspiciously at the musky odor. It was not unpleasant; in fact, it seemed to excite her even more, and she pushed her fingers into her cunt as far as she could, feeling the waves of sensation tingle through her. Her clitoris was hard to her touch. She massaged it again, harder, while she held her sticky fingers to her nose, savoring the smell of her father's cum. Ooooh, she breathed, so this is what it's like. That smell, that indefinable odor that sent an extra thrill through her. Then, almost as if she were floating off the bed, she felt an incredible sensation and her insides seemed to explode and she felt a warm trickle ooze down her canal and around her fingers, and she almost cried out from the sensation. Her body trembled and her heart pounded so hard she thought it would burst. Then the glorious feeling passed and she lay still.

She rolled over, snuggling up against her father's back, and slid her arm around him, letting her fingers creep between the opening of his pajama jacket and touch his bare flesh. Oh, what fantastic delight. . .

In minutes she was asleep.