5

It was Sunday, January 12, 2026, and I hadn’t slept a single real minute. Tossed and turned all night, replaying the box, the panties, his voice saying “good girl” like it was mine to keep.

My brain wouldn’t shut off. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him—shirtless with that rose, then in a tux, then on top of me instead of her. By morning I was wrecked, eyes puffy, thighs still aching from the frustration that had nowhere to go.

Mom had laid out this perfect little pearl-white gown for me on the bed. Sweet. Innocent. Daughter-of-the-bride vibes. I stared at it for two seconds, then shoved it back in the closet.

No.

I pulled out the black one instead. The one I’d bought last year on a whim—slinky, low-cut, one shoulder completely bare, the neckline dipping so deep it basically framed my tits like they were the main event.

After months of stalking his Instagram, I knew black was his color. Every other post: black shirts, black sweats, black Lambo. Black. Like he wanted the world to know he owned the dark.

I slipped it on. No bra. No panties—again. Let the silk hug every curve, let the slit ride high on my thigh when I walked.

If he was going to become my stepdad today, I was going to make sure he remembered whose body he’d already seen bare over his desk.

We got to the venue—a fancy little garden spot uptown, flowers everywhere, string lights already glowing even though it was still daylight.

Mom looked… happy in her white dress, veil trailing, smiling like she’d won the lottery. I stood beside her, arms crossed, black dress screaming against all the pastels.

Then he arrived.

He stepped out in a charcoal tux that fit like it was sewn onto him, shoulders wide, jaw sharp, hair perfect. He looked like sin walking. The whole crowd turned. Cameras flashed. Mom beamed brighter.

I felt it in my chest like a punch. Jealousy so hot it burned.

The ceremony started fast. Too fast. Vows. Rings. Mom’s voice soft and teary, his deeper, steady, saying “I do” like he meant it.

I stood there in the front row, nails digging into my palms, trying not to scream. This man who’d smoothed my skirt over my naked ass yesterday was now promising forever to my mother.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

They kissed.

His hand on her waist, pulling her in. Her fingers in his hair. Tongues. The crowd cheered. I turned my head away so hard my neck hurt. Couldn’t watch. Couldn’t breathe. All I could think was: that mouth should be on me. Those hands. That dick she gets to ride tonight, tomorrow, every night from now on.

I wanted to puke. Or cry. Or drag him behind the gazebo and beg him to fuck me instead.

Then came pictures.

Family photos. Bride and groom. Bride, groom, and the new stepdaughter who looked like she wanted to set the place on fire.

I forced a smile for every shot. Lips tight. Eyes dead. Frowning so hard the photographer kept saying “relax, sweetie, big smile!” I didn’t. Couldn’t.

Every time he stood next to Mom, arm around her, I wondered how many times he’d already fucked her. How many nights over the last four years. How much of that thick cock she’d taken while I was in my room touching myself to his pictures.

He was my father now. Overnight. Legally. Officially.

And I was so fucking jealous I could taste it.

Mom laughed in one photo, head thrown back, his lips brushing her temple. I stared at the ground, black dress clinging to me, tits half out, thighs pressed together to hide how wet I still was just from looking at him.

He caught my eye once. Just once. While the photographer adjusted the lens.

His gaze slid down—slowly—over the exposed curve of my breast, the deep plunge of the neckline, the way the fabric clung to my hips. Then back up. To my face long enough that my breath caught..

Then he turned back to Mom, kissed her cheek for the camera.

I wanted to scream.

Instead I stood there, black dress like a funeral in the middle of a wedding, pretending I wasn’t dripping for the man who’d just married my mother.

This was hell.

And I was already planning how to burn it down.

The reception had dragged on forever—fake smiles, toasts, cake I barely touched. Now we were in his matte black Lambo, the three of us squeezed in like some twisted family road trip.

Mom in the front passenger seat, still glowing in her white dress, hand on his thigh like she owned it. Me in the back, black gown riding up my thighs, arms crossed, staring out the tinted window as the city lights blurred past.

We pulled up to the new house uptown.

A couple of workers in black polos were unloading our luggage from the moving truck parked out front. Mom was chattering about how “perfect” everything was. I didn’t say a word.

He killed the engine. Stepped out first. Tall, tux jacket still on, sleeves rolled up now, forearms flexing as he directed the workers.

“Take her to her room,” he said to one of the guys, nodding toward me without even looking. Voice calm. Commanding. Like I was just another piece of furniture being moved in.

The worker—some young guy who looked nervous—grabbed my suitcase. “This way, miss.”

I followed him up the wide staircase, heels clicking on marble. My room was at the end of the hall—big windows, king bed, walk-in closet. I didn’t unpack. Just stood at the railing overlooking the foyer, still in my black dress, tits half out, watching everything like a ghost.

Mom was laughing, twirling in her gown while he showed her the kitchen, the living room, his hand low on her back. Then she checked her phone, squealed something about “the girls are waiting!”—that all-girls after-party she’d planned with her friends. Bachelorette vibes, even though she was already married.

“I’ll drop you off,” he said, voice smooth. Kissed her quick on the temple. Grabbed his keys again.

They left. Door shut. House went quiet except for the distant sound of workers finishing up downstairs.

I waited maybe five minutes. Heart pounding. Then I slipped out of my room, bare feet now (heels kicked off), dress whispering against my legs as I padded down the hall.

I found his study on the first floor—double doors half-open, light spilling out. Dark wood. Bookshelves. Huge desk in the middle. Leather chair behind it.

I didn’t even know why I went in. Or maybe I did.

I stepped inside. Door clicked shut behind me. The room smelled like him—cologne, leather, that faint hint of whatever expensive soap he used.

I walked to the desk slow, fingers trailing the edge. My breath came shaky.

I leaned over it. Pressed my palms flat on the cool wood. Closed my eyes. Imagined him bending me over right here. Right now.

A moan slipped out before I could stop it.

I sank down. Knees on the rug. Crawled under the desk like some desperate secret.

I kissed the leather of his chair—stupidly, then pressed my lips to the seat where his ass would sit every day.

My hand moved on its own. Slid up under the black silk. Found myself soaked. No panties, of course. Fingers circling slow at first, then faster. Breathing ragged. Moaning his name under my breath—“Professor… fuck… Nathan…”

I didn’t hear the front door open.

Didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right outside the study.

I froze.

He walked in.

Door shut behind him. Lock clicked.

I shrank back deeper under the desk, heart in my throat, thighs trembling, fingers still between my legs because I couldn’t stop.

He crossed the room slowly .

Then he sat.

Right in the chair.

Legs spread.

His thighs framed my view—tux pants stretched tight over muscle. And there, inches from my face, the thick outline of his cock pressing against the fabric.