[AUTHOR'S NOTE : Thank you for reading my story! It is so gratifying to know some people out there are enjoying it - that makes the effort so worthwhile. Please know that I read every comment - your comments make my day and really encourage me. Thanks again for taking the time!]
WHAT JUST CAN'T HAPPEN
After what happened on the couch, each day was like a long nightmare I couldn't wake up from, and the nights offered no rest.
I stopped eating. At work, I kept making mistakes and getting lost in my whirlwind of guilty thoughts. A couple of co-workers asked me, "Is everything okay? Are you doing alright?" Of course, I lied and said I just wasn't feeling very well.
What if they knew? What if they even suspected?
I hated to go home those evenings. I took long routes from the office. But I knew the more I stayed out driving around, the more likely I was to find a drink somewhere. I wanted one so bad. Every bar and liquor store called to me. But I knew that would only make things much worse. So I went home.
I avoided Tracie. I couldn't look at her. I kept to my room. Just knowing she was in the house made me anxious.
Fortunately, she left me alone.
Around the clock, I battled intense flashbacks of what my stepdaughter and I had done. When I was getting dressed, driving, sitting in the office, or laying in bed, I would suddenly remember, vividly, her face between my legs, her eyes looking up at me, the feeling of her lips, her tongue...
But it wasn't just the couch that I couldn't get out of my mind. It was everything we'd done - and I was horrified by how much there was. That first wretched phone video of me, black-out drunk and hungrily sucking my daughter's tits, had only been the start.
The memories struck at me relentlessly. I remembered how Tracie made me spit in her face and slap her. I felt again her hands massaging my breasts during our basement yoga. How I snuck a squeeze on her boobs in the bathtub. How we jacked each other off in that angry bathroom video, and how I ran to the basement to finish myself off, thinking of her, my own stepdaughter, wanting her to see me come, realizing she was my new vodka!
How could so much have happened? How could it have gone so far? The sexy foot massage between my daughter's bare, peppermint-lotioned breasts? Me, cooking dinner for her in the buff, and thinking it was fun? Had I really laughed when she tied herself naked to the chair, and I made her chew my panties (my god), and I played my mouth all over her boobs? And that was all on video! What was wrong with me?
Yes, Tracie had blackmailed me. But it wasn't just the things we'd done for "the file."
My heart twisted to recall I had seriously gone out on a romantic dinner date with my stepdaughter! The girl I was supposed to be raising and acting as a role model for! I had spent months as a useless, embarrassing drunk, and then, without the excuse of booze, I kissed her in the middle of a fancy restaurant, gazed into her eyes like a lover, and then drove home and made out with her in the garage like a teenager! What kind of mother could ever do that?
