"Shhh...be quiet...must NOT wake the step-oogler."
I heard my step-daughter Amanda drunkenly stumbling down the hallway past my door towards her room. I knew she would be talking to her bff, Kara. Kara had arrived about eight hours ago and after a very awkward set of introductions, the two twenty year olds had dashed out in search of alcohol, dancing and boys, dressed like tarts. In other words, a typical young folks New Year's Eve.
"Step.-oogler, waz 'at?" Kara slurred.
"You know how step-mothers get called step-monsters. Well, there's no similar term for step-fathers. Since Bert can't resist undressing me with his eyes, I think of him as the step-oogler. I made up the term."
Amanda giggled at her own cleverness. Not that I could deny the term was both clever and accurate. This holiday season was only my second meeting with Amanda, and the first extended visit. I had met her mom last New Year's eve, accidentally impregnated her, so we had a quickie wedding in April. Amanda had lived with her Dad since the split years ago - my wife had abandoned them for another guy who had not lasted - and only begrudgingly flew in for the wedding, bringing her Dad as the "plus one" just to try to piss off her mother. It had worked to the extent that my bride had gotten drunk in spite of her pregnancy.
The wedding, having gotten off on that wrong foot, meant the marriage was rocky from day one and my wife came to use the 2 a.m. feedings as an excuse to sleep in the nursery. In spite of my fetishes for pregnant women and nursing moms, I was left to my own devices most nights. The fetishes just ensured that I was half chubby all day and needed self-relief at least twice a day to avoid inconvenient wood. Tonight, the anniversary of that fateful meeting, my wife had expressed enough milk that she could drink, which meant that she had passed out by ten p.m. I had left her under a blanket on the couch in the den. The baby was across the hall in the crib, both doors ajar as a failsafe in case I slept through the baby monitor.
In the circumstances, it was shocking to have Amanda with us for the holidays. She had been booked to go to Aspen with her Dad, an annual tradition it seems, but he had been called overseas due to work. He had insisted she come stay with us and meet her little brother. Amanda had reluctantly agreed on condition that she be allowed to bring Kara along.
Having two college girls under my roof was a new experience for me. I had been too busy at the wedding to really check out Amanda, who largely had avoided me anyway. I do recall that she wore a formless dress that hung from spaghetti straps to past her knees. The low neckline and drop had suggested full breasts, without more than hinting at her cleavage. I must admit even that had given me a woodie, and I had wished to get a better look, but with both her parents hovering, I had behaved. When I had fucked my drunken bride later that night, images of my step-daughter were flowing through my mind - imagining boobs with no tan lines and extended excited nipples sensitive to a mature touch; an appreciation of the virtues of a little pain; full wide hips, but a firm ass...
When I had picked the girls up at the airport (my wife stayed home with the baby), I had the opportunity to at least confirm about the ass, since both girls had travelled in skin tight jeans, obviously meant for fashion not comfort. Amanda had insisted on grabbing her own luggage, though I had offered, so I got a perfect view of her backside. Her hips were much more boyish than I had imagine, hardly any butt at all, but the demon in my slacks reminded me that a handful was enough in asses as well as tits.
What I really noticed a moment later was that Amanda's butt was nothing in comparison to Kara's. The tall raven haired guest was perfectly proportioned - hips just narrower than her shoulders - but what really stood out, literally, was the shelf like curve of a dancer's rear end. I might have had to lick a bit of drool off my chin as I watched Kara load suitcases on the luggage trolley. My long loose sweater strategically covered my instant bulge.
Despite their having just had a flight to chatter, Amanda had insisted that both of them ride in the back of the car, no doubt wanting to emphasize that I had no relationship with her. Their excitement about the baby soon switched to talk about partying, and several times they playfully teased each other about which one was a bigger slut. As if THAT was not enough to give me wood, Kara excitedly blurted out, "well, at least I don't take it up the butt."
In the rear view mirror, I expected to see Amanda blushing, but instead she had slapped Kara playfully and replied, "Ass fucking is wonderful, don't knock it until you try it. I have better orgasms that way than when the guys just want to finger me twice, lick me once and then stick their throbbing cocks into my cunt and cum in like four of five thrusts."
"You are SUCH a slut," Kara had laughed, leading to a playful slapfest that lasted until we got home. Almost immediately, the two chums had declared themselves exhausted by the trip. My wife went to feed the baby, and the gals vanished to the guest room they were sharing. That room had a wall in common with the master bedroom. I sat reading on my bed, muffled sounds of playful giggling teasing me.
I thought I heard some slaps of palm on ass, and imagined how great Kara's ass might be to spank. Even watching her get spanked would be wonderful, I realized - the image of red palm print on creamy flesh gave me instant wood. As my cock tented my pants, I eased my zipper open. My organ sought fresh air, poking itself up out of the fly in my briefs. My book fell to my mattress as my hand curled around my shaft, my eyes closing all the better to focus on the springs squeaking on the other side of the wall. I imagined youthful lips suckling twenty year old nipples as I stroked my throbbing member. It only took about a dozen strokes for my balls, which had been aching since the airport, to tighten to my groin and allow great gobs of goo to spurt out my pee slit. I cupped my fist over the head of my cock, capturing the mess, intending to roll over for a tissue, but I nodded off, waking up an hour or so later to the sound of my wife in the kitchen. I noticed my door was open. Had I left it that way? Had she come in and seen my pathetic indulgence in self-abuse? Had she guessed the focus? Or, worse still, might Amanda and Kara have peeked in and snickered at my shrivelled manhood?
The two weeks since had passed quickly. The girls were seldom home, finding every excuse to go shopping, working out, hanging out, and partying every night, then sleeping until noon the next day or later. I never got a chance to peep at what they might be doing in their shared bed, or the extra shower built en suite in that room.
My imagination remained vivid enough that I was jerking off more than my normal once daily, retreating to the bedroom two or three times as the day unfolded, usually as my wife tended our son. Each night ended with me climaxing and then falling asleep with my cock relaxing in my fist, only to wake up with morning wood urgently demanding that I stroke myself to orgasm the next morning.
Amanda and Kara accidentally supplied just enough fuel to keep that fire burning. Though they both favoured sloppy sweats for the few moments they lounged around the house, in the morning. They might stumble to the kitchen for juice with their tank tops barely hiding braless breasts, and a five inch gap down to pajama pants, or on one memorable occasion, Amanda appearing wearing a matching set of lacy pink bra and bikini panties and no pants or shirt.
Though Amanda still treated her mother coolly, both girls seemed truly enchanted by the baby, so they tended to spend a few minutes each afternoon in the nursery. I found it easy to linger in the hallway and admire how their asses flexed even though the baggy sweats blurred the actual edges. When they lifted my son up from his crib and held him against their chests, I felt pangs of jealousy in my heart, envying the lucky little guy. MY little man stood at attention whenever his cheek rubbed a nipple. Neither girl seemed to bother with bras at home. The pokies in their sweats created bulges in my briefs.
When the ladies went to party, they teetered out of the house on six inch platforms, underwire bras elevating exposed cleavage at the top, long bare legs emerging from micro-skirts at the other. Or they wrapped a diaphanous sarong over a bikini that barely covered the nipples and the quim, with the simplest of flip flops to go to a beach party. My eyes never knew where to look. I knew that I should just look away, read a newspaper or fiddle with a gadget, but unless it was my imagination, the ladies went out of their way to tease me. Amanda might label me an oogler, but I would argue that it was all her doing, and that she loved the attention. There certainly seemed to be an abundance of giggles every time I was caught staring. My step-daughter would pose in the doorway, pivot like a model, and in a throaty voice inform me, "Don't wait up, Daddy-o, us girls might be out 'til dawn."
