(This story contains incest and some very mild scat. Please be mature - if these things do not interest you, simply move on to a story whose subject matter does and enjoy yourself. No harm. No foul.
I am open to comments both good and bad - but hopefully constructive criticisms so that I may improve my writing skills.
All persons in this story are 18)
This could be, I suppose, as much a confession and a catharsis as it is a simple story.
It's the beginning of a special relationship with my stepdaughter that lasted almost 20 years.
It was more than a little difficult to put this into words. Even after all this time.
Maybe I shouldn't have even attempted to write about or explain this. My words here seem as confused, as fragmented, as my thoughts were that day when my stepdaughter and I...Still, now, the memory of the first day of the relationship we began surprises, shocks me. The dangerous territory she and I walked hand in hand into...
At 18, Holly was almost the spitting image of her mother, my wife. Although slightly darker haired than her mom, she was blue eyed with large breasts and a large rear, and I'll admit that more than once during her final year of high school, I looked at her feeling no small amount of sexual attraction. Wrong or right, that's the truth.
And also, more than once, I'd wondered, during my fevered fantasies, if she had inherited her mother's sexual desires/proclivities - which mirrored my own (although that is another story for another time). Actually a part of me hoped - and fantasized - she had.
I will also admit that raising her brought me to consider things I hadn't before. Things that as a single guy I'd never even thought of considering. Adult type things. Parental type things. But suddenly being a parent does that, I guess.
I'd tried my best to keep Holly on the straight and narrow - manners, good grades, self respect, the things all parents try to instill in their children.
However, I will confess that soon after her 18th birthday, I did begin to notice her in a slightly different light. I know I shouldn't have. But, at times, I did. And at times my mind would slip to places it shouldn't have gone to.
And, yes, I did feel guilty about it. I mean she was, for all intents and purposes, biological or not, my daughter and I'd always felt every obligation to protect her, to raise her, to make sure she was safe and secure and prepared for her future, no matter what she decided it would be. I'd be there for her. It's what a dad does, after all.
We'd always been close, she and I. Since she was a kid and I first came into her life and she came into mine. While my wife had done a more than good job of raising her on her own, I'd like to believe that I arrived at the point where she needed a father figure in her life. Honesty makes me admit that that is more an ego thing than a reality.
She was a very bright, funny girl and she thought I was...funny. Even through her teen years, when most parents are struggling with understanding what became of their children, she and I still managed to get along.
Fights, arguments, certainly. The door slamming, we just didn't understand type of things most all parents go through, of course. But in the end, compromise was almost always reached, normally with the two of us having a laugh at each other's stupidity. Actually, over time, she became one of my best friends - and she shared secrets with me that she didn't even share with her mother.
However, during her last year of high school, things...changed...between us...
At the beginning of Holly's senior year, my wife accepted a new, and much better, position with the company she worked for.
With the new job she'd taken, my wife's hours were more subject to change than my own. Which meant that through the work week either one of us might be the parent in charge, be the runner of the household. And that, of course, meant quite a bit of the household chores - and parenting - fell to me.
While my wife more than deserved the promotion, the idea of trying to run a household...well, I'll just say it wasn't something I had a whole lot of experience doing.
I guess now I should confess that I am a panty sniffer. Have been since I was in my early teens - my sister's, my sister's friend's, my friend's sister's, my earliest girlfriend's, their mother's. My wife's, being honest.
But it wasn't only the scent of pussy I craved and was turned on by. No, it was something else, something I'd discovered almost accidentally. Something further back in the crotch of those worn panties I hunted for in laundry baskets. The unmistakable smell of a females' ass. That's what I really sought out whenever I was able to sneak and find a girl's panties. That smell, that odor...It made me weak in the knees, made my mouth water, made me want... What, when I was young, I didn't really know, didn't really understand. All I knew was that that scent drove me, then as it does now, all but crazy, and smelling it, I'd always cum hard and quick.
As long as I can recall, I've been attracted to females' with large, round, full asses - and equally obsessed with anal sex. Why? I've no idea. It's been that way since I became sexually aware. Indeed, before I even knew there was such a thing as anal sex, I was obsessed with the female ass - particularly those that were big and round and, I suppose, by societal standards, fat.
And, what was even more surprising to me and my young mind all those years ago, I found I was turned on by the idea that a girl's big ass might be dirty. Finding the slightest skid mark in a girl's panties was, and is still, one of the most erotic things I can experience. Why? Again, I've no idea. I'm only stating a few facts about myself that will lend themselves to the situation I found myself (and my step daughter) in oh so many years ago.
With my wife's new position, the household chores that fell onto my shoulders quite often included doing the laundry. Including my stepdaughter's. And during that particular chore, I found that Holly's panties were sometimes a little dirty.
Yes, shamefully, I did look. And, yes, even more shamefully, I did hold those worn panties to my face, sniffing...
Not simply the stains from her young pussy, some of Holly's panties had very obvious skid marks. At times it seemed she was a bit lacking in that particular part of the personal hygiene department.
Usually those stains were a light chocolate brown hint left there from when the material had been wedged in the deep split between her fat ass cheeks - and, I quickly found I loved the scent of her rear as much if not more than the scent of her pussy.
But, at least once, sometimes twice a week, I'd find a pair of her panties in the wash basket with a much heavier, dark brown streak towards the back of the cotton lined crotch.
More than once, - actually many, many, times - I'd allowed myself the pleasure of smelling my step daughters worn panties. In particular, the chocolate brown smears and stains from her fat teenaged ass, as I stroked my cock. Sometimes even licking at those stains, tasting her dirtiness as I came.
And, yes, I always felt a touch of guilt after.
Doing the laundry had, for the most part, been my wife's job during our years of marriage so, at first, I was a bit surprised at Holly's occasional dirtiness. Especially considering she was 18 and soon on her way to college.
It wasn't so much those light brown whispers of her ass on the cotton lined crotch of her panties (which I loved finding so very much. Correctly or incorrectly, I figured those were fairly normal for a girl with a big ass...) but those other, heavier, darker brown smears that surprised me.
Soon, however, I came to look forward to her dirtier pairs. Each time I did the laundry, I hoped I'd find a pair of her panties that were badly stained, badly skid marked. While I loved those lighter brown smears from between her ass cheeks, loved the smell captured in those light chocolate brown smears, that hint of dirtiness, and jacked off smelling them so many, many times - finding her panties with the darker, heavier, brown streaks, when she had been obviously dirty back there. God, the thoughts I had.
Also I probably should say that I kept a daily journal, something I'd done since long before I was married. Back to my teenage years, actually. I kept a written record of experiences I'd had; notes on things I'd seen; my views on life; sentences that would lead me to write the next great American novel; sporadic poetry.
You know, basically nonsensical bull shit began by a teenager who, at the time, thought he had something important to say. And who, as we all do, learned as we age that our lives would basically be centered around providing a living for ourselves and for our families. Although, at the time I started documenting my life, everything was so fresh and new and important.
Even as an adult, I continued to keep this written record of my life. Being honest, I don't know why. Maybe some sort of self therapy that helped me get through and understand the days of my life as they slipped quietly, and at an ever increasing speed, past. But I wrote of almost everything I and my family did. Silly perhaps, but I did. At the end of practically every day, I would, at the very least, write down what had occurred that day be it something about work, something about my wife, something about Holly; hell, perhaps something as mundane as the weather on that particular day. And when done, place the notebook and pen in the drawer of my nightstand - oddly or not, basically right next to my wife's and my porn stash.
My wife was, at first, interested in what I wrote. And while she encouraged me to continue to write and share with her anything I thought was special (and was always eager to read the dirty stories I created for her) she quickly realized that the majority of what I jotted down was fairly boring.
I suppose, considering, that was a blessing.
For better or worse, I've never lied when I write. The people, the situations are always real. As are my feelings. Overall, I suppose that's unimportant. Except in this case...
I actually have several 'volumes' of these notebooks, kept from my teen years up to the present day, stored away in a box in the bedroom closet. Detailing pretty much my entire life from about the age of 13 or 14 on.
I'd written about everything: all my teenage angst; all my feelings about being misunderstood by my parents; all my dreams of what my grand and glorious future held; a girl at school I had a crush on; one of the guys whom I fought with and who became one of my best friends; a teacher I hated - or found kinda hot; my experiences - including sexual - with girlfriends; my first job after graduating; my excitement of a new and better paying job; meeting my wife - and how, at the time, I was so fearful of the fact she had a kid.
As I said, I documented my life.
Why I kept those notebooks year after year, decade after decade, I don't know. Maybe to be able to hold onto something of my youth. Regardless, the trouble was, or rather became, that even as an adult, even when I should have known better, in those notebooks, I recorded practically everything. In detail. Things that perhaps I probably shouldn't have. Things that would have been best left as just a memory, and not have been committed to paper. Where curious eyes might see and read...
With this brief bit of history, here is the story of Holly and I - the first steps we took down a path we both knew we shouldn't have been on, but neither of us could resist following:
It was spring and I enjoyed the warm breeze blowing through the house after the cold of winter. Still far too early for the air conditioner, I had the windows and doors open, simply happy for the sun and its warmth.
Stubbing out my cigarette, and contemplating another cup of coffee, or perhaps a beer, as I wrestled with the reports I was working on, I heard the familiar squeal and hiss of the school bus air brakes and the chatter of the kids through the half open windows. And for a fleeting moment, I recalled my own school days - riding the bus to and from school. The noises, sights, sounds. The newness and excitement of everything.
Now, how many years later, I was slaving away at a job that, while it paid well, offered not much else. I was currently all but buried in paperwork as my stepdaughter was more than likely experiencing the same things, the same feelings I had had so long ago.
I smiled at both the memory and the realization.
"Dad!...I hurt my back," my step daughter Holly said as she walked into the house after school, letting the screen door slam shut behind her. She'd been grounded for the past 2 weeks for breaking her curfew, which meant she was back to riding the bus instead of driving herself to and from school.
At 18, in her senior year at high school and soon heading to college, Holly was, like her mother, a little overweight, with big tits and a big ass.
Things that, as her father, I probably shouldn't have paid attention to in quite the way I did.
"Bad," she whined loudly as she came down the short hallway from the front door into the kitchen.
Pushing my chair back, I got up from the table where I'd been working on the damned quarterly reports that were nowhere near as important as my step daughters' well being. I'd been finishing up the summary with what seemed to be a million pages of numbers, charts and diagrams strewn out on the table top in front of me as the last load of laundry was in the dryer. It was Friday, my wife's night to work late, so the household - and parenting - stuff were my responsibilities.
"How? What happened?" I asked, standing.
"It really hurts..." she said, dropping her bookbag on the floor.
The thud told me she probably had homework to do this particular weekend. Like most teens she was no real fan of homework and would delay doing it as long as possible but somehow always managed to get it done. Mostly on time, much to both her mothers' and my surprise. And managed to get very good grades despite her repeated claims of how badly she hated school.
