In the Nest with Christie

I swear to God I don't have a foot fetish. Yet, once again, Christie's feet had coaxed pre-cum from my cock. I was worried it would seep through the light-colored fabric of my pants.

As Therese and my dad entered the kitchen, I hopped away from Christie to keep the island between myself and them, blocking their view of my compromised crotch.

The sudden movement startled Therese. She darted her eyes to me, then Christie, then back to me.

"Mom," Christie said, "I am so,

SO

sorry about church. I slept in late, and--"

Therese cut her off.

"Where's Aaron?"

Though addressing her daughter, she glared at me, like maybe I'd offed the guy.

Christie was halfway off the stool, no doubt intending to greet Therese with a hug, but she stiffened at her mother's harsh tone. After a pause, she resumed her perch, swiveling to turn away from Therese and fill another pastry.

"You mean the boy with the arrogant smile who shares vulgar memes and has a friend list full of degenerates? I broke up with him. Aren't you happy?"

Therese tossed her purse on the table and rolled her eyes. "I didn't call his friends degenerates. For Heaven's sake, I've never even met him."

"It's okay." Christie's shoulders slumped. She abruptly dropped her salty attitude. "You were right, Mom. He was a jerk."

Therese squinted, appearing mistrustful of the sudden surrender. But before she could say anything, my dad strolled up to the island.

"Well, well, well! Looks like you two have been rolling in dough!"

Christie beamed at him and proudly proffered a finished puff.

My dad's eyes lit up... until he glanced at Therese. "I suppose I'd better not."

Arms folded under her ferocious bosom, Therese turned to me. "What time is dinner?"

Her narrowed eyes asked the real question:

What have you been doing with my daughter all morning?

Flustered, I cleared my throat and lowered my head, becoming more flustered when I realized pre-cum had indeed soaked through the chinos. "Uh, well, the, uh, hens will, uh, only, uh, take, uh, two hours, uh..."

"You mean you haven't even started them?"

I kept stammering.

Christie intervened.

"Mom," she said sweetly, "Sunday dinner's always at four. It's not even one-thirty yet. But... if you're hungry..." She held up a cream puff and waggled her eyebrows.

Therese was not amused. She pinned a final, suspicious look on us, then marched out of the kitchen, and we watched through the living room archway as she raised the remote to click on the television. Though I'm sure Therese often found comfort in prayer or reading her Bible, sometimes, in hours of darkness, she watched reruns of

Friends.

My dad cast a forlorn glance at the cream puffs, then joined her.

Christie hopped off her stool and clapped her hands together. "Welp! Guess we'd better get started on those hens!"

Suddenly, she was bustling around the kitchen like nothing was wrong.

I stared at her, mystified. She had played footsie with my

naked cock

this morning, gotten a faceful of

cum

, and now her scary church-lady mom was

suspicious

. Why the hell wasn't she freaking out like I was?

However, as Therese settled on the sofa with her knitting, and my dad leaned back in his lounger, I shook off my anxiety and went through the motions of food preparation with Christie.

We cleared away the cream puff stuff. We pulled the stuffing from the fridge and the bagged hens from the sink. We emptied the marinade from the bags into a pot. But when we slapped the hens on the island, and they lay before us with their legs splayed, ready to be stuffed, I just... couldn't.

Jesus. I'd nearly lost it when we were shooting cream in pastries. Sticking our hands up bird twats together? Nuh-uh.

"Hey Christie, thanks for your help, but I'll take it from here."

"What? No!" she cried, and held up a handful of stuffing. "This is the best part!"

I lowered my voice. "Christie. Please. I've got this."

Seeing I was serious, she pouted, flinging the stuffing back into the bowl. "Oh,

okayyyy

." She wiggled a hen's leg as if bidding it farewell. "Guess I'll just go to my room and..." She rubbed two fingers against the fleshy wet lip of the hen's hole. "... find something else to do."

After shooting me a sideways glance, she smirked and flounced out of the kitchen, bare feet smacking brazenly against the linoleum.

Blood dropped straight from my head to my dick, but lust wasn't the only reason my vision blurred and gray dots danced in my eyes. No, I was momentarily blinded by an emotion I'd never felt toward Christie.

Anger.

Because now I knew that my wholesome, pure-hearted, virginal stepsister was fucking with me.

I'd been drooling over her for three damn years, yet she'd never shown a hint of attraction to

me

. Now, suddenly, she was teasing me, taunting me,

torturing

me.

I could only think of one reason. This was payback for what happened outside.

My vision cleared, but the anger remained.

My eyes settled on Therese.

She was sitting rigidly on the living room sofa, joylessly jabbing yarn with her knitting needles. Dad said she took up knitting to help her relax. Didn't seem to help. I glanced at the prescription bottle she'd dropped while scrambling to church this morning. Maybe her uptight ass needed stronger tranquilizers.

Fuck this shit. I had to get out of here. I stuffed the stupid hens and threw them in the oven. Luke said his party started at seven. He hadn't said where, though. Did he still live with his parents, or did he have his own place? I grabbed my phone to text him.

A fresh wave of anger hit when I realized my phone was dead. Goddammit. My charger was in my bedroom, but now that Therese was home, I felt self-conscious going back there.

As I passed through the living room, I held my phone up for Therese to see.

"Dead," I muttered. "Charger's in my room."

Translation:

I will not be masturbating.

Without waiting for a response, I proceeded to my room (passing Christie's cracked-open door without a glance), walked straight to my charger on the dresser, plugged my phone in, and pressed the power button repeatedly until it finally had enough juice to start.

When the phone came on, I rejoiced--then groaned when I read the notification:

Installing updates

...

Your phone will turn off and restart several times

.

God fucking dammit. I drummed my fingers on the dresser, watching the progress wheel spin and the percentage numbers tick. This could take forever. I considered lying down, but ugh, I couldn't even look at my bed. The memories were too fresh.

The longer I waited, the angrier my predicament made me. Why was I cowering in my room, hiding from everyone in shame? I had done nothing wrong. I was a man. Men masturbate. Men try to help women when they faint. Men ejaculate when women give them foot jobs. Nothing that happened today was my fault. So why was I letting a judgmental stepmother and a cock-teasing stepsister make me feel like a freak in my own fucking home?

Leaving my phone to its reboots, I threw open my door and alit for the living room.

Dad was slack in his La-Z-Boy, deep in a sitcom-rerun-induced daze. But Therese raised her eyes from the afghan she was knitting to watch me plop into an armchair. She observed my defiant manspread for a moment, then resumed her needle-jabbing.

"So," she said with chilly formality. "Dinner will be at four, then?"

"Hens'll be ready in two hours," I said. "You can eat 'em whenever you want."

She bristled at my disrespectful tone. "Well, since it's a

family

dinner, it might be helpful to set a time, don't you think?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Four's fine with me. I'm leaving around six-thirty."

Her needles jerked to a halt. "Oh. You're... going home tonight?" She couldn't quite conceal the hope in her voice.

"Nope," I said. "Party at a friend's house. I'll be out late. Don't wait up."

She may not have appreciated my snotty delivery, but she clearly didn't mind the news I'd be leaving the house. "An

Easter

party," she said, as if enchanted by a quaint yet inspired concept. "Well, I hope you enjoy --"

Before she could finish bullshitting me, Christie skipped into the room. Therese turned to her with a gasp of delight.

"Why, Christina! Don't you look darling!"

Yeah, she did, damn her. She was headed for the kitchen, but stopped, grinning at her mother's compliment, and did a quick twirl to model the lace-trimmed eggshell dress she'd changed into.

"Thanks! You know, even though I missed church, it just felt

wrong

not dressing up for Easter. And then I found--do you remember this, Mom?--my confirmation dress!" She fanned out the skirt. "Can you believe it still fits?"

"Yes," Therese said warmly. "Yes, I can. You're still my little girl."

"Couldn't find those cute heels I wore with it, though." Christie made a sad face, stretching a leg in front of her and twirling her toes. Then she perked up and pivoted and pranced to the kitchen. "I'm getting a Sprite. Want some tea, Mom?"

"Why--thank you, that would be nice."

"Howard? Beer?"

"Answer's always yes," Dad said by rote, barely rousing from his TV trance.

While Christie banged around in the kitchen, I considered going to my room again. But she wouldn't torment me with our parents here, would she? What would she do? Show off her feet? Hell, I could handle that. I didn't have a foot fetish--I had a fetish for her whole fucking body. Her feet were just the parts that had touched my cock. I'd have cum if her fricking elbows had touched it.

I kept my eyes on the TV while she served our parents their drinks, returned to the kitchen for her own drink, and sashayed through my field of vision to the sofa. She asked what she'd missed at church. Therese summarized the sermon, then gossiped about people Christie had gone to Sunday school with. Soon they were deep in mother-daughter girl talk, and I felt safe to let my eyes drift from the TV.

Christie was curled sideways, legs drawn up on the sofa, feet dangling over the cushion. While she and her mom chatted, she scrunched her toes and fondled her soles in ways I found suggestive even as a non-fetishist, but I didn't think she was teasing me. She was just fidgety.

Anyway, that tilted-out ass was more titillating to me than her feet. The eggshell satin of her confirmation dress looked a bit too snug in the butt and boobs. I didn't know how old she was at confirmation, but she'd obviously filled out since then. She looked ready to hatch. I imagined the satin material splitting apart and falling away, allowing those beautiful butt cheeks and breasts to spring forth and emerge into the --

Therese shifted at her end of the sofa.

My thoughts scattered, my burgeoning cock going limp with despair as I realized she'd caught me perving on her daughter.

She nodded while Christie talked, pretending to listen. But her attention was trained entirely on me.

Mustering all my will power, I resisted the impulse to betray my guilt by looking away. Instead, I nodded as if I, too, were interested in whatever the hell Christie was saying.

Therese kept me in her sights, dead-eyed and grim-faced, as she leaned forward and set her teacup on the table. She appeared to be waiting for Christie to finish talking so she could speak to me. Oh, shit, what was she going to...

Ding!

I whipped my head around at the distant sound of my resurrected phone.

Thankful I'd withered under Therese's cock-blocking gaze, I rose from my chair, excused myself, and hurried to my bedroom.

++++++++++

Luke's latest text made me smile.

Paula was coming early to help him set up for the party. He suggested I join them. It would give me a chance to work my charm on her before everyone arrived. A lot of guys would likely hit on her, so Luke advised me to come as early as possible.

Hell, yeah. I couldn't get out of this cuckoo's nest fast enough. I'd leave right after dinner.

We texted for a while. Since I knew the dings were audible to Therese, I wasn't self-conscious about lingering in my bedroom.

By the time I strolled back to the living room, my dad was asleep, and the women had fallen silent under the TV's spell, following the shenanigans of their favorite sitcom characters with cozy contentment.

Christie's legs were tucked under her, and as I walked to my chair, I noticed her dress had ridden up her thighs. Without looking away from the TV, she grabbed the finished section of the afghan Therese was knitting and draped it across her lap, tugging it over her knees.

I was grateful for this show of modesty. Maybe it meant my punishment was over.

When I flopped into my chair, Therese flicked her eyes at me, but her previous indignation had mellowed into indifference. Psh. The feeling was mutual.

I swiped my phone open, got online, and dug through Paula Kearschner's social media.

Truth was, I couldn't recall having a single conversation with Paula in all four years of high school. She was pretty, but also cliquish. Kind of snooty. Possibly a bitch. But her supposed desire to fuck me sounded endearing. I had hoped to spend the time between now and dinner basking in the glow of her online presence. But after several minutes of swiping through mirror selfies showcasing the same fake smile, my attention wandered.

Christie was fidgeting with the afghan in her lap, unconsciously twirling its yarn in her fingers.

The hem of the afghan inched up her folded legs. Her bare knees peeked out, and then...

Therese leaned forward.

Goddammit.

"So, Hunter," she said, setting her knitting needles aside and reaching for her tea. "Tell us about this Easter party you're attending tonight. Friends from high school, I take it?"

I buried my face in my phone. "Uh, yeah."

I stared at Paula's fake smile on my display screen... and a genuine smile crept over my lips.

"One friend in particular," I said. "A girl."

Canned laughter bubbled up from the television.

Christie snickered. She'd tuned us out. Sounded like sitcom shenanigans were building up to a big punch line.

Momentarily distracted, Therese glanced at Christie, then at the TV. A smile flitted over her lips, but she rallied and turned to me again. "Oh, really? A girl?"

I tried for a bashful-looking shrug. "Yeah," I said. "Her name's Paula Kearschner. I had a huge crush on her in high school. Never had the courage to ask her out. But we started chatting online a few weeks ago. Turns out she had a crush on me, too."

The TV laughter rose in volume, and as the on-screen silliness escalated, Christie hunched over and pressed the afghan against her mouth to stifle her giggles. I kept her relegated to my peripheral vision, focusing on Therese.

"I've been thinking about Paula constantly," I said, deciding that while I was in damage control mode, I might as well put a new spin on this whole damn day. "I go to

bed

thinking about Paula, I

wake up

thinking about Paula. She's been the

only

thing on my mind lately. It's corny, but, well, what can I say? Paula is the girl of my dreams."

The laugh track rumbled with rising intensity.

Christie's shoulders shook, her mirth leaking out of her in muted squeaks.

Eyes darting from her daughter to the television, Therese struggled to suppress her own mirth. "Well... how exciting for you, Hunter. That's... um... that's..." She trailed off, her attention drawn to rhythmic movements on the other side of the sofa.

Christie was rocking back and forth, clenching a corner of the afghan between her teeth as the climax of the comedic sequence neared.

At the sight of her, Therese snickered, but quickly regained control of herself and arranged her face into a dignified expression. She set her teacup on the table, folded her hands, and nodded at me with a polite smile. "That's very romantic," she said--and explosive laughter burst from the TV.

Christie exploded, too, launching into a fit of out-of-control cackles. She reeled backward on the sofa with the force of her hilarity, her folded legs jerked upward...

... and, for a fleeting second, I glimpsed a dark triangle of pubic hair between her flailing thighs.

The peepshow was over as abruptly as it started. But the image of my stepsister's pussy remained. It floated before my eyes like spots after a camera flash.

Christie fell sideways on the sofa, legs mercifully closed, clumsily covering herself with the afghan again as her helpless giggles gave way to breathy gasps, then exhausted sighs. Therese was giggling, too. My father, who had jerked awake, took the scene in at a groggy glance, then drifted back to sleep.

When my scattered mind reassembled itself, I realized my cock was standing straight up in my pants. Luckily, I was holding my phone in a way that blocked my bulge from view.

Not that it mattered. Nobody looked at me. Therese rewound the hilarious scene she'd missed, and she and Christie watched it together, bonding over their mutual love of the show. One episode streamed into the next, and they forgot all about me.

It took my cock a long time to settle down. The image of my stepsister flashing her pussy at me in a church dress triggered a massive download of fresh fap fantasies to my imagination's hard drive. Previews played unbidden in my mind's eye. I kept my actual eyes fixed on the TV, terrified if I glanced at Christie again, I'd receive another download. My system couldn't handle it.

Yet, even though I didn't look at her, Christie's presence in my peripheral vision drove me wild. Whenever she shifted on the sofa, I had to force myself not to whip my head around to assess her position.

Fuck. I had to get out of this room before I lost my mind.

Eventually, I decided my dick, though still semi-hard, was flexible enough to conceal if I stood up. A glance at my phone clock told me the hens would be done soon. Okay, good. I'd set the table and keep myself busy in the kitchen. Then I'd get through dinner and bolt for Luke's party. God, I hoped Paula Kearschner wasn't a bitch. But if it didn't work out with her, I vowed to find another girlfriend before my next visit home, because Jesus, this was unbearable.

Before rising to my feet, I checked to see if Therese was looking in my direction.

Nope. She was slumped at her end of the sofa, her eyes half-open, making vague little

huh-huh-huh

sounds at the laugh track's prompts. Otherwise, she barely seemed awake.

Christie, however, sounded more entertained at the other end of the sofa, heaving soft exhalations of amusement as the sitcom played on.

But wait. Something was off.

Those exhalations were completely out of sync with the laugh track. And they didn't sound like amusement at all. They sounded like...

moans.

Against my better judgment, I peeked at her from the corner of my eye.

She was sitting on her feet as usual, the afghan covering her legs. But she wasn't watching the TV. Her eyes were closed. And she was swaying her hips in subtle, rhythmic movements.

Nnnnnn... Nnnnnnnn... Uuuuhhhhhnnnnnn...

Okay, yeah, those moans sounded sexual as hell. But my frantic brain pitched innocent explanations that wouldn't further agitate my cock. Maybe she was moaning with discomfort. Maybe she needed to pee, or her dress was itchy, or she had cramps, or her feet were asleep...

My cock wasn't buying it, though. And my brain gave up when Christie lifted the afghan from her lap and stuffed it in her mouth to muffle an unmistakably sexual moan.

Uhhhnnnnnnnnnnn

...

My head yanked sideways of its own accord, and my eyes went straight to her crotch.

Her doubled-up legs were wide open, the heel of her right foot pressing urgently against her pussy.