Stepdaddy Owns Me

This is the second part of the story. It's been years since I wrote the first, and I can definitely see how my writing style has evolved. Still, I've chosen to leave the original as it is. I hope you enjoy this continuation!

The morning after, we're all gathered for breakfast. I haven't even washed my face yet when Phil looks at me with a sad smile. My mum's voice cuts through the quiet clatter of cutlery--What happened to your face?

I shrug. -Fell asleep with a hydrating mask on. Still need to rinse it off.

Phil says nothing. He won't even look at me. Instead, he busies himself with his food, acting like I'm not even there. Meanwhile, my mum is in the best mood I've seen her in years. I don't understand it.

She suggests a girls' day out, her tone almost... hopeful. But I can't do it. I won't. The resentment sits too deep, too heavy. I just can't bring myself to spend time with her.

Every night for a week, I hear them together having sex, moaning, existing in a world that doesn't include me. And every night, I lose a little more of my mind.

I want it to be me. It should be me. I could be better, I would be better, if he only let me.

But he doesn't.

So while they have the time of their lives, I lie awake, rubbing my clit, fingering both my holes, biting back sobs, drowning in shame and frustration, until exhaustion finally pulls me under.

The final straw comes when my mum drops a bombshell, they're trying for another baby.

I feel like I can't breathe. Desperate. Hollow. Shouldn't she be in menopause by now? Why would they even want another kid? I can't do this anymore.

One morning, I call my dad. I'm coming to New York.

Surprisingly, he sounds... pleased. Our relationship has always been distant at best; birthday calls, the occasional Christmas message. He's not struggling, but he's not thriving either. He moved across the Atlantic the second my mum told him she was pregnant with me, and we've barely seen each other since.

Mum is thrilled about my sudden decision, so much so that she buys me a one-way ticket. Phil, on the other hand, isn't. He keeps questioning my mum, asking if she really thinks this is a good idea. Even pulls me aside--twice--to ask when I'm coming back.

I don't know. I have no answer.

-If you want me to stay, just say it. It's my last shred of hope. The last thing I have to offer.

His answer? -No.

So I go.

I don't know why I still wait for him.

Even here, thousands of miles away, I still check my phone like a stupid girl with a crush. Only it's worse than a crush. It's wrong, and I know that, but it doesn't stop the pull. I hate it. I hate him for starting this and leaving me to bleed in silence every time he snaps back to being normal.

It's been three days since I landed in New York. My dad's barely been home, some finance thing in midtown every night, and honestly, I'm grateful. I don't want him to see me like this. Quiet. Fidgety. Wrecked.

Then Phil texts me. Like he's sensing it. -Still alive? I feel the heat rush to my face. Alive? I want to scream. You made sure I never feel like it for long.

-Yeah. Just tired.

-Of what?

-Nothing. Jet lag.

-You're a terrible liar.

Then nothing.

For hours.

Until he calls.

I answer because I'm weak.

"You sound different," he says.

"You mean tired?"

"No. Distant."

I chew the inside of my cheek. "Well... I am on another continent."

"You don't have to be," he says. "You could come back early."

I roll my eyes. "Why? So I can watch you pretend nothing's going on again?"

A sharp pause. "Don't start." I blink.

"I'm not the one who started anything." Another pause.

Then, colder: "I didn't make you feel this way."

My breath catches. My chest burns. "That's cruel.""No, it's true."

His voice sharpens, cuts. "You're not a child. You knew what this was. Don't act surprised now that it's messy."

Messy. That's what he calls it.

"I needed space," I say quietly.

"You needed a reaction," he snaps. "You think flying to New York would fix what you don't understand?"

My mouth goes dry. "I understand more than you think."

"Really?" he says, and suddenly his voice drops, that slow, dangerous tone he uses when he's about to break all the rules. "Do you understand what it's like to have you look at me like that, every single day? Like you're starving and I'm something you're not supposed to touch?"

"You let me--"

"I didn't let you do anything." But the heat in his voice betrays the lie. Then, as suddenly as he snapped, he goes soft.

"You don't know what you're doing to me, do you?"

Yes. I do. And it destroys me.

"I'm coming," he says.

"What?"

"To New York. I booked the flight this morning."

I don't know what to say. My hands are shaking.

"I'll text you when I land."

He shows up with snow still clinging to his coat, his eyes scanning me like I'm something he's already owned. Something he's furious to want again.

"You look older," he says.

"It's been three days."

"Still," he mutters, stepping closer. "You're not a little girl anymore."

The words twist inside me. It should feel like a warning. It doesn't.

We walk. He talks about art like he cares about it, but his eyes never stop flicking down to my lips, my legs, my neckline.

At one point, outside a bookshop, he touches my wrist--just lightly--and I jump.

"Scared of me?" he murmurs.

I don't answer.

"You should be," he adds, like it's a threat and a promise.

That night, I get three messages in a row.

I shouldn't have come.

I told myself I'd stay away.

You make it impossible.

I want to scream at him. I want to beg him to stop confusing me. But I also want to run to his hotel and let him ruin me completely.

He's poison.

But I already drank him.

And tomorrow, I know I'll drink more.

His hand is on my hip now, hot through the fabric of my dress, and I hate how much I tremble under it.

"You really don't get it, do you?" he murmurs.

"I get it," I say quickly. "I've always gotten it."

He scoffs. "No. You feel it. That's different."

My breathing is ragged. I can't meet his eyes, not yet. Not when I'm about to say the one thing I've never told a soul.

"I used to watch you."

He goes still. His thumb stops moving.

"When?" he asks, voice low, dangerous.

I swallow hard. "At night. When you thought I was asleep."

His hand tightens slightly, possessive now.

"You and Mum," I whisper, cheeks burning. "In the kitchen. The living room. Your bedroom, sometimes. I knew the way you touched her. I learned it. Memorised it. Because I wanted to be her."

There's a thick silence.

"Jesus, Lucy," he mutters, dragging a hand down his face. "You are my daughter"

"Step, I am your step daughter," I correct him. "I want you daddy, I have always wanted you and I know you want me too."

He doesn't deny it.

I step closer, until our bodies are nearly touching. "I used to cry afterwards. Not because I was ashamed. But because I wasn't her."

He stares at me, jaw clenched. "You're twisted."

"You made me this way."

That breaks something in him.

He grips my chin again, harder this time, forcing my gaze up.

"You think I didn't know?" he growls. "You think I couldn't hear the floorboards creak outside the bedroom? You'd stay just long enough to make sure I noticed. Then vanish like a little ghost."

My lips part. Shock, maybe. Or desire. I'm not sure which is louder.

"You think I didn't picture you?" he says, venom in his voice now. "That I didn't hate myself for it after? Your mother thought she was the one turning me on. She had no idea it was you in my head."

The air disappears from my lungs.

He's inches from my face.

"But you wanted this, Lucy," he murmurs darkly. "You begged for it for monthly maybe even longer than we both think."

"I still want it," I breathe.

He pulls me flush against him, his mouth brushing my ear. "Then you'll get it exactly the way you've imagined it: rough, raw, and with my hands exactly where you always dreamed they'd be."

His mouth doesn't land on mine.

Not at first.

It drags across my jaw, slow and cruel, his breath hot against my cheek as his hands roam lower--claiming, assessing. Like he's punishing himself with every inch of me he touches. Or maybe punishing me for wanting this so badly.

"You don't get to be gentle anymore," I whisper.

"Good," he growls. "Because I don't think I remember how."

He spins me fast, my back hitting the wall, hands pinning mine above my head. His body presses into mine, hard, overwhelming.

"I used to hear you too," he says, voice like gravel. "In your room. Whispering my name when you thought no one could hear."

I gasp.

"You think I didn't recognise my name on your lips?" His thigh forces its way between mine. "Did you think I didn't know what you were doing under those sheets?"

My knees nearly give out. Shame floods me. So does something darker. Hotter.

"You don't know how many times I stood outside your door," he says. "Knowing I should walk away. Knowing I wouldn't if I opened it."

"You should have," I say, barely audible.

He lets go of my wrists.

"I'm here now," he says. "And we don't get to hide anymore."

I don't move.

I let him take.

Let him own what I've made him want.

His hands are on me again--rougher now. No hesitation. No more masks.

I feel him lift the hem of my dress slowly, deliberately, like he's peeling back years of restraint.

"You're not her," he murmurs, staring down at me.

"I know."

"I never wanted you to be like her."

"No," I whisper. "I want to be way better."

He smiles then. Something feral. Something final.

"Then you're about to get exactly what you deserve."

He drags the dress over my head in one swift motion, letting it fall to the floor like it never meant anything. His eyes flick down, slow and assessing, like he's memorising every part of me just to use it against me later.

"You wore this for me," he says, fingers brushing the strap of my bra. "You wanted me to tear it off, didn't you?"

I nod, breathless.

His hands are on my waist, rough now. Bruising.

"I'm not going to stop," he warns, voice dark. "Not until you forget who you used to be."

Then he rubs his cock on my slit over my panties, they are drenched with my need for him.

I gasp, my head hitting the wall lightly, eyes fluttering shut.

"You wanted me to ruin you," he growls into my ear. "Look at you. You're already halfway gone."

He doesn't wait. He pushes my panties to the side and pushes inside of me. It stings a bit, he is bigger than my fingers.

I choke on a moan, shuddering under him, heat flooding every nerve.

His hand presses against my throat--not tight, just enough to remind me who's in control. His other hand finds my clit and he rubs it in circular motions while slowly but forcefully pushing inside of me.

"You like being treated like this," he says. "You like knowing I'd choose you over her. That I'd betray her for you."

I want to scream. Cry. Beg. But all I can do is take it.

Because I asked for this.

Because I made it happen.

He moves faster now, like he's chasing the years we both tried to pretend didn't exist.

All I can see is white pleasure and when his mouth finds my nipple I think I might pass out. His cock moving inside of me as if he owns my very soul.

"Say my name," he growls.

"Phil"

"Say what you are."

I hesitate.

"Say it."

"I'm yours," I whisper.

"No," he snaps. "Say what you are to me."

I swallow hard.

"Your--"

My words die in my mouth when his fingers abandon my clit but find my smallest hole. He pushes them right in, they are slick with my own pleasure.

His mouth crushes mine--violent, claiming.

He doesn't kiss me like a man in love.

He kisses me like someone who wants to erase me--own me--make sure no part of me will ever belong to anyone else.

My back scrapes against the wall as he lifts me, like I weigh nothing.

My pussy is throbbing against his cock. His pace increases even more, I can feel him everywhere.

I cry out, hands gripping his shoulders like they're the only thing keeping me in one piece.

"You feel that?" he snarls against my neck. "That's mine. You're mine."

My nails dig into him, half from pain, half from wanting more.

"I hated her for having you," I gasp. "I used to imagine what you looked like with her. Pretended it was me. And I'd hate myself for it, but I couldn't stop."

His teeth graze my shoulder.

"I used to imagine you too," he mutters. "Every time I was inside her. I'd close my eyes and see you."

Something inside me shatters.

He slams forward again, punishing and raw.

I can barely breathe. My body's on fire, my mind gone.

"This is what you wanted," he says. "Not love. Not tenderness. You wanted to be used."

"Yes," I whisper. "I wanted daddy to ruin me."

His rhythm turns frantic now, like he's trying to bury years of guilt under every brutal thrust.

He bites down on my nipple, hard.

My head falls back against the wall, dizzy, lost.

His hand slides down, forcing me over the edge, dragging me under.

With one hand holding me and the other rubbing my clit just right.

When I come undone, it's not soft. It's broken. Violent. Like something being ripped out of me.

He doesn't stop.

He can't stop.

"Say it again," he growls, his voice raw now. "Say you're mine."

"I'm yours."

"Louder."

"I'm yours, daddy. I am your slut"

My words hit the air like a confession.

And then comes inside of me violently, holding me so tight. I can feel his hot cum coating my insides.

He collapses against me, breath ragged, body trembling.

The silence that follows is deafening.