A long time coming, for which I offer apologies, this fourth chapter completes The Sick Day series. New readers may wish to check out the earlier stories, all of which are no more than a page in length for characterisation and plot.
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What a difference a good night's sleep can make. George Foley awoke the following morning with the fever in remission and little more than a light tickle in the back of his throat. No doubt a strong cup of tea and a hearty breakfast would put paid to the last of the lingering symptoms. Immediately his thoughts turned to stepdaughter Lucy, the subject of each and every dream throughout a night of intense fantasy. Yes, he feeling much better.
Sadly, the same could not be said of the girl on his mind, a hacking cough permeating the closed door of her bedroom. Met on the landing by son Josh, awkward glances were exchanged, both harbouring guilty thoughts of Lucy. Statuesque in a sports vest and shorts, Josh was every young girl's dream. George, on the other hand, looked all his forty years and more in a drab dressing gown. The older man sighed, knowing full well he couldn't compete looks-wise for Lucy's affections or match his son's tanned athleticism. "Lucy sounds in a poor way. Maybe I should stay home today..." Josh began.
"No, no," George dismissed. "You go out and enjoy yourself. I'm still a little under the weather myself. Boss isn't expecting me in till next week."
To add credence to the claim George forced a cough.
"You sure?" enquired Josh, eyes slanting.
"Yes, I'm sure," replied his father persuasively. "No point two of us wasting our days."
Josh nodded. "I'll probably be out a while."
George rubbed his hands with glee as Josh hit the stairs. He had Lucy all to himself. "Enjoy yourself, son."
"You too, dad."
* * *
A cuppa brewing on the side, he conveyed a steaming glass of Lemsip to Lucy's room. A knock on the door and he pushed inside with a shoulder. Lucy looked like he had the previous day: weak and feverish, her pretty body ravaged. Creeping up close George issued a paternal pursed lip look of concern as Lucy acknowledged his presence with a sigh. Extending a hand he touched a clammy brow that felt like a hot water bottle. "I've brought you a Lemsip, darling."
"Thanks dad," she wheezed, the words an effort.
The bed covers down by her waist, George's eyes focused almost subconsciously on her breasts. Having sweated profusely throughout a night peppered with weird dreams and staccato sleep, Lucy's ample boobs were stuck to the snug-fitting white t-shirt. The glazed material almost transparent, two purplish-brown areolae were clearly visible. Struggling to fight these illicit thoughts, he couldn't help but imagine what her panties were like: similar, tight and stuck to her young pussy no doubt. Mmmmmmm.
Blowing hard, George had to stem the urge to draw back the sheets and find out for himself. Instead he pirouetted and exited the bedroom before the thought could fester in his messed-up brain.
* * *
A lazy day, with nothing better to do, George sat in the lounge ingesting daytime TV and trying to stop his mind wandering off on a tangent. An hour of mental anguish later, he found himself climbing the stairs once more. Suddenly his pace quickened on account of a frightened scream emanating from Lucy's room. In her fevered delirium, Lucy had woken sharply from a nasty nightmare.
George burst in and stood at her side offering words of comfort. Lucy sat up, pressing her cheek to his midriff and clinging on for dear life. Still in his dressing gown, open at the front, her tears brushed the wisp of hairs around his navel. "Oh daddy, don't leave me," she begged.
Her cheeks were ruddy with fever, eyes sunken, lips cracked, nose runny and hair matted – yet despite everything she still looked like a precious little angel. "Please daddy," she reiterated, tiny hand slipping inside his.
What a choice: watching warring and freakish families on a Springer-esque cloned excuse for entertainment or stay with his ailing stepdaughter? It was a no-brainer. As Lucy uncoiled, her panda eyes appealed. Turning on to her side, she slipped a thumb between her lips like she'd done as the cute little infant he'd first known. His head in turmoil, George slid in beneath the covers.
Her single bed a tight squeeze, close bodily contact was unavoidable. Lucy adjusted so that her stepfather's body spooned hers. Her legs snaked over his, a delightfully soft bum pressed to his groin and her head nestled beneath his chin. George stroked her side through the damp t-shirt, concentrating on the small area between breast and hip, before allowing his arm to loop across her belly, tucking his hand beneath.
Lucy sighed wistfully, feeling safer than she'd ever felt before. When George pursed his lips to plant a soft kiss behind her ear-lobe she almost cried at the tenderness and overwhelming show of affection. She couldn't have hoped for a better guardian after the death of her mother.
The pair lay for an inestimable amount of time, both drifting in and out of contented sleep. Occasionally George would reflex his hand to caress Lucy's underside through the t-shirt, eliciting light purrs. And then sleep would intervene once more.
Waking for the umpteenth time from a light slumber, once more George had to convince himself it wasn't a dream. He really was in bed with his precious stepdaughter. Wracked with indecision, he went to slip out of the bed only to hear Lucy mew like an upset kitten. As he attained a comfortable position, Lucy moulded her body back into his and lowered so that his hand was just beneath her bosom.
He lifted a finger and it hovered momentarily before tracing a line across the underside of Lucy's near breast. Her breath quickened but no hint of objection was forthcoming, the line between paternal concern and sexual activity close to being crossed. There was no blood tie between them, he had to keep convincing himself, yet this was a girl he'd raised as his own since she was a babe in arms. He had to confess, somewhat guiltily that he'd even grown to love her more than his flesh-and-blood son. Had there been the slightest objection from Lucy he'd have stopped immediately, his love for the girl far outweighing any primal desire.
Instead Lucy pushed her breast into his palm as if she craved more. George bent his fingers at the knuckle, cupping the soft orb gently whilst his thumb caressed the underside. He did worry that Lucy's fever was perhaps driving her to this blithe acceptance, yet with that shapely boob filling his hand it would have taken a herd of elephants to drag him from her bed.
As he squeezed a little harder, her breast compressed like a stress ball, and boy was this de-stressing. Lucy whimpered and he raised the thumb, hovering a hair's breadth above a nipple that had sprouted up attentively. Shifting position to press closer to her backside, his semi-hardness nestled in the soft recess, prompting Lucy to let out the first light groan of lust.
Crossing another line, George ran his thumb over the surface of Lucy's nipple, the groan growing elongated. He repeated the action half a dozen times, suddenly reminded of his late wife, Sarah, Lucy's mum who at times had been able to reach orgasm from nipple play alone. How he longed to place his hand between Lucy's legs to find out.
But no, not yet, too early he warned himself, satisfying his immediate lust with a volley of butterfly kisses to her soft neck as his spare hand caressed her blonde hair, fingernails raking the crown ever so lightly. Lucy adored that, arching her back to rub her arse over his crotch.
Hand smoothing up the expanse of young breast, George gave it a really hearty squeeze. Angling his thumb and forefinger, he clamped a teat that had inflated to gross proportions like it might explode at any moment. He compressed as if trying to revert the excited nipple to its original size before twisting. Lucy issued a pained-sounding squeal and he eased off, whispering in her ear: "Sorry honey."
