On the Rocks

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NOTE: This story is not technically about incest since there is no blood connection between the main characters. I put it in this category because it almost qualifies.


It’s not news, and certainly no surprise to me, that statistics show that half of all marriages end in divorce these days. I think that probably another 25% should end that way. Maybe the idea of marriage is obsolete anyway. My own divorce ratio is two thirds, and my current one is in that second group. Why don’t I divorce my wife? Well, to answer that I need to explain how I got to this point in the first place.

Shelley and I met through a mutual friend five years ago. I was just recovering from my second divorce and she was looking for a husband. She had been divorced for two years and was tired of dating “unsuitable men”, as she put it. I’m still not sure what made her think I was suitable, but apparently her estimation was seriously off. We were married and had a nice honeymoon. Her daughters stayed with their father for the two weeks we were in Mexico fucking our brains out.

Shelley’s girls were eight and thirteen when we married. Allie, the younger one was unhappy with our union. She had still held the hope that her parents would get back together. Billie had no such illusions. Being the older one, she was more painfully aware of the grievances her parents had toward each other. She and I hit it off, if not from the first, then from very soon after her mom and I got together. In those first months, when things were still good between Shel and me, we had a lot of fun. The good times the four of us had, picnicking, camping and such, helped to bring even Allie around to acceptance of the situation — and of me.

While I’ve always been a believer in the “united front” approach to parenting, it didn’t take long for the girls to notice the influence my presence had on their mother. I urged her (out of the hearing of the children, of course) to temper her discipline with more love. I urged more positive feedback. Billie has told me that before I came along Shelley was a harridan. (“Do it because I say so, dammit!”) Don’t misunderstand me, there are definitely times when that is the tack one has to take, but not every time.

We had two good years. Then Shelley’s old habits (and probably mine as well) began to assert themselves. She became irresponsible about a lot of things. She spent too much money on things we didn’t need. She got “great” ideas, invested money in them, then dropped them when another brainstorm came along. (It isn’t that a lot of her ideas weren’t intrinsically good. Most of them were. The problem was that she hadn’t thought them through before jumping in with both feet.) She would fail to be where she was supposed to be at certain times. She’d be late without calling. All this overlapped onto the girls, both in disciplinary form and in Shelley’s disappointing failures to show up for school events and other things.

We began to argue. I tried to keep things private, addressing Shelley’s failures when the girls weren’t around. She, however, didn’t understand the damage it does when parents argue — at least the way Shelley does — in front of children. Shelley develops a foul mouth when she is angry. She doesn’t care what she calls me (or their father, or sometimes even her daughters ) or who hears it. Increasingly, both girls began to turn to me for solace and support. That is the root of why I don’t divorce the bitch. We didn’t adopt the girls when we married, so I have no legal rights where they’re concerned. Still, I won’t abandon them to her tender mercies, even though they are now thirteen and eighteen. Billie will soon be out of the house but Allie has five more years. After that, Shelley can kiss my ass.

As I said, the closeness that developed between myself and the girls, especially Billie, was why I was reluctant to leave. I feel good about the fact that I have had no little part in helping Billie develop into a wonderful young woman. At thirteen she was a gawky, shy bookworm. She could count the friends in her class on one hand. At eighteen she ran for class vice president and won hands down. Her mother hadn’t paid any attention to the whole thing, so I took the girls out to dinner to celebrate when their mom didn’t come home from work.

Shelley’s unexplained absences might lead a man to wonder about infidelity. I wondered, but couldn’t, by then, find it in myself to be angry or resentful. I just had stopped caring. To me it was a plus that we didn’t have to put up with so many of Shelley’s free-ranging temper tantrums. The girls and I had barbecues, played games and went to the park near the house.

Last summer Allie went to camp for a week in July. I had suggested to Shelley that she and Billie and I take the week off and go somewhere. There is a nice lake about two hours drive up into the mountains. It is owned entirely by one family. They built a few rental cabins around the shoreline. It wasn’t primitive, since they had electricity matadorbet and running water. Still it was a nice rustic getaway from the city. Shelley and I took both girls there a few times when we first became a family. Shelley, however, wanted no part of it. “I never really liked all the dirt and grime of a camping trip,” she said. “I only did it to ‘bond’ with you. You and Billie can go knock yourselves out. I don’t care.”

And that was just it. She didn’t care any more, if she ever had. Maybe she had given birth to the girls to ‘bond’ with their father. It hadn’t worked, I guess. At any rate, Billie was eager to get away for a while. I arranged to take my vacation from work and the same Friday afternoon we put Allie on the bus to camp, Billie and I set off for the lake.

We reached the cabin just before dusk. We sat on the swing on the covered porch of our little two room cabin watching the sky change colors. all we had to do that first night was relax. We had stopped for burgers on the road, so dinner wasn’t an issue. Billie leaned into me and my arm went automatically around her shoulders. Many nights she and Allie and I sat and watched TV that way, one girl on either side of me.

I was drinking a beer. Billie asked for a sip. I sometimes let her taste my beers, but not often. We got to discussing her coming freshman year of college. “You know, Dad, I am probably going to be going to parties at school. I should learn how to drink.”

“You aren’t going to school to party, B.,” I admonished. I knew that there would be parties, that there would be drinking — as well as drugs, and sex. I had gone to college myself. “I suppose that you will go to some, though. That doesn’t mean you have to drink. It isn’t a sin to be a teetotaler, you know.”

“Yeah, but what kind of friends will that leave me? Bible bangers and holy rollers? No thanks!” I knew she had a point.

“A lot of people never drink, but they don’t fit into those categories. Still, if you want a beer, this seems like the perfect place to allow you one — just one, remember!” She bounced up off the swing and slammed into the house to get her very first ( I hoped!) beer. A few minutes later she returned. She had brought a fresh one for me, as well. We sat and talked about what classes she should take and sipped our beers. At least I sipped. Billie was finished with her beer before I had drunk half of mine. She pleaded for another one.

I knew that I should probably let her drink herself sick while we were at the lake. Nothing like some aversion therapy. So that’s what I decided to do. I told her to go ahead. I had brought enough for myself for the week. If she drank me out, I would either do without or drive to the little store a mile back down the road. When she came back with her second can I explained to her.

“I’ll tell you what. I know the temptations you’ll encounter at school. You are strong enough to resist them if you choose to do so. But I know how seductive it is to want to fit in with your friends.” She was watching me with a little frown, wondering where I was going with this lecture. “So while we’re here, I’ve decided to let you have as much to drink as you want. I’m sure you’ll get drunk, maybe even puke. You’ll wake up with a hangover and swear to never drink again. That’s a promise you probably won’t keep. But maybe the experience will give you some idea of your limits and teach you not to go overboard again. So knock yourself out, Kiddo.” She raised up and planted a wet, beery kiss on my cheek.

“Thanks, Daddy. I’ll bet you I don’t get sick, though.” Two hours and several beers later, those words echoed in my mind while I held her hair back as she deposited her five beers into the grass at the edge of the clearing where the cabin stood. She held her stomach and answered the frogs in the lake with her own croaks. Finally she was empty, but still drunk. Having been there, I knew what would make her feel the best she could under the circumstances.

I helped her inside and into the bathroom. I started the water and ran a warm bath for her. She sat on the toilet and groaned. I went out and got one of the long tee-shirts that she slept in from her backpack. I took it back in and hung it on the empty hook on the wall. Billie hadn’t moved. “Can you get yourself in and not drown?” I asked her. She nodded. I walked out and pulled the door to, but not latched. I wanted to be able to hear her if she needed me.

I was sitting on the couch reading a few minutes later. “Daddy…” Billie’s voice sounded so pitiful, but I knew she wasn’t dying — just wishing she could. “Can you come here…please?” I set my book aside and went to the door of the bathroom.

“What do you need, Honey?” I felt the steamy air drifting out.

“No, come in here,” she said. It had been a couple of years since I’d seen her naked. I was perfectly aware of the developing breasts and womanly curves that had replaced the angles of adolescence. Still, when I walked in I was impressed. Her breasts bobbed matadorbet giriş at the water line, their nipples a beautiful deep pink. I was surprised when I glanced down to her crotch. Where I had expected to see a dark patch of pubic hair, there was just bare skin, just the way she’d looked at thirteen. My eyes went back to her face. “Can you wash me, please?” she asked me.

“Sure, Honey,” I said as I knelt down beside the tub. I suppose that there had been obscure hints of fantasy about my stepdaughter in the depths of my mind. A foreshadowing of the shocking thoughts that began to drift into my consciousness then. They were shocking to me, since I had watched this girl grow up, helping her through some rough times — times her mother properly should have taken on, but wouldn’t or couldn’t. Like when she got her first period. Like when she had her first date and second and third with the same nice-seeming boy — the date when she had to fight the boy off to keep him out of her pants. My discussion with the boy’s parents the next day. I eased her through those times with all the love of a natural parent. Why was I now feeling the insidious edge of lust rubbing against my love for her? The answer is simple now. That night I didn’t realize that Billie and I had become more of a loving couple — except for the lack of a sexual dimension — than her mother and I were at that point.

I soaped up her back and rinsed her off, kneading her shoulders while she leaned her spinning head against my arm. She leaned back and closed her eyes. I took a deep breath and used the cloth to wash her face and neck. Then I moved down to her firm breasts and belly. My cock was stiff in my jeans and my own mind was spinning every bit as much as Billie’s must have been, but my problem wasn’t from too much beer. I resisted the urge to plunge down and run my hand over her soft mound. Instead I lifted her foot and scrubbed it roughly. She giggled and jerked away, telling me it tickled too much. I played with her the same way I had at other times, tickling her feet and ribs. Her attempts to shield herself splashed us both, my shirt and jeans becoming drenched in the process. My lust retreated, but never disappeared. It brought our play into a new arena, though I didn’t think she was aware of it then.

I dropped the cloth into the water and stood up. She seemed to be feeling better. “So now you know how much beer is too much for you, don’t you?” I said with my best parental voice.

“Oh, God!” she groaned, holding her head between her hands. “My head is pounding! I thought this wasn’t supposed to happen until tomorrow?”

“Throwing up sometimes accelerates things,” I told her as I turned to leave. “Maybe you won’t feel too bad in the morning to go fishing.” I somehow had my doubts about a morning on a bobbing boat after that night of vomiting, but kids heal more quickly than adults. She already seemed more herself.

“Oh, yea!” she cheered. “I bet I catch a bigger trout than you do!” I laughed and made my escape. It stopped me when I realized the way I was thinking of what had just happened. It felt like I had simultaneously passed and flunked a test. Passed because I had beaten the lust away, but flunked because it had occurred at all. I was also still very horny.

There were three beds in the cabin. One was full size, the other two were twins. By the time Billie came out of the bathroom in her long tee-shirt, I had stripped to my underwear and gotten into the larger bed. She rummaged in her pack and retrieved a pair of panties. She turned away and stepped into them. I indulged the impulse to watch her perfect heart-shaped ass disappear into the little bikinis. My dick twitched again and I adjusted my position so it didn’t show. Billie came to my side and bent to kiss me goodnight. I presented my cheek to her, but she took my chin in hand and kissed my lips. It wasn’t the first time she’d done that. It always had happened when she really wanted to let me know how much she loved and appreciated me. My heart ached, knowing I only partly deserved her love — and her bottomless trust. She got into her twin bed and I turned out the light.

The next day I was disappointed to see that she seemed to have no trace of a hangover whatsoever. We went fishing in the morning and swam out to the float in the afternoon. The lake wasn’t wide, but it was about a half mile long. While we fished I looked around the shore. The only activity I noticed was at the far end of the lake. A man and a boy chopped wood and a plume of smoke floated above the roof. None of the nearer cabins seemed to be in use.

We had fresh trout for lunch, rolled in egg and cornmeal then fried over the wood stove. When she asked, I allowed Billie to drink a beer with her food. I was glad to see that she stopped at one. We rested — I napped, I don’t know about Billie — then got undressed to go swimming. After that Billie took a nap on my bed (“It’s a lot more comfortable!”) while I sat outside and read. Later we played cards and backgammon while we talked.

Still later, I was sitting on the porch swing. Billie was on the top step of the porch, leaning against the support post. “Dad, there’s something I have wanted to talk to you about,” Billie sounded very serious. I told her to go ahead. “Well, remember when Thomas almost raped me?” That had been the first boy she’d gone out with. She had dated others since. I felt a little uneasy because we’d never talked about the extent of her sexual activities — if any. I had been curious in the past. My feelings from the night before had reminded me that I didn’t even know if she was still a virgin.

“Of course I remember.”

“Well…it made me think — a lot. I liked making out with boys, but I just wasn’t ready to go any farther. But at the same time, I didn’t want to get a reputation of being a tease. So when I was going out with Dave last year I decided to take the next step.” I felt my muscles tense up. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear about this. I reminded myself that, while she certainly had shared all this with her friends, she needed a mature perspective. Her mother obviously wouldn’t have taken the time to listen to her. I urged her to go on.

“It was our third date — must be a magic number, eh? That was when Thomas decided I should put out for him. Anyway, I let Dave feel my tits.” She had used the word before in my hearing. Language restrictions weren’t high on my list of discipline requirements. I’d even overheard her say ‘fuck’ on the phone to her friends a couple of times. That was one she had yet to use in my presence. “Then he wanted me to play with his…penis.” I wondered what term she and her friends preferred: a cock? A prick? A dick? Dong, willie, prong, rod, the list goes on and on. She was, so far, unwilling to use any of the euphemisms to me, however.

“So what did you do?” I asked.

“I did it. It was stiff and felt funny in my hand. He told me to rub it up and down. A couple of minutes later he squirted cu…uh…sperm all over us both. He wiped it all up with a towel he took out of the console. I remember thinking he must keep it there for that.” The fact that he was prepared for something like that was what put her off of things. She went on to explain that it made her feel like he had set her up. I thought so too.

“He probably had some condoms in there, too,” I told her with a smile. She glanced at me and smiled back.

“Probably! Are all of you like that? I mean all guys?”

“No. I know it seems like it, especially with boys your age. But there really are nice guys out there. On the other hand, you could look at it from another perspective. It is a good thing a boy is prepared if he is going to be sexually active. Towels and condoms are good. Better than getting a girl pregnant or passing on a disease.”

She warmed to the conversation. She already knew I’d had a vasectomy several years before her mother came into my life. That point had been brought out when the girls had asked if they could expect a new sibling. I finally worked up the courage to ask her. “So, Honey, you haven’t said. Are you still a virgin?” Her eyes darted to mine then quickly away. She gazed at the lake, struggling with her need to talk and her reluctance to admit to me that she wasn’t “as pure as the driven snow”. She gulped and turned back to me.

“No,” she said, dropping her gaze from mine. I knew she was afraid she’d see disapproval there. She’d have been disappointed in that. I reached over and took her hand. She raised her eyes again.

“It’s okay, B.,” I said. “Really. I don’t think any less of you. Want to tell me?”

She took a deep breath. he previous summer she had slept over at a girlfriend’s house. They had sneaked out and met some boys. One of them was Dave, the guy she’d jerked off before. They went to a deserted park — in fact the one where I’d taken the girls to play on the swings and slide once upon a time. The boys fucked the girls, the girls sneaked back in. End of story. I pulled her to her feet and drew her to the swing. We sat and talked a lot. I told her the only part of the tale that bothered me was the sneaking out. I finally convinced her that I didn’t share the mainstream view that a girl should be a virgin on her wedding night. I also let her know that, conversely, I didn’t approve of sharing her treasures with every guy she dated. It felt good to open up to her. Almost as good as it felt to have her open up to me.

We discussed a number of things about sex that day. She had all the questions everybody has. I was as honest as I could be, even though some of the topics were difficult for me to talk to her about. Oral sex, for instance. She had never given it or received it. Hell, she’d only given one hand job and been fucked once — probably badly. Fortunately, it sounded as if the boy had taken care to prepare her for it sufficiently. It hadn’t hurt much she said. She said he’d wanted her to blow him, but she wouldn’t. Her girlfriend hadn’t been so shy. Billie said it had kind of turned her on to watch Sheila suck on her boyfriend’s cock (she finally used the word), but not enough for her to work up the nerve. She asked me about blowjobs — how, what, etc. I laughed.

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