Back at college for the first time in two years, Liz meets a new friend in class, but still goes home to the open, safe, caring, and very muscular arms of her step-daddy Peter, every night.
Will Liz's new friend cause a problem at home, or will the man she's loved all her life see things for what they are, and take care of his little girl's every last need?
“Rose oil,” he said when I sniffed. “Supposed to be really nice for stress. After the day you had, I think that’s probably what you need.”
I approximated a chuckle by blowing a puff of air out of my nose and turned my head so that my face hung off the bed. He squeezed for a moment longer, and then rolled his knuckles along my shoulder blade and a little under.
“Just a sec,” Peter said, “I forgot something.”
He pushed off the bed. The mattress sprung back up where he was sitting, and I just drifted. It felt good, just to be alone in this giant, cloud-like bed, all by myself. The only thing I needed that I didn’t get much of was time alone. Closing my eyes and getting a nose full of the lingering scent of his rose oil relaxed me immediately. I imagined his hands running down my spine, pushing the knots and the tension off to each side and his fingers squeezing the tension out of my lower back then down and around my waist.
I had no idea that just imagining my daddy giving me a massage would be so relaxing. I couldn’t wait for him to get back. About that – I wonder where he went. Nothing was cooking, and he already put the baby down. What could he…
Just then, the door creaked as Peter stepped back in. “Sorry princess,” he said, “I forgot these.”
He set three candles down on the bedside table immediately to my left.
“Grabbed ‘em out of your bathroom. You seem to like them, and I’m really old so I figured I could use them for a light.” He laughed at his own joke. For some reason, that – his laughing at his own bad joke – made my heart melt. That seemed to happen a lot, especially where Peter was involved.
“Anyway,” he whispered right before he bent down and kissed the back of my head, right where my hair started, “I hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am.”
I heard the pop top on the oil bottle again and listened as Peter rubbed his palms together. He was humming, tunelessly, in a low voice, the way he always did when he was most relaxed.
Softly, one hand went to each of my shoulders and he began to press his fingertips very gently into the muscle. “Tell me if it’s too hard, too soft.”
I grunted a “mum-hum” as soon as I realized he was talking to me.
Behind me, he laughed softly and pressed harder, fingers tracing the line of my trapezius up to my ear, then down to the point of my shoulder blade. At the end of each stroke, he pushed his thumbs into the indentation beneath my joint and turned it ever so slightly. That, mysteriously, made the top of my ass tingle.
I giggled a little, he asked why and I told him about my ass tingling when he pushed into my shoulder blade. The last thing I expected him to say was “does it feel good? When it tingles I mean?” That is, however, exactly what he asked. I thought for half a second and nodded.
“Hmm,” he sighed, “there’s something to keep in mind.”
About Francis Ashe
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Published July 1, 2013
by Francis Ashe.
Erotica, Literature & Fiction.