Roger & Me

My mom's new husband Roger is one of those guys that's ugly-hot, kind of with a cave man thing going. He's not dirty or anything, just big and muscular, with a beard and kind of shaggy hair and a tendency to walk around in his undershirt when we're at home. Crazy eyebrows, too. Anyway, he can be a giant prick at times, and it's a good thing I'm not younger because I think another year of him is all I can take. Luckily he's a little easier on my kid sister Liza, who's 15. She's really quiet and obedient and studies all the time—kind of has "no trouble here, sir" written all over her.

Yeah, sometimes he actually makes us call him "sir," even my mother does it. I think it's a southern thing. It's not all the time, but sometimes he'll tell one of us to do something, and if we just nod or something, he'll say "this is one of those times when it would be appropriate to answer 'yes, sir,'" and we have to say it. I complained about this at first to my mother, but she just reminded me that I wasn't used to having a man in the house, but this was what it was like so I should learn to like it if I wanted a happy family of my own some day. Sure mom, whatever, but I stopped complaining.

The truth is, that things have gotten a lot better since Roger showed up, so I don't mind. Mom was overwhelmed by her responsibilities at work and trying to keep up with me and Liza all the time, and now that he's taken over the finances and big household decisions for her, she's way more relaxed and able to laugh again. She was really stressed out before I guess, so we are all grateful to him for his help.

The only problem is, I recently found out that it won't be coming to me for free. In fact so far Roger has made sure that Mom and I both pay the piper regularly—him being the piper—for his new role as head of household, and while I do appreciate that he's done a whole lot of work with us, and for us, and raised us all up in the world, I also feel like I had no choice in the matter, and that now my life is completely in his control. It can be infuriating, but until it is time to go away to college next year (and he will be paying my tuition), there's nothing at all I can do but obey, and wait.

It didn't take long after he moved in for me to notice Roger's authoritarian streak, actually. I mentioned that Liza is quiet and shy, but I am the opposite. I'm a cheerleader, I love to hang out with my friends and go to parties and cruise around with my friends until all hours on the weekends, drinking beers, smoking pot, and hooking up with the hottest guys in our town, which is pretty small, and I'm the prettiest cheerleader, which made my life awesome for awhile, until Roger moved in and wrecked it.

My mom had long given up on getting me to come home by any particular hour. I just wouldn't do it, and she didn't have the energy to punish me, so by the time I was a senior I was pretty much allowed to do whatever I wanted. I was coming home drunk and stoned all the time, sometimes after sunrise, and frankly my grades were in the toilet.

Roger had seen it happen a couple of times when they were dating and said nothing, but once they were engaged and he was preparing to move in, he pulled me aside for a 'chat,' in which he informed me that things were going to be changing in "this" household, and my lifestyle was going to be one of them. I had just come in, and frankly I think I was still a little drunk, so I just "yeah whatever"-ed him and went up to bed and forgot about it.

Then he moved in, and I did it again: showed up on Saturday morning just when he and my mom were waking up. It was early spring, and everyone was kind of jumping the gun on summer clothes. I was wearing a little strapless sundress I'd just bought that barely covered my ass, and because I was too drunk and exhausted to hitch it up, it had slid pretty low down on my breasts, too. (Thank goodness they're huge, or it would have been around my waist I bet!) Anyway, I staggered in and there was Roger at the kitchen table, already dressed in jeans and his undershirt, sipping his morning coffee.

He looked surprised to see me, like maybe they hadn't known I wasn't there, and then he looked pissed. This scared me, because I knew he had a temper, and he'd never been pissed at me directly before, at least not outwardly. I realized I had no idea how he was going to behave.

Well here's how he behaved, and I can't overstate how much it shocked me. I staggered in and stopped short, and we stared at each other for a long time, like long enough that it became obviously a test to see who was going to look away first. I lost, of course, and he immediately asked me if I knew what time it was.

I thought for a moment, and replied "no," with an offhanded laugh. I really didn't have any idea. "Morning?" I joked, trying to charm him. It didn't work.

"Yes. It's eight o'clock in the morning. What makes you think this is an acceptable time for young ladies to come home from their nighttime adventures?"

"I guess it's not?" I answered, laughing at his word choice, big mistake but I was nervous.

"No." He stood then, and walked right up to me so that I had to tilt my head backwards to see his face. It was actually an extremely intimidating thing for him to do, and I lost all sense of levity—and alcohol. I was in trouble. My heart began to race and my stomach churn, though at another level I felt a strange elation. Finally someone was going to care about whether I fucked up my life or not! I knew my mother cared in her heart, but not enough to try to keep me in line. Though to be fair, she wasn't nearly as strong a person as Roger, mentally and certainly not physically, so it wouldn't have come so easily. They're a good team, I realized, and looked up at him feeling a certain measure of gratitude, despite my fear of whatever penalty would be exacted. I should be punished, I thought, and gazed into his eyes in relief. Thank goodness I finally will be.

"You are never to come home this late again," he said "or early, rather. You are a member of my household, and I forbid it. Is that clear? I don't care if you're eighteen years old or not. So long as you live here, you live by my rules, clear?"

I gulped and nodded. He was still standing maybe two inches away, forcing me to look up at him, and suddenly he had reached behind me and grabbed a fistful of the back of my sweater in his hand. "Now we're going up to your room," he said then, and deftly spun me towards the stairs and we began to march.

"Up to my room?" I squealed, but he ignored me, marching me along. The way was quick, and in moments we were inside, and he had closed the door behind him. We stood in silence then, looking at each other, and his stare trailed leisurely all over my body. My stomach began to churn with anxiety. What was he doing? He'd never looked at me like that before that I could remember. The look was wolvish and wickedly lascivious, and despite myself I wondered what it was exactly that he was thinking about, for me.

I found out when he reached over and grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me face down onto my bed, following quickly behind and sitting beside me, pinning me down with one heavy leg extended across my shoulder blades. I didn't even bother to kick. That leg was nearly the same weight as I was, and there was just no way I could escape I knew. This didn't stop me from crying out, however, because the moment he had pinned me into position, I realized what I had coming, and my insides immediately tied themselves into knots of terror.

He gently pulled up the hem of my sundress then and exposed my ass, which was covered only by a red strip of thong up the middle. He hooked a finger through it and pulled down, leaving my lower half entirely bare. Then, as if marking his territory, his hand sneaked under my belly and cupped between my legs, giving me a gentle squeeze there. I gasped and began to cry. No way my mother knew this was going on, and I had no idea how to stop it.

"Please stop," I whispered. "Please, what about my mother!"

"I'm your stepfather," he whispered back, squeezing again. "I have to keep you disciplined." With that, he delivered a horrible slap to my ass, which I was sure must have left a red mark, if not purple, then another, and another, and another, and another, each as hard as the first, with no letting up whatsoever. His only interruption was at some point he must have decided I was screaming too loudly, because he fished a rag out of his pocket and gave it to me to bite down on to muffle my screams.

The rag tasted horrible, but having something to brutalize with my teeth took a tiny bit of the edge off of the brutality that was being inflicted on my bare backside, but then the utter, raw humiliation of my situation sank in, and no rag mattered to me at all. I was furious, and with a giant, well-timed twist, I managed to break away from his grip and run into my mother's room, where she was sitting up in bed reading.

"Mom make him stop!" I shrieked at her, "Roger is giving me a fucking spanking, make him STOP! I'm eighteen years old and he's not even my fucking father!" And I burst into tears and collapsed on the bed beside her.

I heard the door open again behind me and Roger came in, but didn't say anything, and I felt my mother reach over and begin to stroke my hair. It felt so nice and warm after the brutality of his spanking that I didn't say anything, just curled up closer to her and continued to cry, waiting for him to say something.

She kept stroking my hair, and he remained silent for nearly a minute. When someone finally began to speak it was my mother, and her words chilled my blood. She said "honey, Roger is in charge in this household, and you need to do what he tells you to do, okay? That includes accepting his punishments when he decides that you need them, understand? If you don't think something is fair, we can all talk about it later, but you don't get to decide your own punishments. That's Roger's job, and I want him to do it. Okay?"

I looked up at her in horror, but she was looking at him, with this dreamy, spaced out look on her face that I can only describe as perfect contentment. Perfect contentment to send me to the wolves. Great. I didn't answer, but felt Roger's hand on my elbow, and when he pulled me up, I let him, and followed him meekly down the hall, not looking at my mother again. I wanted to throw up, but instead I followed him back into my room, and bent over the bed for him again and flipped up my own skirt, so that he could finish what he had set out to do.

He smiled smugly as he watched me do this, and soon I felt him standing very close to me once again. This time he ran both hands down the sides of my ass, and then in to my inner thighs, which he pushed apart until my feet were spread out wide for him, and I was horrified to realize my pussy and asshole were gaping open for him to see. I heard him murmur "that's a good girl, stay right like that" and then the sound of his belt unbuckling, and swishing through the belt loops of his jeans.

I gasped, feeling not the belt across my ass but his fingers on my pussy lips, parting them gently and lightly probing inside. An hour ago I would have screamed, or kicked him or run away, but now the memory of my mother's happy, peaceful face and her voice saying "you need to do what he tells you," kept me still. I swallowed hard and let him continue. "Good girl," he repeated gently, resting his other hand on my back. "I just thought that belt noise might get you wet, and it did."

I had no response to that, because it was true, and because although it was still the last thing I wanted to be feeling, whatever he was doing with his fingers still felt unbelievably good, and I knew it wouldn't be long before he made me come.

The realization itself sent a shudder through my body, a strange mixture of revulsion and delight that made him stop what he was doing and slap my ass lightly with a laugh. "Oh no," he said "no way."

Soon the belt was flying through the air and laying tracks of fire across my already tender ass, and wet pussy. I screamed and screeched and even bellowed a couple of times but he didn't let up until I had run out of energy and was just moaning softly into the bedspread.

Finally he stopped, and allowed me to collapse down onto my stomach and rest like that for awhile, and cry, my feet still spread wide on the floor. I heard the belt being pulled back through the loops, and listened futilely for the sound of re-buckling, but that never came.

Instead I felt two large, strong hands grip my waist and flip me over so that I was lying beneath him on the bed, facing up into his eyes. He was looking down on me with an expression I found difficult to read. He was no longer angry, but there was definitely no affection there, either. He was inspecting my body but doing it in a cold, almost clinical way, as if searching for any physical hints of remaining defiance to be obliterated by hand or by belt. I could have assured him there were none, but my appearance seemed to do the trick, because finally, looking me directly in the eye the whole time, he unbuttoned his pants and pulled free a massive, and terrifyingly wide erection, and without staying a word he thrust it into my pussy in a clean, straight shot that nevertheless felt like it was going to stretch me into nonexistence.

My body clenched around him, and as I rested my feet where he placed them on his shoulders, I suddenly felt like I was melting into a puddle of undeserved joy. God, it felt great. Steadily he withdrew and with every stroke plunged still further into the depths of my body, one hand cupping each knee and he pressed into me for a long series of smooth even strokes that, once he gently placed a thumb on my clit, sent me into a slow, long orgasm that was easily, easily the most intense of my entire life.

I was expecting him to come too, then, as my boyfriend always did right after me, but instead he kept right on going, removing his thumb from my tender clit and placing both thumbs on either side of the opening of my anus and pressing, gently, against it as he thrusted into me again and again, grunting and moaning occasionally as he did, never once looking me in the face. If he had he would have seen me shaking my head in horror at the thought that he might go into my backdoor.

*It's his right*, I thought, feeling a thrill run up my spine and running my eyes up and down his powerful, well-muscled arms. He returned his hands to my waist and squeezed tightly as he picked up his pace. His penis was incredibly hard and I could feel myself being stretched and stretched by it, not to mention a fair amount of pain. *It's his right*, I repeated silently, focusing on keeping my breaths deep and even, in rhythm with his long, hard thrusts, and tried to relax my hips to allow him full control. He responded by pulling me closer, back down to the edge of the bed, and leaning in for a quick kiss.

"Good girl," he whispered, rubbing my breasts and then kissing them softly, keeping up the thrusting, "'atta girl." Suddenly he pulled out and lifted me in his arms like a baby, and laid me out properly across the bed, in the middle with my head on the pillows like a lady, then spread my legs out wide. He kneeled beside me and giving me a quick, startling lick to the clit before positioning himself on top of me, fully covering me with his enormous body.

Once again with perfect aim, he impaled me on a hard, fast thrust and this time we both groaned loudly. His cock was so hard and burning hot I felt like I could be fucking a fire-iron, and reflexively wrapped my legs around him, or as far as they would go, to draw him in even closer. Soon our bodies rocked together as one, and I was nearly lifted off the bed by the power of his thrusts. Never in my life had I felt such physical strength, and I felt it flowing into my own body, through all of my limbs and for one quick moment I felt like I was the one who was strong, and I was powerful, and I was free. Never before had I felt such a thrill of adrenaline, and yet never before had I felt so safe and secure.

Soon something changed in Roger, and I felt his muscles begin to contract around me, and then I was small and weak again, trapped once more like a snail in its shell. "Oh shit, honey," he muttered, though not to me in particular, I felt, "oh shit, oh Jesus Christ..." I was released, let flop back onto the bed, and he rose to his knees and pulled his cock out of me just in time to shoot a sticky white spiderweb all over my flat, heaving stomach.

When he opened his eyes I hadn't moved. He looked down at me smugly and smiled, running his fingers up and down my thighs, then reaching up to give my breasts an affectionate squeeze, then he lay down next to me and was quiet for some time.

"Now, daughter," he said eventually, resting a hand on my thing, "the next time you feel disrespectful of my authority in this house, you have a few memories to help remind you now, right?"

"Yes," I whispered, a lump in my throat.

"Good. You know of course I won't mind reminding you as many times as you need it." He laughed at that. "But trust me," he added "the reminders aren't going to get any more gentle. You got that?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir," I mustered.

He smiled and pinched my nipple, then got up. "Clean yourself up, dirty girl," he said, tossing me a box of tissues. "Your mom's cooking dinner."