Shouldn't Dad Do That??

Chanel Preston shuts the bedroom door behind her with a heavy sigh. “Oof, what a day… time to unwind,” she murmurs, lips caught between her teeth as she peels away every layer. She stretches out on the sheets and lets her hand slip between her thighs, slow circles building heat beneath her fingertips. The door creaks open. Autumn steps inside without knocking, words ready on her tongue, but they die the moment she sees her step-mother lost in pleasure, eyes closed, breath hitching. Curiosity pins the eighteen-year-old where she stands. Chanel’s lashes flutter. The second she spots Autumn, her hand stills; a flush races up her chest. Autumn wheels toward the hallway, mortified, but Chanel’s voice—steady, gentle—coaxes her back. “Stay,” she says. Autumn perches on the edge of the mattress, cheeks blazing. “Why were you… doing that?” Autumn blurts. “Isn’t it supposed to be Dad’s job?” She knows the facts of sex—bodies joining, quick, mutual—but she has never pictured a woman taking her own pleasure this way. Chanel reassures her that it’s normal, inevitable even. Then, softly: “Have you ever tried?” Autumn shakes her head. “When the time’s right, my boyfriend will handle it.” Chanel’s mouth curves. She leans closer, heat flickering in her gaze. “Let me show you. I’ll be right here.” Autumn’s breath trembles, but the dare in her mother’s voice slips under her skin. She nods. Guided by Chanel’s murmurs, she trails hesitant fingers down her own stomach. At first the touch is shy, experimental. Chanel praises every twitch, every sigh, until Autumn’s hips roll and her wrist finds rhythm. Wet sounds fill the room. Chanel watches, hungry. Her thighs press together. Desire darkens her voice as she reaches out, palm gliding up the inside of Autumn’s knee. “Sometimes,” she whispers, breath warm, “nothing beats a woman’s touch.” Autumn’s answer is a broken moan, surrender written across flushed skin as Chanel draws her deeper into the lesson.