#❞ ᝰ .ᐟ stepdad!patrick

[sstargirln]

Step daddy Patrick because he would be the broke 30 something year old who married your mom for money 🙏

❞ ᝰ .ᐟ  stepdaddy!patrick!!!!!!!!!!!!

you’d kept to the sidelines at your mom’s wedding, sulking behind a glass of champagne, watching as her new husband worked the room. patrick was all smooth smiles and overplayed charm, slick as the pomade in his hair, making sure everyone saw him as a perfect new addition to your mom’s life. 

but you knew better. you’d seen patrick before he’d found his way to your mother’s side—scraping by on short-term jobs and chance tennis wins, living out of his car. you could imagine exactly how it’d played out. some charity gala that mom’s friend has forced her to go – for her spirits. patrick’s invite came from some college buddy who’d made it big and felt a pang of pity for him, the old friend who hadn’t quite managed to keep up.

she’d worn her best jewelry, a tight dress. bid at the auction. and patrick, like the magpie he is, had seen her cash, her flashy diamonds . . . the promise of everything he lacked. 

it was obvious what he was into her for. and it wasn’t her face. maybe her body. but the dick must’ve been good, because she said yes when he asked, only a few months into dating. 

and now, here he was, sliding effortlessly into his role, his hand on her waist, his eyes occasionally drifting your way. 

it’d been months since you seen him. a whole semester, and was it bad that he got a whole lot hotter – maybe the sleazy confidence was part of it?? oh well, absence makes the heart grow fonder. and your heart wasn’t the only thing fond of patrick. you were soaked, and you couldn’t tell what it was about him that got you all riled up like this. 

maybe the way he loosens his collar, roll up his sleeves. the way his shirt stretches across his broad shoulders when he takes off the suit jacket. or the low, unfatherly grin he gives you when he catches you glaring. the rake of eyes over you from head to toe.

“hey, sweets,” the trill of his voice cuts through the air, smooth and almost mocking as he envelopes you in a hug from behind. you hadn’t even realized you’d lost sight of him in the crowd. “how’s it going? didn’t get a chance to talk to you during the ceremony. well, fuck, obviously,” he murmurs, his voice low in your ear. he’s clutching a glass of whiskey in his hand, the one with his fresh, new wedding band glinting in the light. “when’d you get here?” 

“only jus’ before the — the thing." you wave your hands around aimlessly. "mom flew me straight here from school,” you stammer, shifting in his arms so you’re facing him. fuck, he looks even better up close.

“that right?” he says. he smirks, hand resting casually against your back. “missed all the fun stuff pre-ceremony then.” 

“yeah, guess i did,” you reply, forcing a smile, trying to keep your voice steady, but it comes out too quiet. 

“you look good.” your stomach twists. his voice is too low, too husky to be a general compliment. not the kind of compliment you should be hearing from him. 

“met any of the groomsmen yet?” he continues casually. “gon’ have a hard time keeping them away once you do.” he takes another long sip of whiskey as he unravels his arms from you, and then it's back to the burning graze of his eyes across your body. like he’s undressing you with his gaze. 

"i've missed having you around. 's been too quiet without you."

you’re looking up at him with wide, unsteady, fuck-me eyes that you can’t control, and he’s staring down at you with increasingly dark ones, and it doesn’t take long before he’s pushing you away from the crowd, eyes darting across the hall to make sure no one’s looking too hard as he pushes you into the room behind the bar. we got ready in here, he’d said. you could tell. littered with suit jackets and stray cufflinks. solo cups and balled-up socks. smelled of cigarettes and cologne and beer, a stale smell that reminds you of the frat boy you were sure patrick had once been. 

he doesn’t say anything for a moment, doesn’t do anything. just watches you as you linger by the door. "come here," he says, voice low, and you do, you fucking do, because his eyes are trailing across your body, your face, your lips, and you feel like you’re burning alive.

he reaches out to cup your face in his hands. hooks his fingers under your chin, tilts your face up toward his.

"fuck, i forgot how pretty you are."

he shoves you against the wall, hands gripping your waist, and you’re breathing hard, heart pounding in your ears. he’s kissing you, and it’s slow, deep. his tongue in your mouth — you can taste the whiskey on his breath. tongue brushing against the seam of your mouth, coaxing you to open for him.  you can’t think. can’t move, no way this is happening. this is disgusting! filthy! but you're dripping with arousal and patrick’s lips feel like heaven against your skin as he trails them down your neck. 

he’s grinding against you like a little boy at prom, and you can feel how hard he is."been thinking about this, fuck – this body since i proposed to your mom," he rasps. you nod desperately into his shoulder when he grips your thigh, hiking up your skirt. his fingers slip beneath your soaking panties, rubbing teasingly over your clit. you gasp, hips bucking into his touch.

"that's it, baby," he groans, fingers dipping lower, teasing your entrance. "gon’ make you feel so good." he plunges them inside you within seconds, curling, twisting, fucking you with his fingers hard enough to bring tears to your eyes. 

he kisses down your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you're panting, whimpering, because it feels so fucking good, and you don't care anymore, don't care that he's literally your stepdad, don't care about anything except the way he's touching you, the way he's making you feel. 

"gon’ make you cum," he promises. "make you cum on my fuckin’ fingers, baby, and then i'm gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name."

and you believe him, because he's patrick – something about him makes people forget themselves. you’d seen it happen, over and over. with your mom. she’d softened under his touch, let him take up so much space in her life, her home, her bank account. it wasn’t like her. it wasn’t like you either, and yet here you were, humping into his fingers, your own tangled in his hair as he kissed you with fervor. 

"fuck –" you whine, "please – i need it – need you inside me."

he smirks against your lips, fingers still pumping. “you want your new daddy’s big cock? huh, baby girl?” he purrs, and you nod frantically. 

"yes. yes please, daddy," you whimper, "please, i need it, please."

he pulls his fingers out, and you whimper at the loss, but then he's unbuckling his belt, and he's shoving his pants down, and his cock springs free. and it's huge, thick, the tip already slick with precum – you're drooling.  

he bends you over the desk like you’re in a fucking porno, your cheek smushed against the cool wood. he kicks your legs apart, lifts up the skirt of your dress. he's rubbing the head of his cock against your entrance, you're panting — desperate, needy. pretty soon, he’s thrusting in and out of you at a brutal pace, fingers fisting at the satiny fabric of your dress.  "fuck, baby," he grunts, "this pussy's mine now. all mine." he reaches down, grabs your ass, squeezes, and you moan, arching into his touch. he's hitting deep, so fucking deep, and you feel like you're gonna break . . . shatter! 

the desk's creaking, the room's spinning, and you're trying to hold on, trying to stay grounded, but it’s too much. he leans over you, chest pressed against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangled in your hair.  "gon’ fill –  fill you right up, kiddo," he promises, "pump you full. you want that, hm?"you whimper out a yes, unable to say much other than that single syllable, shaky and unsteady. 

he groans, hips snapping faster, harder, and you can feel him getting closer, can feel your own orgasm building, coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. “fuck, ‘m gonna – fuck!”

"that's it," he pants, "gon’ – fuck, gon’ cum for me, huh, baby girl?” 

and then he's there, and so are you, and you throw your head back with one last lewd screech, praying to god that the music outside’s still loud, the wedding party isn’t listening too hard.  

once he’s finished with you, he leaves you limp on the desk, the air thick with the scent of him—whiskey, sweat, and something unmistakably patrick. you’re still trying to steady your breathing, your legs weak beneath you as you lean against the edge of the desk. 

patrick’s shirt is half-untucked, his sleeves still rolled up as he adjusts his belt with a smirk that’s so casual it almost makes you angry. “nun’ to say, baby?”

you should. you should say something—anything—maybe a protest, a complaint. but your words are stuck somewhere between your chest and your throat. “figured as much,” he murmurs, almost to himself, like he knows exactly what’s running through your head. “gon’ want to fix yourself up before heading back out, sweets. don’t need anyone getting any ideas.” he wraps a coil of your messed up hair around his finger as he talks, patting your head once he’s done. “mom’s probably waiting, huh?”

¡! ❞ © sstargirln 2024