Blackmailing my Stepdad

I usually come home quietly, and it was a habit I subconsciously developed over the years. I did not even know about it. It was not until my mom had pointed it out, joking that I was like a burglar. However, those jokes were behind us now, and I was reminded of that as the unusual quietness, which was becoming slowly familiar, greeted me as I slowly neared our house.

The Thursday afternoon son blazed above me as I got out of my last class earlier than expected after my professor cancelled my last class. Spring semester has just begun but the heat was already becoming unbearable. I exhaled, the sweat gliding from my forehead. At some point, I became jealous of my classmates having to stay in the dorms, but I shrugged it off anyway, since I can save money this way while I finish my degree. Our house settled in a quiet suburban area of the city, and it was a neighborhood where people knew each other. Oftentimes, complaints about lawn maintenance echoed in the streets, so my father, or rather my stepfather, kept the hedges as trimmed as possible.

The slightly loud noise of my Honda finally settled as I parked it behind my father's sedan. Mom's car was gone, but an unfamiliar car was parked not too far from our space. It must have been the neighborhood's visitor. I got out of the car and closed the door, which was funnily quieter than the engine. Mom was probably in her book club with her fellow suburban wives as they always do on Thursday noon. The garage door was lifted a bit as I passed by it. Dad had probably worked on something there earlier. My hand gripped the door handle and pushed the door without making a sound.

I stopped on the foyer and set my backpack on the bench where we kept our shoes, sighing as the exhaustion slowly swelled on me. My feet left very faint thud sounds along the tiled floor as I made my way to the kitchen, compared to the creaking sounds coming upstairs. What was my stepfather doing up there? I ignored it and pulled the fridge door, hoping a cold drink lay waiting for my arrival. However, just as I inhaled the cold dry air coming from the fridge, a woman's voice caressed my ear. I froze, the cold clinging on to me, as I listened more. The soft and breathy grunting penetrated the quiet air downstairs, and I knew it was not my mother's voice, as hers had gone raspy from the cigarettes she consumed. This voice, however, sounded younger and smoother.

My hand pushed the fridge door, conscious of the sound it might make even though it was not probably necessary. My throat dried out, but it no longer longed for the cold drink I had been fantasizing for the past hour. Rather, my mind wanted something else. Specifically, something to confirm.

Just as I was about to take another step, the woman's voice laughed, sending shivers down my spine. Her voice was not particularly controlled but rather intimate and careless. Then, as I tried to gaslight myself of the situation, my father's unmistakable voice murmured something I could not make out. A brief quiet exchange happened between them before a creaking sound followed again, and the sound of moaning, of course, blended on the creaking. Fucking hell.

A cold jolt pierced my heart and slowly spread to every inch of my veins. No matter how much I tried to think of other scenarios to explain what was happening, I kept failing. My stepfather's shift in his behavior and actions in the past days became clearer instead. Now that I recall it, he would come home late, take late phone calls in his car, and even smile on his screen when he thought no one was looking. I smelled his new cologne and actually started using his gym membership. I had noticed all of that, but I could not let myself think about it too hard nor wanted to acknowledge what those signs could mean.

I swallowed, my throat burning. I should have left and walked back out the front door, gotten in my car, and driven around until they were done with whatever they were doing. However, something, maybe it was desire, erupted inside of me, and I found myself climbing the stairs.

My steps remained quiet, my feet unconsciously taking the path where the old wood would not creak under my weight. Perhaps it was the years of sneaking out, but I could not dwell on that thought much as the sounds got clearer. When I reached the second floor, it did not take me long to find where they were. The door of my parent's bedroom hung slightly ajar, which was probably why the sounds reached downstairs.

I gulped before creeping into the small gap, my teeth biting my lower lip as I did so, my clothes brushing the clean floor. Then, as my eyes peered inside, I finally confirmed it. My stepfather, still in his work shirt, bent over the bed where they slept with my mother every night. His pants and underwear settled on his ankles, with his hairy ass faced on me. Heat rushed into my insides as I watched him pound someone in the bed, his grunting voice tickling my ear.

His muscles moved efficiently, and I cannot help but be mesmerized how his ass tightened as he pushed his cock to whoever that was. Before I knew it, my cock pushed through the fabric of my pants and underwear, making me struggle to move. I watched them a bit longer before finally recognizing the woman my stepfather was fucking. A wedding ring glinted on her finger when the sunlight reached it, and as my stepfather pulled her hair, I saw her face. Her name was Claire from the accounting firm where my father worked as a senior partner. We even had a work party together last December, and I remember a guy standing next to her, which I assumed was her husband.

I licked my lower lip, and a thought flashed in my head. Just as they were clearly absorbed with each other, I pulled my phone, the volume down, and with a single swipe, the camera app was already starting to record the scene in front of me. For some reason, my hands were steady, and my nerves had calmed down. My hands were rid of sweat, though my swelling cock probably was not.