[Part 1](https://www.reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/oo0p0o/the_harvest_mf_2nd_person_male_pov_stepcest/)
___
You wake up the next morning in your master bedroom, all alone in a bed big enough for four. The very first thing you do is check your phone to see if Ashley’s answered you.
*If you’re still bumming it in your McMansion I might be down just to keep you company. What’s the living sitch like?*
You can guess she’s really worried about the occupants, not the building. Clever girl. You can only imagine what lies her mother’s told her about your love life.
*Just me myself and I. And 10,000 square feet. And a swimming pool.*
Her reply comes almost instantly. Which, given the time, means she’s texting in school. Bad Ashley.
*No lucky lady?*
*Would you consider yourself lucky?* you type out before thinking better of it. Witty, but too early and too forward. You delete in a hurry and send a simple *nope* instead. Ashley tells you she’s thinking of coming over after school to check your place out. You answer with mild approval, not wanting to let on how enthusiastic you really are about the prospect.
Soon your arrangement is hashed in concrete terms. She’s visiting at 3:30 with a friend in tow which gives you less than six hours to get the day’s work done, clean up the house and ready one of the rooms near yours for her. You *could* be lazy and give her the first floor guest suite you prepared for yesterday’s debacle. But what you really want is to keep her close, to get her as comfortable being around you as possible.
And you’re type to move mountains to get exactly what you want.
___
You save the housework for later in favor of your weekly check-in and lunch at Lucien’s, your flagship. Not procrastination; you know the importance of first impressions. Catching you all sweaty in the middle of house cleaning would go a long way in reminding Ashley how down-to-earth you could be. Or at least approachable, compared to overbearing Jessica and her revolving door of servants and playthings.
“Lookin’ sharp, boss.”
Your spike-headed head chef returns to her kitchen and gives you a one-armed hug. Tammy’s the only member of your empire inner circle you ever willingly spend time with outside of business. A devout lesbian and voracious connoisseur of fine young women herself, she’s the closest you’ve found to a kindred soul for all your debauched appetites. You’d discovered her talent as a lowly prep cook ten years ago and five years later, promoted her to this vaunted position over more experienced and complacent applicants. That move, in addition to previous hires, had garnered your restaurant industry acclaim for running an exceptionally LGBTQ-friendly kitchen.
Not that you didn’t, per se, but you definitely *did* run a tight ship of men with no interest in fucking your then-business partner wife, and women undistracted by thoughts of fucking *you*.
Tammy takes you to the table reserved for you on Thursdays, and the two of you sit down to a spread of plates all adapted from recipes you created for Lucien’s over the years.
“So,” she asks between bites. “How was your big day with poor little Melody? I have an ongoing bet with the wifey on how many times you made her pass out.”
“Zero.” You wipe some of your signature salsa verde off your chin. “Let’s just say she failed her end of the bargain rather quickly.”
“Aw, poo. Do you have any juicy bits at all for me?”
For the umpteenth time you consider advising Tammy to find her own fucktoy to spice up her marriage instead of living vicariously through you, but you know from experience her job doesn’t come with much free time. After a quick look around to make sure none of your patrons are watching, you indulge her with your poor imitation of choking-on-cock-face.
When she finally stops laughing she asks the question you’ve been waiting for. “So who’s next?”
You consider the consequences for a while before passing her your phone. Fuck it, you could use her advice. She scrolls hungrily through the Instagram page you hadn’t managed to close since yesterday.
“Jesus, look at the tits on this sweet thing. What’s her name?”
“Ashley. Ashley Thompson.”
“Isn’t Thompson your psycho ex’s name?” She sits still, putting two and two together. You just sit there watching her patiently, enjoying the way her eyes go wide as saucers. “Holy shit. Holy fucking *shit*, Luce, you absolute degenerate.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Tammy hops up and down in her chair like a gleeful kid unwrapping a Christmas present. “I’m gonna wreck myself to your little girl tonight, if you don’t mind. Keep me updated or I swear I’ll quit one of these days.”
“Here’s hoping, but there might be nothing to update. She still sees me as a father figure.”
“And that’s a bad thing? You know the power of daddy issues.” She hands you your phone back with a big grin. “Look.”
You frown at the photo you posted months ago, shirtless in all your sculpted glory wearing just gym shorts that barely conceal your bulge. Forty likes, one of which had been how you’d introduced yourself to Melody. None of which are Ashley.
“Not there, boomer. Check your notifications.”
You scroll down and there it is.
*ash.thompsunny liked your photo*
You feel your heart rate spike. You’re no social media maven but you’re popular enough to have had women, and what you’re assuming are closeted men, like and then unlike your posts thinking they’d left no evidence.
You can definitely work with this, you think.
___
As planned, Ashley rings your doorbell just in time to catch you sweeping the foyer in your pool shirt and swim shorts. Even the photos hadn’t done her justice, you think. She’s stunning. Waves of brown curls your fingers itch to run through, pouty pink lips aching to be kissed, toned arms and legs you can already picture wrapped around you in ecstasy.
“Hey there, old man,” she greets you. “Long time no see.”
“Look at you, Ash.” You take her into one strong arm, letting her feel the hard muscles you spend hours a week maintaining. “My little girl’s all grown up now.”
Her mesmerizing olive eyes look up at you with so much longing and admiration. After ten years of intermittent texts and the occasional phone call as your only form of communication, getting to hug you must have made her entire day, if not week. You silently suffer the delicious torture her firm breasts inflict on your self-control as they press into your abdomen, separated from your bare skin by only your thin white shirt and an adorable yellow sundress you’d love nothing more than to peel off her supple body right now. Somehow, between your experience and the fact that you’ve genuinely missed her company too, you barely manage to avoid getting erect.
“So *this* is where the legendary Insta DILF lives? Holy shit, I can see why you won’t shut up about moving in with him.”
The petite blonde friend who follows Ashley through your door is trouble; you’d fucked enough girls like her to tell at a glance. She’s the epitome of SoCal chic, sun-kissed and sultry with a fit body and the penchant for wearing tight rainbow tube tops to show it off.
“What the hell, Claire!” Ashley laughs, but her cheeks and ears continue to redden. “Ignore her.”
Of course you’ve already taken note of all the intriguing information she’s divulged, especially the juicy DILF tidbit.
“Calm your tits, he knows I’m fucking with you.” Claire rakes her eyes over your bare body with a naughty smile. “Very nice to meet you, Mr. Menendez.”
You take her fingers in your palm and when prompted, plant one chaste kiss on her cheek as far from her lips as possible. Asked in a vacuum, you’d have your way with this little slut and effortlessly enough, given her reaction to you. You can’t help imagining Claire’s tiny body speared on your cock, her tight teen pussy overwhelmed by your girth as you suck and tweak those bite-sized tits of hers.
But girls their age are nothing if not gossips. By your initial estimation of their friendship, you can only figure Ashley would be among the first to know. And you’d rather suffer a dry spell than jeopardize your quest for your sweet little bombshell’s womb by coming across as a womanizer desperate to wet your cock inside a friend who couldn’t hold a candle to Ashley on her best day.
You give the girls the grand tour of the place. Ashley’s excitement is greatly eclipsed by her friend’s. Claire gushes over your marble staircase, fawns over your glass-paneled living room the size of a poorer man’s entire house. Your irritation at the loudmouth third-wheeling your reunion wears off quickly; you’ve realized this can only open Ashley’s eyes to what staying with you could do for her social status at both their cliquey private school and whatever college she’s attending in the fall.
Even compared to the house she’d grown up in, your mansion is a clear step up. Along with everything else in the divorce, Jessica had gotten the beautiful five-bedroom house you’d bought together when Lucien’s had first hit it big. In the month-long drunken bender that followed you’d thrown fiscal caution to the wind and blown eight digits you hadn’t yet earned on this palatial Costa Mesa playground. Fortunately, your business expansions had taken off just in time to catch up with your astronomical debt, and as of this year you were now in every sense the proud owner of a property that would impress even your ex’s old-money tastes And now it would serve as the perfect backdrop for your plan to win her daughter away.
You’re in the middle of showing Ashley your home gym when her phone rings. The next thing you, her eyes are wide and her finger’s on your lips.
When you peek at the caller ID, you understand why.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/oryvr8/the_harvest_part_2_mf_2nd_person_male_pov_stepcest