In the Nest with Christie–Chapter Five [m/f] [stepbrother/stepsister] [exhibitionism/voyeurism]

CHAPTER FIVE

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I swear to God I don’t have a foot fetish. Yet, once again, Christie’s feet had coaxed pre-cum from my cock. I was worried it would seep through the light-colored fabric of my pants. So, as Therese and my dad entered the kitchen, I lurched away from Christie to keep the island between their eyes and my crotch.

The sudden movement startled Therese, who darted her eyes to me, then Christie, then back to me.

“Mom,” Christie said, “I am so, *so* sorry about church. I slept in late, and—”

Therese cut her off. *“Where’s Aaron?”* Though addressing her daughter, she glared at me, like maybe I’d offed the guy.

Christie was halfway off the stool, no doubt intending to greet Therese with a hug, but she stiffened at her mother’s brusque tone. After a pause, she resumed her perch, swiveling to turn away from Therese and fill another pastry. “You mean the boy with the arrogant smile who shares vulgar memes and has a friend list full of degenerates? I broke up with him. Aren’t you happy?”

Therese tossed her purse on the table and rolled her eyes. “I didn’t call his friends *degenerates*. For Heaven’s sake, I’ve never even met him.”

“It’s okay.” Christie’s shoulders slumped. She abruptly dropped her salty attitude. “You were right, Mom. He was a jerk.”

Therese squinted, appearing mistrustful of the sudden surrender. But before she could say anything, my dad strolled up to the island. “Well, well, well! Looks like you two have been rolling in dough!”

Christie beamed at him and proudly proffered a finished puff. My dad’s eyes lit up… until he glanced at Therese. “I suppose I’d better not.”

Arms folded under her ferocious bosom, Therese turned to me. “What time is dinner?”

Her narrowed eyes asked the real question: *What have you been doing with my daughter all morning?*

Flustered, I cleared my throat and lowered my head. I became more flustered when I realized pre-cum had indeed soaked through the chinos. “Uh, well, the, uh, hens will, uh, only, uh, take, uh, two hours, uh…”

“You mean you haven’t even started them?”

I kept stammering.

Christie intervened.

“Mom,” she said sweetly, “Sunday dinner’s always at four. It’s not even one-thirty yet. But… if you’re hungry…” She held up a cream puff and waggled her eyebrows.

Therese was not amused. She pinned a final, suspicious look on us, then marched out of the kitchen, and we watched through the living room archway as she raised the remote from the coffee table to click on the television. Though I’m sure Therese often found comfort in prayer or reading her Bible, sometimes, in hours of darkness, she watched reruns of *Friends*.

My dad cast a forlorn glance at the cream puffs, then joined her. The sitcom, like the Lord, was there for him, too.

Christie hopped off her stool and clapped her hands together. “Welp! Guess we’d better get started on those hens!”

Suddenly, she was bustling around the kitchen like nothing was wrong.

I stared at her, mystified. She had played footsie with my *naked cock* this morning, gotten a faceful of *cum*, and now her scary church-lady mom was *suspicious*. Why the hell wasn’t she freaking out like I was?

However, as Therese settled on the sofa with her knitting, and my dad leaned back in his lounger, I shook off my anxiety and went through the motions of innocuous food preparation with Christie. We cleared away the cream puff stuff. We pulled the stuffing from the fridge and the bagged hens from the sink. We emptied the marinade from the bags into a pot. But when we slapped the hens on the island, and they lay before us with their legs splayed, ready to be stuffed, I just… couldn’t. I mean, Jesus, I’d nearly lost it when we were shooting cream in pastries. Sticking our hands up bird twats together? Nuh-uh.

“Hey Christie, thanks for your help, but I’ll take it from here.”

“What? No!” she cried, sounding crestfallen. She held up a handful of stuffing. “This is the best part!”

I leaned in close, lowering my voice. “Christie. Please. I’ve got this.”

She frowned but, seeing I was serious, flung the stuffing back into the bowl. “Oh, *okayyyy*.” With a pout, she looked at a hen, idly wiggling its leg as if bidding it farewell. “I guess I’ll just go to my room and…” She rubbed two fingers against the fleshy wet lip of the hen’s hole. “… find something else to do.”

After shooting me a sideways glance, she smirked and flounced out of the kitchen, bare feet smacking brazenly against the linoleum.

Blood dropped straight from my head to my dick, but lust wasn’t the only reason my vision blurred and gray dots danced in my eyes. No, I was momentarily blinded by an emotion I’d never felt toward Christie.

Anger.

Because now I knew that my wholesome, pure-hearted, virginal stepsister was fucking with me.

I’d been drooling over her for three damn years, yet she’d never shown a hint of attraction to me. Now, suddenly, she was teasing me, taunting me, *torturing* me. I could think of only one reason: This was payback for what happened outside.

My vision cleared, but the anger remained.

My eyes settled on Therese.

She was sitting rigid on the living room sofa, joylessly jabbing yarn with her knitting needles. Dad said she took up knitting to help her relax. Didn’t seem to help. I glanced at the prescription bottle she’d dropped while scrambling to church this morning. Maybe her uptight ass needed stronger tranquilizers.

Fuck this shit. I had to get out of here. I stuffed the stupid hens and threw them in the oven. Luke said his party started at seven. He hadn’t said where, though. Did he still live with his parents, or did he have his own place? I grabbed my phone to text him.

A fresh wave of anger hit when I realized my phone was dead. Goddammit. My charger was in my bedroom, but now that Therese was home, I felt self-conscious going back there. As I passed through the living room, I held my phone up for her to see. “Dead,” I muttered. “Charger’s in my room.” Translation: *I shall not be masturbating*. Without waiting for a response, I proceeded to my room (passing Christie’s cracked-open bedroom door without a glance), walked straight to my charger on the dresser, plugged my phone in, and pressed the power button repeatedly until it finally had enough juice to start. When the phone came on, I rejoiced—then groaned when I read the notification:

*Installing updates…*

*Your phone will turn off and restart several times.*

God fucking dammit. I drummed my fingers on the dresser, watching the progress wheel spin and the percentage numbers tick. This could take forever. I considered lying down, but ugh, I couldn’t even look at my bed. The memories were too fresh.

The longer I waited, the angrier my predicament made me. Why was I cowering in my room, hiding from everyone in shame? I had done nothing wrong. I was a man. Men masturbate. Men try to help women when they faint. Men ejaculate when women give them foot jobs. Nothing that happened today was my fault. So why was I letting a judgmental stepmother and a cock-teasing stepsister make me feel like a freak in my own fucking home?

Leaving my phone to its interminable reboots, I threw open my door and alit for the living room.

Dad was slack in his La-Z-Boy, deep in a sitcom-rerun-induced daze. But Therese raised her eyes from the afghan she was knitting to watch me plop into an armchair. She studied my defiant manspread for a moment, then resumed her needle-jabbing.

“So,” she said with chilly formality. “Dinner will be at four, then?”

“Hens’ll be ready in two hours,” I said. “You can eat ’em whenever you want.”

She bristled at my disrespectful tone. “Well, since it’s a *family* dinner, it might be helpful to set a time, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Four’s fine with me. I’m leaving around six-thirty.”

Her needles jerked to a halt. “Oh. You’re… going home tonight?” She couldn’t quite conceal the hope in her voice.

“Nope,” I said. “Party at a friend’s house. I’ll be out late. Don’t wait up.”

She may not have appreciated my snotty delivery, but she clearly didn’t mind the news I’d be leaving the house. “An *Easter* party,” she said, as if enchanted by a quaint yet inspired concept. “Well, I hope you enjoy —”

Before she could finish bullshitting me, Christie gamboled into the room. Therese turned away from me and gasped with genuine delight.

“Why, Christina! Don’t you look darling!”

Yeah, she did, damn her.

She was headed for the kitchen, but stopped, grinning at her mother’s compliment, and did a quick twirl to model the lace-trimmed eggshell dress she’d changed into. “Thanks! You know, even though I missed church, it just felt wrong not dressing up for Easter. And then I found—do you remember this, Mom?—my confirmation dress!” She fanned out the skirt. “Can you believe it still fits?”

“Yes,” Therese said warmly. “Yes, I can. You’re still my little girl.”

“Couldn’t find those cute heels I wore with it, though.” Christie made a sad face, stretching a leg in front of her and twirling her toes. Then she perked up and pivoted and pranced to the kitchen. “I’m getting a Sprite. Want some tea, Mom?”

“Why—thank you, that would be nice.”

“Howard? Beer?”

“Answer’s always yes,” Dad said by rote, barely rousing from his TV trance.

While Christie banged around in the kitchen, I considered retreating to my room again. I was tired of her cruel games. But she wouldn’t torment me with our parents here, would she? What would she do? Show off her feet? Hell, I could handle that. I didn’t have a foot fetish—I had a fetish for her whole fucking body. Her feet were just the parts that had touched my cock. I’d have cum if her fricking elbows had touched it.

I kept my eyes on the TV while she served our parents their drinks, returned to the kitchen for her own drink, and sashayed through my field of vision to the sofa. She asked Therese what she’d missed at church. Therese summarized the sermon, then gossiped about people Christie had gone to Sunday school with. Soon they were deep in mother-daughter girl talk… and I felt safe to let my eyes to drift away from the TV.

Christie was curled sideways on the sofa, legs drawn up on the cushion, feet dangling over the edge. While she and her mom chatted, she scrunched her toes and fondled her soles in ways I found suggestive even as a non-fetishist, but I didn’t think she was teasing me. She was just fidgety. Anyway, her tilted-out ass was more titillating to me than her feet. The eggshell satin of her confirmation dress looked a bit too snug in the butt and boobs. I didn’t know how old she’d been at confirmation, but she’d obviously filled out since then. She looked ready to hatch. I imagined the satin material splitting apart and falling away, allowing those beautiful butt cheeks and breasts to spring forth and emerge into the —

Therese shifted at her end of the sofa. My thoughts scattered, my burgeoning cock going limp with despair, as I realized she’d caught me perving on her daughter.

She nodded while Christie talked, pretending to listen. But her attention was trained entirely on me.

Mustering all my will power, I resisted the impulse to betray my guilt by looking away. Instead, I nodded as if I, too, were interested in whatever the hell Christie was saying.

Therese kept me in her sights, dead-eyed and grim-faced, as she leaned forward and set her teacup on the table. She appeared to be waiting for Christie to finish talking so she could speak to me. Oh, shit. What was she going to…

Ding!

I whipped my head around, looked toward the hallway, and exulted in the distant chime of my resurrected phone. Thankful I’d withered under Therese’s cock-blocking gaze, I rose unencumbered from my chair, excused myself, and withdrew to my bedroom.

++++++++++

Luke’s latest text made me smile.

Paula was coming early to help him set up for the party, and he suggested I join them. This would give me a chance to work my charm on her before everyone arrived. A lot of guys would likely hit on her, so Luke advised me to come as early as possible.

Hell, yeah. I couldn’t get out of this cuckoo’s nest fast enough. I’d leave right after dinner.

We texted for a while. Since I knew the dings were audible to Therese, I wasn’t self-conscious about lingering in my bedroom.

By the time I strolled back to the living room, my dad was asleep, and the women had fallen silent under the TV’s spell, following the shenanigans of their favorite sitcom characters with cozy, droopy-eyed contentment.

Christie’s legs were tucked under her, and as I walked to my chair, I noticed her dress had ridden up her thighs. Without looking away from the TV, she grabbed the finished section of the afghan Therese was knitting and draped it across her lap, tugging it over her knees. I was grateful for this show of modesty. Maybe it meant my punishment was over.

When I flopped into my chair, Therese dropped into reality briefly and flicked her eyes at me, but her previous indignation had mellowed into indifference. Psh. The feeling was mutual.

I swiped my phone open, got online, and dug through Paula Kearschner’s social media.

Truth was, I couldn’t recall having a single conversation with Paula in all four years of high school. She was pretty, but also cliquish. Kind of snooty. Possibly a bitch. But her supposed desire to fuck me sounded endearing. I had hoped to spend the time between now and dinner basking in the digital glow of her online presence, but after several minutes of swiping through mirror selfies that showcased the same fake smile, my attention wandered.

Christie was fidgeting with the afghan in her lap, unconsciously twirling its yarn between her fingers.

The hem of the afghan inched up her folded legs. Her bare knees peeked out, and then…

Therese leaned forward.

Goddammit.

“So, Hunter,” she said, setting her knitting needles aside and reaching for her tea. “Tell us about this Easter party you’re attending tonight. Friends from high school, I take it?”

I buried my face in my phone. “Uh, yeah.”

I stared at the fake smile on my display screen… and a genuine smile crept over my lips.

“One friend in particular,” I said. “A girl.”

Canned laughter bubbled up from the television.

Christie snickered. She’d tuned us out. It sounded like the sitcom shenanigans on screen were building to a big punch line.

Momentarily distracted, Therese glanced at Christie, then at the TV. A smile flitted over her lips, but she rallied and turned to me again. “Oh, really? A girl?”

I affected a bashful shrug. “Yeah,” I said. “Her name’s Paula Kearschner. I had a huge crush on her in high school. Never had the courage to ask her out. But we started chatting online a few weeks ago. Turns out she had a crush on me, too.”

The TV laughter rose in volume as the silliness escalated. Christie hunched over her doubled-up legs, pressing the afghan against her face to stifle her giggles.

I kept her relegated to my peripheral vision and stayed focused on Therese.

“I’ve been thinking about Paula constantly,” I said, deciding that while I was in damage control mode, I might as well put a new spin on this whole damn day. “I go to *bed* thinking about her. I *wake up* thinking about her. She’s been the *only* thing on my mind lately. I know it’s corny, but, well, what can I say? She’s the girl of my dreams.”

The laugh track rumbled with rising intensity. Christie’s shoulders shook, her mirth leaking out of her in muted squeaks.

Therese struggled to suppress the contagious effect of her daughter’s titters. “Well. How exciting for you, Hunter. That’s… um… that’s…” She trailed off, her eyes drawn to rhythmic movements on the other side of the sofa.

Christie was rocking back and forth, clenching a corner of the afghan between her teeth, as the climax of the comedic sequence neared.

At the sight of her, Therese snorted, but quickly regained control of herself and arranged her face into a dignified expression.

She set her teacup on the table, folded her hands, and nodded at me with a polite smile.

“That’s very romantic,” she said—and explosive laughter burst from the TV.

Christie exploded, too, launching into a wild, out-of-control fit of screeching guffaws. She rose on her knees with the force of it, then slammed her butt down on her feet. Her doubled-up knees jerked in the air—her folded legs parted—and for a fleeting second, as she convulsed with cackles, I glimpsed a dark triangle of pubic hair between her flapping, flailing thighs.

Though the peepshow was over as abruptly as it started, the image of my stepsister’s pussy remained, floating before my eyes like dots after a camera flash.

Christie flopped sideways on the sofa, afghan tangled around her legs, and curled into a ball. Her shrieks gave way to breathless gasps, then exhausted groans. Therese was laughing, too. My father, who had jerked awake, took the scene in at a groggy glance. As Christie recovered, he drifted back to sleep.

When my scattered mind reassembled itself, I realized my cock was standing straight up in the loose-fit front of my pants. Luckily, I was holding my phone in a way that blocked the bulge from view.

Not that it mattered. Nobody was looking at me.

Therese rewound the hilarious scene she’d missed. She and Christie watched it together and bonded over their mutual love of the show. As one episode streamed into the next, they forgot all about me.

It took my cock a long time to calm down. The image of my stepsister flashing her pussy at me in a church dress had triggered a massive download of fresh fap fantasies to my imagination’s hard drive. Previews played unbidden in my mind’s eye. I kept my actual eyes fixed on the TV, though, terrified if I glanced at Christie again, I’d receive another download. My system couldn’t handle it.

Yet, even though I didn’t look at her, the breathy little noises she made while watching TV drove me crazy. The next two episode weren’t as funny to her as the last one, but her guttural grunts and sighs of amusement—*mmm… uhnn-huhhnn-huhhnn… uhhnn*—were impossible not to sexualize after what I’d seen.

I needed to get the fuck out of this room before I lost my mind.

Eventually, I decided my cock, though still semi-hard, was malleable enough to conceal if I stood up.

A glance at my phone clock told me the hens would be done soon. Okay, good. I’d set the table. Keep myself busy in the kitchen. Get through dinner. Then bolt for Luke’s party. God, I hoped Paula Kearschner wasn’t a bitch. If it didn’t work out with her, though, I vowed to find another girlfriend before my next visit home, because Jesus, this was unbearable.

Before rising to my feet, I checked to see if Therese was looking in my direction.

Nope. She was slumped at her end of the sofa, her eyes half-open, making vague little *huh-huh* sounds at the laugh track’s prompts. Otherwise, she barely seemed awake.

Christie sounded more entertained at the other end of the sofa, though.

*Nnnnn… Nnnn-hhnnn-hnnnn… Ahhhh…*

But wait. Something was off.

Her faint exhalations of amusement seemed completely out of sync with the laugh track.

My eyes, disobeying my brain, crept to the far corners of their sockets and stole a peek at her.

She was kneeling on the cushion, her hips swaying in subtle, rhythmic movements. Her fingers clenched and unclenched over the afghan covering her legs.

*Nnnnn… Uhnnnnn… Aaaahhhh-hnnnnnn…*

Her face was tilted upward, her eyes aimed at a spot somewhere above the TV.

*Mmmm…. Uhnnnm… Mmm-hmmm-hmmmm-uhnnnn…*

My already overtaxed imagination searched for innocent explanations that wouldn’t further agitate my cock.

*She has to pee. Her dress is itchy. She has cramps. Her feet are asleep.*

But my cock remained unconvinced, and my brain gave up when Christie let out a long, low, shuddery moan, lifting the hem of the afghan from her lap and stuffing it in her mouth to muffle the sound.

My head whipped sideways of its own accord, and I looked straight at her crotch.

Her left heel was buried in the folds of her pussy. Tendrils of neatly trimmed pubic hair glistened as she writhed her hips back and forth, up and down, jiggling and bouncing with need. Her slick cunt lips sucked and smacked and slurped against her bare foot.

The raised afghan was hooked around her left knee, blocking the view from Therese’s side. Though Christie’s moan filled my ears, it was soft enough not to draw her mother’s attention.

As the moan trailed off into a voiceless breath, she released the afghan from her teeth and lowered it over her legs again. But her sneaky, slinky undulations continued. She cracked her eyes open, aiming her glassy gaze in the TV’s direction, and gradually synced her husky exhales with the laugh track cues.

My cock was tented as high as it could go, stretching higher than the arm of my chair, and I was gaping at her openly. I should have been worried she’d catch me. But my brain had malfunctioned. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t move.

The oven timer buzzed.

Christie’s wiggly movements came to a slow, unhurried halt.

She slouched, dangling her wrists over her knees, and angled her head toward me.

“Hens’re done,” she said.

My mouth opened, but no sound came out.

With a contemplative sigh, she turned her head to take in her drowsing mom and my sleeping dad. Then she rolled her spine up, straightened her posture, and looked me in the eye for the first time since I’d entered the living room.

My mouth slammed closed… but it dropped open again as her gaze slid to my rigid tent-pole.

She stared at it for a moment, her lips pressed together in thought, then nodded as she came to a decision.

“I’ll turn off the oven and set the table,” she said, setting the afghan aside and unfolding herself from the sofa. “Can’t let you do all the work.”

She smoothed her dress, gave me a smile, and, as she walked past me toward the kitchen, slapped her bare foot down on mine, smearing it with pussy juice.

It was imperative that I masturbate immediately. I untucked my shirt, pulled it down over my crotch, and made a beeline for the bathroom.

​

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Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/t4g3vu/in_the_nest_with_christiechapter_five_mf