“C’mere, I got somethin’ to show ya,” says Steve, leading the way through his kitchen toward the basement.

“What’s up? I don’t have much time. Hafta start dinner; Beth’s coming over.” My girlfriend of two weeks, whom I’ve yet to see naked.

“Trust me, this is important,” he says. I reluctantly descend into Steve’s sparsely furnished “man cave.” A bumper pool table, flat-screen tv, and a mess of cables surrounding several consoles complete the frat house effect. I need to hurry, but Steve’s insistence is firm. In all the years I’ve known him since Junior High, he’s never begged me to stick around. Usually, he’s the one with something better to do.

“Hey, John, Steve, do you want me to fix dinner?” The once hot, now middle-aged Mrs. Steve calls down from the kitchen.

“No, Chris. John’s got a hot date, and I’m with the softball team tonight,” replies her husband.

“Okay, hun…Good luck, John. Beth is a nice girl. We were at church yesterday and…”

“That’s enough Man time, honey.”

“Oh, I won’t bother you anymore, then,” she says. Chris habitually defers to Steve. “See you, John.”

“Be polite to my wife. Say goodbye,” says Steve.

“Bye, Chris. See you Sunday.” Steve’s family and I attend the same church. I commune alone unless I manage to drag my daughter along. This since the divorce is almost never. Tiff is mine every other weekend, and fond of sleeping in.

If you find that husband and wife scene demeaning, well, you have to know Steve. He provokes everyone–with a devilish smirk–and they love him for it. The couple’s give-and-take is something I never had with Rosalie, my ex. Through 10 years of marriage, I was the submissive one, and I wasn’t as good at it as Chris. Can’t say it would’ve helped the marriage for me to be. Husbands aren’t supposed to be good at it.

It isn’t all easy give-and-take, though. I’ve never known Steve to step out, but he takes his wife for granted. He’s constantly flirting, especially since her looks declined. Chris is Wife number two and used to be of the trophy variety. Big hair, big rack, and juicy ass in tight clothes. Steve has a lot of trophies, having been a star athlete in school. Most of them look the same today as when he won them. Not Chris. She’s drooped and sagged. Doesn’t mean she deserves to be disrespected. But Steve’s always been Mr. Popular. You can’t expect him to use his charms on Chris alone. If you were surrounded by adoring women as often as he is, you’d dip in your toes, too. I wouldn’t know, personally.

“Now that she’s out of the way, how about a cold one for the festivities?” continues Steve.

“Seriously, I’m on a schedule.”

“Seriously, shut up. This is important; you’ll see.” He pulls a bottle out of his mini-fridge, and I notice his paunch. One area I’ve got it over on Steve is fitness. I was scrawny in High School, but I’ve kept trim. He filled out immediately after college. Then again, he landed a bombshell in Chris after leaving his first wife when their daughter, Ferg, was only 5 years old. Fitness isn’t everything.

Nothing resembling Steve’s success with women graced my life. Rosalie was my first, and the only girl with whom I had a satisfactory longterm sex life. I’ve been with two since our divorce, and both eventually told me I was too small “down there.” (3.5 inches hard, barely there soft.) Rose never said anything about my shortcomings, which is one reason I’m still kinda in love with her. But she has Geoff now. If I had to pick a stepdad to raise my daughter (gun to my head), I’d pick him. Before she remarried, Rose did a lot worse. The guy prior, whom I call simply “the Bastard,” was thrown out on his ass for shooting up in front of a 12-year-old Tiff. Geoff was a godsend in comparison.

Perhaps I’ve found my own Geoff in Beth. We met two months ago at church. She’s a born-again and is serious regarding sexual commitment. We haven’t slept together yet. I don’t suppose she’s waiting for a ring, but a deeper connection than two months of dating seems necessary. We’ll see.

“You’re not gonna believe this, John,” says Steve as he removes a rewritable DVD from its case.

“Believe what?”

“Just lemme show you.” He sticks it in the player, sits down in his recliner, and eagerly picks up his remote. I sit on the couch to his left. Empty beer bottles, chip bags, and dirty bowls containing the remnants of salsa are strewn about. Steve must have had buddies over last night. Chris is usually prompt with her tidying. Geoff may have been one of the buddies. He and Steve get along. Steve is everyone’s friend.

A home movie starts playing on the big screen. Immediately I sense it’s a sex tape. We see a flat-angled shot of an empty bed, with rustling noises in the background. Is Steve showing me a tape he made with Chris? No, she’s a prude. Even if he’d show me–which I wouldn’t put past him–I don’t think she’d consent to be filmed in the first place. Plus, there was a sharp insistence in Steve’s voice earlier. “I *got* somethin’ to show ya.” Why would he be so adamant about showing me a tape of him fucking his wife? Or anyone else, for that matter. That was no business of mine.

Could it be amateur pornography from Beth’s past? Steve helping a brother out, warning me about what sort of slut I’m dating? I’m not aware of any such history, but you know born-agains…How would Steve attain a copy of Beth’s porno, if such a thing exists? He knows people.

A burly gentleman walks into frame, clad in boxer shorts. Not Steve. He leads a nude girl onto the bed. I only see her from behind. She’s a squat, chubby brunette, with hairy legs. Looks young, around Tiff’s age, which would put her in college. Tiff should be in college, but she deferred a year to save up by working an entry-level position at Geoff’s company. Doesn’t want to be in debt, bless her heart. I can’t discern whether the girl in the video is even old enough to drink. She is generally unattractive.

“What the hell, man?” I ask.

“Shh. Watch.” Steve shoots me a devilish grin and re-attends to the video.

The hulking man looms over the girl, blocking her face with his arm. I notice her armpits are hairy, too. He slides his shorts down mechanically. Hard to make out clearly, but he appears to have a very large erect penis. After applying a condom, he shoves it into her without preliminaries. Why is Steve showing me a young couple fucking?

The camera angle switches to an overhead shot with a harsh edit, and I see the guy’s pale butt slam down rhythmically. The girl’s (victim’s?) face is now visible, scrunched up in pleasure or pain. Hard to tell. Oh, my God! It took me a second to recognize her. That’s Steve’s daughter Ferg!

Summer breaks are the only times Steve sees her. She visits from across the country, where she resides with Wife number one. Steve wants me to watch his own daughter’s sex tape with him? We’ve never done anything remotely as perverse, including in Junior High when the fellas congregated over the latest issue of Playboy. I can’t remember who started it, but circle jerks became routine. Never any gay stuff, though we had nicknames for each other. I was “Piglet, ” and Steve was “hog,” at Steve’s insistence.

Still, that was relatively innocent. Watching Ferg fuck a big dick was too wrong for words. I try to formulate a properly outraged objection, before Steve pipes up with, “We went through with it. Chris’ idea, of course. I thought it would be a bother getting Geena,” his first wife, “onboard, but she came around quickly.”

“What? What are you, uh, talking about?” I sputter out as the white butt continues pounding. Ferg’s face reddens.

“Reclamation, dummy! We did it!”

There’s an explanation, of sorts. The situation is not as crazy as it sounds, at least if you’re a member of our church. We are First Former-Day Covenanist Lateral, and we stand strong against the homosexualization of culture. “Reclamation” is an extreme measure intended to save at-risk young men and women from lifetimes of sin. After an intervention, much like you’d hold for a hopeless addict, the stray sheep are brought to a camp for reorientation therapy. They’re not kidnapped, as dishonest critics are wont to allege. Adults can’t be held against their will. (Children are not involved, and instead, receive preventative care and counseling in the community.) They are strenuously persuaded, let’s say. The church doesn’t practice excommunication, but shunning is common.

Ferg is definitely an adult, at 20. Steve had her within a year of when I had Tiff. She and Tiff were best friends growing up, drifting apart in Junior High when Tiff joined the popular clique. Puberty wasn’t kind to Ferg, who as previously stated is chubby and squat, with acne and billowy hair. Judging by the video, she doesn’t shave her legs, pussy, or underarms, though perhaps that was a silent protest against Reclamation. Despite her chubbiness, Ferg lost significant weight recently, lending her breasts the appearance of half-deflated balloons.

How a girl like that could issue from a guy like Steve, I don’t know. He is tall, dark, handsome, was a star athlete, the whole nine. Ferg never dated a boy, far as I know. She may be a lifelong lesbian. My Tiff, on the other hand, has boys crawling all over her. Ever since she was 12, around the time the Bastard involved her in his late-night parties at Rose’s house, I’ve been scared to let her go out or leave her alone in her upstairs bedroom. Who knows what she gets up to? How a beautiful girl like Tiff could issue from a guy like me, I don’t know. I am average in every way. (Except where it counts, which is below average.) It’s as if Steve and I received the daughter the other guy deserved.

Reclamation has been a frequent topic of conversation lately, for a reason I’m reluctant to divulge. Here goes: Chris caught Ferg and Tiff fooling around on Ferg’s bed, fully clothed. I didn’t even know they were still friendly. Chris freaked. She took Tiff’s side and accused the degenerate Ferg of seducing a good Christian girl. I couldn’t say who initiated what. Tiff wasn’t keen to inform me. If she leaned toward lesbianism, she was the most boy-crazy lesbian ever. More likely she’s experimenting, or temporarily bisexual.

The sexual conversion therapist at church told me it’s possible Tiff was molested by the Bastard. That might explain her “experimentation.” I cursed myself for divorcing her mother and leaving her vulnerable, even though it was Rose who left me. I could barely speak to Tiff after the lesbian incident, and she stopped visiting on our weekends.

In the aftermath, Steve and Chris tried desperately to enlist me in a campaign to push Tiff and Ferg into the Reclamation program. Merely including one was thought to risk the other pulling her back into sin. I was dubious as to the efficacy of Reclamation but was willing to go along with joint intervention. My biggest reservation was that at the end of the process–after weeks of counseling, therapy, group encounters, and cohabitation with acceptable males–reclaimed girls were expected to sleep with men to demonstrate their heterosexuality. The church doesn’t believe in premarital sex, but these are special circumstances. Wayward girls aren’t taken at their word. They could easily lie and say they were cured when actually they were biding time.

Intercourse with the opposite sex doesn’t in itself prove anything, of course. But the sessions are taped, and the recordings analyzed by spiritual sex experts who verify whether the subject has truly been reclaimed. According to critics, this constitutes “banging the gay away” or worse: rape. The church believes souls brought to that point in the program have already been saved, and are merely demonstrating their heterosexuality. At countless steps along the way, unrepentant lesbians may quit or be jettisoned from the program. No one forces them to bed.

Rosalie wouldn’t hear about subjecting Tiff to Reclamation, and Geoff was on her side. I was certain my word wouldn’t change her mind, so I turned down Steve’s scheme. I thought it ended there, but apparently, Steve and Chris managed to convince Ferg by herself. I wouldn’t know how and don’t want to ask. Sitting there, watching Ferg get fucked, I just want to leave.

“Look at her face. We’re so proud,” Steve says. I think he’s forthright. “Chris told me it’d work out. She’s been warning me for years about Ferg’s sexuality. I didn’t listen. You should hear her gloat now that Ferg’s been Reclaimed.”

Has Chris taken other people’s word about Ferg’s conversion, or did Ferg show up shaved in a skirt with a bow in her hair? I don’t suppose Chris watched the tape, and I’m afraid to ask. A prude like her would be freaked by the sounds alone. The thumping and squeaking of the bed, Ferg’s strained “Oh-oh,” the distinctive sloshing of their private parts…Whereas before I couldn’t discern whether Ferg was in pleasure or pain, now there’s no doubt. She’s enjoying herself, on some level at least. The camera angle switches again, and we’re back to a wide view. I wonder if the guy had to stop and start, or if they just kept going all day until they had all the evidence they required. Obviously, they pick men based on the physical attribute of size. Do they also require extraordinary stamina, like in regular porn?

“Ha, watch this part. You’ll love this.”

Just then, the guy exits Ferg and stands next to the bed. His long boner is in profile. Ferg begins greedily sucking him. (Rose wouldn’t do that for me when we were married, and she’s a true-blue hetero.) She stops momentarily to say as if from a script, “Thank you, sir. Very delicious,” and continues.

“Ha! Told you! Man, this is making me hot,” Steve says, rubbing himself. An obscene bulge has formed under his pants. We didn’t call him “hog” for nothing. This is too much, really. It’s one thing to watch your daughter get fucked, another to show it off to a friend. Both are perverse. But it’s something else entirely to touch yourself while watching your daughter, whether or not your friend is in the room. What is Steve thinking? Is he getting off on the spirituality? Is it the abstract sex ideas prompted by the tape, separate from the fact that one of the participants belongs to his blood? Or is he actually hot for Ferg?

Here, I must admit Steve’s depravity is not entirely alien to me. I’ve long found myself discreetly perving on my daughter’s friends. Not when they were 12, but in recent years. Which is only natural, because they’re fertile young women. However, whereas I can’t deny Tiff is objectively good looking, I never looked at her with lust in my heart save once. We were on the patio next to Steve’s backyard pool. She was leaning over the cooler in her bikini, and her bottom slid up the crack of her ass enough for me to see a bit of hair. I must have assumed Tiff shaved down there, in contemporary fashion. I found the revelation that she’s hairy inexplicably intriguing.

I tried to suppress the memory but found myself obsessing over Tiff’s hair. Innocently at first, then the vision I witnessed that day poolside popped into my head while masturbating. For a week I saved the image of Tiff bending over for my climax until guilt led me back to the straight and narrow. I haven’t masturbated to the thought of her since.

Is that really so different from what Steve’s doing to his pants now? I don’t know. In any case, Steve ups the depravity with his next comment. “I can’t take it anymore, buddy. I need relief.” With that, he unzips and pulls out his cock. Too fast for me to object, and I wait too long to chastise him afterward. I’m in awe of his chutzpah and his cock, which is bigger than I remember from our Playboy days. It’s fully hard, and I see precum already on the tip. That’s how closely I attend to my friend’s member.

“Uh, Steve,” I finally begin.

“Don’t worry, you can join in. I won’t be offended.” I don’t know what to make of that comment. It’s almost more bizarre than the situation as a whole. *He* won’t be offended? I want to shout at him or laugh in his face, but instead, I feel the most urgent sense of sexual desire in my life. More than my first time with Rose. I accept Steve’s suggestion, undo my belt, and pull down my jeans. (Never been good at jacking through my fly.) What madness has come over me?

“Oh, fuck. Oh, yes. Do me, master!” Ferg continues her dry, rehearsed palaver.

The camera has switched to a low-angle, head-on view of doggy style. Ferg’s deflated tits swaying beneath her. Her “master” comment is suspicious, as is the unemotional manner in which it was delivered. None of my partners has ever referred to me as “master;” that’s definitely not a standard heterosexual thing. Is that part of the program, or is Ferg ad-libbing? Nevermind, that’s nothing compared to what she says next.

“Fuck me! Fuck me, daddy!” I’m unprepared for Ferg’s familial nickname for the guy fucking her. Instinctively, I turn my head to look at Steve. He’s firmly stroking his 7-inch dick in time with her yo-yo motion. No indication that the “daddy” comment has special meaning for him. Uh-oh, Steve notices I’m watching.

“Like what you see, Piglet?” I have no response but to pause my three-fingered technique. “Ha-ha, remember?…Well, don’t let me interrupt. You have to finish. Beth’s coming over, and you should clean the pipes, amiright?” The prospect of finishing unexpectedly disgusts me. I was completely unprepared for Ferg’s “daddy,” and Steve denigrating my size doesn’t help. I puzzle over how many times Steve has jacked to this video. Does his non-reaction to “daddy” mean he’s used to it? Did “daddy” provide the impetus to self-abuse on his initial viewing, or was it the video as a whole? If this is Steve’s first time pleasuring himself to his daughter, have the “daddy” comment and other aspects been bubbling up in the libidinous sector of his brain, only to be released in my presence? Questions overload my head, pushing aside my need to jerk off.

Meanwhile, the guy pulls out. Once again, Ferg accepts his swollen member into her mouth. He makes odd sounds and twitchy movements, which I interpret as an orgasm. Ferg takes it all in. When he’s done, he says in a gruff voice, “Show it to the camera ” With a smile on her face, Ferg appears to stare directly into my eyes. She opens her mouth to show a runny white blob. “You may swallow now.” She does.

A voice off-camera says, “Thank your master.”

“Thank you, master,” Ferg says robotically.

“My pleasure,” says the guy.

“Uh, oh shit,” says Steve as he cums. Globs and globs splash onto the coffee table. His load is bigger than the one in the video.

“I thought you said John had to leave?” A feminine voice from the stairs jolts me into the acute consciousness of what I’m doing. It’s Chris. She’s not furious, but she has a disappointed countenance. “Steve, how many times do I have to remind you to have something to catch it? I’m not cleaning that up!”

“No worries. I’ll get it.”

“John, would you like a towel or tissues?” Chris stands on the bottom step, her matronly cleavage staring at me. She’s not particularly unattractive, just a normal middle-aged woman with a formerly grand physique and pretty face. I am too mortified to speak. “Better hurry. I don’t want Beth waiting for you.” Does she seriously expect me to finish in front of her? I thought she was a typical prudish church lady, though admittedly a former babe.

“Yeah, come on buddy, the video’s over,” says Steve. I want to run out, but I also want to explore this increasingly bizarre situation. I used to envy Steve for landing Chris. Still do, though that was tempered by her declining appearance and what I thought to be an empty personality. Turns out she’s shockingly permissive, at least concerning her husband and me. I had no notion. Her toleration of our impromptu circle jerk may have something to do with her Ferg’s relationship. Usual strained stepmom/stepdaughter stuff, with Ferg’s sinfulness and Chris’ stern faith thrown in. Does she savor debasing her stepdaughter in front of me? Would she damn me to hell if we were watching standard pornography instead?

Whatever the case, I passionately stroke myself to get it over with, unabashedly staring at Chris. She winks at me, and I cum little spurts compared to Steve’s geyser. Steve gets up to clean his mess. I lean back in what there is of an afterglow. “I’ll take care of the mess, hun,” says Chris. “You wash up in the lavatory. Tell Beth I said ‘hi.'”

I exit the bathroom minutes later and wordlessly make my way upstairs. Rude of me, I know, but what is there to say? Chris calls me from the basement, “You’ll have to get Tiff reclaimed. It works.”

“Yeah, I guess,” I respond halfway up the steps.

“Then we can watch her video! I know Steve’d be into that,” she says, elbowing her husband. Somehow, watching a big dick fuck my daughter seems less gross than the tape I just saw. But letting Chris and Steve in on it? I don’t know. God help me, I’m thinking about it.

The End.


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