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A MURDER DADDY ADJACENT TABOO ROMANCE

Austin

I don’t actually masturbate for strangers on the internet, but what my stepfather doesn’t know won’t hurt him. If anything, it would absolutely ruin my plan. For months, he’s thought I’ve been stroking it for the world to see, and I’ve let him believe it. If he’s ever going to be mine, he has to believe it. My whole plan is riding on his faith in me.

Do I have fans? Sure, but I don’t interact with them. My profile was never meant for anyone aside from Dallas Johnson.

How did he find out I had an OnlyFans account? It’s quite simple, really. I asked to borrow his computer a few months ago and left my profile in a background browser tab. It was the day I learned Hell hath no fury like an overprotective stepfather scorned.

After shouting and screaming at me for what felt like days on end—but was probably just ten or twenty minutes—He expressly forbade me from logging on again, going as far as swearing to save a shortcut to my OnlyFans profile to his home screen so he could keep tabs on my online activity.

Thankfully, Dallas Johnson is a man of his word. Every day he checks. Every day he calls when he knows I’m doing a live stream. Every day he scolds me for it. And, best of all, every day I shoot an endless load as he lectures me on internet safety, knowing exactly what I’m doing on the other end of the phone. Then, when he comes home, he acts like nothing happened.

Phase one of my master plan? Flawless.

I met Dallas officially when I was eighteen, but I’ve been in love with him since I was a kid. My piece of shit mother and I have lived in the same trailer park as him all my life. We saw each other in passing all the time, but it wasn’t until Dad died and Mom started looking for a replacement husband—working her way through half the trailer park, and, do you know what? God love her for it, but she’s still the worst—that we were finally introduced. He was just as beautiful up close. Until then I’d only seen him from afar. Watching him at night like I was seeking out shooting stars. Creating constellations of his cock as I peered through his bedroom window.

There’s an old tree behind his trailer house, directly beside the window. God help me if he ever finds out, I used to climb and sit on one of the limbs, peeping into his room. I would have simply stood outside and peered in, but his trailer is jacked-up higher than the rest in the lot, and I’m barely over five feet. He always kept his window blinds angled upward, so I would catch glimpses of him walking around his room in nothing more than a pair of underwear. Thankfully, Dallas never caught me, but I’ve caught him a few times. His bed obstructed most of the view, but at night, I could still see him sitting up in bed, his arm pumping furiously as porn played on his flatscreen. It was hard to see the television from my perch, but I caught a reflection of the screen in the mirror over his dresser a few weeks after I started stalking him, and was heartbroken to find it was heterosexual in nature.

I’m fully aware my actions were—and still are, quite frankly—predatory and creepy, but I was thirteen, and we all make stupid choices when puberty comes into play. I don’t have an excuse for my present-day behavior, other than I’m hopelessly, recklessly in love with my stepfather, and I’ve lost every trace of self-control.

I didn’t even know his name until I was fourteen. That’s when I started stealing his mail. I always put the important stuff back, but I kept the junk mail in a small lockbox under my bed. It felt good to have something of his to hold onto when I needed a security blanket of sorts. Growing up with my mom, I held onto them a lot, picturing how pretty his smile would be if I just worked up the courage to return his mail to him, cursing the United States Postal Service with a sassy swish of my hips. When I was younger, it was my go-to spank-bank scenario. I replayed it endlessly, thinking of all the different ways the scene could play out.

Thank God it never played out in real life, because then my Dallas would no longer be my Dallas, he would be a monster. I was thirteen for God’s sake.

The reminder chimes on my phone, and heart races in my chest.

Showtime.

My mom is gone for the day, doing fuck knows what. I wish she’d stay gone forever. Like my ex-boyfriend Tatum used to say, I hope she cries, hope she dies, because she’s one of the nastiest human beings this side of the panhandle. She knew how much I liked Dallas, and she stole him for herself. Though she’d never tell him, she lords it over me like a trump card. I know one day she’ll follow through with her threats of exposing my feelings for him. When she does, he’ll be disgusted with me, and then he’ll never speak to me again. Considering he’s my best friend, the loss will be monumental. Catastrophic. The end of the world as I know it.

But that day isn’t today.

No, today is a good day, because I’m skipping class just to hear his frustrated voice as I stroke myself to completion. I know I should put more effort into my college career, because Dallas works his fingers to the bone in an unbearably warm machine shop to pay my tuition, but our mid-morning chats are my favorite part of the day.

Dallas welds oilfield equipment together in the dead of summer. In Texas, that means triple-digit temperatures for twelve hours a day. I wish I had enough money to take care of him the way he takes care of me, just so he doesn’t have to risk having a heatstroke every time he clocks in. So, yeah, I should really take my schoolwork more seriously, but how can I when I can’t take my mind off him for more than five minutes at a time? Some might call it obsession, but I don’t care how terrible my behavior is. Dallas is the man I love. The man I want to spend the rest of my life with. There’s just one unnecessary obstacle standing in the way.

Mom.

He can claim his undying love for my horrible mother all he wants, we both know the only reason he stays with her is because of me. After I moved out of our family home and into the apartment I shared with my four ex-boyfriends, Dallas left too. The day I returned, so did he. Funny how that worked out.

Either way, with his protective papa-bear persona, I know one day, curiosity will get the better of Dallas Johnson, and when it does, Daddy’s going to get an eyeful. The day he subscribes, claiming it's to ensure I'm not giving out personal or confidential information to would-be predators, he'll finally see me. Every inch of me. And yeah, maybe there are just five-point-five of them, but they’re a really pretty five-point-five. I should probably be embarrassed, because it’s not really that big, but I know Dallas would never laugh at me or make me feel inadequate.

My followers seem to love it, though. They tell me over and over just how cute it is. There are ten followers in total, even though I’m not really sure how they found me. My profile was never as a means of income. I didn’t set up this account to make men moan as they furiously stroke their cocks, though I’m not bothered when they do. I set it up to plant the seed. To watch anxiety grow in Dallas until he finally reaches his breaking point and pays my unnecessarily high monthly subscription fee of forty bucks. Again, I didn’t sign up to get fans, I signed up for Daddy. The fact that ten people like my cock enough to repeatedly toss far too much money my way definitely makes me worry less about my size.

I set my laptop on the chair and click the button to start my live stream. Once I’m online, I bend down and smile into my laptop camera, imagining Dallas’ face. I take a step back and palm my cock through my pajamas, tugging until it’s fully hard. Pulling my hand away, I look at the screen. Fuck. It’s tenting in my pink pajamas to the point I’m worried it’ll rip a hole in the fabric.

I wish Dallas would fucking call already. I need to hear him. Need him to hear me. I hook my thumbs into my underwear and pajamas, and push them down to my ankles. I stare at my dick, then at the camera, picturing Dallas as I arch an eyebrow.

When he finally subscribes, I wonder how long it will take him to realize this is all because of him. I don’t try to hide or mute my feelings in my posts. I’m not professing my undying love or anything, but I’ve said ‘Daddy’ enough times to get the point across. He’s always been Daddy.

Taking a seat on my bed, I grab my phone and wait, slowly stroking myself to stay hard until he clocks out for lunch and calls me, just like he always does every day.

My hand works my five-and-a-half-inch shaft with precision, my wrist curling on each upstroke. I’m staring into the camera like I’m staring into his eyes, silently pleading.

“Daddy,” I whisper, lifting my legs onto the bed. From my angle at the edge, I’m on full display, so I lie back and scoot down, using the edge of the mattress as makeshift stirrups, my cheeks spreading wide, revealing my hole. I suck my finger to get it slick, then trace a ring around my entrance. “Oh, fuck. Daddy, please.”

As expected, my phone vibrates two minutes after the hour, and I stare into my laptop’s camera, grinning. I bet he’s gonna be real mad. I can’t wait. Grabbing a few pillows for support, I wedge them behind my back until I’m slightly seated, and stare into the camera while I answer the call.

“Hey, Daddy,” I rasp. “How’s work?”

His breath catches in his throat the way it always does when I call him that. “Hey buddy.” He sounds tired. “Why ain’t you in class?”

“How do you know I’m not in class?”

“You’re online,” is the only response I’m given.

“I have to make money somehow. It’s not like I can just get a part-time job after school. Me and the boys have rehearsal.”

He sighs. “You ain’t been listening to a word I’ve said, have you? Dammit, Austin! I don’t want you on that site anymore. If you need money, all you have to do is ask.”

“It’s not just about the money,” I say, wrapping my hand around my shaft. “I do this for the fans.” A lie. One he isn’t aware of, considering he has no way of knowing I have a whopping ten subscribers I never interact with. As I said, I didn’t sign up to expose myself to strangers. That’s why I set my monthly subscription fee so high. Even if someone managed to stumble upon my profile, I highly doubt they’d pay the $49.99 fee. If someone wants to see my lackluster dick that badly, they’re more than welcome to.

“The fans?” he barks, sending a pulse of pleasure up my spine. “I swear to God, if you don’t shut down that account—”

“You won’t kick me out, will you?” Of course, he wouldn’t. I’m just a sucker for drama. “Please don’t make me leave.”

“Austin,” he says with a sigh. “Buddy, I ain’t ever gonna kick you out. I’m just worried about you, is all. You don’t know who these men are. They could be killers or rapists. What happens if one of them finds your address? What if they show up at the house? It would kill me if someone tried to hurt you.”

“They won’t,” I promise. “I’m really careful about hiding my identity.” Just the sound of his voice has me leaking like a faucet, and it doesn’t take long before the sound of slick friction fills my tiny bedroom.

“Tell me you ain’t doing what I think you’re doing,” he says with a sigh. “You know how I don’t like when you jack off while I’m on the phone with you.”

“And you know when I’m online, I’m performing. You’re the one who keeps interrupting my shows. If you don’t want to hear it, then stop calling while I’m in the thick of it.” Wanting to tease him a little, I add, “MikeLikesToMasturbate39 just told me he wants to be in the thick of it too. Should I invite him over?”

“You tell MikeLikesToGoFuckHimself92 that if he steps foot in our house, he’ll be leaving in a body bag.”

“But his profile picture is so cute. I mean, I think it’s AI generated, but I’m sure he asked it to make it look just like him. He could be the man of my dreams, Daddy.”

“He could also be one of those Proud Boys, slipping and sliding into the DMs of unsuspecting homosexual youth, only to physically assault them when they meet up. I’ve seen the videos on Reddit, buddy. When they go, they go hard.”

“I’m going hard right now,” I admit, stroking faster, making the slick sound even louder. “See? Can you hear it?” I know I’m pushing him to his limit right now, but I can’t help it. Just the sound of his voice is usually enough to make me spill over, but I need more today. I need connection. I need Daddy.

He chuckles. “You’re shameless, you know that?” There’s no anger in his voice. He almost sounds amused. I can’t say I blame him. If I had a loved one masturbating on the other end of the phone, I’d probably find it a bit humorous as well. I just hope one day he can see it as erotic rather than amusing. “Are you almost done? Because there’s something we need to talk about, and I’d prefer if you had a clear head when we do.”

“Yeah. So close. Just need a second.” I’m panting and my voice is basically manic at this point, but he doesn’t call me out on it. I want him to say more so that he can unintentionally pull me over the edge, but we’ve come to a standstill, and the only sounds are our heavy breaths and wet friction.

“Buddy?” he says, making me miss the awkward silence. At least when he was silent, he couldn’t object, and the tone of his voice makes me think he’s about to do just that. To tell me I have to stop masturbating every time we talk on the phone. To finally admit that my creepy behavior has driven a nail into our familial coffin. One so deep, it can never be pulled out. I open my mouth to apologize and plead my case, but he doesn’t give me a chance. “Come on. You’ve got this, Aussie. I know you can do it.”

“Daddy,” I whimper. “I don’t think I can.”

“You can do anything you put your mind to. Do you hear me? I believe in you.”

My lip trembles, and I have to bite it to keep it steady. I stroke myself sloppily, letting the sound of slick friction and my heavy breaths fill the silence. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, Aussie?”

I stare down at my cock, the head a vicious shade of red. “I love you.”

He swallows, the sound thick through the phone. “I love you, too, baby.”

That’s all it takes. My eyes roll back in my head, and I explode, raining down cum on my chest like a summer shower. I’m making ungodly sounds—whimpers and roars, and garbled variations of his name—and the entire time, Dallas is coddling me. Telling me I’ve got this. Praising me endlessly. Calling me his good boy. His best boy.

When it’s done and I’m nothing more than a weeping mess who’s been baptized in cum, he says, “That sounds like it was a good one, son.”

“So good,” I admit. Normally, I feel mortified when the post-ejaculatory haze lifts, but not this time. Not after he walked me through my orgasm like he was walking me down the aisle.