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Safety, in all of its iterations, is sometimes a person.
Someone you trust, someone who is there for you, who loves you, takes care of you, wants the best for you. A person who seems larger than life, all-knowing, almost godly in how they appear in front of you when you need them. Safety is stability, predictability, someone to lean on, routines, the smell of dinner cooking when you step through the door and the sound of a familiar voice in the morning.
It’s a voice on the other end of a phone call, telling you that they’ll be there in five. It’s their headlights flashing, blinding you as you stand on the street corner, coming around to open the door for you. It’s watching them return to their task when you come home, knowing you interrupted them and they still put you first. Safety is their jacket around your shoulders after they told you to dress warm and you rolled your eyes in the doorway.
It’s food on the kitchen counter covered in foil for when you come home, the oil changed in your car, shelves hung up in your room, a little bit of a stern talking to about not being out so late, about stranger danger and people who can’t be trusted.
Safety is…
Joel.
And Joel is always there — the slam of his truck door, gravel crunching under his heavy boots. All six foot whatever of him, always there for you, just like you wished your father could have been, as a little girl watching her friends with their dads, wondering why she didn’t have one of her own, and then a teenager, watching her friends get picked up from parties by those same fathers, and having to walk home alone.
Until you turned sixteen and walking home was replaced with silent rides in the car, late nights replaced with the lights being switched off and your internet access cutting out at eleven. Routine, good habits, he said, dinner served at the same time every night and the sound of his alarm clock in the morning. Your car already warm when you got in to drive to school, lunch already in your bag. Well-intentioned lectures about spending habits when another package of yours showed up at the door. Wondering if that’s what it’s like to have a dad. If that’s what could’ve been your everyday had yours not left when he did.
And then wondering if it’s normal to feel a little flare of heat in your chest when your stepfather tells you he’s proud of you, when rays of sun in the late days of summer catch the honey tint in his eyes and the silver in his hair. Falling asleep on his shoulder while watching a movie, and having him carry you to bed, only for you to wake up when the door shuts, sneaking your hand into your panties to relieve the ache that bloomed while you inhaled his cologne and tried to focus on the TV screen.
Safety went from your mom not working overtime for once, to a stepfather who came home at the same time every day, Monday to Friday, and got dinner started. It was, and is, the sound of his grunts instead of real words when you ask him a question.
Safety is Joel, comfort is fluffy pillows behind you in his bed, a puffy cloud of a duvet over your legs and a glass of wine in your hand that he placed on the nightstand before he returned to the kitchen. Comfort was also sneaking in here, into what became his bedroom when your mother left on a business trip for the last time and never came back. At least she stayed for your eighteenth and she’s still in the photos, a ghost of her, anyway, the illusion of a mother. And so comfort, at that time, was your shadow lingering in the doorway and your name in his sleepy, raspy voice, like a question. Then a moment of hesitation as he sat up and glanced around the room, and then his arm lifting up the duvet to let you in.
Everything alright?
You knew lying was bad but you never had the opportunity to lie to your father before, never had the chance to tell a little story to cover up a visit to a boy you shouldn’t see. So you shook your head and told him that you wondered what you’d done to make your mother leave, and he pulled you in with a hand on your spine, a comforting, soothing hand, while he assured you that you did nothing wrong, that your mother was dealing with some things you didn’t have to worry about, and you snuggled closer.
And then a little closer, and then close enough to feel something thick and hard up against your thigh. It was subtle, too, your want for closeness wrapped up in sniffles and a need for a hug. But you felt it, right there, in his pajama pants, hard, the ridges and everything, the outline of his shaft on the other side of a single layer of soft fabric. And then you felt it between your hips, low and deep, a pulsing, hot need. His voice was in your ear, deep and husky, lulling you back to sleep while your arousal smeared sticky and wet over the gusset of your panties.
You never really talked about that night. You still haven't. Not in words, anyway, not in a discussion of the ethics or morality or even the sanity of it.
Instead, you woke up the next morning with your back against his chest and his erection pressing into your asscheek, the two of you only separated by his pants and the lacey panties that barely covered your behind. His arm was heavy where it rested over your waist, pulling you in further when he shifted around in his sleep, and he kept it there when he woke up, when his breaths grew a bit shallow and his limbs were frozen. He didn’t move an inch, didn’t retract his arm or push your butt out from his lap, until you stretched out and he could tell you were awake and he slipped out without a word, running his hand over his beard as he silently stepped over to his closet, pulled out boxers, a t-shirt and pants, and headed into the bathroom to start the shower.
Routine was turning the door handle and seeing the corner of his duvet silently lifted every night, snuggling into him, trying to ignore the hardness he pushed into your backside. Suffering was his hand moving from your stomach to your waist, your hip, stroking along your thigh, cupping the back of your knee to lift your leg over his own, and having to lay still so as not to disturb the fragility of the little ways he gave into you, feeling his apprehension. No sudden movements, nothing knocking him off balance as he towed the fine line between what he could and could not forgive himself for.
Routine is waking up in these sheets every morning, turning over and smelling his cologne on his pillow and at the edge of the duvet where it rested under his arms all night. It’s your leg being lifted, his lips on the side of your neck, his fingers brushing up and down your bare sex and his hard cock behind you, with no fabric separating you from the warmth of his skin anymore. It’s him, slowly entering you, the pads of his fingers on your clit, his whispers in your ear.
It’s Joel cooking dinner for you every night, picking you up from class, giving you shoulder rubs, carrying you to bed. It’s him coming with you to your aunt’s birthday, mingling with your family, and taking you home. They’re all so glad you have him, that you have a father figure now, they say that it’s never too late, and they say you must love him very much when they see you hold his hand and lean into his arm. Then you go home together and he licks you until you cry - real, salty tears from overwhelming, excruciating desire and love - and then he fucks you.
“Scoot over a little, baby,” he says as he walks in with a large tray in one hand, with a steaming, gooey, cheesy pizza on top, and two plates in the other. The mattress dips when he sits down and you shift further in as he sets the tray down on the duvet, holding a plate out for you. He’s wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, no boxers from the look of it, from the outline of his dick, and no socks either.
“Thank you,” you smile, and he slaps a large slice onto your plate, with thin strings of cheese hanging over the sides, before he tears off his own.
“Did you find somethin’ to watch?”
He holds out his arm and you resume your position, tucked into his side with your head on his chest, pizza on your laps and wine glasses at your sides.
“Mhm,” you nod, “Thought we could watch The Godfather.”
His eyes narrow, a suspicious look on his face, “Ain’t that three hours long?”
“We have all night, don’t we?”
Peace is nobody asking what you did Sunday morning, nobody questioning you when you say you spent the weekend with Joel. Everyone shares the same look of sympathy, of joy for you. Wow, they say, isn’t it wonderful to finally have a father?
They don’t ask about mom. They focus on the positive, the silver lining, Joel coming in to save the day and save you from loneliness and solitude. They might say something about saving money by living at home, and you nod along. You know they won’t push either, you know they respect the cocoon of safety you so sorely need. And maybe it was unethical to play up how much it hurt when your mother called to say she wasn’t coming back, when you could hear the housekeeping on the other end and you’d already forgotten where she was.
But it got you to where you are, didn’t it?
On this island with Joel. No intruders, nobody butting in, sticking their noses into your business.
He didn’t take it too hard either, if you’re being honest with yourself. Not much of an attachment could’ve been formed in the short time they were together, before the hasty courthouse wedding he agreed to with a grunt while helping you with your homework. Joel felt more like a father to you than a husband to her. Maybe she knew that too.
“Alright, put it on,” he concedes, as you click the button and take your first bite, inhaling around the hot, steaming cheese. “How’s the pizza?”
“Good,” you mumble, before the two of you share a little bit of a greasy kiss.
“Sauce turn out okay?” His knuckles brush over the side of your arm and his own slice is forgotten on his plate when you scarf yours down. You nod in response and he smiles, nudging the side of your head with his forearm so he can kiss your hairline and shift his gaze towards the screen.
Warmth is his body against yours, soft stomach and hard muscle, hard cock, soft tongue and sharp teeth. It’s shared heat under the duvet when cold air seeps in through the open window on the coldest night of the year. It’s a birthday cake with candles, a graduation party, and Christmas presents. His arms around you, his cheek against the top of your head. His jacket when you don’t bring your own.
“Got you the pepperoni you like,” he says, nodding towards the meat, shiny with oil. “Had to go to the specialty store on the other side of town.”
“Thanks, daddy,” you giggle, rubbing into his side like a clingy, needy cat.
“Anything for you, princess,” he responds, and you watch him eat until he scowls and pinches your chin, turning your attention to the movie.
Love is the sound of his voice over the phone every night when you go on a trip with your friends for spring break. It’s three words exchanged between you at the end of every call. Love is the sight of him across the table when he takes you to dinner, your hand in his. Love is the uncontrollable fluttering sensation in your chest and your tummy when you see him after a long day, after a weekend out of town, the warm embrace of his hugs, his smell, his voice.
You’re not sure what it means to him, but you think it might have something to do with the gifts under the tree, the hours spent trying to teach you things you’ve already forgotten the next day, the orders to be back by ten, to let him know that you’ve landed, that you’re home safe. Unlocking the door to see him reading in the dark quiet of the living room, waiting for you.
“Forgot something,” he groans, setting his plate down and pushing off the bed. You know where he’s headed when you hear the creaking in the floorboards and the bathroom door opening. He comes back with a little foil-covered pill tray, pushing out the one labeled with a number you don’t keep track of yourself, holding it in his palm as he places the tray on the nightstand.
“Alright, open up.”
You do as he says, mouth opening wide for him to place the pill on your tongue then hand you his glass of wine, and you wash it down with a big sip before giving back his glass.
“Stick your tongue out, let me see,” he orders, and you smile as you show him the top and underside of your tongue.
“Good girl. Now eat.”
It isn’t difficult to follow his orders, not when you get to look at his thick, graying curls, his dark eyes, his scruffy face. When you know that he will always take care of you and be there for you, guiding you and helping as much as he can. And it seems like he knows everything, that man, like you could ask him any question in the world and he would know the answer.
You try not to look at him while you eat but it’s so difficult. Heat radiates from his bare arms, up to the hem of his t-shirt, from his bulging muscles, the dusting of brown hair on his forearms. He’s so, so—
“Hey,” he snaps his fingers, “No ogling.”
“Sorry, daddy,” you pout, and he shakes his head before he leans over and places a kiss to the top of your head.
“Gotta make sure you eat, honey,” he tilts your face up with the tips of his fingers, looks you right in the eyes, “You’re so busy with school you forget to eat and I worry about you, okay? Need to see that you’re fed properly.”
You nod, you understand, and more than anything, you love it when he takes care of you. And he takes such great care of you, every day, all the time, day and night. He takes care of you when you’re hungry or tired, when exams have you by the throat and when life is just difficult , for a reason or for none at all. He makes sure you eat, then and now, taking your plate when he’s satisfied and letting you snuggle into him again, on his side and halfway on top of him as he sinks into the pillows.
Distracted and clingy, you nip at his earlobe and jaw, hips squirming into him, fingers twisting in his shirt. And you know he’s going to grumble and tell you to focus on the movie, but you’re too far gone, distracted by his smell, and he sighs before he shifts onto his side and tucks your face into his chest, stroking your back under your shirt with the biggest hand you’ve ever seen. One that has a slightly dry, calloused palm, thick and long fingers, a gentle touch despite its roughness, just like the man it belongs to.
He’s gentle with you, pulling you further on top of him and playing with your hair, little kisses scattered along your shoulder as he leans over. Safety is here with him, with the hum of the TV in the background, rustling leaves outside the window, crinkling sheets on top of you as he tucks you a little further in and the two of you disappear into your own world again, kissing and touching, clothes carefully pulled off and thrown to the floor until you’re both naked under the duvet and you’re on top of him, straddling him while his big, hard cock rests along your slit and you don’t have permission to take him yet.
You don’t get to until he deems you ready, until your lips are kiss-bitten and puffy, pussy drooling all over him, slicking him up and sucking him in while your clit rubs against his stomach, and his tip enters you, soft and wet, an inch at a time, your face buried in the side of his neck, whining and whimpering the way he likes. He wants you desperate, begging for it, please daddy , barely able to get the words out, rutting against him, heat flaring across your cheeks and a line of sweat down your spine, needing him.
He likes you needy and he wants you to need him, that much is certain.
His cock is so thick and hard, it’s just so big , especially when he pushes it into you inch by inch, your body making space by force. Everything between your legs is wet and slippery, hips squirming and winding, pussy rolling over him as you try to take more and he holds back, wrapping a hand around your throat to turn around and push you against the bed as he tortures you with only half of himself inside, not letting you have the rest. And he’s so mean, he’s so terrible and it’s so unfair but you arch your back and clench around him anyway, your body begging for more. He decides how much you get, he decides when you come. He wakes you up and sends you to bed, he has full, undeniable control over you when you look up and lock eyes with him, his fingers locked around your throat, breathing constricted, pulse throbbing against his skin, thighs spreading further, pussy softening for him as he gives you the last few inches he can fit inside, and then a little more.
“Daddy —” you moan.
“All the way, just a little more,” he coos back, lightening the pressure at the sides of your throat but keeping you under the force of his grip, “I know it’s deep, but you can take it. You’ve taken it before, haven’t you?”
You hiccup in response, arching and tilting your hips up to give him deeper access. “Let daddy have this pussy, baby,” he whispers, “Good girl.” Deep strokes in and out, and you’re soaking wet, your arousal spills out over his groin and it smears across his skin. Both of his hands move down your sides, stopping a moment after curving in at your waist. “I love your hips so much,” he coos, massaging them while his cock retracts halfway, dripping and rock hard.
He makes a rough, growling sound and flips you over, pushing a whimper out of you when he slides back in, all the way, grabbing your hips and pulling you back onto his erection like his little doll, and his hand comes to your asscheek, the tip of his thumb caressing the tight ring at your very back.
“God, I love touching this little asshole while I fuck this pussy,” he groans, and he’s so fucking vulgar, you’d die of embarrassment if your friends knew how you reacted to his words, to his voice, to the fact that it’s your stepdad’s cock that’s beating into your g-spot and the reality of it makes it feel even better somehow.
“You gonna let me fuck it?”
“Please, daddy.”
He pulls out, reaches over to the nightstand and grabs a bottle of lube from the drawer, squirting it out and stroking himself with it, smearing the glossy substance all over this cock before he spreads a little on your asshole and pushes his thumb back in, gliding back and forth until you relax.
“Turn over, onto your side.”
You do as he says, you always do, and you lift your leg for him while he settles behind you and his cock prods at your tight little hole. “Breathe, baby,” he whispers, and you’ve taken it in every place you can imagine, as deep as your body will let him, but it’s overwhelming and it makes you squirm, trying to open up for him, and you can feel him stroking the base of it when his tip has breached you and he’s stretching you out.
An inch at a time — not even, only half an inch after half an inch — he gets deeper and he grunts at the tightness, the sound making your clit ache even more than it does already, but you know you can’t come yet, you know it’s awarded to you when you take as much as you can for him, when it settles the intensity of his cock in your ass, slicked up but too thick and too hard.
And when he’s halfway in, he begins to fuck you, moving your hand to your tit, ordering you to play with your own nipple while his hand passes down to right between your legs, with slicked up fingers rubbing your clit while he kisses and bites at your shoulder.
He makes you come and gets a little deeper, makes you come again and glides in and out, grunting and moaning and pushing his forehead into the back of your neck, curses spilling out of him. “You feel so fucking good,” he sighs, “You’re so fucking perfect, baby, fuck —” He’s going to make himself come if he keeps talking, something about the way you moan when you hear his voice always draws his orgasm out of him.
“I love you, I love fucking you.”
“Daddy, I’m gonna come—”
With a deep grunt, he spills inside of you while you throb and squirm and feel him give you his load, every drop deep inside, and there’s sweat along your spine and your eyebrow, wetness still leaking from your pussy.
Love is how you take him, love is how you thank him for it after. Love is how you fall asleep in his arms and how your hands clutch at him as you drift off. Love is restarting the movie and lust is I just get so distracted by your cock, daddy, it’s so hard.
“You need an outfit for nana’s birthday next weekend, don’t you?”
Care is his credit card on the kitchen counter the next morning when he’s at the gym, infatuation is when he sees you in the dress you picked out.
Joel is a provider and he is comfort and safety and security and you sometimes hoping, deep down, that your birth control fails so that you never have to wake up from this dream. Love is the sneaking suspicion that he feels the same way, if only by his words, by his little threats that he’s going to fuck his come so deeply into you that it takes, even after feeding you your birth control at the same time he did yesterday and the day before that and the day before that. Infatuation is the sight of his wet curls in the shower, the feel of his sudsy hands on your skin, his fingertips on your scalp and in your hair in front of the mirror.
Joel is everything a man should be. He’s everything you want and need, as the girl in the doorway and the woman in his bed. Across from him at the dinner table, beside him in his truck, on top of him and beneath him, every hour of every day.