Chapter 1

“Damn it, Victor, hurry up and get out of the shower! I have to piss!” my stepmother, Karen (yes, that was her actual name) demanded of me now.

I chuckled at the thought that she evidently couldn’t use the master bathroom because Dad was in it, likely reading the whole time. So, now she leaned on me, all because Dad’s fondness for day trading on his phone got away with him again. Tough shit. If she didn’t want a retired day trader for a husband, she shouldn’t have married my old man. At fifty-five, he had sold his own business for a lot of cash to keep Mom’s hands off it and simply never went back to work. That way, he could live off the proceeds and savings without a dime going into alimony.

Well, while that would have lasted, anyway. Mom quickly realized that trying to compel him to pay her a fair share of the sale would cost her more than she would recover. It would be a very hollow victory indeed, though she likely would have won it. Dad knew exactly what he was doing, the cold fish that he was. Yes, my father could be a real prick, though I could understand not wanting to pay alimony. Anyway, Mom remarried and that ended that threat, but at least Mom had a new sugar daddy.

Yeah, by now, I had no illusions about either of my parents. My mother, Carmen, was a true mail-order bride, though she was Romanian, not Russian. She was actually born under a Communist regime, that of Nicolae Ceaucescu. She knew hardship, hunger, and grinding poverty. Her American Dream was a life of genuine capitalist luxury, and once she wed a second time, to my stepfather, she really got a slice of the pie. For some one of peasant stock from the hills of Transylvania, that was no joke to her.

Dad, well ... Dad was a prick. Like I said, he was a successful businessman. I couldn’t fault him on that. He sold off his business to retire as Mom and he got divorced. I couldn’t fault him for that, either. He married relatively late in life. I couldn’t fault him for that, not at all. Then he wed again, this time to a Karen ... a literal Karen, and well, yes, I could fault him for that. There was no accounting for taste. I could certainly fault him for trying to cheat Mom so badly that she almost went broke seeking her due once he tired of her.

Emil Halstein, that was his name. Grandson of a U-boat skipper from Kiel, Germany, and quick to always remind me of that fact. I don’t think that he was lying, given that it meant that he would have had to invent a Nazi past that wasn’t exactly complimentary. Evidently, the family surname had once been von Halstein, too. I was seriously glad that I wasn’t born Victor Martin Luther von Halstein. Victor Martin Luther Halstein was quite bad enough. No, I wasn’t named after the civil rights leader, either.

Physically, I didn’t look Prussian at all, not even all that stereotypically German. I took very much after my mother’s Wallachian family. Roman nose, dark hair, bushy dark eyebrows, and very sharp features punctuated and all but announced my ancestry. Even my name had been a compromise, Dad insisting upon the double middle name of a Protestant reformer as the price for Mom naming me after her own father. Yes, Dad was and is a proud Lutheran even now.

Mom’s new husband was why I lived with Dad at eighteen instead of with her. The first chance that he got me alone, Steven Manley (imagine carrying around the burden of that name) really insisted that I suck his dick. I refused. He got furious and struck me across the face. I flattened him in seconds, much to the big, beefy bastard’s utter shock and chagrin. He got up and yanked down my pants, forced my cheeks apart, and shoved his cock up my ass. Yes, my stepfather raped and sodomized me and I wasn’t about to go back after that.

I told Mom and Dad both, not to mention Karen. None of them believed me, but that was that. At least living with Dad, I felt that I was in no danger of being used that way against my will. If I lived with Mom, that situation would have continued unabated. I didn’t know why Mom stayed with the prick ... oh, wait, I did. The dude was loaded with some serious bankrolls! I wasn’t about to do that myself.

Anyway, back to the present, I must have been deep in thought, because Karen barged in on me in the shower, not even bothering to respect my privacy. The next thing that I knew, she was in the shower with me and literally pissed all over my legs! I was livid, rushing to rinse my own stepmother’s pee off my skin, but she didn’t give me much time to do that before she began stroking my cock with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

“Damn shame that Steven only wanted to Top with you. From the looks of this, he’d have had more fun if he bottomed instead. Nice and thick, just like your old man! Consider this payback for you making me wait so long to pee! I damn near pissed myself!” Karen told me as she closed the distance between us and began making out with me.

“So, you admit that he raped me!” I demanded of her.

“No, I admit that you had sex with him. I think that it was consensual myself, but I could be wrong. I doubt it, though. You’re a manwhore, a trollop, the sort of young man who likes dick and pussy in equal measure, not to mention ass. You can’t rape the willing, as they say, and a guy like you ... is ALWAYS willing. At least in my experience,” Karen showed her ignorance of me.

Yes, so I was a horndog, but so what? If it’s wrong to use a woman’s promiscuity against her in rape cases, the same holds true for men. I had no sexual interest in Steven Manley whatsoever, just because I liked to bone the odd twink now and then and I bent over for a few older guys. He wasn’t my type in either sense and I still preferred women more often than not.

“You’re wrong about me. I’m a pussyhound, yes, but I don’t give it up to just anyone on demand, bitch. I have to be attracted to the person, whatever their sex or gender, in order to fuck them,” I sternly lectured her on her attitude about me.

“Don’t preach at me. You’re not Pastor Koenig. Anyway, I’m going to use you for sex, and yes, you WILL love it! We both know that for a fact! I don’t care about you screwing Mrs. Watson, but I imagine that Mr. Watson might, even if he is Steven Manley’s boyfriend on the side. What would your teacher/lover say if she knew that you also plowed her daughter, Savannah? So, you see, I had a secret agenda for catching you in the buff.

“Don’t worry about your Dad. We both know that he’s still getting ex sex from your Mom and banging your Aunt Felicia whenever they run into each other. I also know that you’re both humping Brooke. My elder daughter is such a fucking slut, isn’t she, but such a yummy one! She brags about it to me and everyone else that she knows.

“Yes, girls talk, too, and, yes, we whine about guys talking, mostly because we’re afraid to be labeled sluts. It’s hypocrisy, but that’s life for you. Female logic doesn’t have to make sense,” Karen pushed back her auburn hair as she began sucking my cock with abandon.