Having divorced parents sucks. You know? It especially sucks when it’s your mother who fucks around on your father, then decides she likes getting cock from a guy barely older than you and runs off with him. Granted, my mother was always a bitch, and I suspect that Grant, the man (boy) she ran off with, was not the first guy she’d fucked behind my father’s back, but leaving her sixteen-year-old son and only child behind? That’s unforgivable.

That was two years ago, and I’ve turned eighteen since then. Old enough to screw, willing to do so, but unable to find a girl interested in going steady with me that I want to do it with.

Hello readers. I’m Flip Wilson. Yeah, yeah. But unlike what you think, it’s Felipe Wilson, not Phillip. My mother is Cuban-American and wouldn’t let my father Australianise my name. So, Felipe, it is. Are you surprised that I insist people call me Flip?

I stand a lean, 6-ft. 4-in. tall (197 cm), weighing just 170 lbs (77 kg). I run, and you can damn well bet that I can run you into the ground and do it way faster than you can believe! I have a haemoglobin count of almost half again as high as normal. My blood carries several times more oxygen than an average person’s does, and I can maintain a much higher speed for much longer than anyone I’ve competed against.

I’m good, damned good! I’ve won every national age group 400m and 800m championship I’ve competed in since age thirteen.

In American parlance, I’m a jock. Unfortunately, the women I’m attracted to are, in the same parlance, nerds. The women attracted to me are the airhead type. If Australian schools had cheerleaders, that’s what they’d be. Pretty girls with great bodies and hardly a thought in their tiny brains. They see a ‘famous jock’ that’s won lots of races and want to fuck me.

Whereas the women I’m attracted to are the quiet ones. The ones who have fantastic bodies but hide them under thick, loose-fitting clothing. They wear glasses and seldom do anything more than pull their hair back into a ponytail, and wear little to no makeup. Because they dress like that, every guy other than me thinks they are plain and pay no attention to them.

Unfortunately, although I average barely short of an A+ grade (the compulsory foreign language class drags me down to an A. Who in Australia gives a fuck that I can’t speak Japanese when I’ll probably never travel to Japan?), these girls label me a ‘jock’, treat me as if I am one, and won’t engage with me in conversation.

Hey, I’m a typically horny teenager, so I’ve fucked a lot of airhead, cheerleader-type pussy. I’m told I’m pretty good, and everyone has asked for a second ride (Pfft! As if.). But I want a serious relationship, dammit! So how do I get one of the bookish girls to take me seriously?

Last year, Dad began dating Chloe Springer, a solo mother with a daughter around a year older than me (10 months). Chloe is gorgeous (lucky Dad) but is almost the stereotypical, blonde airhead. She has this grating, little girl, sing-song voice that makes me want to choke her, slap her, and tell her to speak like an adult, FFS! What Dad talks to her about after he’s emptied his sack into her, I have no idea (can you hear my contempt for bubble-headed dingbats in my writing?}.

I’d like to fuck her, though! There’s something about her that screams, ‘Slut! So smack my ass and tweak my tits, and I’ll suck your cock on the front straight of Flemington as the Melbourne Cup runs’.

Oh, shit! I forgot to mention Chloe’s daughter Misty. OMFG, what a babe! Zendaya Coleman has nothing on Chloe’s daughter. A model, Misty, matches Zendaya’s 5-ft. 10-in. tall and weighs barely 126 lbs (57 kg). With body measurements of 34-25-34 (guessed because of her resemblance to Zendaya), Misty swiftly became the centre of my masturbation fantasies.

I’m pretty sure that Misty was a virgin when Dad began dating her mother, but when she turned eighteen, she started outrageously flirting with my father. My Dad’s a decent guy, though, and turned her down flat. Unlike my bitch of a mother, he wouldn’t do that to his spouse.

After his last growled refusal, he told her if she did it again, he’d take away her IPad and phone, and if that didn’t work, he’d take away her car. Of course, he’s bought her all those things, so I guess he has the right.

I think to spite him, Misty fucked Joel Robertson that same night. Joel is captain of our school’s First XIII Rugby League team and school stud. I don’t know if Misty is a screamer for real or if she was only putting on a show to let my father know what he was missing out on. After that, she tried to fuck her way through the entire team. Every second night, she’d parade some new conquest through our lounge, announce loudly to her mother that she was going to bed to ‘fuck his lights out’, and drag the lucky (poor?) guy to her bedroom. Of course, she pretended to ignore that Dad was in the room too.

Over breakfast, Misty will loudly discuss her activities the previous night with her airhead mother and give the boy a rating out of five. So far, no one has scored better than a four. Chloe constantly giggles and states that Dad’s a six, followed by Misty doubting he’s even a three on her scale.

Misty tries to disguise it as teasing, but Dad and I know she’s doing it to rub his nose in what he’s missing out on. Unfortunately, her ditzy mother is too dense to realise that Misty is being plain nasty. I want to defend him, but every time I open my mouth, Dad shakes his head and continues reading the news on his IPad, pretending he hasn’t heard or doesn’t care.

I don’t mind her enthusiastic, screaming fuck sessions because they provide plenty of masturbation material for me to toss off to. Once I’ve cum, I put on my noise-cancelling headphones and hear them no more.

Things went on as described above until I turned eighteen. Then, the morning of my birthday, Misty began flirting with me! Now, don’t get me wrong here. Misty is hot! With her olive skin and reddish/dark-brown hair and her light brown eyes over a perfect nose that highlights her full and pouty, cupid bow lips, she is any man’s wet dream.

Until she opens her mouth.

Lawdy, lawdy, is she then a spoilt, whining, snivelling, petulant woman/child that throws the most incredible hiss fits when she doesn’t get her way!

Like my father, I ignored her flirting because, although her physical attributes are sensational, having to live with her on a daily basis and listen to her petulant whine totally puts me off. I mean, the girl is dense as well as immature. So why would I want any part of that?

Yeah, okay. She’s so damned hot that I’ll probably roll her over once just to say I did. But then there’s the ‘implied incest’ issue. Although Misty and I are not biologically related, because her mum is married to my dad, people consider us brother and sister, so any relationship between us would be regarded as incest.

Misty’s flirting wasn’t too bad when Dad was around, but it got ridiculous when he wasn’t and escalated to insanity if it was only she and me. When Chloe was present, Misty at least kept her hands outside my shirt and trousers. Alone, Misty would press her gorgeously tight and toned body against me and have me unzipped and my cock in her hand before I had any idea what the fuck was happening.

But if I reached for her so I could pull her into an embrace, she’d skip away laughing, leaving my throbbing cock waving in the damned air. This led to several embarrassing encounters between Chloe and me as I tried to tuck my pole away before she saw it.

One evening, Dad pulled me aside and told me that Chloe had complained about me ‘shaking my cock’ at her all the time and wanted to know why I kept flashing my stepmother. Glowing bright red, I sputtered that it wasn’t me that pulled my cock out when Chloe was around. “Misty?” he asked and grimaced when I nodded.

Dad suddenly grinned, quickly checked there was only us near, and said, “Chloe did admit she was impressed by your dick, son. Says it’s probably even larger than mine. Now, son, I carry seven thick inches. What the hell are you hiding in there? A Policeman’s baton?”

Embarrassed, I muttered, “I have no idea. I haven’t measured it, nor do I check other guys out to see what they have.”

I’m lying, of course. I know from swim class I’m better endowed than most, so curious, I got Mum’s old sewing tape out. I’m pleased to announce that hard, I’m almost 8-inches. I wanted to say I was 8-inches, but it stayed less no matter how much I measured it or tugged on it, trying to get that extra part inch to 8-inches.

Last week was Easter, and Dad and Chloe took their typical two weeks holiday, leaving Misty and me alone in the house. Dad owns an expansive two-story home on the river in Sherwood, Brisbane, Queensland. The house features a curving staircase from the living area to the bed and bathrooms upstairs. It has four bedrooms, each with an en suite, bigger than most houses’ lounge rooms. The steps are made from Southern Yellow Pine stained dark mahogany red and curve over a massive wall unit built to fit there.

The effect is beautiful, but there’s a problem. The top of the unit is inaccessible from the front as it stands close to the rising stairs. Unfortunately, as the builder designed the stairs to have gaps between them, you can see the top of the wall unit as you walk upstairs.

Unless the top is cleaned regularly, it quickly gathers dust and dirt and looks terrible. It’s my job to keep the top clean. However, the only way I can clean it is to get on my hands and knees and use a brush extension to gather the dust and dirt. Then, when it’s close enough, I use the vacuum to suck it up. It’s not hard work, just awkward and frustrating, as keeping the furthest corners clean is almost impossible.

On Easter Friday, Misty had her usual date with a rugby playing Neanderthal. They must have found somewhere open for dinner because they didn’t come home until almost midnight, waking me up with their thunderous fucking. Well, mostly, it was Misty’s shrieking that woke me, but awake I was.

As I ate breakfast at the kitchen bench the following morning, her latest dalliance walked past me with a smirk, gave me a thumbs up and disappeared. Around an hour later, Misty appeared. She wore nothing but a light, almost diaphanous silk robe and was still drying her hair as she got coffee.

Waiting until I looked at her, Misty tossed her hair back over her other shoulder. At her hair toss, her robe parted, and her gorgeous B-cup right breast momentarily popped into view. Struggling to prevent an erection, I bent over my phone, pretending to read my newsfeed. But then, Misty flopped onto the stool beside me, legs akimbo, and flashed her pussy at me.

I had time to observe she’d trimmed her bush to an arrow pointing at her clit before quickly averting my eyes and turning, trying to hide my now raging erection.

Misty chuckled saucily and asked, “Whassa matter, Flip? Don’t like the view?”

Grinding my teeth, I replied, “It’s not enough that you cock tease my father that you have to do the same to me?”

To my shock, Misty slapped me.

“I am not a cock teaser!” She almost growled. “I’d have willingly made love to your father if he hadn’t been so damned honourable towards my mother! And you, you man! You don’t take hints!”

Misty stormed from the room as I wondered what the fuck that was about. Hints? What fucking hints? All she did was belittle and insult me. What could she mean by ‘hints’?

With no clue, I tidied up my breakfast meal and decided to clean the whole kitchen. Picking up a stack of papers near the house phone, a folded letter dropped out. Checking to see what it was, I opened it. Instead of the letter I expected, it was Misty’s first-semester University results. To my utter amazement, Misty was in pre-law, and her results were three A’s and a B across her four subjects.

‘The girl has a brain!’ I wonderingly thought. ‘Who fucking knew? If she’s that intelligent and beautiful, why is she fucking muscle-bound, brain-dead rugby players? She should be dating intellectuals,’ and then it dawned on me. ‘She should be dating me. I’m a straight-A student and have my choice of career. Medicine and Law seem the best option, but Dad wants me to take the Airforce Officer route and become a fighter pilot.

I’m leaning towards following Dad’s wishes because it would mean that I’d have most of my hours towards my commercial pilot’s licence and, if I stayed in for ten years, have a guaranteed income for the remainder of my life.

Realising I’d need to get something out for dinner, I timidly knocked on Misty’s door.