Evil Stepdaughter

Evil Stepdaughter

When Paul woos and marries the widowed Jenny, he is convinced he has married the soul-partner life always intended him to have.

Unfortunately, the marriage comes complete with a stepdaughter.


And Abigail has plans for him that will ensure his new wife will not see him as a soul-partner for very long.

Though her plans will highlight his other uses…



It was excruciating.

The needle piercing my nipple made me scream into the balled-up panties being used as an ad hoc silencer.

But there were other aspects to the unwilling torment I was undergoing that, in their different way, were at least the equal of my physical pain.

Not least of them the sadistic smile upon the face of the eighteen-year-old woman responsible for the position in which I found myself.

Nor the fact that the woman doing the actual piercing was, like me, in her mid-forties and looked as if she had just arrived straight from a morning shift at the local library – with a stocky figure and thick-framed glasses to match; the hair she had scraped from a somewhat cold yet predatory face only serving to enhance the comparison with a retro and forbidding bibliophile.

The thick nylon clad thighs staring up at my cloudy and pain-filled eyes, together with the exaggerated calf-muscles I had already noted below them, making the connection a done deal.

Had it not been for the bracelets connecting my ankles and the fact my arms were secured at my back, I knew I would have bolted from the eighteen-year-old’s room and said to hell with the circumstances. And yet, even as I told myself this, I knew that I would soon have been back in that very same room. Penitent and grovelling at the feet of the young woman who had made my life a living hell and turned the loving relationship I’d shared with her mother into…

Something quite different.

“There, there,” soothed the piercing librarian, actually using her fingers to brush away my tears and stroking them through my hair as a means of drying them. “Almost done now.”

I screamed into the makeshift gag once more as she produced a thin metal ring from a bowl of sterile solution and inserted it through the piercing.

“There, that wasn’t so bad now, was it,” she cooed, succeeding only in making me want to head-butt her as, still kneeling before me, she brought up an ice-cube from a bowl at her side and applied it to her work. “One more to go. Be a brave boy now and it will soon be over.”

Used to being humiliated as I was, being treated like a pre-pubescent a grown-up was coaxing into having a dreaded inoculation – and a grown-up who was a complete stranger to me – added an extra dimension of despair and self-loathing to my predicament. Had it really been only a couple of months ago that I had married the woman of my dreams and moved into the home she had shared with her late-husband? Could I truly have been reduced to such a condition of helpless dependency and self-hatred for my weakness in so short a space of time? And by one so young?

The one in question watching me from her seat upon the end of the bed and looking absolutely thrilled with her creation as I felt the librarian swab cleansing and antiseptic alcohol onto and around my remaining nipple. Not a shred of remorse, hesitation, or self-doubt could I see in the young eyes devouring me and, not for the first time, I asked myself how a woman as loving and kind as I had once believed her mother to be could possibly have spawned something so…


The answer was still eluding me when the needle again pierced a nipple and my screams made rational thought of any kind impossible.

When the ring had been inserted and the soothing ritual with the ice-cube repeated and I collapsed upon my side to the carpet, the sadistic librarian spoke again:

“Let him relax for a few minutes.”

And, more ominously:

“Then we can take care of the rest…”

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