Rachel - Sex Stories

Rachel

Is having sex with your stepdaughter when she is a grown woman i****t? Before you make up your mind and judge us, read this story. I'd started my `second career' that summer. I was trying to be a writer. My c***dren - I call them my c***dren, but they were really my second wife's f****y, my step k**s - had grown up and moved on to lives of their own. Rachel was 27 and her b*****r was a couple of years younger. She left home for college at 18 and was now, after a few false starts, successful - as successful as any parent could wish. Based at her own design studio overlooking the river a few miles west of the London, her work was beginning to be seen on advertising hoardings, magazines and in corporate literature. Her smiling face framed by long silky brown hair looked out at me from a framed picture on my desk, a moment in time that had caught her carefree and sympathetic character in a perfect instant. It had of course not always been like that. As a teenager she had hated me, and everything I stood for, blaming me for the break-up of her original f****y. With time and maturity we became at first more comfortable and then close friends until she started to look on me as more of a father figure than an unwanted complication in her life. After she left home we became closer and were able to talk more as friends than anything else. So there I was. Old job behind me - no more meetings about meetings, no more corporate bullshit. Just the freedom and excitement of breaking out to ...

... do what I'd always wanted, to write. To write anything that anyone would pay me to write. I'd be a literary whore - the refinement could come later. A few months earlier my wife - Rachel's mother - and I had separated amicably. We'd just out-grown each other and moved on to different interests. A few regrets on each side, but not many. I was lucky. Early on I was awarded a contract to write a series of articles for a magazine about sailing ships in the later part of the 19th century. This meant research trips to London and naturally I'd stay with Rachel at her studio flat while I was working in the city, visiting archives out at Greenwich and Kew. One week in late spring I'd called Rachel to let her know I was coming down for a couple of days. `Hey that's great - I'll see you on Thursday evening.' It was a warm day and loads of traffic held me up so I hit the M25 in the rush hour. When I arrived at Rachel's I was hot and bothered, but her big smile, her arm round me as she helped get my luggage up the stairs to her second floor studio made me feel better. `How are you? Do you want a drink? Do you want a shower? There's a towel in the bathroom.' I'm OK, yes, yes and thanks.' I replied laughing at her torrent of happiness and shear zest for life. Rachel never did anything by halves and always asked two or three questions at once when she was excited. `OK. You know where the bathroom is. I'll get the drinks.' I stepped through to Rachel's bedroom - it's a single bedroom studio ...