Loving Stepfather

A Loving Stepfather

I met my wife over ten years ago, and we have been married for seven. I didn’t take on just a wife, but her daughter as well. It was difficult at first. The little girl missed her dad, she feared that I was taking her mum away, found it difficult to have to listen and take discipline from me – all the typical step-parent issues. Time passed, however, and we became closer. I had been told by friends with daughters that there were phases where kids became closer to one parent than the other. Maybe they needed a different role model, or perhaps it was more down to social preferences – or maybe one parent simply spoke to them differently. Who knew – I wasn’t about to start reading lengthy books of psychological research – but it happens.

So it was that we finally became closer, shared interests (incredibly, she developed a fascination for cricket) and I finally started to feel like a real parent.

Then came the accident. One day, she was a typical girl, walking to the shop with her friends, the next she was lying in hospital, thanks to an idiot driving too fast. She lost her left leg below the knee and her right leg was badly broken. She had physiotherapy and months of therapy, both physical and mental. The upshot was, my beautiful step-daughter would never be the same.

She rebuilt herself, and the compensation meant we enjoyed a very pleasant lifestyle, but as she got older, she was becoming increasingly aware that certain aspects of her life could never match up to those of her friends. A simple walk, dancing, going into town, sports and so much else all closed off, despite her electric wheelchair, and she resented it. Most of all, she resented the boyfriends.

“You try it,” she once told her mum, “most guys aren’t interested in anything apart from … well … the obvious. Who wants a girlfriend who’s always waist high? Who needs help getting into an ordinary chair? Who can’t get over the step at their front door? Who’s going to be non-stop hard work?

“Of course, there’s some who show interest. Perverts. Did you know, there are guys who get turned on by amputees? I’ve had them ask to see my stump. As if I like that term or want to show it. All my mates go off with their wonderful boyfriends, and I get left with a pity date or a pervert. Forget it. I’d rather go without.”

I had been listening at the door, and as my wife started to appease her, I decided to slope away. I was determined not to pity Emma. She hated pity, determined not to play the victim, and while it was tempting to adopt that role, I was determined not to. It was one of the things which strengthened my relationship with her, and I was desperate to avoid messing things up.

Emma had wanted to go to University, and had the necessary grades, but was reluctant to leave home. She could easily have done so – she was independent, the campuses were adapted to her needs and she would easily have managed. However, she decided to do her degree at home. She would be close to familiar healthcare services, would have everything around her adapted to her needs, and life would be easier.

We had become closer as she had grown older. Perhaps it was because I was ten years younger than her mum, so a bit closer to her eighteen years (although still double that), or maybe because my degree was in psychology, the subject she was studying with the aim of becoming a counsellor for people who had experienced the same challenges as herself. Whatever, we spent a lot of time discussing her course, the music which we enjoyed (eighties rock) and cricket, which she continued to adore.

With her mother, she held long, ‘girly’ chats, about emotions, relationships, periods, diets, all the things mothers and daughters typically discussed. I preferred to avoid such subjects – not through any prudery or embarrassment, but because her mother was well in control of the situation, and I was happy to leave her to it. It provided a good balance to our respective relationships.

Emma also discussed sex with her mother. As a couple, her mum and I enjoyed a very ‘enthusiastic’ and ‘creative’ sex life. We made love several times a week, and often pushed our boundaries with light bondage, spanking, toys and anything else to help our fantasies. My wife may have been older than me, but she was gorgeous. Time at the gym and careful monitoring of her diet kept her body looking amazing, and she had a naturally beautiful face – and she knew it.

We had, for a while, tried swinging. That was before Emma’s accident, when her dad used to take her for weekends – before he lost interest. That happened before the accident – he would arrive late to collect her, then couldn’t make it, the gaps becoming longer each time. After her accident, he saw her a few times, then disappeared. And without time to ourselves, swinging just stopped.

Thankfully, our sex life did not. It became our solace, and remained vigorous, despite the tragedy and despite the pressures on us as carers. We just loved being naked together, and when Emma slept, we would strip and indulge ourselves.

Emma must have been aware. Her mobility limitations meant she could not walk in on us, but she had ears, and must have heard – especially as her room was next to ours. As such, and because of her mum’s open manner and belief that curiosity should be satisfied with openness and honesty, Emma grew up open and honest.

I first realised how open when I looked for a specific vibrator with which to pleasure Julia (my wife).

“Where’s it gone? I’m sure it was here.”

“Oh – the purple one? Er … no, it isn’t there.”

“Well, where is it?”

“I … er … I lent it to Emma.”

My face must have been a picture. Then my wife explained. Emma had been experiencing sexual feelings, and had been masturbating for some time. Recently, she had felt dis-satisfied, and wanted more. She had no desire for a boyfriend, but wanted something inside her. Julia explained that this was not the first time Emma had borrowed her toys – at first wands and clit suckers, for external pleasure, and now moving on to internal stimulation, having ensured that her hymen was broken.

At first, I was shocked, but on reflection, I realised that it made sense. One thing many people don’t always recognise about disability is the indignity. Doctors prod and poke, nurses treat private bodily functions casually. Emma’s accident had meant that, from an early age, she had needed to get used to not only constant prodding, poking and examining, but talking about sensations and feelings – physical and emotional – which, for many, would be either internalised, or kept to a very close peer group.

The fears of spinal damage or internal injury, as well as the psychological probing, meant Emma was desensitized to embarrassment, and as her mum was her main carer, it was she who had been her confidante. It was good that Julia was so open-minded. She had encouraged Emma to talk and allowed her to explore her body in ways that were unthinkable to most eighteen-year-olds, and awakened sexual feelings which, I suspect, Emma would have suppressed.

Once I was aware of what was happening, Julia was very open about the sharing of sex toys. I saw Emma I a whole new light. She was no longer the strong minded, but delicate disabled girl. She was a woman – a beautiful one. She had inherited her mother’s looks, and physiotherapy and exercise had ensured she had a great figure. She had almond-shaped, deep brown eyes, high cheekbones and full lips, framed by flowing, dark hair. She was slim, but had developed firm, rounded curves above her flat, toned stomach and gently widening hips.

Of course, I rarely saw her bum, as it was generally planted on her wheelchair, but I suspected that it, too, was toned and firm as a result of the chair-based, but quite vigorous exercise which she undertook each day. Below that, however, her legs were another matter. She kept them covered, but, obviously, one ended just above the knee, and the other was wasted, due to the shattering which it suffered. I tended to overlook them, however, and focus on her upper body.

I had often wondered about her genitals – if she had lost sensitivity, or would experience pain if penetrated, if they had been damaged by the accident (I knew she had scars on her body beyond her legs, but had only really seen those on her arms) – I even wondered if the psychological harm had resulted in her being unable to feel sexual pleasure. I now realised how stupid these thoughts were.

I suppose I, like many people, saw disabled people as asexual, but following my discovery about Emma’s masturbation, I re-evaluated. How naïve I had been. I was, in fact, embarrassed that I had been so prejudiced in my thinking. Of course disabled people, in the vast majority of cases, enjoyed sex, and of course they got turned on and horny, just like everyone else. Anyone who thinks otherwise should be ashamed.

It was some weeks later that I got home from work and received a text from my wife. “Come to the bedroom.” I assumed she wanted to show me some new clothing, or maybe some minor repair I needed to sort out. Whatever she wanted, I did as any husband should, and followed the instruction.

I walked through the door to find that I was half-right. She was, indeed, showing me some new clothing, but not what I expected. She lay on the bed in white lingerie – silky, matching bra and panties, trimmed with lace and stockings. As I entered the room, she smiled lasciviously and lifted her leg, adopting a model pose and allowing me to see that the panties were split in the centre, exposing her hairless slit – just the briefest flash, but enough to make me hard.

She raised herself on her elbow, causing her breasts to move demonstrating that the bra, too had splits up the centre of each cup. Julia’s nipples were dark, deep reddy-brown against her skin, and very prominent. I loved them, and found spending time toying with them a massive pleasure – as did she.