The Eyes

My father married her mother when she was fifteen, I was older.

I don’t know when it started, but I know for sure what I first noticed. It was her eyes. How they would look at me, linger on mine for longer than a glance. The first time, she looped an arm over the back of the sofa she was sitting on, then half-turned to look at me, I was at a desk behind her. I looked up directly into her eyes. She held my gaze for several long seconds, she didn’t blink, she didn’t smile, she didn’t glance away. I couldn’t read her, but the depth of her eyes pulled me in, I felt like I was going to drown in them. I could see the creation of man in those eyes and felt a stirring in my soul as old as man. Her aura, her countenance, was completely neutral, but those eyes ——-. My smartphone beeped, breaking the hold she held.

From that day on it seemed she appeared near me often, watching, not passing time with polite conversation nor intrusive purpose, but just observing with those non-committal eyes. I would see her standing with her back on the door jamb, hands crossed behind her, one leg pulled up, a foot resting on the frame, her loose skirt draped over the upraised knee, she would be watching me as I appraised her pose, her legs, the way the skirt hung, hiding her thighs, but revealing her sexuality.

And she was sexual. She was close to fully evolved as an alluring young woman by the time she was fifteen. To all others, my father, her mother, her teachers, and acquaintances, she was a vibrant adolescent, happy to gossip about boys, swoon over pop stars, and flock with her friends. But for me, she became increasingly more alluring, more intimate. In those days I don’t know if she was being intentional or not, but over time she became dominant in my thoughts, my dreams, my fantasies. And always were her eyes, drawing me into intimacy. I’m not sure she knew how she affected me, but I was ever more drawn to her, to the passion hinted at in her deep, alluring, eyes.

She was on the sofa, her back on the armrest, one leg pulled up, bent at the knee while she daubed polish on her nails. The skirt had slid down, there was barely any cover at the top of her leg. Her fifteen-year-old thigh was smooth, firm, shapely. As I watched her, she lifted her eyes and locked them on me, graced me with a hint of a smile then returned her attention to her toes, making no effort to pull the skirt to a more modest location. Done with the one foot, she straightened the leg then brought the other foot up, the skirt shifted, revealing a glimpse of white lace panties. I could not deny the tremor in my loins as I stared. She again glanced up at me for several moments then began to paint her unpolished toes. She knew I was watching her closely; she knew she was exposed to her panties, but she did not change her position.

My cock was expanding, she had to know what she was doing to me. It was not the first time my stepsister stirred me, but for the first time, stirred me so deeply. I had thought of her intimately before, but that day, not only my mind, but my body reacted to her. Just as she finished the second toe, we heard her mother call out. She snapped her head around, listened, then quickly pulled her skirt to her knees. When my stepmother entered the room, her daughter was still painting her toes, but her legs were modestly covered. That was the moment I realized the girl knew full well what she was doing, that she had been seducing me for years. My stepmom was talking to me, her back to the girl when she finished with the toe polish. She capped her vial, tugged the skirt to cover her legs as she rose, then my stepsister shot a glance of irritation at her mother’s back before walking away on her heels, keeping her toes high as she moved.