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One, Five, Fifteen

Date: 3/28/2017, Categories: Taboo, Author: Metilda, Rating: 16, Source: LushStories

which I sensed I was tuned into people on a different level. But until I actually adverted my family from a disastrous path that would have taken us over a crumbling cliff side, I hadn't realized just how different I was. And today I was confident that my gift wouldn't let me down. The trip was mine. Sure as true. I stood at the foot of the stairs much like how my mother would stand if I were coming home to trouble, as if I didn't already know she was there. Now, I could sense him thinking over whether he should return to his car and grab a quick, secret smoke before coming into the home. But then he decide against it, the smell would cling to his hair. And just like I had practiced, when he opened the door and stepped inside I tossed that file down to the floor. The contents spilled out. Pages and pages of written stories. Filthy smut penned by my step-father's own hand. "You know—" I was quite proud of myself for this great line if I recall correctly. "—when your step daughter is smarter than you it's probably not wise to write her into your porn stories." His mind spun, churning through all manner of responses. Two possibilities, whatever they were, apparently would lead to a police car . . . ? That made me laugh. Was it for me or him? His response was typical: "Your IQ is average." I'm sure my absolute offense was clear on my face because he responded with a lip curled smirk. "Look. We can either engage in another debate about brains or I simply lay it out." I crossed my ... arms, my deep seeded spite toward him bubbling to the surface. "Okay, Emily, shoot. I'm assuming this is a blackmail attempt? What is it you want?" Nothing came to me through my gift, the future was in the air and undecided. It all rested on me being bold and assertive. "I want to go to Hawaii." "Okay." "With my friends," I added, a bit cheeky. "How many?" "Twenty-two." A few non-friends, why not? "Like hell." He stooped and gathered up the papers, shuffling them back into the manila folder. He pulled a match book from his pocket and lit one corner. The edge of the file flayed apart, the leaf corners turning brown before catching fire. "I've hidden a copy of these somewhere Mom is sure to find it." "Is that so?" Shit, I saw it flash through his mind quickly—Mother was called into surgery. She wouldn't be home. Damn. I adjusted my plan, relying on a lie. "And I queued an email to send as well." Nothing changed. The future was still undecided. George walked through the living room to the fireplace and tossed the flaming papers inside. Something was wrong about all of this. I anticipated anger or embarrassment and all I had seen was snarky responses and a bunch of fucking nothing. Bastard. "And I called Child Protective Services and reported you for abuse." He slipped off his suit jacket and tossed it to a chair. Calm and casual as if none of this was unfolding. "You're going to jail you pervert." He raised his eyebrows at that. "Am I?" I wanted to shriek at him for staying so ...