The Family Ritual

Penelope and Wyatt figured their reception was finally over when they slipped out of Derrick's backyard bash. The last of the guests scattered while the cake table sat half-mauve under dimmed lights. She tugged her husband's tie toward the door when Wyatt stopped dead. "We can't bail yet," he said, jerking his head back toward his stepdad inside. "Derrick hooked up the whole night. Least we can do is say thanks before we head out." When they found Derrick, the guy had that same calm smile he'd worn since brunch. He poured three bourbons, shut the door behind them, and laid it out plain. If they wanted the trust fund, the inheritance splash, the entire West life in lavish flow, Penelope had to spend her wedding night right here taking his cock instead of Wyatt's. She blinked, cut a laugh halfway, realized no one else was laughing. Traditions older than their marriage dictated it; the stepdad gets the first load, and he passes his blood on before anyone else. Her face flushed hot and cold all at once. Choices clicked around inside her head until the cushion lining Derrick's import couches suddenly felt too soft, too inviting. She stepped out of heels, skirt riding up as she draped herself over the leather arm and looked back over her shoulder at her new husband standing frozen by the bar cart. Derrick popped his belt, spit on his fingers, pushed two thick ones inside her opening like claiming rent. He dragged every inch out then thrust back deep enough her cheek rocked across cushion seams, dress pulled off while his heavy balls slapped wet skin right under Wyatt's wide eyes. Penelope clenched harder each thrust, moaning his stepdad's name like it was first consent, body wetter than tradition ever promised until Derrick finally buried deep and pulsed those Wester genes inside his supposed trophy daughter-in-law while the groom stood silent. She caught her breath, laughed raw, murmured, "Okay, grandpa, legacies complete."