Daddy's Masked Balls (Daddy Fantasies)

By: Amber Adams

Daddy’s Masked Balls





Tiffany paid off the cab and got out just short of her stepfather’s house. Okay, mansion. He had money and it showed in the wide lawns stashed behind high stone walls, and the building itself. It towered four stories into the air and held a commanding view of the sea.

The finely worked stone had amazed her when her mom married him during Tiffany’s junior year of high school. The three years she’d lived there had been amazing. It was totally different than growing up in the suburbs with a single mom. It still upset her that they had divorced.

It thrilled her that her relationship with Jeff hadn’t soured after the divorce. He still treated her exactly the same way as he always had; like one of his own children, of which he had several who were older than she was by half a decade. He’d even footed the bill for Stanford, though she hadn’t asked him to.

She turned right and walked down the wall toward the ocean. She knew she should’ve called to tell him she was coming, but curiosity had convinced her not to. There’d always been rumors about his Halloween balls. That they were wild and exotic, with even a hint of naughtiness going on, and she wanted to see for herself.

Now, her mother had never accused him of being unfaithful, so she doubted they could be as raunchy as some of the stories she’d heard, but still, the thought of catching her stepfather in a compromising situation made her pussy damp. He was the very definition of handsome, and she’d had the hots for him since day one.

Tiffany arrived at the smaller gate that gave access to the beach after a few minutes of walking. He kept it locked, of course, but she had a key. It opened silently when she went in, a testament to the oil she had put on the hinges a few months ago. Jeff said planning was the key to success, and she’d listened. She always listened to him.

The flagstone path to the back of the house was dark and winding, making its way through trees that were downright spooky in the dark, but she knew the way by heart. Her pulse pounded in her ears, but that just fit with the season.

She paused just inside the trees and watched the guests drinking and talking on the patio. There must’ve been fifty people in any number of costumes mixing there. No one seemed to be involved in an orgy.

It only took a minute to make sure her wig was secure and to put her veil on. In her opinion, the belly dancer costume was perfect. It showed off her figure in the most flattering way, but the numerous silk scarves left everything to the imagination and kept her totally anonymous. Everyone would be staring at her body, not her face. Hiding in plain sight.

With a deep breath, she walked up the path and into the light. As she expected, no one paid her arrival any more attention than watching a pretty girl. No cries about an intruder. She’d read somewhere that the secret to looking like you belonged somewhere was to act as if you did. Whoever said that was right.

She nodded to the people as she passed them. She recognized a few, though she didn’t know their names. They seemed oblivious to her identity. Perfect.

The patio doors opened onto the grand ballroom. Yes, that sounded ostentatious. And it was, but for the wealthy, so many things were about showing status and success. In high society, appearances had substance.

A number of couples filled the dance floor, moving to the music provided by what she recognized as one of the premiere string quartets in the state. The sound thrummed into her soul and she had to pause and listen.

She spotted her stepfather wrapping up a dance set with a young woman about her own age who was dressed as a witch. She seemed to be trying to sweet talk him. Wrong tack. He didn’t like wheedling.

As she expected, he shook his head, sending her off in disappointment. Tiffany took advantage of the moment to slip up beside him as the music started again, holding out her hand as an offer.

His eyes made a slow trip down her body, warming her with its caress. He took her hand and pulled her close. “A belly dancer. Can you really dance?”

She moved her feet with the music. She pitched her voice a little lower than normal and adopted a hint of an East Indian accent. She’d gotten very good with it, thanks to the tutelage of her roommate at Stanford, an exchange student from the subcontinent.

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