Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
The giggle dies quick. My pussy throbs, and the idea of taking a picture with the dildo, of becoming the slutty girl who could steal Trevor’s attention, makes my mouth go dry.
I set up my phone on a pile of textbooks, angling the camera so it can see the whole bed, then kneel on the mattress, hair wild, face flushed. I lick the tip of the dildo, exaggerating the movement, eyes rolling up just enough to look wanton. I press the toy between my tits, then against my cheek, then down between my legs. I pose, I preen, I act like I’m on camera for Trevor, like he’s watching me from the other side of the lens. The camera flashes every ten seconds, capturing my dirty acts.
“Oooh Trevor,” I moan theatrically. “Mmm, touch me there. Yesss.”
Of course, there’s no reply, but I love it nonetheless. I’m having fun. And then, just because I’m gettig into it now, I sit back and pull my panties off entirely. My knees are up, and I spread myself open while running the dildo up and down the inside of my thigh before holding it to my clit for a naughty pic. Then I spread my labia open and let the camera get a few good pics of that too. My clit is huge and hard, and I rub it a little, getting it glossy and shiny, before spreading even further to show off my tiny pink hole.
“It’s so small!” I cry out. “But I want you to kiss me there, Daddy. Please!”
Unfortunately, there’s no man to do the honors, but I decide to do a bit of the honors myself. I rub my clit a bit, gently teasing it out of its hood, and then circle my little hole with the dildo before sliding it inside—just a little, just enough to stretch and burn and make me gasp. The camera clicks, the sound loud in the silence as I pant and moan.
“Mmm, you’re so big, Daddy. Oooh, the burn hurts!”
My hips rock. I can’t help it. I want to see my pussy impaled and helpless around a massive cock, want to show off for someone, anyone. I reach down and rub my clit as I fuck myself lightly with the toy, going in only about an inch each time, my breaths coming ragged and wild. I imagine Trevor on the other side of the screen, his eyes locked on me, watching as I ruin myself for him.
“Oooh Trevor!” I pant. “Oh my god, you feel so good, but put on a condom please please please because I’m not on protection! Oh god!”
Of course, there’s no condom and the thought of my stepbrother’s cock erupting hot and virile inside me makes me come instantly. The orgasm is quick and powerful, flashing hot through my stomach and making me cry out—loud and raucous, almost a scream, certainly enough to echo off the walls. I shudder and shriek some more, still fucking myself lightly with the dildo as I pant Trevor’s name.
“Mmmm,” I wail. “Unh more!”
But of course, I’m alone. Once the sensations have subsided somewhat, I collapse onto the covers, sticky and shaking, the dildo limp on the bedspread, the taste of lipstick bitter on my tongue.
For a long time, I just lie there, the ceiling above me an endless blank, the silence absolute except for my own racing heartbeat.
The click of the camera jostles me back to life and with a start, I grab my phone and scroll through the photos. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of them now: they’re dirty too, all triple-X and totally uninhibited. My big breasts are bare, my pussy soaked, and I’m so lost in it that my mouth is open in a perfect O, eyes half-closed, sweat slicking my skin as the dildo teases my little hole. My clit bulges, huge and pink, and in some photos, you can even see the taut knot of my clenched asshole.
OMG, what have I done?
No one can ever see these.
I save them all to a hidden album. I name the folder “Homework.” I tell myself I’ll delete them soon, but I know I won’t.
I get up, wipe myself down with a tissue, and smooth the sheets. The room smells like perfume and sweat and something animal.
I hide the phone in my nightstand and turn off the light, curling up in bed with the covers pulled high.
This is just for me, I whisper. They’re private.
But in my head, a vision of Trevor appears. His blue eyes gleam as he smiles that knowing smile.
He’s watching. Wanting.
And for the first time in my life, I almost believe I could be his.
It’s morning again, but now the world’s color is turned down a notch: cool blue leaking through the front windows of The Fig Leaf, everything damp and still but not quite awake. I let myself in with the skeleton key, the little jangle echoing off the crowded shelves, and breathe in the aroma of fertilizer and growing things. The store is barely more than a hothouse, every surface sweating moisture, the bins overflowing with root rot and decaying moss from the afterparty of last night’s rain. I roll up my sleeves and start the ancient ritual: plug in the misting fans, wipe down the terrariums, flip the “Sorry We’re Closed” sign to “Yes, We’re Open,” even though no one will come in for another hour.