My sweet obsession

The footsteps stopped right outside my door.

I held my breath.

For a second, I thought the handle would turn.

Instead, Mum yelled through the door.

"Tamara! Will you stop making so much noise? It's three in the morning, for Christ's sake!”

The room was thick with the scent of sex and shame. My thighs were sticky with my own juices, my tank top rucked up, and my fingers still carried the evidence of what I'd just done.

“Yes, got it,” I called back, my voice barely audible. “Sorry.”

I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling and trying to steady my breathing. My whole body still shook now and then, the last waves of pleasure refusing to let me go. The dream had been too vivid. Julian’s hands gripping my hips, his thick cock stretching me open in his car, while I took every inch like a slut.

I stripped the ruined sheets off in the dark, balled them up angrily, and shoved them into the hamper. The walk to the bathroom felt shameful.

I took a long, cold shower, it did nothing. The fire stayed right where it was, in between my legs.

By six I was in the studio, desperate for any distraction. The strong smell of paint stung my eyes as I poured too much into the jar. My brush pushed into the crimson exactly how Julian's cock had pushed into me. 

“Ahhhhhhhhh!” I yelled. This wasn't working. My fucking stepbrother with his thick cock.

I worked furiously, sweat making my tank top cling to my back. But no matter how hard I painted, I couldn’t escape the dream. I remembered everything.

A soft knock pulled me out of the spiral.

“Tamara?”

Andrew. Of course it was him.

I didn’t turn around. The brush kept moving across the canvas.

“You missed breakfast,” he said, voice smooth and sweet, the same tone he used when flirting with waitresses before leaving them absurd tips.

“Not hungry,” I lied, keeping my voice as steady as I could. “Working.”

The door opened anyway. He stepped inside, filling the tiny studio with his presence. His shoulders nearly brushed the frame, and his robe hung loose, gaping at the chest to reveal a patch of graying hair over a chest that still looked strong.

“You’ve been in here since dawn,” he continued, voice low. “Your mother’s worried. She said you were… restless last night. Moaning in your sleep.”

My pussy clenched so hard I nearly dropped the brush. A fresh gush of wetness soaked into my shorts. I pressed my thighs together, trying to ignore the heavy throb.

“Nightmare,” I muttered. “Exhibition stress. You know how it is.”

“Mm.” I caught his reflection in the window glass. 

“Didn’t look like a nightmare to me.” The words slid out of his mouth.

“I’ve got three pieces due by Friday,” I said tightly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’m already behind. Can we not do this right now?”

Andrew lifted both hands, palms out, as though trying to calm a wild animal.

“Just checking in, sweetheart. A girl your age should have… other outlets. You can’t spend all your time locked away in here.”

He backed toward the door slowly, that polite smile never leaving his face.

The door clicked shut behind him.

I threw the palette across the room. Paint splattered across the floorboards. My hands were shaking. My breasts ached under my crossed arms, nipples so tight they hurt with every breath. Between my legs, my pussy was throbbing, aching so badly I wanted to scream. I whispered every filthy name I knew under my breath. 

“Madharchod… dickhead… bastard,” but it didn’t help.

I needed air. I needed to get the image of Julian’s thick, veiny, curved, juicy cock out of my head before I did something insane like hunt him down in this house and beg him to ruin me.

I shoved the window open. Warm morning air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of chlorine and summer. That’s when I saw him.

Julian was climbing out of the pool at the bathhouse, hidden behind the tall trees at the edge of the estate. Water streamed down his muscular body. The wet swim shorts clung to his hips, outlining every heavy inch of his cock.

A dark trail of hair led down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband.

My mouth watered instantly. I remembered how it looked fully hard, for even his own hand to wrap around comfortably.

“Fuck,” I whispered, voice barely audible.

My hand moved down without permission, sliding between my thighs. I cupped my soaked pussy through the thin shorts, pressing the heel of my palm hard against my swollen clit. I rocked once, twice, biting my lip to stay quiet. The pressure felt so good it made my eyes flutter.

Julian straightened up, slinging a towel over one broad shoulder. Then he looked straight up at my window. The glass was tinted, and the sun glare should have hidden me completely. But he smirked at me, like he knew.

My thighs clamped tight around my hand. My clit throbbed in perfect time with my racing heartbeat. I rocked harder, chasing the friction, imagining it was his thick cock instead of my own fingers. The painting behind me blurred into nothing.

I was done pretending, and definitely done fighting it.

I was going to get him. For real this time.