Moth On The Flame

Raven

I was having a wet dream. Again.

This time I was grinding my soaked pussy on something very solid. It felt good. So good. Better than anything I managed on my own.

Not until I woke up.

The realization hit me slow, the way sleep peels away in layers; first the warmth, then the friction, then the sound of my own quiet breathing, and then the full devastating weight of what I was actually doing. My eyes flew open and found my stepfather’s eyes already on me.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

If I couldn’t see him, maybe none of this was happening.

“It’s okay, baby,” Roman said, his voice low and unhurried, like he hadn’t just caught me humping him like an animal. “I totally understand.”

My face burned so hot I thought I might die from it. “Sorry, daddy.”

“It’s a normal feeling.” He said it so easily, like it was nothing, and stood up from the bed. That’s when I the outline of his cock tearing through his shorts. It was hard and pretty huge. My mouth went dry.

“I’ll leave so you can finish.”

“I…” The word stuck in my throat. He was already turning away and something desperate clawed up from my chest before I could stop it. “But I don’t know how.” I swallowed. “Can you show me? Please, daddy.”

He went very still.

I’d been to biology class. Sat through sex education with a red face and sweaty palms. Read books with dog-eared pages and watched explicit videos I’d immediately deleted from my search history. But none of it translated to my own body.

I’d tried once, rubbing my clit the way I’d read about, and it felt wrong, uncomfortable, like I was doing something my body simply didn’t understand. Every morning I woke up hot and aching and untouched, craving something I couldn’t name properly.

I was nineteen years old, heading to college in the fall, and I had never been kissed. Not really. Throughout high school, I was the girl who ate lunch in the bathroom to avoid the cafeteria, who spent free periods hidden in the back corner of the library. I was nerdy and introverted and the only boy who had ever truly been close to me was Mark, who was gay and held my hand during scary movies and never wanted anything else.

My best friend Anaya had a boyfriend and talked about sex the way people talk about a favorite meal, with her eyes half closed and this slow satisfied smile. *It’s the best feeling*, she always said. *You have no idea.*

She was right. I had no idea.

And here I was, in my own bedroom, soaking through the sheets, asking my stepfather to teach me how to touch myself because I never got it right.

Roman Bellerie had been in my life since I was three years old. He married my mother and became the only male figure I’d ever known. He helped with my homework, came to every school play, and held me when I cried. When mum died, I was fifteen and completely lost. He slept in my room every night for months because the nightmares wouldn’t stop and he refused to leave me alone in the dark. We’d shared a bed without it ever meaning anything.

Until it did.

I couldn’t even say exactly when things changed, when I started noticing the shape of his hands, the way he smelled in the morning, the sound of his voice when he was half asleep. He was the most handsome man I had ever seen and I had been quietly ashamed of that fact for years.

He stood there now, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t fully read.

“Sweetheart—”

“I’m sorry.” I dropped my eyes immediately, fingers finding the hem of my silk nightdress and pulling at a loose thread. I couldn’t look at him. “I shouldn’t have asked. It was wrong of me.”

“That’s not what I was going to say, baby.”

I looked up.

His jaw was tight, his eyes dark, and his cock was still hard, still very visible, and my stomach turned over in the best way.

“Of course, Daddy’s going to help you.” He said it quietly. He came back to the bed and settled at the edge, close but not touching. “I’ll sit here and tell you what to do. Is that okay?”

I nodded before I could think about it.

“Lie back for me.”

I leaned back against the pillows and my heart was absolutely hammering. The silk nightdress had ridden up to my hips and I hadn’t fixed it and he hadn’t looked away.

“You need to spread your legs.”

I did. My feet flat on the bed, I spread my thighs and I felt his throat bob the moment my pussy came into view. I was so wet it had soaked clean through my panties.

“You have such a pretty little pussy.” He said it staring dead at my entrance, his voice still steady but lower than before. “Now slide your hand down. Slowly. Take your time.”

My hands were trembling.

“Don’t stop.” His voice was so steady. “Keep going, baby.”

I slipped my fingers beneath the fabric. I was embarrassingly wet, I could feel it before I even touched myself, slick and warm and too much.

“Now find that spot. The one that made you feel good this morning.”

“I — I can’t.” My voice came out small. “I don’t feel anything. I’ve tried before and I just… I can’t feel it right.”

A short silence. Then the mattress dipped as he shifted closer.

“Can I?” he asked.

One word. Quiet. Patient.

“Yes,” I whispered.