Styling Stories Novels & Stories

It was coming from her—my stepmom Sarah—and him—my stepbrother Jake. I lounged on the big sectional couch in the living room, legs stretched out, my nipples already hardening against the thin white fabric of my tank top. No bra. I hadn’t worn one on purpose. The wine had me flushed and bold, my pussy tingling with that slow, forbidden ache I’d been ignoring for months.

The house finally went quiet. I let out a long breath and stretched, my tight little tank top riding up over my flat stomach. Nineteen years old and still stuck under his roof like a prisoner. No friends, no dates, no freedom. If he ever found my secret account… yeah, I’d be dead. But that risk made it hotter. The secrecy. The thrill of thousands of men paying to see what he had never let me show. I scrolled through my DMs for a minute, biting my lip at the usual flood of horny messages. Then I set my phone aside and slipped a hand under my shorts, tracing lazy circles over my clit. I was already wet. That comment had done its job.

Dexter finally found the grease-stained diary and started turning through it, page by page. "Today was Valentine's Day. I put a hair tie on Dexter's wrist, but he turned around and gave it to Brianna because she didn't have one." "He said jewelry wasn't allowed in the lab for safety reasons. He said Brianna couldn't go in without her hair tied back." "He said I didn't understand and that I was just being difficult." "He always has an excuse."