Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 54645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Now, here I am. Watching him naked, my body teaching me a new definition of need.
I know what men look like. Down there. I might be a virgin, but I have the internet. But nothing could prepare me for him. His soapy hand circles his thick, hard, veiny shaft. It stands up almost past his bellybutton as he begins to caress the head then pump his hand along the length.
His hand forms a sort of fist. Very firm. So erotic.
Up and down, up and down. Shorter strokes now, four fingers flat on the length just under the tip.
I take it all in. Faster, faster, shorter pumps, tighter fingers. I concentrate like I’m studying for finals, trying to remember every movement, every nuance.
Every taut muscle in his body hardens as the tiny rivers of soap and water trickle down his torso and flow over his hand as he works the engorged steel rod in front of him. His chiseled abs flex then release with every breath.
Oh god. I shouldn’t watch. I should turn away and get right back to my tantrum. Because this isn’t right, not at all. That’s my brother. Okay, sure step-brother but there’s nothing about Trent that is a step away from what a real brother feels like.
But I am mesmerized. Held prisoner. Captivated by the size, the shape, the angles of his body. By the pure power that pulses from every inch of him.
Trent’s hand moves so fast it blurs. Greedy, aggressive, and ruthless. Up and down the entire length now, tip to base, tip to base and I hear a sort of wet, flapping noise as he works his flesh.
The tingling inside my panties begins to match his rhythm. Watching him makes me dizzy, almost woozy with wanting, and I sink down on my knees, crawling closer, watching every brutal stroke.
My wetness trickles out of me onto the backs of my calves. My own primal instinct bursts into flames. Feelings unknown, unimaginable desire, overtake me from the inside out. I press my thighs together as hard as I can, my pulse thrumming at my clit like a hammer.
I keep my eyes on him—him, my step-brother—as his hand begins to clench harder. He drops his head back into the spray of the shower, opening his mouth as though he needs more air. A soft groan, and his head drops back down.
He sucks in a breath from between gritted teeth, leans forward and plants his free hand on the tile shower wall, elbow locked. His ass clenches tight, his abs flex again, and then his stroking changes. He focuses on the spot just under the swollen tip, hand quivering, fingers tight, then a groan, so deep and painful my heart wrenches in my chest.
Then.
Oh god, then…an explosion of thick, hot, white cum. Ropes of it spraying out into the shower.
He pumps the head of his huge cock once, twice, three more times, and with each movement of his hand, another spray of white, thick liquid spurts from the tip.
He drops his head, his broad chest heaving. I don’t know how much time passes. I’m lost. Floating. Hypnotized.
When he turns off the water, I startle, shaking myself from my lusty, waking slumber as droplets of water trickle from the angles and planes of his body.
I find my feet on shaky legs. Awkward as a foal. Pressing back against the wall, I inch my way back to my room on measured tiptoes, closing the door behind me, careful not to let the click of the knob give me away. Before I make it to my bed, I have my hand down my soaked panties, desperate for relief.
I climb into bed. I flick my fingers up and down, back and forth. Finding that spot. Trying to ease this ache. This urge. I’ve played with myself before, but never have I felt so much fire churning inside me.
I pop onto my knees, rolling up one of my pillows. I wriggle out of my panties, then straddle and spread my myself onto the fabric. The pressure of the pillow floods my mind with images of Trent’s hard body underneath me. Ink and milk. Strength and softness.
Right and wrong.
Grinding into the pillow, the waking dream returns. A vision. I can almost feel him beneath me, his sea-blue eyes looking up, lust filled and urgent. And I whisper to him, “We shouldn’t, Trent. We can’t,” as I drive my hips into the pillow again and again.
I play out the fantasy, imagining his fingers inside me, that monster of manhood I saw in the shower a moment ago pressing into my innocent opening. I arch and wiggle. Driving myself hard onto the pillow, so hard that my muscles burn, my desperate ache becomes a swirl, and then a hurricane.
I find the spot. I thrust and circle with all my weight on the magical, building feeling.