Little Brats: Taboo A-Z Volume 1: (Forbidden Taboo Erotica) (Little Brats Boxed Sets) (12 page)

He paused to ask, “Do you like that?”

“Yes!”  She urged, shifting her hips forward, wanting more of his mouth.  “Oh yes, lick it, please! Do it like that!” 

He groaned, parting her with his fingers and flicking at her clit lightly with his tongue.  “You make me so fucking hard.”

“Show me,”  she begged, reaching for him, but he was too far.  He sat back, undoing his belt and unzipping his jeans, shoving the denim down far enough to release his cock from his boxers.  It was just as gorgeous as she had remembered. 

“Oh yes,”  she whispered eagerly, watching his fist move up and down the length.  “Stroke it for me like you do outside in the shower.”

“Clara!”  His eyes widened in surprised. 

“I saw you jerking it for me,”  she confessed, putting her feet up on the counter and touching herself, unable to take her gaze off his crotch.  “I heard you call my name.”

“Oh Jesus.”  Grover reddened, but he couldn’t seem to take his gaze off her crotch either. 

“I touched myself afterward, remembering,”  she confessed further, rubbing her clit in circles.  Oh it felt so good, but it was nothing compared to the softness of his tongue! “It made me so hot.”

“Fuck,”  he swore, his hand shuttling up and down the length of his cock faster now.  “I want you.”

Clara let her thighs fall fully open, spreading her pussy lips wide.  “Then shut up and make me come.”

He groaned and dove in, licking furiously at her little clit, and she thought she might die from pleasure.  Her body reacted without any warning, shuddering and trembling, every muscle taut and growing tighter by the moment, with every pass of his glorious tongue. 

“Oh! Oh!”  she cried, lifting her hips off the sink edge to meet his mouth, far up into the air.  Grover grabbed her, wrapping his arms around her hips and throwing her legs over his shoulders so he could bury his face against her flesh, and he stood with her like that, surprising her so much she squealed like a little piglet. 

He didn’t say a word—he couldn’t—but he didn’t stop, mouth fastened tight, airless, over her pussy, his tongue lightning fast, driving her toward climax.  She glanced into the bathroom mirror and saw he was holding her up with one arm.  His other hand moved between his legs, jerking his cock in the same rhythm.  His jeans and boxers were in a ball on the floor. 

“Yes!”  Clara grabbed onto his head, rocking on his shoulders, feeling her orgasm hovering, and worked for it.  “Now! Now!” 

She came with a force that shook them both, and Grover had to grab her around her hips with both arms then, steadying her against the wall as he mashed his face against her pussy.  Clara shuddered, throwing her head back, and gave him everything, everything she had, everything she was, her pussy clamping down so hard she imagined if his cock had been inside her at that moment, she just might have snapped it in half. 

“Oh God,”  she whispered as he let her slide slowly down the wall into his arms.  She wrapped her legs around his waist, feeling the hard steel of his erection trapped between them. 

“I want to be inside you.”  That was all he needed to say.  His mouth captured hers and they kissed for the first time.  Clara moaned into his mouth, sucking the taste of her pussy off his tongue as he carried her across the hall, kicking open the door to his bedroom.  He put her down on the bed, the same bed he’d shared with her mother, but neither of them remembered or cared. 

“Wait,”  Clara murmured as Grover poised himself above her.  “Let me taste you first.”

He groaned.  “Not for long.  I can’t stand it.”

That just made her want him more.  She rolled on top of him, sliding down the bed to kneel between his legs.  His cock stood straight up, leaking pre-cum profusely, and she looked up at him as she touched her tongue to the tip, saw the darkening look of lust in his eyes.  Slowly she curled her tongue around the head of his cock, savoring the slippery feel, the peppery taste of his pre-cum, before taking him fully into her mouth.

“Oh God, Clara.”  He slipped a hand through her hair, watching her suck him.  She was so desperate for him, a greedy little thing, suckling like the hungry calf they’d watched nurse for the first time that morning.  Grover groaned, biting his lip and closing his eyes as she gave him a very wet, sloppy, exquisite blowjob, her lust matched only by his. 

“I want you,”  she paused to whisper, rubbing his cock against her lips, her tongue, her cheek.  “I want you inside of me.  Please.  Fuck me, Grover.” 

“Come here.”  He reached for her and she went, melting into his arms, their kiss wet and heated, tongues and legs twining as they rolled together on the bed.  He shifted her onto her back, parting her thighs with his, his cock pressed hard against her aching mound. 

“Please,”  she whispered, reaching down for him, but he caught her hand. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life,”  she breathed.  “Fuck me.  Do it.  Ohhh God yessss!” 

He slid inside, her pussy already wet and ready for him, and she felt his whole body tighten, heard his sharp intake of breath.

“Okay?”  she whispered, nuzzling his neck.

“Yeah.”  He nodded against her shoulder, taking a deep breath.  “You’re just… so… fucking tight… it feels… ahhhh… so good…” 

He began to draw back slowly and he gasped again, propping himself up on his arms to look down at her, drinking in the sight with his eyes.  She saw him drowning in it, felt the swell of his throbbing cock inside of her. 

“It’s okay,”  she murmured, touching his cheek.  “This part doesn’t feel good for me anyway.  You can come inside of me any time you want.  I just like feeling you.”

He smiled, easing back in again, nice and slow.  “That’s not how it’s supposed to be.  It should feel good for both of us.  Do you like that? Feeling filled?”

“Yes!”  She gasped as he pressed in deeper, as deep as he could go. 

“Touch yourself,”  he told her, staying just like that, propped above her, and she looked down to where they were joined, the sight of him inside of her making her dizzy.  “Do it, Clara.  Rub your little pussy for me.”

She whimpered, but his urging was too much to resist.  She slid her hand down and began to circle her clit with her fingers just like she’d done earlier in the shower, fantasizing about this very thing.  Grover watched, his cock throbbing, swollen, moving just slightly inside of her, almost imperceptible. 

“Good girl,”  he murmured and she moaned when he bent to capture her nipple between his lips, sending bright hot flashes of pleasure between her legs.  He suckled gently, first one, then the other, the feeling of being filled by him so incredible, she thought she might burst. 

But she wanted more.

“Please,”  she begged, her hips moving up, pelvis meeting his.  “Please fuck me.  Please.  I want you.”

“Rub yourself faster,”  he whispered, rocking and rolling his hips, teasing her from the inside out.  He began to really fuck her and Clara cried out happily at the sensation, thrusting back up to meet him.  Her pussy felt hot and swollen, so very full, and her clit ached. 

“It feels good,”  she gasped, feeling a familiar tightness growing in her lower belly, something coiled, waiting to be unsprung.  “Oh yes, you feel so fucking good.”

“That’s it,”  he panted, fucking her harder, faster, giving her more and more of just what she wanted—what she
needed. 
“Do it for me, sweetheart.  Come all over my hard cock!”

That was all the prompting she needed.  Clara let her orgasm take her as her stepfather pounded his cock deep into her pussy, driving her pelvis into the bed again and again.  She wrapped her arms and legs around him, lost in her own pleasure, but not so far gone she couldn’t register his climax. 

Grover groaned and thrust deep, his belly slapping one final time against her own as he came, filling her with his cum.  The moment was so overwhelmingly sweet, Clara felt like crying as he slid out of her and she cradled his head against her breasts.  There were no words for a long time as, outside, the sun melted over the horizon in a fiery display of orange and red, fading into deep blues and pinks. 

Then they both heard Harold bleating. 

Clara frowned, looking at Grover.  The sound was very close.  “Is the window open?”

“No.”  Her stepfather looked up as the little goat head-butted and bleated his way into the room.  “The front door is though.” 

“Harold! Bad, Harold!”  The goat had her remains of her muddy shirt in its mouth.  She looked at Grover and they both burst out laughing. 

“I love you,”  Grover whispered into Clara’s ear, still chuckling, ignoring Harold’s head butts against the side of the bed. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck, unable to stop the tears stinging her eyes.  “I never did thank you.”

He lifted his head, propped up on his elbow, looking down at her quizzically.  “For what?”

“Letting me stay.”

“Oh Clara.”  He lowered his forehead to hers, closing his eyes.  “I wanted you to stay.  I want you to stay forever.”

She brightened.  “You mean it?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.”

Harold settled himself on the floor, chewing happily on the edge of the bedspread while his master and mistress continued to do what came natural and this time it turned out exactly as Clara had always hoped. 

Sheltered Darla never knew her real father and now her stepfather has a whole new life and family she only feels peripherally a part of. 

When her stepfather asks her to babysit for her younger stepsister, Darla takes the opportunity to ask her daddy to prove his love for her in a way so illicit and wicked it shocks them both—but leaves them craving more.

Two “Rock-a-Bye Babies” and four “Bears Over the Mountain” later, Darla finally tucked her baby sister in and turned out the light.  There was a Barney nightlight by her bed that glowed an eerie purple.  It was cold outside, snowing lightly, and it was cold in here.  Only Carrie’s blonde curls, shorter and a shade lighter than Darla’s sleek mane, peeked out from above the pink covers. 

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,”  Darla whispered, easing the door closed.  That’s what her dad had always said to her, when she was around Carrie’s age, and it came out of her mouth automatically.  It made her suddenly sad. 

“Not all the way,”  Carrie piped up, her voice muffled.  Darla left the door open a crack and went to see what her dad had to eat in the kitchen.  She was hoping for ice cream and hit pay dirt—a pint of Haagen-Dazs.
It was probably Irene’s, and Darla took a great deal of pleasure in knowing she might be eating the last of her stepmother’s favorite Rum Raisin as she settled in front of a rerun of Friends. 

She glanced at the clock when the show was over.  Only ten.  They said they were going to be gone probably until midnight.  She fantasized for a moment about what she was going to do with the babysitting money, doing the math in her head.  The longer they stayed out, the more she would get paid.  She might finally have enough to get the iPod she wanted.  Her mother had told her at Christmas that maybe by her next birthday but February third had just come and gone, she’d turned eighteen, but no iPod was forthcoming.  Of course, her mother blamed it on her father.  He had all the money.  Why didn’t he buy her one of the damned things, her mother wanted to know?

But Darla knew.  Her parents had adopted her when she was just a newborn, and she had known only goodness and love for a long time.  That was until her adopted father left them for another woman.  Now he had a new daughter of his own—his very own.  Darla was just an afterthought, something that had happened to him in a former life.  She wasn’t really his. 

Darla sat and looked around the room, which was probably bigger than their living room and kitchen combined.  The whole house must have been at least five thousand square feet.  She had never even seen the whole thing. 

That was something she could do.  Time to do some exploring.  Carrie’s room was down a long hallway which included Darla’s room when she stayed over, and a separate bathroom.  She had seen all of that.  There were several guest rooms, another bathroom, her dad’s office, and Irene’s scrapbooking room at the back of the house.  Upstairs beyond her dad’s bedroom, though, she had no idea what was back there.

Their room was spacious and white.  Everything was pristine—the rug, the bed, the furniture.  She glanced at the bed, which was made but kind of rumpled on one side, as if someone had been sitting there.  She reclined on it, gasping at the softness of the down comforter, the sinking of the mattress underneath her.  Her eyes closed, and she let herself drift, lost and floating on a cloud in the darkness.  She thought she could smell her daddy, his aftershave maybe, lingering on the sheets.  When her eyes opened, she gasped again, seeing her reflection staring back at her.  There was a mirror over the bed!

She looked at her own stunned expression, her long hair spread out beneath her head over the whiteness of the comforter like a gossamer river running through drifts of snow.  What would you need a mirror on the ceiling for? She looked at her soft belly, exposed now with her arms flung carelessly above her head, a pale, white expanse of skin between her “American Idol” t-shirt and the black miniskirt her mother kept having a fit about her father buying her for Christmas, which she insisted on wearing, even out in the snow.  She rubbed her tummy somewhat self-consciously.  It was smooth and flat, her navel the only dip in the surface, no other hint of a softening curve. 

She lifted her shirt higher, then higher still, never having seen herself from such a vantage point.  Her breasts weren’t much more than buds, her pink nipples hardening as the cool air moved over them.  She was slightly disappointed that they looked even smaller when she was lying down. 

She had given up hope she was going to develop something to fill the bras that had been waiting in her drawer since her thirteenth Christmas.  Her mother had seen her just beginning to develop and had insisted on buying them, and they had sat there for years, embarrassing her.  Other girls got curves, breasts, while Darla watched longingly, hoping for those things for herself. 

She wondered at the mirror again.  Probably her stepmother, she decided.  Had to make sure she looked good, even at night.  She hopped off the bed, going to explore the rest of whatever was down this hallway.  She glanced in their bathroom, which was right off their bedroom.  It was huge too, of course, with a corner Jacuzzi tub surrounded by unlit candles, and there was a separate shower with a showerhead at each end.  The mirror and sink and vanity ran the length of one wall.  His and hers sinks even.  She saw her father’s shaving stuff on the counter. 

She was about to leave the room to continue her exploration when she glanced in their closet.  Her stepmother had expensive tastes.  There were dresses galore in the walk-in closet, a whole wall full.  She ran her hands lightly over the fabrics—silks and satins and velvets.  A shimmery green dress called out to her, and she plucked it from the hanger.  It was short, with a plunging neckline, completely sleeveless, the top of it just two pieces of material that tied behind the neck.  The skirt would probably have come to her tall, long-legged stepmother’s mid-thigh.  Maybe.  It was completely backless. 

Darla carried it over to the mirror at the end of the closet.  It was one of those three way things, like they had in department stores, so you could see yourself at every angle.  In the light, it really sparkled, like the dress was made of thousands of iridescent emeralds.  She was mesmerized.  Suddenly, she was pulling off her t-shirt, unzipping her skirt and sliding it down over her white cotton panties.  Considering for a moment, she slid those off too, standing there completely naked.  She turned this way and that, admiring her slight figure in the mirror. 

She turned, liking the view from behind, it was at least one place she had curves, in the soft rounded cheeks of her bottom.  From the side, if she exaggerated and stuck her chest out, she could imagine her breasts were fuller and rounder instead of the barely emerged nodes they really were.  She looked at the dress in her hands again, glancing at the tag inside. 
Versace
.  She slid it up the long length of her thin frame, moving her hair out of the way so she could tie it, gasping at the feel of it against her skin. 

She piled her hair up on top of her head, admiring herself.  The dress was too long and the front simply hung on her—her nascent breasts did nothing to fill it.  When she turned, she giggled, seeing the crack of her butt appearing above the back of the dress.  It shimmered deliciously when she moved.

She danced, sylphlike, her reedy arms stretched above her head, swaying willowy, back and forth, pursing her lips, widening her eyes at the mirror.  Irene had hundreds of these dresses and she wore them out every weekend.  Darla felt suddenly very jealous.  Her daddy, who she now only saw a few times a month at the most, spent hours with the woman who filled these dresses.  Who filled
this
dress.

What’s he ever given
me
?
Darla fingered the heart-shaped locket she’d had since she was little, the one thing her adopted father had left behind.  She sometimes imagined she had captured his real heart in it, keeping it like a secret from anyone else.  Closing her eyes, she began to dance again, holding her father’s heart in her hand.

What would it be like,
she wondered,
to have a man hold you, press you against him, kiss you?
She closed her eyes and imagined dancing with a boy—no, a man.  She found it was her daddy she was imagining, his large, strong hands guiding her, his eyes bright and full of love as he looked down at her.  She was so lost in the fantasy she could even smell his aftershave. 

“Kiss me, Daddy,”  she murmured, her eyes still closed, tilting her head up like she saw in all the movies.

“Darla.”  The sound of her name made her whirl around and stumble over her discarded clothes.  She landed bone-jarringly hard on her bottom and she whimpered, leaning back on her elbows.  Her father stood in the doorway, his large frame filling it completely.  She felt her whole body flush with embarrassment. 

Oh no, oh God, this can’t be happening
. 

They didn’t say anything for a moment and Darla found herself trembling.  He cleared his throat.  “Why don’t you get your own clothes back on, sweetheart? I have to take you back to your mother’s tonight.” 

She forgot what she was wearing, what she had been caught doing, she forgot everything at those words.  “But… I thought I was going to stay here tonight, Daddy! You said…we were going to go to the movies tomorrow!”  She struggled to contain her tears and lost, but at least she did it silently.  She swallowed around the hard lump in her throat.

“I know, honey, but Irene isn’t feeling well.  She’s downstairs lying on the couch.  I’m glad she didn’t come up here first,”  he chuckled.  “I’ll make it up to you, angel.  I promise.” 

She nodded, looking down at his shoes, his dress shoes.  They had gone to a play tonight. 
Taming of the Shrew
.  She didn’t want him to see she was crying. 

“I’ll get dressed,”  she said, wanting him to go before she really started sobbing.  “Be down in a minute.”

“Ok…and Darla, honey…don’t forget your panties.”  He turned around, his voice sounding strained. 

She snapped her slim thighs closed, her face burning.  She had forgotten entirely she wasn’t wearing any.