Little Brats - Quesa: Forbidden Taboo Erotica Read online

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  Table of Contents

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  Little Brats: Qesa

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  ABOUT SELENA KITT

  BONUS EXCERPT

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  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  Little brat Qesa wants to be a star, and DJ Rafe, her manager and the man of the house, wants to make all her dreams come true. Mari, the woman who married him, longs to go back home to Venezuela, but Qesa loves all things American, especially the idea of fame and money. When she gets an ingenious idea to create a naughty video and make it go viral, she enlists the man of the house to help fulfill her forbidden fantasies and make her famous.

  Little Brats: Qesa

  By Selena Kitt

  IF YOU LIKE THIS SERIES, CHECK OUT THESE

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  Little Brats: Hanna

  Little Brats: India

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  The Nudist and His Princess

  The Man of the House

  “Si, si si! Yes, yes, yes!” Qesa sang into the over-sized microphone, the big, padded earphones blocking out any sound except the music and her own voice. Rafael smiled and nodded along, motioning for her to continue, to keep rolling. His “okay” sign made her smile, because she knew she was pitch-perfect, always had been. Her ear for music was simply a gift.

  And this was her song. She’d written it, words and music, for the man sitting across from her. It pleased her that he liked it—even if he didn’t know it had been written with him in mind. Rafael Cruze was her stepfather, as well as her manager and producer. He was the man who had taken control of their lives, her career, and kept pushing her toward newer, bigger heights.

  Not that she’d gotten that far, really. She was hoping this song finally might make her Internet famous. Lots of artists had been discovered that way, after all. Why not her? Rafael said the bilingual message was smart—it doubled her audience. The song was catchy, toe-tapping, with a universal message of love. How could she go wrong?

  Qesa opened her eyes, startled to see her mother standing at the door. It threw her and Qesa stopped singing, seeing her mother’s mouth just a grim line, arms crossed over her considerable chest, clad in scrubs. She was clearly on her way to work—Mariana Cruze was a janitor at a local hospital—and not too happy to see her husband and daughter together in their makeshift recording studio.

  “Qesa! You have school!” her mother announced, like this was news. She put her hands over her ears, shaking her head. “Too loud! Too loud! The neighbors are going to call the cops again, you keep up with all this noise!”

  “We’re recording.” Rafael scowled, waving his wife away. “Go to work.”

  “I go to work while you two play.” Mariana snorted, shaking her dark head. Her thick, black hair was pulled back into a braid that extended halfway down her back. “Why did I come to this country again?”

  “Ahhhh now, mi vida, mi tesoro,” Rafael crooned, pasting a smile back on his face as he called his wife my life, my treasure, in Spanish. Qesa rolled her eyes but didn’t say anything. “Our princesita here is going to make us all rich!”

  “She does sing like a bird.” Mariana gave her daughter a wistful smile.

  Qesa saw the lines etched on her mother’s face, a result of the misery of her life, the drudgery of her job. She knew Mariana missed their home in Venezuela, and all their family who still resided there. It had been Rafael’s dream to come to the States, and while it had rescued them from horrible urban poverty, he still had to work nights as a DJ to keep their heads above water. The costs of living in New York were enormous. So Mariana worked as a janitor, and Qesa did her best to seek the fame and fortune her stepfather wanted so much.

  Rafael had used every extra cent they had to invest in Qesa’s career. She knew her mother didn’t like that. But Qesa was grateful that someone believed in her. When she sang, Rafael looked at her as if he could eat her up, and she liked that. She liked it a lot.

  “How can you spend so much time in here?” Mariana wrinkled her nose, glancing around at the cramped space. They’d utilized every inch of room to record music and shoot videos for the Internet. “It stinks. Open a window or something.”

  “Can’t open a window, Mama, the noise would interfere with recording.” Qesa shook her head at her mother’s lack of understanding of the process. To Qesa, it smelled like hard work and desperation. The latter was a great motivator, the former the only way to reach any modicum of success.

  “Well, I’m going to work.” Mariana looked at her watch, sighing. “Don’t forget school! Rafael, you take her, don’t forget!”

  “I won’t forget.” Rafael nodded, compliant. “Do you want to hear the new song she wrote before you go?”

  “I don’t have time.” Mariana shook her head, turning to go, calling out, “School, Qesa!” before disappearing down the dark hallway. It was early morning—maybe five a.m. Rafael hadn’t been to bed yet. He’d pulled Qesa from hers so they could record before he took her to school, and then went home to sleep.

  “Don’t sweat it, Chiquita,” Rafe said, seeing the way Qesa’s face had fallen when her mother simply left without hearing the song. “Someday, when we’ve got a New York penthouse and she never has to work again, your mother won’t have any choice but to believe in you.”

  “I know.” Qesa sighed, gathering her hair over one shoulder—it was long, dark, and thick, like her mother’s. “I just wish it would happen soon.”

  “It will happen soon, I promise you, babygirl.” Rafe dropped a wink and smiled at her, his coffee-colored eyes sparkling.

  He’d called her his
babygirl since the day she’d met him, and she’d been far from a baby even then. Still, the endearment meant the world to her every time he said it. He made her feel loved, protected, and most of all, believed in. Being near him took her breath away. And, now that she’d grown, and had grown so close to him, the feelings she’d begun to develop had moved from her heart to… other parts of her anatomy.

  She loved looking at him. The light from the hanging lamp over his soundboard made the grey that salted and peppered his beard shine. Fading tattoos sleeved his arms—he wore only a tank top, what her mother called a “wife-beater”—and his skin was like hers, dark like mocha, although she hadn’t been allowed tattoos. No damaging the merchandise, that’s what Rafe said.

  Her stepfather was a Latino man, through and through. With his deep, smooth voice, he radiated passion with every word, every move he made. He never failed to inspire her and lift her mood. He called her babygirl and treated her like a princess—even when he dragged her out of bed at five a.m. so they could record songs before she had to be to school.

  “Qesa, stop spinning.” Rafe hunched over the little laptop, messing with the latest recording.

  She hadn’t even realized she was doing it. She’d always been a singer and a dancer, from the time she was tiny. She loved spinning, just turning around and around until she got dizzy. Somehow, it righted the word for her, as crazy as it seemed. When she spun, she felt like she was falling in love with everything.

  “Sorry,” she apologized, but she was in mid-spin, her foot catching on the desk leg, and she found herself falling.

  He grunted as Qesa tumbled into her stepfather’s lap. He caught her, one arm around her waist. She giggled and pressed her face against his neck, wrapping her arms around him.

  “How’s the latest take sound?” she inquired, wiggling in his lap, holding onto his broad, muscles shoulders. He was wearing jeans, but she was still wearing what she’d worn to bed—a t-shirt and boy shorts.

  “You wanna hear it?” He hit a button and her voice filled the room.

  It always surprised her, hearing her own voice. She thought it was good, but somehow she always sought reassurance. Glancing at Rafe’s face and the smile on it, she knew he, at least, liked it. He tapped his foot along with the beat, his fingers drumming on the desk. But would the rest of the world love it just as much?

  Qesa’s hips moved with the beat, all on their own. She couldn’t help it—the energy of the song was pure fire. It was addicting. She began to dance, snaking her arms around his neck, rocking her round bottom—she had all sorts of Latina curves, in all the right places—right against his crotch.

  “Easy, babygirl.” His hands went to her hips, whether to stop her or keep her from falling off, she didn’t know. But she felt his cock then, his erection growing against the swell of her ass.

  “Ohhh, Daddy.” She glanced over her shoulder, teasing him with a half-smile. “If everyone gets that excited over our new song, we’ll have a YouTube hit for sure.”

  She wiggled in his lap to make her point.

  “Brat.” He smacked her ass and she yelped, giggling.

  “I love it, Daddy.” She turned in his arms, straddling him, running a hand through his dark hair. “This is the one. I’m sure of it.”

  “How can you be so sure?” His eyes searched hers.

  “Because I put everything into this song.” She bit her lip, wishing she could tell him, it’s about you. It’s all for you. “I can’t wait to make the video for this one.”

  “Tomorrow.” He sighed, glancing at the digital clock on the desk. “Your mother’s right, we have to get you to school, and I need to get some sleep.”

  “Wish I could stay home.” She cocked her head at him. “In bed… with you…”

  “Brat,” he said again, smiling, his eyes darkening. “No playing hooky for you.”

  “You’re amazing,” she told him softly. “A genius. This mix is perfect. Once we make the video, it’s going to go viral. I just know it.”

  “You do, huh?”

  “Our big break, Daddy.” She wiggled in his lap. He was even harder now and she couldn’t hide her own excitement. Her nipples were hard under her t-shirt. “Record companies will be calling us day and night. Our phone will be ringing off the hook.”

  “You ready to be wined and dined by Hollywood?” he chuckled. “I hear they eat little girls like you for lunch.”

  “I’ve got you,” she reminded him, kissing his cheek, the prickly stubble there. “With you as my manager, we can go all the way.”

  “All the way,” he said faintly, then sighed, slowly pushing her off his lap. She didn’t want to go, but she stood, sighing too. “Go get in the shower, get ready for school. We’ll make the video tomorrow.”

  She saw him glance at her in her t-shirt, at the way her nipples poked out. His gaze dipped to her boy shorts, how they rode up her behind, exposing a bit of her rounded, firm ass. She wondered if he was thinking what she was thinking—she hoped so. Did he dream about making it big, the way she did? Not just being rich and famous, but of doing it together, the two of them, a team.

  Did he want her, the way she wanted him? He’d never said anything, had never hinted at it, but his body told a different story. His body didn’t lie.

  She shivered at the thought.

  Qesa did as he asked—she always did—and went to get ready for school, the memory of his hard cock warming her for the entire rest of the day.

  Qesa came out of the only bathroom in their tiny apartment, hearing the low rumble of Rafe’s voice. So he was home from work then. It was still very early in the morning, the windows black with darkness. He was talking to Qesa’s mother. Their door was open just a crack and she took a step forward, listening.

  “Rafe, stop, I have to get ready for work.”

  “Come on, ti amo, mi amor,” he crooned.

  “Oh yes, you love me when you want to fuck me.” Mariana snorted a little laugh. “When it’s something you want, you’re sweet. But when it’s something I want?”

  “What is it you want?” Rafe sighed. “I’m doing my best, Mari, I really am…”

  “You know, we could afford a castle back home for what we pay for this apartment,” she told him. Like it was news. They had this argument all the time. Qesa just silently shook her head. Her mother didn’t understand. “Why can’t we just go home?”

  “This is home,” Rafe said, a hard edge to his voice. Then it softened. “Come here, let me make love to you. Let’s forget about all of his for a few moments…”

  “I told you, I have to get ready for work.”

  Qesa hear her mother’s footfalls and scampered back to her own room, hiding behind her bedroom door. Her mother grumbled and groused as she went into the bathroom. Qesa heard the toilet flush, the shower go on. She waited for her stepfather to come wake her, to tell her it was time to go to the studio, but he didn’t come.

  Curious, Qesa checked the hallway, making sure the coast was clear, before creeping back down the hall again. The hiss and rattle of water being forced through the pipes helped to disguise her footfalls toward her parents’ bedroom.

  That’s when she saw him, through the crack in the door. The night light was on, plugged into the wall on the far side of the room, giving her just enough to see by. Rafe was in bed still, wearing a tank top and nothing else. His erection rose up toward the ceiling and his hand was wrapped around its length. He tugged on it, panting, whispering something she couldn’t hear. Qesa felt her knees go weak, her belly clenching at the sight.

  She watched as he reached over to the night stand. His digital clock had a built-in CD player—Rafe hated waking to the strident pulse of an alarm—and with the touch of his finger, Qesa’s voice, her new song, filled the room. She startled, amazed he’d already made a copy, her heart soaring to hear him playing it.

  Then the hand gripping his erection started moving again, swift, steady strokes this time, his hips rising up off the mattress with every str
oke.

  “That’s it, babygirl, move that big, juicy ass over Daddy’s cock. Make him nice and hard for you. You want my cock in there? I can make you sing like you never have before.”

  Rafe’s words shocked her but a familiar throb began between her thighs, both her pussy and ass contracting, making her acutely aware of her arousal. She reached down, sliding a hand under the elastic band of her panties, to touch herself. Her pussy lips were thick, swollen. She stroked her finger gently up and down her slit, needing more. Her heart beat faster as she listened to him telling her just what he wanted to do.

  And she wanted it to.

  All she had to do was go to him.

  Quiet and stealthy as a kitten, she crept to his bed, climbing up on top of him, her legs straddling his hips, nestling his balls right against her mound. His eyes flew open, blinking a few times as her face registered and he came out of his own fantasy.

  “Hey, wait,” he protested. “Qesa. Babygirl, you have to stop. You have to get off.”

  “Si, Papa.” She bit her lip, bumping her panty-covered crotch up against his cock. “I want to get off…”

  “Qesa!” he cried. “No!”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she urged, glancing between his stunned face to his erection, standing straight up, pointing at her navel. Her t-shirt was short, barely covering her belly button, the rise of her breasts pulling it taut. She licked her lips, hands going to her own thighs, her nails digging into the soft skin there to keep herself from touching him just yet. She wiggled her hips, making a tiny circle, bumping his sac, watching his hard cock bounce.

  “Qesa, stop! You have to go,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands fisting the worn comforter. “Babygirl you can’t do this with Daddy! Fuck!”

  The last word came when she dared to touch the head of his cock, lightly running a finger over the drop of precum glistening over the tip. In response, Qesa moved her other hand to cover his mouth, shaking her head at him. She moved her hips, following the longer measures in the song instead of the short beats.