Little Brats: Olivia: Forbidden Taboo Erotica Read online

  Once they were both in, as far as they could go, her mother began to rock back and forth, moaning as she took both of their cocks. Olivia couldn’t quite believe it was happening, let alone that she was watching it all and touching herself while she was at it.

  But she couldn’t deny her arousal. The sound and smell of sex filled the room, and she found herself longing for it, aching all over. The problem was, she wanted the man this woman was married to. She rocked against her hand, slipping a finger inside, knowing Randall’s cock would be thick and hard, would fill her completely.

  And she wanted it. God help her, she wanted it.

  Olivia lifted her shirt to her face with her other hand, wanting to smell him. She loved wearing his shirts so she could smell him, his cologne, and another, different scent that was all male. But this one had lost its lingering smell.

  Making up her mind, Olivia bit her lip as she slid her hand out of her jeans, grabbing her stuff and creeping quietly back out of the library. She would go to her parents’ room and get one of his newly worn shirts to wear. Then she’d take it back to her room where she could let her imagination run wild, where she could bring herself to climax with the scent of him lingering all around her, picturing her stepfather doing all sorts of things to her she could only ever dream of.

  She only went to get a shirt. What she got was far more—although still, not quite enough.

  Her stepfather had slipped away to be alone. He was an introvert, like her. Crowds drained him of energy. She crept quietly into the master suite, the thick carpet masking her footfalls, moving through the sitting room area.

  It was when she peeked around the partial wall that she caught him on the bed. For a moment, she thought for sure he’d seen her, that he would call out. She waited, eyes closed, holding her breath, but he didn’t say anything. So she dared to look again, peeking around the corner, to see him half-reclining on the bed. His shirt was open, revealing his full build. He wasn’t a bodybuilder, but he was solid. His chest and belly were a mass of crevices, hills and valleys. He had a thick nest of hair on his chest.

  But it was his cock that really drew her attention.

  His pants were on, but open, and his cock was out, very hard, swollen in his fist. In his other hand was a book. He was reading something, stroking his cock.

  Olivia fell to her knees, keeping her presence hidden behind the wall she peered around. Her pussy was still throbbing, aching for release. She’d been teasing it far too long. What was he reading? She wondered. Erotica? Some racy story? She found herself incredibly curious about it. What did her stepfather imagine, when he touched himself?

  She watched him, breathless, desperately wanting more. He tugged on himself, hand riding up over the head, then moving down to his balls. He cupped those for a moment, rolling them in his hand, before moving back up to grip the shaft once more.

  Olivia couldn’t help it. She slid her hand back into her jeans, past the silk of her panties. Those were damp, sticky. She parted her thighs and pushed two fingers inside of herself, using her thumb to stroke at her clit as she watched. Her tongue came out to lick over her dry lips.

  She couldn’t believe this was happening, that she was actually watching him get off, but it was. She was. He moaned, pumping faster, his eyes scanning the page of his book, faster and faster. She prayed he wouldn’t look over and see her—although part of her hoped he would. What was he reading? That thought plagued her, excited her.

  Maybe it’s Lolita. That thought made her smile. She could only hope such a fantasy would flit through his imagination. A stepfather lusting after his young stepdaughter. Well, she wasn’t that young. She’d been taking drawing classes at her local community college for almost a year.

  “Oh God.” The words were hoarse in his throat. “Oh God, yeah. Ohhhh fuckkk.”

  Olivia had to bite her lip to keep from crying out, too, as she watched him manhandle himself. His gaze was focused on the book, not moving anymore, just looking at once particular place, but his strokes were frenzied, faster, his cock pumping through his fist.

  “Ahhhhh God!” he cried again, jaw tightening, eyes finally closing as his head went back. “Fuck, I’m gonna come for you!”

  Yes, yes, oh fuck, Daddy, yessss! Her mind screamed as she finger-fucked herself to climax, watching him have his. Her hips rocked, belly tightening, struggling to keep her own eyes open, not wanting to miss a second of his orgasm.

  He fell back onto the pillows, hips bucking up, sacs tight as he let out another low moan, streams of white shooting from the head of his cock onto his undulating stomach. Olivia grabbed the wall to support herself as her hips moved out of control, watching wave after wave of cum splashing her stepfather’s belly. Her pussy spasmed, inner walls clenching hard around her fingers, creating pulses that burst like fire through her body.

  Olivia shrank back when he slowly rose from the bed. She was still trembling, fingers buried deep, her inner walls continuing to clench in the aftermath of her orgasm. She watched him strip his clothes and throw them into the hamper in the closet. He paused a moment in front of the full-length mirror, rubbing a hand over his short beard. He was so handsome, it made her heart hurt. Then he removed his glasses, tossing them on the dresser before walking into the bathroom.

  Though he was still handsome without them, Olivia loved his dark-rimmed glasses—they gave him a bookish charm, amid his short, brown curls and soft, short beard. She knew what her mother had seen in him, for sure. Of course, back then, his career as an A-list thriller writer was about to take off.

  Olivia remembered the scene she’d witnessed in the library, and the inside joke her mother always made about meeting her husband “in the library” suddenly took on a whole new meaning. That’s how they met, she realized, with dawning horror.

  He’d gotten his book published, and then he’d celebrated by fucking Catherine Comstock. Maybe he’d thought he had really won the prize, when he got to marry her. But poor Randall had gotten the short end of that stick. Catherine didn’t have much use for him these days, since he’d moved from a successful genre into writing young adult fiction. Clearly, she had moved on.

  Olivia heard the shower turn on and she dared to stand. Her knees felt wobbly, but she snuck into the closet anyway and grabbed his shirt out of the hamper. As she turned to run out, she noticed the book still sitting on his bed where he’d been sitting. It wasn’t a book at all, she saw up close. It was a journal, one of those blank books they sold at Barnes and Noble for people to write in. There was a rose, a red one, at the center, with a line above it for some sort of title. Instead of a title, there was just one letter: “O.”

  She wanted to read it. Open it up right there and read it. Or maybe she could just take it? But then he would know. She’d get caught. She couldn’t risk that. So Olivia crept back to her room, her stepfather’s shirt still pressed to her nose. The scent of his cologne put a smile on her face. It was a mix of something, jasmine and patchouli, with the smell of his brand of whiskey mixed in, along with the spicy scent of his sweat. That last did her in, making her lightheaded as she repeatedly inhaled on her way to her room.

  She couldn’t get the image out of her head, and of course, when she had an image she couldn’t erase from her mind, she had to draw it. She stripped down to nothing, taking off bra and panties too this time, and put on her stepfather’s shirt. She wanted to bathe in her scent. Then she sat on her bed, her pussy still pulsing from her climax, and drew him.

  The image of Randall stroking his cock wouldn’t leave her, even as it began to take shape on her sketchpad. She spent a great deal of time and detail into drawing his fingers wrapped around his cock, from the shape of the head, to the map of veins on the shaft, to the tiny hairs on his ball sac. Using both her finger and the eraser to shade, she made his erection come to life on the page.

  Sketching him in that final moment of bliss, reclining, head back, she moved her pencil fast, etching out the hairs on his chest, shadowing in the v
alleys of his body. When she finished, pleased with the emotion she’d successfully captured on his face, she started to flip back through the sketchbook. This one was her private collection, full of naked drawings of her stepfather, some alone, but many of them were fully realized drawings of him having sex. With her.

  She didn’t find self-portraits that difficult, like some artists did. And she loved drawing bodies, all shapes and sizes. On the page, she came to life as a full-figured, healthy, Rubenesque woman. Stopping on a personal favorite, one where he rested prone on a bed, arms down to his sides, relaxed, she sat beside him, her hand on his hard cock. He watched her adoringly as she explored him, learned the ways of his body. It was a father-daughter image, an intimate moment of learning.

  Her body pulsed again, imagining it, him naked, so close, actually touching him. Still sitting with her legs crossed, she reached her hand under the tail end of her stepfather’s shirt to play with herself. She could imagine him exploring her, running gentle fingertips over her outer pussy lips, praising her beauty, placing butterfly kisses on her mound.

  Oh to have his hands, his mouth on her… She spread herself open with her fingers, imagined showing him how pink and pretty it was. She could smell him on his shirt, but she could smell her own musk too. It was a heady scent and it aroused her even more, almost as if she could taste them both together.

  Her sketchpad sat open on her bed, and she glanced at the image, at his cock in her hand on the page, and she wanted it. She wanted it so much she could barely stand her own desire. Rubbing her clit with two fingers, making circles, she imagined his wet tongue, then the head of his cock, round and round. Her body filled with warmth as she pinched her clit, imagining him sucking it into his mouth.

  “Oh Daddy,” she whispered, breathless, licking her lips. “Please fuck me… please…”

  A sudden knock on the door startled her.

  “Livvie?” her stepfather called.

  “Yeah, just a minute!” She grabbed for her robe at the end of the bed, pulling it on over his shirt. She belted it as she pulled open the door, feeling how flushed her cheeks must be. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, I…” He glanced down at her and she wondered if he could smell her, the way she liked to smell him. Was he wondering just how wet she was, under her robe? “Your mother’s gone out and I didn’t get much to eat at the party tonight. Thought I’d order some Chinese. You in?”

  So the party was over. Where had her mother gone? She wondered. But then she remembered the scene in the library. Did Randall know where his wife had gone? Did he care?

  She didn’t know. But clearly he knew how much she loved sharing Chinese food with him, and that made her smile.

  “Yeah, sure,” she agreed. “I know what I want.”

  And, boy, did she.

  “Perfect.” He grinned, taking a few steps toward her bed. “Can I borrow your pad and a pencil? If I don’t write it down, I’ll never remember…”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but it happened too fast.

  One minute he was at the door, the next he was standing over her bed, looking down at her sketchbook, open to a picture of them together. Too late, she rushed over and grabbed it anyway, slamming it closed.

  What could she say? Nothing. She said nothing, meeting his stunned gaze. His cheeks reddened as he cocked his head at her, looking from the book to her face and back again. She hugged the sketchbook to her chest, opening her mouth, trying to form words, but they wouldn’t come.

  “Well, I see what’s put that shine in your eyes.” He reached out his hand to touch her cheek, stroking his thumb gently over her skin. “You look very pretty that way.”

  “Thank you,” she got out, swallowing hard.

  “Can you write down your order?” He glanced down at the sketchpad. “You took the paper.”

  She flushed, rushing over to her desk and scribbling her order—General Tso’s Chicken with fried rice—on a tiny Post-it note. She left her sketchpad there, turning to give him her order.

  “Thanks.” He reached for the little sticky note. “I’ll let you know when the food gets here.”

  She gasped when his fingers touched hers, a shock of static electricity sparking between them, along with something more, something hotter, more primal. He turned and walked out, leaving her there, shaking, hot, wanting.

  Olivia didn’t know what to do. She sat on the edge of her bed for twenty minutes, holding her sketch book and trying to talk herself out of jumping out the window. He’d seen her drawings. He’d seen everything. It was like he’d opened her robe and stared at her stark naked. Worse, it was like he’d peeked inside her most secret places, into her deepest, darkest fantasies. And the worst part was he hadn’t said a word. His indifference hurt more than anything else she could have imagined. She would have welcomed his curiosity, his interest, those things, of course—she would have even understood his anger or disappointment. But this?

  How could she ever face him?

  So when the knock came on her bedroom door and Randall called her name, “Livvie,” she actually hid her face in her hands, shaking her head. She couldn’t do this. It was just too awful.

  “Hey, Liv, Chinese is here,” he said, rapping gently again. “It’s in my office, if you want to come eat with me. Or, you know, you could bring it back here. Whatever you want.”

  Whatever she wanted. I wish. If she could have whatever she wanted, she would take him. Over Chinese, or cookies, or anything. She’d take him. But he was her stepfather and she couldn’t have him. Even if her mother didn’t want him anymore.

  “Okay. Be there in a minute,” she offered, then took to chewing on her thumbnail as she listened to his footfalls down the stairs.

  Now what?

  She was actually kind of hungry. She had eaten her cookies, but that was after she’d changed out of the torture device her mother made her wear. Before that, she could hardly breathe, let alone eat anything. So Chinese sounded good.

  But she couldn’t face him. Could she? Maybe she could just run in, grab her food, and go? Would she dare? Would he say anything?

  But no. He was indifferent. He didn’t care if she loved him, one way or the other. Maybe her mother had rubbed off on him more than she realized.

  Olivia made her way the back stairs. She went through the kitchen, quiet now after the party was over. The help had cleaned up, put away the dishes and the food. She stopped at the refrigerator, pulling it open. Lots of leftovers. Funny that they had all this food in the house and they were ordering Chinese. But Randall loved Chinese. They’d shared many a take-out meal in his office, having long talks about art and literature and life.

  Would those come to an end now, she wondered, as she made her way toward her stepfather’s office. The door was ajar and the air was heavy with the redolent smell or take-out grease. She pushed the door open, seeing the food containers lined up on his desk, her father’s Lo Mein in a paper box, her combination meal in a large Styrofoam rectangle with her eggroll in a grease-stained bag on the top. He knew her so well, he’d already laid out the two soy and duck sauces she’d use.

  The room was dim, the only light coming from the small desk lamp, but he wasn’t here.

  So he was avoiding her then. As much as she’d dreaded seeing him, she was disappointed. She’d just take her food back to her room and eat by herself and let him hide. She was as much a coward as he was, she supposed.

  “Olivia.” His voice was low and gentle but it startled her anyway.

  Her spine straightened and she felt his hands move to her shoulders as he stepped out from where he’d been standing in the shadows behind the door. Her mouth opened but she couldn’t say anything. There weren’t words.

  “You know, Olivia, we all keep parts of ourselves hidden.” His thumb moved over the side of her neck, making her shiver. “We wear masks for the rest of the world, and even the people closest to us often don’t know who we really are.”

  She knew he was talking about her,
about her drawings, her secret fantasy life.

  “Randall, I’m sorry,” she whispered, swallowing past the lump in her throat. “I was—”

  What? Silly? Stupid? A fool, to think a man like you could want a girl like me?

  “Shhh.” His lips brushed the top of her head. “There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  His hand moved down her arm. She felt the heat of him, even through the silky material of her robe. Then he put something in her hand.

  “What’s this?” She lifted the book to look at it. Even in the dimness she could see it was a journal, like the one he’d been holding upstairs on the bed. This one had a purple rose on it, but again, the letter “O” on the front.

  “I saw yours,” he whispered, his fingers closing over hers on the book. “Now I’m going to show you mine.”

  She trembled as he guided her hands, opening the book for her, with her.

  It was his handwriting, that much she recognized. She stared at his words. At her name. Olivia. Livvie. Liv. My love. My desperate hope. My bright light. Mine. Mine. Mine.

  “Me?” she whispered, but it was there, in black and white, just like her drawings.

  “Yes.” His other hand moved around her waist and she shrank against him, as if she might make herself smaller—more perfect and beautiful, like the woman he married.

  “Oh Livvie, don’t run from me.” His breath was warm in her ear. “My sweet, beautiful girl.”

  “Me?” she whispered again, incredulous.

  “She came into my office today wearing one of my shirts,” he read softly over her shoulder. “She thinks I don’t know how she steals them. Her mother says it’s to cover up her fat. My wife is a fool, in so many ways. She is a goddess come to life, my Olivia. She is sweet fire and I want to burn with her.”

  “Oh Randall…” Olivia felt tears stinging her eyes, a small flame of bright hope beginning to burn at her core.