The Niece

The first sign was the shorts.

Not just shorts.

Booty shorts.

Barely-there, skintight little things that rode up between her cheeks when she bent over, leaving nothing to the imagination.

And Kaylie bent over a lot.

Fixing her sandals.

Pretending to search the bottom shelf for snacks.

Dropping "accidental" pens at the dinner table.

Each time, flashing those long, smooth, caramel legs that seemed to go on for miles, and flashing me that impish, wicked smile when she caught me looking.

She knew.

Oh, she fucking knew.

And she was playing me.

She moved in with us three weeks before graduation.

Said she didn't want to renew her lease for just a few months.

And of course my wife, ever the bleeding heart, couldn't say no.

"She's family!" she chirped, wrapping Kaylie up in a big hug.

"She's just a kid!" she laughed.

No.

Not anymore.

The girl who dropped her duffel bag by our front door was a woman.

Long dark hair, wicked amber eyes, curves poured into a tight little college body that could've made priests break their vows.

And she made herself right at home.

It started slow.

Tiny pajama shorts and loose tanks with no bra.

Stretching across the couch in ways that flashed the smooth curve of her ass, the delicate sliver of her inner thighs.

Leaning over dinner plates, fake-innocent smiles, brushing her fingers against my hand when she passed me something.

Her skin was butter soft.

Her smell--a teasing cocktail of coconut lotion, expensive shampoo, and something that was just her--wrapped around me every time she moved.

She always kept herself perfect.

Legs shaved to a flawless, glistening smoothness.

Toes always painted fresh, light pink, little gold rings hugging her second toes.

She stretched in front of me constantly, tank lifting up, flashing taut stomach and tight tits that begged to be touched.

At first, I tried to pretend it was innocent.

Tried to pretend she wasn't biting her lip when she looked at me.

Tried to pretend the heat wasn't real.

But it got worse.

It got deliberate.

I caught her for real the first time after a run.

I peeled my sweat-soaked shirt off over my head, standing in the kitchen, wiping my face.

When I looked up, Kaylie was staring.

Not glancing.

Staring.

Eyes devouring my chest, my arms, trailing lower, lower--

She licked her lips.

Slow.

Mindless.

Hungry.

When she realized I'd caught her, she blushed... but didn't look away.

If anything, she smiled a little.

That smile was my undoing.

Kaylie wasn't some naive little girl.

She was a grown woman.

A wicked little temptress who knew exactly what she wanted.

And she wanted me.

The tension after that was unbearable.

Crackling, electric.

She brushed against me constantly.

Leaned into me to "reach" for things.

Sat too close on the couch, her smooth thigh pressed against mine, her toes curling under my leg.

Every night, I laid awake, rock-hard, straining against my boxers, imagining her moaning my name.

Imagining her tiny, perfect body spread under me, begging.

And my wife?

Completely blind.

"You're like the dad she never had," she said one night, smiling.

Yeah.

Real fatherly thoughts I was having while I jerked off to the memory of Kaylie's legs wrapped around my waist.

Graduation day broke me.

She wore a black dress tight enough to suffocate in.

Low cut to tease the curves of her tits, slit high to show flashes of her golden thighs.

When she hugged me, she pressed those curves against me.

Hard.

Lingering.

"Thanks for everything, Billy," she whispered against my neck, lips brushing skin, hot and slick.

I had to clench my fists to keep from grabbing her right there.

The smile she gave me after?

Pure sin.

That night, after the guests left, she changed.

Tiny denim shorts, white tank top, no bra.

Her tits swayed softly with every step.

She stretched out on the couch like a cat, toes tapping in the air, polish catching the light.

When I pulled my shirt off to clean up, she stared again--bold now, biting her lip, eyes devouring me like she was already imagining me between her legs.

The dam inside me cracked wide open.

It happened in the laundry room.

I was loading the dryer, minding my own business, trying to pretend I wasn't hard as a fucking rock from the scent of her panties in the basket.

Then she appeared.

Barefoot.

Flushed.

Breathless.

Holding a sock.

"Forgot this," she said, voice high, fake-sweet.

I turned.

She dropped it.

Not just the sock.

The towel.

She stood there, naked.

Trembling.

Eyes wide and scared--but daring.

Breasts soft and full, nipples hard, skin still dewy from the shower.

Something inside me snapped.

I crossed the room, grabbed her face, and kissed her hard, shoving her back against the washer.

She gasped against my mouth, grabbing at my jeans, tugging them down, desperate.

I palmed her tits roughly, dragging my nails down her back, grabbing handfuls of that perfect ass.

I spun her, bent her over the dryer, spread her legs with my knee.

She was soaked.

I fisted my cock, guided it to her dripping slit, teasing just enough to make her sob--and then I slammed into her.

She screamed--loud, raw, needy.

I gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, pounding into her with savage thrusts.

Her body jolted with every slap of my hips against her ass.

The dryer rocked under us, metal creaking.

She pushed back on me like a bitch in heat, gasping, sobbing, twisting her head to look at me, eyes wild.

"You fucking wanted this," I growled, yanking her hair.

"Y-yeah, Billy, fuck--yeah--!" she sobbed.

I pounded her harder.

Faster.

The noise obscene, filthy, echoing off the walls.

I watched my cock disappearing into her tight, clenching pussy.

Watched the mess of wetness and sweat gleaming between us.

God, she was beautiful.

Ruined.

Mine.

I pulled out and scooped her up, her thighs slick against my hips.

We stumbled to her room.

Door wide open.

Bed neat, pure.

Not for long.

I threw her onto the mattress, yanked her legs up over my shoulders, and buried myself in her again.

She screamed my name, sobbing it.

"Billy--Billy--Billy--fuck--"

Her nails raked my back, her legs spasming.

The bed slammed against the wall with every brutal thrust, thudding loud enough to wake the dead.

I fucked her harder.

Deeper.

Using her.

Owning her.

When she shattered around me, sobbing and twitching, I kept going.

Driving through her orgasm, fucking her raw.

I felt my balls tighten.

The fire building, about to explode.

I buried myself deep and came inside her, filling her with thick, hot ropes of cum.

She whimpered under me, milking me for every last drop.

We collapsed together.

Breathless.

Sticky.

Sweaty.

She wrapped her arms around me, burying her face in my neck.

"Billy... Billy... Billy..." she whispered.

Soft.

Broken.

Happy.

And then

SLAM.

The front door.

"Hey, babe! I'm home!"

My wife's voice.

Kaylie froze under me.

Eyes wide.

Face draining of color.

She started shaking her head, mouth opening and closing.

"Oh my God," she whispered, "Billy--Billy--what do we do?!"

We scrambled.

Kaylie grabbing for clothes, sobbing silently.

Me fumbling with my jeans, my cock still wet, still leaking.

She clutched a sheet around her, trembling so hard she could barely stand.

The footsteps started up the stairs.

Kaylie whimpered, pressing herself against the wall, tears spilling down her cheeks.

The doorknob twisted.

Her terrified eyes locked onto mine.

Save me.

Save us.

But it was too late.

The door opened.

And everything shattered.