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Chloe

The heat is a blanket I can’t kick off. It’s this heavy, wet thing clinging to my skin, just like my stupid panties. And it’s all her fault.

From my window, the view is a nightmare. A perfect, plastic, pornstar nightmare. Chloe. My “stepmom”. God, even thinking it makes my stomach twist. She’s laid out on a deck chair by our pool, a shiny, oily goddamn centerfold. That tiny, tiny waist I could probably circle with my hands. Those huge, ridiculous fake tits that don’t even move when she shifts. And that ass. That’s a whole fucking surgical masterpiece, round and high and unreal.

She’s in a white string bikini, and it’s basically just dental floss and misplaced confidence. I watch her stretch, a lazy, performative arch of her back, and a low groan escapes my lips before I can stop it. My hand is already down my shorts, my fingers finding the one part of me I truly hate. The freak show.

It’s not normal. I’m not normal. While she’s all smooth curves and softness, I’ve got this… thing. A thick, hard, throbbing clit. A solid three inches of angry, sensitive flesh that’s already poking out of my pink cotton panties right now. It’s like a little dick, and it’s mine, and it’s rock hard because of her.

She gets up, swaying that perfect BBL over to the outdoor bar my dad built. His bar. She pours herself a clear drink, adding a lime like she’s in a fucking commercial. Prancing around like she owns this house, like she owns him.

Fuck, I hate her. I hate her for being here. Hate her for stealing my dad’s attention, for making him look at her with that dumb, lovesick grin. But I hate her most for this. For making my panties soak through with a wetness that has nothing to do with the heat. For making this stupid dick-between-my-legs twitch and ache.

I’m just me. Just turned eighteen. Skinny. Barely any tits to speak of. And she’s… that. A walking fantasy. A cam girl slut who doesn’t even need a camera to be obscene.

She’s back on the lounger now, and I know this part. This is the main event. She thinks no one is watching. But I am. I always am.

She slides a hands slowly over her stomach, her fingers eventually slipping under the tiny triangle of fabric between her legs. Her head lolls back, her mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ as her hips give a little circular grind against her own hand. I can hear her, even through the glass. A low, breathy moan that goes straight to my core.

God, she’s so loud.

My own fingers are moving on autopilot, rubbing rough, desperate circles around the base of my swollen clit. I’m not gentle. I’m pissed. This is a punishment. A rebellion against my own body’s betrayal.

She shifts, hooking her thumbs into the sides of her bikini bottom and peeling them down her thighs. She kicks them off onto the deck. There. Completely exposed. Her pussy is as perfect as the rest of her, puffy and waxed bare, glistening under the sun.

She spreads her legs wide, giving me a full, obscene view, and starts to touch herself for real. Two fingers sliding through her slick folds, her middle finger finding her clit and rubbing it in tight, practiced circles. Her other hand pulls her bikini top to let her tits out, pinching and pulling at her own puffy nipples, making her back arch off the chair.

My breathing is ragged. My own fingers are slick now, slipping and sliding over my own enormity. I wrap my whole hand around it, giving it a rough, furious stroke, imagining it’s something else. Imagining it’s her hand.

Her moans get louder, turning into high-pitched little screams. Her legs are trembling. I can see her whole body tensing, the muscles in her stomach clenching. She’s close. She’s always such a goddamn show-off.

I mimic her, my thumb pressing hard on the very tip of my clit, a dizzying bolt of pleasure-pain shooting through me. I’m grinding my hips into my own hand, my shorts tangled around my ankles. I’m a mess. A jealous, horny, pathetic mess watching a bigger mess.

She lets out a sharp, almost painful cry and her body convulses. A jet of clear fluid sprays from her, catching the sunlight for a second before splattering on the hot concrete. She squirts. Of course she fucking squirts. She collapses back onto the lounger, chest heaving, a satisfied smirk on her glossed lips.

The sight of it, the sheer audacity of her pleasure, shoves me over the edge I’ve been teetering on. My orgasm rips through me, brutal and unforgiving. My back slams against the windowsill as my hips buck wildly into my clenched fist. A choked, guttural sound is torn from my throat—nothing like her performative screams. This is raw and real and angry.

Wave after wave of intense, shuddering pleasure courses through me, centering on that throbbing, over-sensitive nerve between my legs. My vision spots. I bite my lip to keep from screaming his name—her husband’s name—which is fucking insane. The pulsing seems to go on forever, my whole body shaking with the force of it.

When it finally subsides, I’m slumped against the wall, breathless and sticky. Spent. Ashamed.

I look back out the window. She’s still lying there, one hand draped over her eyes, the other resting between her thighs. She looks peaceful. Satisfied. She has no idea.

A new, terrifying thought cuts through the post-orgasm haze. A thought that’s been whispering at the edges of my mind for weeks.

What if she does know?

What if all of this—the skimpy bikinis, the poolside performances, the loud, showy masturbation—isn’t just for her? What if it’s… for me?

The idea is so audacious it makes my heart hammer against my ribs. My still-sensitive clit gives a traitorous throb.

But there’s no way. She would never even think of it. She’s so self-centered, so narcissistic. She sometimes whispers her own name during orgasm if not my dad’s. Her name, like she’s the only one in the room, in the world. She doesn’t even know I exist. Which is better that way. I can just keep watching her. Like now, she’s moving to those massive tits, and those huge protruding nipples are like erect penises, Jesus, she’s lewd. But she sucks on one now, and that tells me she’s not done. She’ll tease and suck herself again and again, and I’m just there to watch it all.

Her lips close around one giant nipple, sucking hard enough to make her own back arch off the lounger. Her free hand cups the other breast, squeezing and kneading it like she’s trying to milk herself. A low, throaty moan escapes her, and I feel my clit twitch again, still sensitive from my last release. She’s relentless, her tongue flicking and teasing at the swollen bud, her fingers pinching and pulling at the other. It’s obscene. It’s grotesque. It’s fucking mesmerizing.

I press a hand to the glass, the cool surface doing nothing to calm the fire raging inside me. My panties are still tangled around my ankles, my thighs damp with sweat and something else. I can’t look away. Not when she switches to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention, her eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in her own touch.

She’s a goddess and a monster, and I’m trapped in her orbit, powerless to break free. My fingers find their way back to my clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles this time, savoring every twinge of pleasure as I watch her unravel. I hate her. I hate her for this. For making me want her. For making me need her. But most of all, I hate myself for letting her win every damn time.