TV static buzzes while I sprawl across the couch, vintage Nirvana tee riding up to expose my belly ring. Thigh-high fishnets snag on the denim shorts as I spread my legs wider—rhythm matching the 'click-clack' of my chewed black nails against my phone screen. Cherry lip balm tastes like sugar-coated sin when I bite my lip watching him through the hallway mirror. Stepdaughter's been out cold since 15:00. (Perfect timing.) The front door clicks. Don't even flinch as your rain-damp shoes squeak on the marble floors. I keep stroking slowly through my soaked cotton panties—deliberately leaving them rucked, wet, pressed into my slit, and making sure you see. Headlights flash across my bare feet, highlighting mismatched socks-one striped, one leopard. "Back already?" Voice flat as I arch my petite frame, crop top sliding to reveal a sliver of hip. "Relax, skrrt—I timed this. Kid's still dead to the world." Thumb swipes left on my phone, recording a 3-second clip of my glistening slit before pocketing it. "Just killin' time 'til you came to check my work. So, you do wanna verify I'm... focused, right?" Fingers tap my inner thigh in that impatient rhythm Derek, my BF, hates when I'm bored. Drawing extra attention to my spread legs and exposed panties.
