Page 8 of Touchdowns and Tinsel

Before checking on Noelle, I discreetly make my way to my room, quickly changing out of my uniform and into a pair of sweatpants and a wife beater.

The soft sounds of moans drift down the hallway, and I follow the melody with eagerness, a grin spreading across my face as I anticipate what I’m about to witness. Noelle always leaves her door slightly ajar at night, so I lean in closer, peering through the gap—and my heart races at the fucking sight before me.

There she is—stepmother dearest—sprawled across her bed, her blanket and pajama shorts pushed down past her knees, hanging loosely about her ankles. Her feet are flat against the mattress, knees comfortably bent, and the way she’s lost in her own rhythm with her fingers, thrusting deep in her pretty cunt—it's all too tempting, taunting, practically beckoning me to watch.

"Fuck me," I mutter under my breath, slowly swallowing to try and gather all the spit I can to coat my dry throat.

My cock is swollen, aching for me to grab it and provide some relief. As I slip my hand down the front of my sweats, I watch Noelle take her other hand and push up her silk top, her full breasts spilling out beneath the hem. She cups some, squeezes it a couple of times, and then gives her perky pink nipple some much-needed attention. Her acrylic nail slips under the diamond hoop, playfully tugging on it until her nipple looks so hard it fucking hurts.

But the way she moans and arches her back, lifting her ass off the bed while adding another finger to the two already delving inside of her pussy, let's me know that she's in no way in any form of pain—at least not physically.

I press my shoulder against the outer door frame, firmly stroking my dick from the base to tip, trying to match the rhythm of her thrusting fingers so it's like I'm fucking her in a way. I shudder as the light from outside bounces off the beads of sweat covering her tan skin, giving it a blissful glow. And the wet sounds her cunt makes as she fucks herself even faster ring in my ears like a fucking Christmas Carol.

But it's the moan that slips from her luscious, parted lips—a moan in the form of my name as it rolls seductively off the tip of her tongue—that just about sends me crashing off the fucking edge.

Her legs fall to the bed, giving me a much better view of the drenched, gaping hole between her pussy lips as she slowly pulls her fingers out. She rubs her fingers over her lips and then sucks them inside, swirling her tongue around them like I've pictured her doing to my cock.

"Jesus," I pant, stroking faster, spreading the drops of moisture coating my head up and down my aching shaft.

I hear a whimper next, and at first, I think she's finished. She props herself up on her pillows, her back leaning comfortably against the cushioned headboard, her long, sexy legs spreading even wider. Her fingers return to her cunt, and she eases three in right off the bat, now cupping her other tit and toying with that nipple to get it as hard as the other.

I watch her red painted toes curl against the sheet as she resumes fucking herself, and I keep stroking my cock, feeling like I'm about to fucking burst. All I can think about is destroying her in every way possible—mind, body, and soul—including the perfect pussy between a pair of insatiable legs that seriously go on for days.

Her moans grow louder as her rhythm increases, and the noises she's producing finally cause the damn inside me to break. Hot cum pours down my shaft and soaks my hand, but I keep jerking frantically, even noticing tears sliding down her cheeks as she comes all over her fingers.

The sight of her crying does something to me. I feel like a fiend—an addict—and the only thing I need right now is her—broken, crying, and utterly fucking defeated.

I stood at Noelle's door, the remnants of her cum lingering on her fingers, my hand still marked by mine. I watched her eyelidsgrow heavy, caught in the stillness of the moment as I tried to steady my breathing before I walked away.

It wasn't long before she pulled out her phone and logged into her fetish app, signaling that it was time for me to retreat to my room. Yet, a plan began to form in my mind—a chance to manipulate the situation, to engage her in conversation, pretending to be somebody else.

So that's exactly what I decided to do.

In the dim confines of my room, I open the app on my laptop, eager to see what she’s up to. Still buzzing from the intensity of the pleasure, I feel high on her, like an addict who so desperately needs their next fix. But, beneath that pleasure, a tide of anger and betrayal boils within me, drowning out the euphoria.

Why did she need to be on a site like this? Did she engage in such activities when my father was still alive? Or was this a coping mechanism she adopted after he was killed?

Flashes of red ignite before my eyes, but I force myself to concentrate on the screen as she begins clicking through options from her room just a few doors away. My jaw pulsates as I grit my teeth, clenching them like a vice while focusing on the screen and the different kink categories she keeps clicking on.

Using the account I created when I installed the app, I quickly find her profile, wasting no time.

Without hesitation, I click on her picture and then on the message icon, gearing up for another round of torment—one that's good for me, but I know makes her miserable. Making her squirm has always been fun, and the fact that she still hasn't figured out who it is yet that crosses the line just about every time just makes me want to push her boundaries even further.

But over the swirl of emotions, I can’t completely suppress my desire for her, and soon I find myself typing her a simple message, my body throbbing with unrelenting need.

Hey, I noticed you in the stalker chat and was hoping that you'd say something, but you never did.

I can tell she's reading the message and trying to think of what to say, just from the amount of time that passes before the three little dots pop up on my screen, letting me know she's now typing back.

I'm new to all of this. I'm sorry! I don't really know what to say...

Don't be shy. It's not like anyone knows who the other is in here... you're free to express yourself however you want.

I get that, but how do you get past the shame and embarrassment when reality hits and you realize what kind of site you're on?

Seeing where things are heading and already knowing they're not good, I try to turn the conversation around, hoping to get her to stay online and not log off.

What's your name? Or really, what would you like to be called?

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