Page 17 of Good Girl and Grinches

I slowly and carefully roll onto my back then into him a little and reach over, my fingers brushing his cock, which has slid right through the fly of his boxers. So convenient.

Learning about penises should be on my checklist. They’re quite fascinating. And if I’m going to allow them in my body, I should have a little more experience in how they work.

And I should do it with consent. My voice of reason tries to break through the wanton wigglings that have taken over my entire body.

“Be my first, Babygirl.”

I freeze. That was completely coherent. Is he awake? Is he about to kick his perverted little stepsister out of his bed?

A few seconds of listening to his breaths and another incoherent babble, assure me he’s still out. It also gives me time to wonder… first what? He’s thirty. He always had a girlfriend until the last few years. Surely he’s not a virgin.

His cock twitches. Tentatively, I wrap my fingers around his shaft, my fingertip and thumb not quite touching. Girthy. Is it instinctive that my sex aches—in a good way?

Moans fill the air. “I’m in love, Babygirl.”

Please let him be dreaming about me. And please don’t let him wake up.

I can pretend I’m sleeping too. This is so wrong. I can’t blame this on the somnophilia that I read about on the internet.

Squeezing a little, I stroke my hand up and down. The movement of his hips in sync with my touch emboldens me. I need more.

I want to see it. And I fully accept that I might go to hell for this, or at the very least, he’ll never respect me again. But I scoot down, just enough that with my eyes being used to the dark, and the faint morning glow, I can see his erection.

I’m definitely in love.

I try different strokes, move my hand over his strained tip, and slick the pre-cum down his shaft while sorting out what makes him moan the loudest. If there’s any redeeming factor, it’s that I will only use my hand.

Somehow putting my mouth on him, or contorting myself to slide him into my sex, seems like it would be crossing a line. I’m also pretty sure that if things go south, this logic will fail me.

My entire body aches. I want to beg him to have sex with me, but I hate to make him break a promise to his brothers. The right thing to do would be to go back to my room and masturbate.

Yes. That’s the right thing to do. I don’t misbehave. I follow the rules, respect right and wrong.

But when I slide my fingers to the end of his shaft, dragging them through his wetness, so I can take it with me—because apparently part of me is terrible, I’m about to let go when his body stills.

He coughs, grumbles, grabs, possibly trying to fist his cock but my hand is in the way and he grabs me and guides my fingers back onto his shaft.

What’s happ—

I barely make out the streak of white before his cum splats on my face. Then again and again. My eyes, my mouth, my nose. I can’t see with my eyes squinted shut, but it’s clear what’s happening.

The only thing that’s not clear is if it’s normal to have this much cum.

Releasing my hand, he scampers to a sitting position. “What the—”

“I’m sorry.” I’m wiping my eyes while I roll for the edge of the bed but he grabs me, drawing me across his lap.

“Were you playing with me while I was sleeping?”

I’m no good at lying. “Not at first.”

“What does that mean?”

“You were dreaming, and I touched you, and—”

His body tenses. “How do you know I was dreaming?”

I close my eyes, but when I reopen them, I’m still draped across his lap, and the scent of his cum still fills my nostrils, which is reasonable given the status of my face. “You were talking in your sleep.”

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