Fantasy, Blowjob, Dark fiction, Female exhibitionist, Female solo, Humiliation, Male/Teen Female, Older Male / Female, School, Teen, Voyeurism, Written by women, Young
I've lived with my Dad since my died when I was 7. He's a drunk and has been ever since I can remember.
I found them at the kitchen table, Dad slumped over a coffee mug that definitely wasn't holding coffee, his knuckles white around the ceramic. Uncle Rick sat across from him, fingers steepled under his chin like some bargain-bin detective in a crime drama. The air smelled of burnt toast and something sharper, whisky.
Uncle Rick's chuckle bounced around kitchen. "Wow, can your skirt get any shorter?" His voice had that gravel-dragging undertone, the one that pretended it was joking while his eyes mapped the inches between my hemline and kneecaps. I watched his pupils dilate in real time, black swallowing blue like an oil spill.
I rolled my eyes hard enough for Uncle Rick to see the whites, making sure my sigh was audible as I adjusted my backpack strap. My fingers lingered at my waistband, one quick, practiced twist of fabric, and the skirt rode another inch higher on my thighs. The hem now barely grazed mid-thigh, but the teachers would still bark about dress code violations tomorrow. Worth it for how Rick's knuckles went pale around his coffee mug.
The phone's shrill ring cut through the kitchen's thick silence like a scalpel. Dad flinched so hard his coffee mug skidded across the Formica, leaving a trail of dark droplets in its wake. He fumbled for his phone like it was a live grenade, his thumb smearing greasy fingerprints across the screen before he managed to swipe answer.
The hardwood creaked under Dad's uneven footsteps as he disappeared upstairs talking quietly, his voice fraying at the edges like old rope. The words were too muffled to make out through the ceiling, but the cadence was all wrong, too measured, too careful, like someone choosing which landmine to step on first. I counted the seconds between each stair's groan, my fingernails carving pale crescents into my palms while Uncle Rick drummed his fingers against his coffee mug in a rhythm that wasn't quite random.
The backpack hit the floor with a dull slap, its contents shifting like loose organs inside a body. My fingers trailed along the kitchen countertop, cold Formica under my nails, as I reached for a glass from the cupboard. The cabinet door squeaked on its hinges, the sound too loud in the silence, and I caught Uncle Rick's reflection in its polished surface. His gaze lingered just below my waistline.
The tap squealed like a stepped-on cat as I twisted it, cold water sluicing over my fingers and pooling in the glass with deceptive clarity. The chill bit into my skin, sharp enough to make me flinch, but it was the heat at my back that really stole my breath. Uncle Rick's palm settled on my hipbone with the casual ownership of a man adjusting a lampshade, fingers splayed wide, thumb dipping into the hollow above my waistband.
Uncle Rick's breath hit my ear first, hot, damp, carrying the sour tang whisky. His fingers slid under my pleated skirt with the practiced ease of someone who'd done this before, his calloused fingertips skating up the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. The fabric whispered against my skin as he pushed it higher, the starched cotton catching on his wedding ring with a faint rasp. "I always did like a girl in school uniform," he murmured, his voice gone thick and syrupy, the kind of tone men use when they're already halfway to getting what they want.
The water tasted faintly metallic, like the pipes had been sweating rust overnight. I swallowed carefully, the glass trembling against my lip as Uncle Rick's fingers dug into my thigh, not painfully, just insistently, the way a child grips a favorite toy they're afraid will be taken away. From upstairs, Dad's muffled voice rose in sudden sharpness, then dropped back to that same measured murmur, syllables blurring together through the ceiling like radio static.
I put the glass down just as Uncle Rick spun me around, the half-full tumbler clattering against the countertop with a sound like ice cubes cracking teeth. His grip on my hips was suddenly everywhere, one hand sliding up to fist in the back of my uniform blouse, the other pressing flat against my stomach as he backed me into the refrigerator door. The metal handle dug into my spine through thin fabric, a cold line of pain that barely registered over the heat of his whiskey-breath fanning across my lips.
"You're one sexy girl," his voice rasped against my temple as his palm pressed down on my shoulder with deliberate weight, "just like your mother was." The comparison hit like a stomach punch, stealing my breath more effectively than the pressure forcing me toward my knees. His other hand worked his belt buckle with single-minded focus, the metal clicking like a ticking clock counting down to something inevitable. The scent of his cologne, something cheap and citrusy, mixed with the sour tang of whisky.
Uncle Rick's cock hit the back of my throat with the suddenness of a car crash, no warm-up, no hesitation, just the blunt force of him shoving forward until my nose pressed into the coarse thatch of pubic hair. The scent was overwhelming, musky and thick with stale sweat, the kind of smell that clung to the inside of my nostrils long after he pulled away. His fingers tightened in my ponytail, not quite pulling, just holding me in place like a dog on a leash as he gave an experimental thrust that made my gag reflex kick in violently.
Saliva pooled at the corners of my mouth as I tried to breathe through my nose, the rhythm of his hips already settling into a rough, uneven pattern. The kitchen tiles dug into my kneecaps, the pain a dull counterpoint to the way his cock stretched my lips wide with each withdrawal. Behind me, the refrigerator hummed like a disapproving spectator, its vibration traveling up my spine where I braced against the door.
"That's a good slut," Uncle Rick murmured, his voice thick with whisky and approval as he found his rhythm. His fingers tightened in my ponytail, not pulling, just holding me steady while his hips snapped forward. His cock hit the back of my throat with bruising regularity, the salty-bitter taste flooding my mouth faster than I could swallow.
Uncle Rick's cock slipped from my lips with a wet pop that echoed louder than the refrigerator's hum. His fingers uncurled from my ponytail so suddenly I swayed forward, hands landing on the floor just as his belt buckle clinked. The metallic sound was crisp, efficient, nothing like the drunken fumbling from a few nights ago, and when I looked up, he was already zipped up, adjusting himself through denim with the casualness of a man buttoning his coat.
"Get up quick," he hissed, the words sharp with urgency as Dad's footsteps creaked on the stairs. My knees burned where they'd been pressed into the tiles, the pattern imprinted on my skin like a brand. Uncle Rick's fingers dug into my shoulder, hauling me upright with a jerk that sent my ponytail swinging. My uniform skirt slid back down my thighs with a whisper of fabric, but the weight of his stare lingered like a handprint.
Uncle Rick's chair legs screeched against the tiles a half-second before Dad's footsteps hit the kitchen threshold. By the time the door swung open, Rick was perched on the edge of the counter like he'd been there all along, one boot dangling while the other tapped an arrhythmic beat against the cabinet door. His hands were conspicuously busy, fiddling with a loose thread on his flannel shirt, but his knuckles were still flushed pink from where they'd been fisted in my hair thirty seconds earlier.
"You look flushed," Dad said, his words slightly slurred around the edges as he frowned at me. His fingers hovered near my temple like he might check for fever, then thought better of it and jammed them into his pockets instead. The kitchen clock ticked three loud seconds before I remembered how faces worked and forced my lips into something resembling a smile.
"Come on," my dad said, slapping his palm against Uncle Rick's shoulder with a hollow sound like a rotten melon being dropped. "We've got to go see a man about a dog." His grin stretched too wide, showing the nicotine stains between his molars, a joke wrapped in code, the kind of phrase men use when they don't want women knowing where they are really going.
The screen door slammed behind Dad with a sound like a gunshot, the aluminium frame shuddering in its tracks long after he'd disappeared down the porch steps. Uncle Rick paused in the threshold, one boot planted inside, the other still lingering in that space between home and not-home, his silhouette haloed by the afternoon sun. His fingers curled around the doorframe with casual ownership, knuckles white against the peeling paint.
"See you soon, my little slut," Uncle Rick murmured, his lips barely moving as Dad's footsteps retreated outside. The words slithered into my ear like warm oil, his breath tickling the fine hairs along my neck. A spark flared between my legs, hot, insistent, shameful, as my thighs pressed together involuntarily. The screen door's hydraulic hinge hissed shut behind him, but his scent lingered, whisky and cheap aftershave clinging to the kitchen air like a stain.
One of my hands lifted the hem of my skirt, slowly, deliberately, as the other found the elastic waistband of my knickers. The fabric snapped against my hips with a quiet thwip, my fingers hesitated there, tracing the indentations.
The gusset was soaked through by the time I leaned back against the fridge, the cold metal biting into my shoulder blades as I slid two fingers beneath the damp fabric. My breath hitched when I found my clit already swollen, the slightest pressure sending electric jolts down my thighs. The kitchen smelled of bleach and something muskier, Uncle Rick's cologne lingering in the air like a taunt.
My fingers moved without thought, slick and sure as I pressed one knuckle-deep inside myself. The stretch burned, not painfully, but enough to make my breath hitch against the fridge door behind me. My thumb found my clit with practiced precision, circling just shy of too much pressure, the swollen bud throbbing under my touch like a second heartbeat. The scent of bleach mixed with something darker, musky and primal, as my hips jerked forward into my own hand.
The rhythm of my fingers stuttered, too fast, then too slow, before finding that perfect, relentless pace that made my vision blur at the edges. My breathing hitched in time with each circle around my clit, the sound embarrassingly loud in the empty kitchen, almost drowning out the hum of the fridge. My thighs trembled where they pressed together, trapping my own wrist between them, the friction deliciously rough against my oversensitive skin.
My free hand unbuttoned the top three buttons of my blouse with trembling fingers, the stiff fabric resisting before giving way like overripe fruit splitting at the seams. The air hit my exposed collarbones first, cool, almost shocking against flushed skin, before my fingers slipped beneath the starched cotton of my bra. The lace scraped against my knuckles as I fumbled for purchase, the underwire digging into my ribs when I arched forward into my own touch. My nipple pebbled instantly under my fingertips, the rough pad of my thumb catching on the sensitive peak with just enough pressure to make my breath stutter mid-inhale.
My fingers twisted my nipple sharply, not enough to hurt, but enough to make my breath catch in my throat like a hooked fish. The sharp sting radiated outward in hot waves, syncing perfectly with the rough circles I was grinding against my clit. My blouse hung open, gaping like a broken fence, letting the fridge's cold breath ghost across my sweat-slicked collarbones.
The orgasm ripped through me like a power surge, violent, all-encompassing, leaving my nerves scorched and sparking in its wake. My back arched so sharply I heard vertebrae pop, my shoulder blades grinding against the fridge door as my thighs clamped around my wrist with bone-creaking force. The scream built in my throat but never made it past my teeth, dying as a strangled whimper against the inside of my clenched jaw. My fingers didn't stop moving, couldn't stop, riding the aftershocks with cruel precision even as my hips bucked against the overstimulation.
Tremors radiated outward from my core, making my knees knock against each other enough. The refrigerator hummed against my spine, its vibration syncing with the residual pulses still shuddering through my pelvis. My blouse clung to my sweat-slicked torso, the fabric sticking and unsticking with each ragged breath I dragged in through flared nostrils. The scent of sex and bleach and Uncle Rick's cologne clung to the air, thick enough to taste at the back of my throat.
I opened my eyes and saw my dad standing there, his silhouette framed in the kitchen doorway like a poorly developed photograph. His pupils were pinpricks in the afternoon light, the irises swimming with something between confusion and dawning horror. The fridge door groaned as I peeled my sweat-slicked back from its surface, my fingers still buried in my underwear.
"So that's what you get up to when I'm not here," Dad laughed, the sound too loud, too sharp, like glass breaking on tile. I went nuclear red, skin burning from collarbones to hairline, and bolted past him before he could finish whatever crude joke was forming behind his whisky-stained teeth. My blouse flapped open like broken wings as I slammed into Uncle Rick's chest in the hallway, his hands instinctively closing around my bare shoulders to steady me.
Tears blurred my vision as I wrenched free from Uncle Rick's grip, the sudden movement making his fingernails scrape down my bare shoulders. His laughter chased me up the stairs, low, knowing, vibrating through the banister under my shaking hands. The second stair groaned under my weight like a traitor, the sound drowning in the pounding of my pulse between my ears.
I got to the top and ran into my bedroom, slamming the door so hard the hinges screamed, rattling the framed poster of some boy band I'd stopped caring about months ago. My knees hit the mattress with a force that sent dust motes swirling in the afternoon light, and then I was face-first in the pillow, its lavender scent now cloying, suffocating. The scream that tore from my throat was muffled by feathers, but my ribs still ached with the force of it, a raw, ragged sound that scraped my throat raw.
The front door slammed with the finality of a coffin lid, rattling the framed photos in the hallway. Through the window, Dad and Uncle Rick's laughter carried, too loud, too careless, as their boots scuffed against the pavement in uneven rhythm. The pub's neon sign would be flickering to life by now, its sickly glow beckoning them into that familiar haze of whisky and regret.
The pillowcase soaked through faster than I expected, the fabric turning cold and clammy against my cheek as I gasped into it. Each ragged inhale brought the scent of lavender laundry detergent mixed with something sour, my own breath, hot and panicked, trapped in the fibres. My fingers twisted in the sheets until the knuckles ached, imagining Dad's shadow lingering in the doorway, watching my shoulders hitch with silent sobs. Had his boots been already planted there when my back arched off the fridge? Had he seen my blouse gaping open, my fingers working between my thighs while Uncle Rick's cologne still clung to the air?