6. Becoming Cassie #2
Of course, there’s no reply, but I love it nonetheless.
I’m having fun. And then, just because I’m gettig into it now, I sit back and pull my panties off entirely.
My knees are up, and I spread myself open while running the dildo up and down the inside of my thigh before holding it to my clit for a naughty pic.
Then I spread my labia open and let the camera get a few good pics of that too.
My clit is huge and hard, and I rub it a little, getting it glossy and shiny, before spreading even further to show off my tiny pink hole.
“It’s so small!” I cry out. “But I want you to kiss me there, Daddy. Please!”
Unfortunately, there’s no man to do the honors, but I decide to do a bit of the honors myself.
I rub my clit a bit, gently teasing it out of its hood, and then circle my little hole with the dildo before sliding it inside—just a little, just enough to stretch and burn and make me gasp.
The camera clicks, the sound loud in the silence as I pant and moan.
“Mmm, you’re so big, Daddy. Oooh, the burn hurts!”
My hips rock. I can’t help it. I want to see my pussy impaled and helpless around a massive cock, want to show off for someone, anyone.
I reach down and rub my clit as I fuck myself lightly with the toy, going in only about an inch each time, my breaths coming ragged and wild.
I imagine Trevor on the other side of the screen, his eyes locked on me, watching as I ruin myself for him.
“Oooh Trevor!” I pant. “Oh my god, you feel so good, but put on a condom please please please because I’m not on protection! Oh god!”
Of course, there’s no condom and the thought of my stepbrother’s cock erupting hot and virile inside me makes me come instantly.
The orgasm is quick and powerful, flashing hot through my stomach and making me cry out—loud and raucous, almost a scream, certainly enough to echo off the walls.
I shudder and shriek some more, still fucking myself lightly with the dildo as I pant Trevor’s name.
“Mmmm,” I wail. “Unh more!”
But of course, I’m alone. Once the sensations have subsided somewhat, I collapse onto the covers, sticky and shaking, the dildo limp on the bedspread, the taste of lipstick bitter on my tongue.
For a long time, I just lie there, the ceiling above me an endless blank, the silence absolute except for my own racing heartbeat.
The click of the camera jostles me back to life and with a start, I grab my phone and scroll through the photos.
There are dozens, if not hundreds, of them now: they’re dirty too, all triple-X and totally uninhibited.
My big breasts are bare, my pussy soaked, and I’m so lost in it that my mouth is open in a perfect O, eyes half-closed, sweat slicking my skin as the dildo teases my little hole.
My clit bulges, huge and pink, and in some photos, you can even see the taut knot of my clenched asshole.
OMG, what have I done?
No one can ever see these.
I save them all to a hidden album. I name the folder “Homework.” I tell myself I’ll delete them soon, but I know I won’t.
I get up, wipe myself down with a tissue, and smooth the sheets. The room smells like perfume and sweat and something animal.
I hide the phone in my nightstand and turn off the light, curling up in bed with the covers pulled high.
This is just for me, I whisper. They’re private.
But in my head, a vision of Trevor appears. His blue eyes gleam as he smiles that knowing smile.
He’s watching. Wanting.
And for the first time in my life, I almost believe I could be his.
It’s morning again, but now the world’s color is turned down a notch: cool blue leaking through the front windows of The Fig Leaf, everything damp and still but not quite awake.
I let myself in with the skeleton key, the little jangle echoing off the crowded shelves, and breathe in the aroma of fertilizer and growing things.
The store is barely more than a hothouse, every surface sweating moisture, the bins overflowing with root rot and decaying moss from the afterparty of last night’s rain.
I roll up my sleeves and start the ancient ritual: plug in the misting fans, wipe down the terrariums, flip the “Sorry We’re Closed” sign to “Yes, We’re Open,” even though no one will come in for another hour.
I settle at the front desk with a mug of very average coffee and try not to think about what’s on my phone, hidden in that folder, a bomb ticking down to who knows what.
But it’s all I can think about.
Every time I see my reflection in the glass, I catch the ghost of the girl I was last night: the heavy makeup still faintly staining my lashline, the delicate golden curl of a tendril of hair, and mostly, the knowledge that what happened happened.
It makes me feel naughty, like I’m glowing from the inside.
It’s like there’s something burning under my skin, a fever that won’t go down.
I tie my hair up in a tight ponytail and tug a green apron over my T-shirt, hoping to hide any residual sluttiness from my own eyes. The phone on the counter buzzes twice: first a spam text, then a single, chatty message from Mom, who’s already on her way to Pilates. I ignore both.
Instead, I check the register and restock the sticky note pads for labeling cuttings and cut flowers.
There’s comfort in the monotony, the mindless repetition of busywork.
My hands find their rhythm, but my brain is a swarm: I keep replaying last night in little jump-cut snippets—the snick of the camera shutter, the burn of the dildo as it stretched my pussy open, the way my big breasts bobbled, lush and ivory.
I wonder if I’d recognize myself if I saw those pictures again.
I wonder if I should delete them, or send them to Trevor just to see what would happen.
The thought makes my pussy squeeze tight on itself, and I almost knock over a jar of rooting powder.
The bell over the door rings, and I jump, but it’s just Angela, my manager, her hair in its usual tight chignon and her mouth already pursed in irritation.
“Morning, Kayleigh. You’re early.”
I force a smile, extra sunny. “Just wanted to make sure we had time to prep the order for the Simpson party. That’s today, right?”
She squints at her clipboard, then at me. “You’re right. They want twenty mini-succulent favors and a centerpiece with blue delphinium.” She walks past me, eyes scanning for mistakes. “Can you start the arrangements? I’ll get the till ready.”
“On it,” I say, and vanish into the back, grateful to be alone with the plants and the industrial sink.
Back here, the light is sickly and green, filtered through ancient plastic skylights.
I strip off my apron, toss it onto a sack of mulch, and open the walk-in.
The cold air wakes me up instantly. I pull out a bucket of flowers and start assembling, hands deft from muscle memory.
As I pick stems and trim leaves, my mind wanders.
To Trevor.
Always Trevor.
I picture him getting the photos, opening the “Homework” folder, seeing my pussy spread wide for him, seeing my face flush with want.
I imagine his expression—maybe cool and unreadable, maybe a slow, dawning grin.
I imagine him closing his hand around his massive cock, stroking himself to the images of me, and the delight of it is so sharp I have to pause and catch my breath.
But then, the daydream mutates, doubling back on itself: what if he sent the photos to someone else?
What if he laughed about it with Cassie, showed her how pathetic I am, how desperate to be noticed?