Dirty Doll

It happened slowly—head resting on his shoulder, then a shared blanket, then an arm thrown around you. And now, laying on his chest, his arms securing you to him. It was a natural progression.

It was innocuous, innocent. Surely.

And you let yourself believe that. For as long as you can.

Until you can't escape the truth.

Because it's poking you in the hip.

At some point you can't quite discern, his hard length became noticeable, his heart racing under your ear, and instead of acting shocked and horrified, you find yourself shifting your leg—almost passible as unintentionally—to rub against it.

His breathing picking up, he's not shifting away from you, but he's tense, hesitant, wary of what is happening. Unsure if he should let it.

Grinding against his bulge, you lift your head, looking up at him with those big, pleading eyes he can never say no to.

Big brother who finally snaps, flipping you over and pressing his mouth to yours, kissing you deep and fervently, grinding against you with ever rising need.