No Sex For A Week

India Summer and her stepdaughter Vanna Bardot share a hunger that began the day Vanna turned eighteen. Now chores pile up untouched, Vanna's grades sag, and the house smells like sex instead of supper. India finally puts her foot down—no touching for seven days. Pass the week, earn the prize. Vanna sulks but agrees. Seven days crawl by. Every innocent motion turns filthy: India catches herself staring at the sway of Vanna's ass when the girl bends for the dryer; Vanna lingers in doorways, watching India reach for the top shelf, nipples tightening under thin cotton. One afternoon Vanna "accidentally" spills water down her front, the shirt clinging like clear plastic, every curve on display. India's mouth waters and her willpower cracks. They almost make it. One more sunrise and the embargo lifts. They hug in celebration, chest to chest, and restraint evaporates. A single, desperate kiss, tongues meeting, hands already tugging fabric. Bras hit the floor. India palms Vanna's small breasts, thumbs circling stiff peaks. Vanna moans, pushes her thigh between India's legs, grinds. They drop onto the couch and dive between each other's thighs, licking, sucking, tasting the week of denied lust in slick, swollen folds. Wet sounds fill the room. Fingers slip inside, curl, pump until hips jerk and thighs clamp. They come shaking, laughing, already plotting how sweet another week of waiting might taste.