Attire Backfire

Annie King stared at Khloe Kingsley's ass cheeks hanging out from those cutoff shorts again and felt heat flood her face. The girl moved through the kitchen like the house belonged to her, bending over counters, stretching her arms high enough for her tank top to ride above her belly button. Annie's fingers dug into her coffee mug. Something had to give. She chose defiance. That night she traded her usual robe for black lace panties and nothing else, letting her tits move freely as she walked barefoot into the living room. The cool air hardened her nipples instantly. She stretched across the couch in one careless arc, legs parted just enough, pretending to scroll through her phone. Khloe stopped mid-step when she saw her. For one suspended second Annie thought her point had landed. Then Khloe's eyes darkened and the corner of her mouth lifted. She crossed the room without hurry. Annie smelled coconut on her skin before Khloe's palm pressed against her inner thigh. "Mom," Khloe murmured, not whispering. The word sounded filthy in her mouth. Annie's breath caught. Her mind offered weak protests—stepdaughter, wrong, stop—but her body leaned in. Khloe's tongue traced the underside of Annie's breast, slow and certain, while her fingers slid under the lace. Annie's hips lifted before she even realized she had moved them. Khloe pushed the panties aside and Annie felt slick fingers stroke her open cunt, parting her folds with clear intent. She tried once more to sit up. Khloe pressed her back down with one hand between her tits. Annie stayed. She watched, lips parted, as her stepdaughter licked a stripe up her stomach, settled between her thighs, and sucked her clit like she had been waiting months to do it. Annie's hand found Khloe's hair. Her thighs shook. She stopped pretending she wanted this to end.