Bedtime in Blue Lace
The house was quiet when you arrived—the kind of hushed stillness that made your footsteps sound too loud, like an intrusion. You remembered Anberlyn as the quiet, awkward girl with braces and oversized sweaters, always hiding behind books, her voice barely above a whisper. But time had a way of reshaping people, and with the door to her room left slightly ajar, it seemed almost like an invitation. Curiosity tugged at you like an insistent hand, and you couldn’t resist peeking inside.
Moonlight spilled through the window, painting her in silver and shadow. There she was, sprawled across her bed in nothing but a delicate blue lace bra and thong, the straps slipping in careless disarray. One cup had slid down, revealing the soft swell of her breast, full and ripe, while the thin fabric of her panties clung precariously off her hips, teasing the softness between her thighs.
You lingered, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. Your pulse quickened. She had been a shy, awkward girl once—a girl who shrank from attention. Now, every inch of her was a temptation, a secret waiting to be unraveled. Her body was a woman’s—ready, restless, trembling on the edge of discovery. You should’ve walked away. But then her fingers twitched in sleep, as if dreaming of touch, and the sight rooted you there, aching.
A floorboard creaked beneath your weight. She stirred, blinking up at you through barely opened, sleep-bleary eyes. A slow, drowsy smile curved her lips. “Hey, you.” Her voice was soft, warm with sleep as she rolled onto her side, one arm stretching above her head in a languid arc. The movement made the lace of her bra strain, the fabric slipping further. “Thanks for staying with me while Mom’s away,” she murmured. “No problem, sweetie,” you lied, forcing your gaze to stay on her face. “I was just checking if everything was okay.”
Anberlyn lay exposed before you now, her body a study in contradictions—the womanly curves that filled out the blue lace lingerie at odds with the shy hesitation in her movements, betraying the innocence still lingering in her eyes. When she caught you looking, she bit her lip. “Mom said I need to…” Her voice faltered as her fingers fumbled to the stray strap, the gesture more revealing than concealing. “That I should dress more... more my age,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
The words came haltingly, but there was a question beneath them. Her fingertips traced the edge of the lace at her hip, tugging it back into place over the softness between her thighs. A rosy flush bloomed across her collarbones. The way she held your gaze while saying it - equal parts bashful and bold - made it clear this was no simple complaint. It was an invitation, a challenge.
You saw the conflict in her—the way she craved your gaze yet trembled under it. She was testing her power, playing with fire, and the thrill of it made her chest heave. “Do you… Do you think I'm grown up enough now?” she asked, her voice small but daring. The question hung between you, heavy with implication. And the worst part? You couldn’t look away.
Exposure Therapy
Anberlyn was learning the game—and learning it fast. By the third day, she’d perfected the art of almost being dressed. Modesty, it seemed, was an outgrown skin she had shed without hesitation. If she wasn’t lounging in one of her many matching blue lace bra-and-thong sets, she was parading around in lace-trimmed camisoles that dipped dangerously low, teasing glimpses of cleavage, or tiny capris that clung to the pert curve of her ass like a second skin.
This morning was no exception. “Do you like this one?” She spun slowly in front of you. The cropped tank she wore clung to every swell of her breasts, the fabric thin enough that the outline of her nipples was unmistakable. Below, her panties—if they could even be called that—were little more than a scrap of lace, barely covering the soft swell of her backside.
The outfit left nothing to the imagination. Her voice was tentative, but her eyes—dark with something new, something hungry—dared you to look. Really look. “Or do you think it’s too much?” She tilted her head, feigning innocence even as her teeth sank into her lower lip. “Or… too little?”
The spark of mischief in her gaze told you she already knew the answer. “You’re stunning,” you assured her, your voice thicker than you intended. She exhaled as she bit her lip and glanced away—but not before you caught the pleased curve of her lips. She was testing herself, testing you, learning the power of her body one lingering glance at a time. And you knew this game.
You’d seen it in the way she lingered in doorways, hips cocked just so. The way she stretched a little too far when sprawled on the couch, the hem of her shirt riding up to reveal the smooth plane of her stomach. The way she pretended not to notice your gaze—even as she arched into it.
You cleared your throat, swallowing hard, forcing your tone into something firmer. “Your mom bought you those clothes for a reason.” Her breath hitched when your eyes dropped—just for a second—to the hardened peaks of her nipples beneath the fabric. “She wants you to feel confident.”
Anberlyn’s cheeks flushed pink, but she didn’t cover herself. Instead, she inhaled slowly, her back arching just enough to push her chest forward—testing, teasing, seeing how far you’d let her go. “I don't... I don’t really feel confident,” she murmured, her fingers tracing the lace at her hip. “But… do you like it?” She wasn't asking about the clothes. She was asking about the woman spilling out of them. And God help you both, she already knew the answer.
Steam & Immodesty
The bathroom door stood slightly ajar—just enough for steam to curl into the hallway like a whispered invitation. "Accidentally," of course. You knew better. Just walk past, you told yourself. But then—the shift of water, the soft gasp as she stepped under the spray. Your feet betrayed you before your mind could protest.
Through the gap, the silhouette of her was unmistakable: the narrow dip of her waist, the heavy sway of her breasts as she lathered them, her fingers gliding in slow, slick circles. The shower’s spray glistened on her skin, droplets catching the light as they traced the curve of her collarbone, the swell of her hips. Your throat went dry when her touch drifted lower, fingertips skimming with teasing hesitation.
Then—Anberlyn turned. Water sluiced down her belly, her thighs, and her eyes locked onto yours through the steam. Caught, mid-stare. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. For one heartbeat, panic flickered across her face—before it melted into something warmer, bolder. “I… didn’t know you were there,” she lied, her voice trembling—but not from fear.
“You’re truly beautiful,” you replied, the words rough, unguarded. A shiver ran through her, and the way her thighs pressed together told you she liked hearing it. Needed to hear it. A beat of silence. Then— “You could watch… if you want,” she murmured, a giggle caught in her throat as she reached for the towel.
She dried herself with deliberate slowness, letting the fabric drag over her nipples until they peaked, her breath hitching just enough for you to notice. But she didn’t cover herself. Not really. Instead, she let the towel dip lower, her eyes daring you to follow its path. She wanted you to look. Needed it.
“Unless…” She bit her lip, stepping closer, the steam still clinging to her skin. “You’d rather join me?” The air crushed you, heavy with heat, with hunger. And this time, neither of you could pretend it was an accident.
Pillow Talk
The bed dipped as Anberlyn slipped under the covers, her body radiating warmth against yours. She propped herself up on one elbow, her face inches from yours in the dim light. “I’ve never slept alone in this house before,” she admitted, her voice small. A shaky breath escaped her lips when your thigh brushed against hers beneath the sheets. “Can I… stay here with you tonight?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart. I get it,” you relented, already knowing this would be the longest night of your life. You rolled onto your side facing away, putting precious inches between you—or trying to. Then—a tap on your shoulder.
You turned back to find her biting her lip, eyes wide in the moonlight. “Wassup?” you murmured. Late-night confessions seemed to unravel you. “Can we… talk?” she asked, fingers twisting in her hair. “'Course, sweetheart. What's on your mind?” A beat of silence. Then—
“Sometimes I... touch myself,” she blurted, then immediately buried her face in her hands before peeking through her fingers. “Just to see what it feels like. I, um… use my pillow sometimes.” The admission hung between you. Even in the low light, you could see her nipples straining beneath the thin fabric of her tank top.
“I didn't know it could feel like that,” she continued, her voice equal parts wonder and shame. You coaxed more from her—how she imagined someone else, how the hunger left her restless and aching. When you stroked her hair, she shivered. “Does that make me bad?”
“It makes you human, sweetheart.” Her exhale was part relief, part something darker. “Do you… like it?” you asked. A tiny nod, cheeks burning. “But it's not enough,” she whispered. Then, softer still as she looked away embarrassed: “I've never touched a man before. Never seen or felt... you know.” She returned her gaze, then scooted closer. “Can I—?”
You guided her trembling hand downward. Her gasp when she wrapped her fingers around you was pure, unfiltered curiosity. “It's so… hard,” she marveled, feeling the weight of it, squeezing experimentally. She was mesmerized by her own effect on you. Then, with devastating innocence: "Does it actually fit inside girls? Really?"
The dark chuckle escaped before you could stop it. “Oh, it fits. Even when they're tight.” Your voice dropped. “Especially then. The tighter, the better for both of us.” A beat of silence. You blinked. Holy shit. Did I actually just say that?
But Anberlyn wasn't recoiling—she was leaning in, her lips parted, her pupils blown wide. “Show me,” she breathed. And just like that, the last shred of restraint snapped.
Her First Taste
Her skin was impossibly soft under your palms, warm and yielding as you traced the curves she’d only just learned to embrace. Every gasp that escaped her lips was a melody, every shudder a revelation. “Oh Gosh—” Her voice broke as your fingers slid inside, her hips jerking instinctively. “I didn’t know it could—gosh—feel like this.”
Anberlyn was tight, wet, her body clenching around you in desperate little pulses as you stroked that sweet spot that made her eyes shut. Her breath came in ragged pants, her fingers digging into your shoulders like she was afraid you might vanish. “Do you think…?” She bit her lip, eyes wide with nervous excitement. “Could it even fit?”
You brushed your thumb over her clit, drawing a whimper from her throat. "We’ll go slow," you assured, but the way her thighs trembled when you pressed against her entrance told you she was ready—she needed this. “Please,” she begged, her voice cracking. “I need—I don’t think it’ll fit, but I need to know.”
Her body was alight with restless energy. With a sudden boldness, she reached behind her back, unhooking her bra in one fluid motion. The lace slid away, baring her breasts—full, heavy, tipped with flushed pink nipples already swollen tight. Then, with a shy yet defiant glance, she hooked her thumbs into her panties and pushed them down her thighs, kicking them aside.
Naked at last, she hovered above you, her gaze piercing. “I want to know what it feels like,” she demanded, her voice low but unwavering. Her breasts swayed as she straddled your thighs, her hands rising to cup them herself, fingers kneading the soft flesh almost absently. “Boys at school just stared and laughed at these,” she admitted, her voice cracking with old hurt. "Said they were too fat."
You didn’t just tell her they were wrong—you showed her. “They’re perfect, sweetheart,” you assured before taking a nipple into your mouth, sucking until she cried out, her back arching. “Oh Gosh—!” Her fingers tangled in your hair, holding you there. “I didn’t know it’d feel like this!” Her hips jerked, restless, desperate. “Please, I need—”
You didn’t make her finish the sentence. In one smooth motion, you flipped her onto her back, spreading her thighs wide. “You need this,” you growled, lining yourself up. The moan that tore from her throat when you pressed into her was equal parts shock and rapture. Her nails scored down your back as her body stretched to accommodate you, her breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.
“It—it hurts,” she whined, but her legs locked around your hips, pulling you deeper. You stilled, giving her a moment to adjust, but she shook her head frantically. “Don’t stop,” she gasped, her hips lifting to meet yours. “Please, please don’t stop.” And so you didn’t.
Shattered and Remade
Anberlyn was tight—so tight—but her body welcomed you greedily. The first thrust punched a ragged cry from her lips, her back arching as she took you inch by trembling inch. “It’s— oh Gosh—so much,” she whimpered. But then her body adjusted, her walls clenched around you in reflexive pulses, and her breath hitched. “Oh… oh, yes.”
She came undone fast. Her first orgasm hit hard, like a storm—her body going taut beneath you, back bowed, mouth open in a silent scream as pleasure ripped through her with a force that left her shaking.
You fucked her through it, relentless, watching her breasts bounce with each thrust, her moans growing louder, needier. “Again,” she demanded, nails clawing at your back side. “Do it again.” And you did—pinning her beneath you, driving into her until she was a writhing, gasping mess. The second climax wrung tears from her, her thighs trembling.
By the third, she was shattered, sobbing—legs shaking, voice breaking as she clutched at you. “I didn’t know,” she gasped, her body squeezing around you in desperate pulses. “I didn’t know it could be like this.”
You wiped the salty tears from her cheeks, but her hips only rolled greedily. “Do it again,” she begged, her voice raw. “Make me feel it again.”
By the fourth, she was beyond words—her earlier shyness obliterated, reduced to nothing but pure pleasure. “I never knew,” she whimpered, “never knew—” You didn’t let her finish. You fucked her through each shuddering peak, claiming her completely until all that remained was her—shattered, remade, and utterly lost.
Lessons in Desire
The first light of dawn painted the room in soft gold as Anberlyn curled against you, her fingertips idly tracing the reddened marks she'd left across your shoulders. A satisfied hum vibrated in her throat as she pressed a kiss.
“Mom was right about you,” she mused, her voice still thick with sleep and something far more satisfied. A sly smile played at her swollen lips as she peered up through her lashes. “You do make me feel... desirable.” The confession resonated, revealing the mother’s not-so-subtle intentions in requesting you to stay with her step-daughter.
You couldn’t help but smirk, catching her wandering hand and bringing it to your lips. “That’s because you are, sweetheart. I can’t get enough.”
There was a new ease in her movements, a confidence in the way she stretched as she arched her back, unabashed, letting you admire her. No hesitation now, no shy attempts to cover herself - just pure, unashamed pleasure in your hungry gaze roaming her body.
Suddenly she bit her lip, that familiar nervous gesture, before blurting out in a rush: “You won’t leave, will you? You’ll stay? Can we... do this every night? While she's gone?” Her eyes were wide, vulnerable, but her voice held a hopeful note.
You tugged her closer until she was sprawled across your chest, her heartbeat thudding against yours. “Only if you promise to keep showing off your body,” you growled, lips nipping at her earlobe. Her giggle was pure wickedness as she wriggled against you. “Deal.” One hand slid lower, her touch already bold and knowing. “Starting now?”
The sheets were still warm where you'd loved her hours before, but as her lips found yours again, it was clear neither of you were done with this particular lesson in desire.
A Woman Unveiled
The days melted into weeks, each one dissolving into a heady haze of discovery—your mouth worshiping her clit until she sobbed your name, her riding you at dawn with the golden light painting her glowing skin, the way she’d gasp "Harder" like a sacred prayer. She was a quick study, her confidence blooming with every shuddering climax, every time you groaned her name.
The house became a playground of stolen moments—her wearing new lingerie, bending over the kitchen counter with a deliberate sway of her hips just to watch your gaze darken, or sinking onto your lap while you pretended to watch TV, grinding down until your knuckles turned white. She adored her body now, reveling in the power it held. "Look at me," she’d whisper, cupping her breasts with a newfound pride whenever your attention wandered, her nipples straining under your hungry stare.
One evening, tangled in your sheets with her legs woven through yours, she laid her head on your chest. “Do you think Mom will leave again soon?” she asked, her voice laced with something between hope and mischief.
You laughed, pulling her closer until her bare skin pressed flush against you. “I sure hope so,” you admitted, your hands roaming the familiar curves you'd memorized by touch. “Me too,” she sighed, arching into your touch with a contented hum. Then, softer, almost wonderingly: “I think I like being a woman.”
The words hung in the air between you—a confession, a revelation, a promise of all the ways she'd yet to unravel beneath your hands. And as her lips found yours again, you knew she was yours.
The Art of Persuasion
As the date of her mother’s return drew near, Anberlyn had transformed—she had perfected the art of seduction. Her once-shy touches now deliberate, her kisses laced with purpose. And she was already plotting. “Maybe Mom should go to Paris next month,” she mused, her voice dripping with false innocence, her hand sliding down your stomach. “Or… anywhere, really.”
Her laugh was wicked as she swung a leg over your hips, settling atop you with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, as she rocked against you, slow and deliberate. “Next time she leaves,” she whispered, her teeth grazing your earlobe, “I’ll beg her to stay away longer.” Her hips rolled, taking you deeper, and the breathy moan that escaped her lips was pure sin. “And you’ll fuck me even harder.”
The promise in her voice was undeniable—this was only the beginning. You growled, flipping her onto her back in one swift motion. Her squeal was equal parts exhilaration and delight as you loomed over her, pinning her wrists above her head. “Good,” you murmured, nipping at her ear. “Then let me show you exactly what that means.”