Save Me, Sinners

She doesn't move as I slowly pull the sheets to the side, exposing her small, lithe form. She tugs the hem of her T-shirt down over the neat triangle of fabric that covers her sweet, bare pussy, pressing her knees tightly together.

“Let me see,” I request. “You know I like to see.”

Saying nothing, she only nods and moves her knees apart just a little bit, just a few centimeters. Her hands push away from her along the sheet, and the hem of her T-shirt springs back up, revealing just an inch or two of pink fabric.

I know all the hidden delights in there. I know if I touch her panties, the fabric will be hot, maybe even soaked through with moisture. Every time. Without fail. She's always ready for me, but she knows I like this moment right before she asks me. Right before she begs me, the moment where every part of me comes alive.

I can already feel my cock jumping, eagerly pointing to her, rigid as a flagpole. A divining rod, seeking her wetness. I can almost feel her sweet, tight sheath enveloping me, squeezing against me, drawing the life out of me.

My fingers drift along the inside of her thigh, pushing her legs open further. She doesn't resist, but her eyes telegraph a sense of urgency and I see her draw her lower lip in between her teeth, like I have so many times before.

“You want it?” I ask her, when I think I can't stand to wait any longer. My thumb draws a line down the fabric of her panties, tracing her seam from the outside. It is hot, almost warmer than I expected.

She nods tightly and I hear her breath coming out in abbreviated, feral pants.

“Say it,” I growl. I lean in closer, letting my fingers drift along the elastic band of the fabric, sliding just the tips underneath.

“I want it,” she whispers hoarsely, lifting her hips to angle closer to my touch.

I look up at her, waiting. She likes to make me wait. I watch her lips part as she draws in a breath to say it and finally press my finger to her wet, slippery furrow as the word I’m waiting for finally slips from her glistening, pouting mouth.

“I want it... Daddy.”

Chapter 26

Kita

Lizzie's hands snake around from behind me, sneaking underneath my arms and then unbuttoning the top button of my blouse. I try not to wiggle away as her fingers hesitate, then pop open another button. That's definitely two buttons too many, by my count.

Her head appears over my left shoulder, and she squints at me in the full-length mirror. I watch her eyes skim across the outlines of my body and can't help but notice her sigh of dissatisfaction.

I just press my lips together and raise my eyebrows at her, wondering what she thinks she's going to say next.

She purses her lips to one side, scowling until that single vertical line appears between her perfectly auburn eyebrows.

“Are these your real tits?” she frowns, slapping lightly at the underside of each one of my admittedly smallish breasts.

“What do you mean?” I ask her and reflexively cross my arms over my middle as she steps to the side of me. She nudges me out of the way with her hip so that I can watch her in the mirror. For a few tortuously long seconds, her fingers drift over the key areas of her own body — the D cups, the 23 inch waist, and the wide hips that somehow perfectly fill in the jeans she's wearing as though they were made just for her.

“You haven't had any work done?” She asks, quirking a perfect eyebrow. But her eyes aren't even on me, she is only admiring herself.

I frown at the mirror, noting my substantially less curvy figure next to hers. We look like the before and after shots in a plastic surgeon's office.

“I haven't had any work done," I affirm shyly. “I didn't even know I was grown enough to be thinking about that.”

“No, I mean, it's a good thing,” she fusses as she arranges her coppery locks over her collarbones. She’s still talking to me, I think, but she's really only looking at herself now. “I mean… if those aren’t your real tits, then it shouldn't be any problem to go ahead and get new ones, right? You've got, like, a clean slate or whatever.”

I take a half step back, glancing down at the V-shaped, cavernous entrance to my blouse. A boob job? Me? I'm still waiting for the ones I've got to do their thing, whatever their thing is going to be. I mean, I shouldn’t mess with it, should I?

But it's hard not to think about it, standing here in Lizzie’s room, surrounded by pages torn out of magazines featuring every overflowingly buxom celebrity from the last thirty years. Pages upon pages, taped to the pink walls so densely they’re like wallpaper. All those duckfaces staring at me, like they’re just about to say something. I wonder which ones of these she brought to her plastic surgeon’s office so she could point and say, that's it. Those ass cheeks, just give me those. And these boobs right here, can I get them supersized? And put a little dimple in my chin while you're at it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see me, reed straight. Built like a fencepost. Or like an eighth grader or something. I mean, if I look hard enough I'm curvy, in a certain subtle way. But standing next to Lizzie, not so much.

Finally she gets tired of gazing at the best nipple reconstruction money can buy and casts her eyes back in my direction.

“Do you have anything tighter, at least? We’re not going to a square dance, you know.”

“Do I have anything tighter?” I repeat. Actually, I sort of don't. I'm just small, like my mom and my grandma. A gymnast body, my mom always pointed out: compact and strong. And maybe not as far along developmentally because I spent so much time training when I was younger. But I’m stronger than I look, or so grandma always told me. That always made me feel proud.