Elle's Night Fright
Elle was twenty-one, still living in her parents’ cramped apartment, having had to flee from the Ukraine. Short brunette pixie cut, soft brown eyes, a body that had never filled out past the “barely there” stage—tiny tits that sat high and firm, pink nipples that stiffened at the slightest chill, a flat stomach, narrow hips, and a smooth little cunt she kept shaved because she liked the way her fingers felt sliding over bare skin.
It was late evening. The rest of the flat was quiet. Elle was on her back in the narrow single bed, sheets kicked down around her ankles, knees spread wide. One hand pinched and rolled a stiff nipple while the other worked between her legs. Two fingers were buried knuckle-deep in her slick hole, curling up against that spongy spot that made her hips jerk. Her thumb rubbed tight, fast circles over her swollen clit. Wet sounds filled the room—soft, filthy squelches every time she pumped her fingers in and out.
She bit her lower lip hard, trying to keep quiet, but little Ukrainian curses still slipped out under her breath.
“Блядь… так добре…”
Her thighs trembled. She was close. The pressure in her belly coiled tighter and tighter. She shoved a third finger inside herself, stretching her tight cunt open, fucking herself harder, faster, chasing it. Her free hand left her nipple and clamped over her mouth to muffle the moan that wanted to rip out of her.
The door opened without a knock.
Her father stood in the doorway, a glass of cold water in one hand, the soft hallway light cutting across his face. He had come to check on her the way he sometimes did when she stayed up late—just a quiet, “Do you want some water, солнышко?”
He froze.
Elle froze.
Her fingers were still buried inside her dripping cunt. Her knees were still spread. Her tiny tits rose and fell with every panicked breath. A shiny string of her own wetness stretched from her knuckles to her open pink hole. The wet, obscene sound of her fingers sliding free as she yanked her hand away was loud in the sudden silence.
Neither of them moved.
His eyes locked on the glistening mess between her legs, on the way her clit still twitched, on the wet shine coating her inner thighs. Her face burned so hot she felt light-headed. She could smell herself—sharp, musky, unmistakable. The glass in his hand tilted; a little water spilled onto the floorboards.
“Papa—” she choked out, voice cracking.
He stared, mouth open, the colour draining from his face. The drink he’d brought her trembled in his grip. For three endless heartbeats the only sound was her ragged breathing and the soft drip of water hitting the floor.
Then he stepped back so fast he nearly tripped, slammed the door shut, and left her alone in the dark with her fingers still sticky and her heart hammering like it wanted to punch through her ribs.
It was late evening. The rest of the flat was quiet. Elle was on her back in the narrow single bed, sheets kicked down around her ankles, knees spread wide. One hand pinched and rolled a stiff nipple while the other worked between her legs. Two fingers were buried knuckle-deep in her slick hole, curling up against that spongy spot that made her hips jerk. Her thumb rubbed tight, fast circles over her swollen clit. Wet sounds filled the room—soft, filthy squelches every time she pumped her fingers in and out.
She bit her lower lip hard, trying to keep quiet, but little Ukrainian curses still slipped out under her breath.
“Блядь… так добре…”
Her thighs trembled. She was close. The pressure in her belly coiled tighter and tighter. She shoved a third finger inside herself, stretching her tight cunt open, fucking herself harder, faster, chasing it. Her free hand left her nipple and clamped over her mouth to muffle the moan that wanted to rip out of her.
The door opened without a knock.
Her father stood in the doorway, a glass of cold water in one hand, the soft hallway light cutting across his face. He had come to check on her the way he sometimes did when she stayed up late—just a quiet, “Do you want some water, солнышко?”
He froze.
Elle froze.
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Her fingers were still buried inside her dripping cunt. Her knees were still spread. Her tiny tits rose and fell with every panicked breath. A shiny string of her own wetness stretched from her knuckles to her open pink hole. The wet, obscene sound of her fingers sliding free as she yanked her hand away was loud in the sudden silence.
Neither of them moved.
His eyes locked on the glistening mess between her legs, on the way her clit still twitched, on the wet shine coating her inner thighs. Her face burned so hot she felt light-headed. She could smell herself—sharp, musky, unmistakable. The glass in his hand tilted; a little water spilled onto the floorboards.
“Papa—” she choked out, voice cracking.
He stared, mouth open, the colour draining from his face. The drink he’d brought her trembled in his grip. For three endless heartbeats the only sound was her ragged breathing and the soft drip of water hitting the floor.
Then he stepped back so fast he nearly tripped, slammed the door shut, and left her alone in the dark with her fingers still sticky and her heart hammering like it wanted to punch through her ribs.
26-30, F
