I don’t even know how to start this. My hands are shaking, and my heart is racing just thinking about it. I’ve been replaying it in my mind all day, and I can’t stop. I feel guilty, but at the same time, I don’t. I’ve never felt this way before—this mix of shame and… God, I don’t even want to say it. Excitement, maybe? I don’t know. But I need to write it down, or I’ll go crazy. So here it goes.
It started at dinner last night. Just a normal family dinner. Mom, my stepdad, and me. We went to that Italian place downtown, the one with the dim lighting and the red-checkered tablecloths. Mom was in one of her moods, talking nonstop about work, her voice sharp and high-pitched like it gets when she’s stressed. I was barely listening, pushing my pasta around my plate, trying to avoid her eyes.
And then I felt it.
A touch. Under the table. A hand—his hand—on my knee.
I froze. My fork clinked against the plate, and I’m pretty sure Mom noticed because she stopped mid-sentence and looked at me. “Are you okay, honey?” she asked, her brow furrowing.
“Fine,” I managed to choke out, my voice thin and strained.
But I wasn’t fine. Because his hand was moving. Slowly, deliberately, sliding up my thigh. My heart was pounding so hard I thought Mom might hear it. I glanced at him, my stepdad, and he was just sitting there, calm as anything, sipping his wine like nothing was happening.
I don’t know why I didn’t stop him. I could have. I should have. But I didn’t. Part of me didn’t want to.
His fingers crept higher, teasing the hem of my skirt. I could feel his fingertips brushing against my skin, sending shivers up my spine. I bit my lip, trying to keep my face neutral, but I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks.
Mom was still talking, oblivious, but I couldn’t focus on a word she was saying. All I could think about was his hand, his touch, and the way it was making me feel. It was wrong. So wrong. But it felt… good. Too good.
I glanced at him again, and this time he met my eyes. His gaze was intense, almost predatory, and it sent a jolt of electricity through me. He gave me a small, almost imperceptible smile, and I felt my breath hitch.
His fingers slipped under the fabric of my skirt, and I had to stifle a gasp. My whole body was on fire, every nerve ending screaming with anticipation. His touch was firm, confident, like he knew exactly what he was doing. And maybe he did.
He traced lazy circles on my inner thigh, his fingers inching closer and closer to where I needed him most. I squirmed in my seat, trying to keep my composure, but it was impossible. My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty, and I could feel the heat pooling between my legs.
I don’t know how I managed to keep it together. Mom was still talking, completely unaware of what was happening right under the table. She was going on about some coworker who was driving her crazy, her voice rising with every word.
Meanwhile, his fingers finally reached their destination, and I almost came right there.
He pressed against me, his touch so gentle it was almost maddening. I bit down on my lip so hard I thought I might draw blood, trying to keep from moaning. He was teasing me, torturing me, and I loved it.
I could feel his eyes on me, watching every reaction, every twitch of my face. He knew exactly what he was doing to me, and he was enjoying it.
His fingers slipped inside me, and I had to grip the edge of the table to keep from losing it. I could feel my body responding, arching toward him, craving more. He moved slowly, deliberately, driving me crazy with every stroke.
I don’t know how Mom didn’t notice. I was barely holding it together, my breath coming in shallow gasps, my body trembling with need. But she just kept talking, her voice a distant buzz in the background.
He added a second finger, and I had to bite back a moan. My nails dug into the tablecloth, my knuckles turning white. I could feel myself tightening around him, my hips rocking ever so slightly, desperate for more.
He leaned in close, his lips brushing against my ear as he whispered, “You’re so wet. Do you like this?”
I couldn’t speak. I could barely think. All I could do was nod, my body betraying me with every movement.
He chuckled softly, the sound sending shivers down my spine. “Good girl,” he murmured, his voice low and husky.
I don’t know how much longer it went on. It felt like forever, but at the same time, it wasn’t long enough. I was so close, so damn close, but I didn’t want it to end.
And then, just as I was about to lose it, he pulled away.
I almost cried out in frustration, but I managed to keep it in. He leaned back in his chair, a smug smile on his face, and went back to his wine like nothing had happened.
I was a mess. My body was still trembling, my heart racing, and I could feel the ache between my legs. I wanted more. So much more.
But it was over.
Mom didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. She was still going on about her coworker, completely oblivious.
I don’t know how I made it through the rest of dinner. I felt like I was in a daze, my mind swirling with thoughts and emotions I didn’t even know I had. Guilt, shame, desire, all tangled together in a mess I couldn’t untangle.
And when we got home, I went straight to my room, my body still buzzing with the memory of his touch. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what had happened.
But I couldn’t.
All I knew was that I wanted more.
“I think you’re ready,” he whispered as we left the restaurant, his hand brushing against mine. “Tonight.”
And I didn’t say no.