Read Little Brats India: Forbidden Taboo Erotica Online
Authors: Selena Kitt
Little Brats India: Forbidden Taboo Erotica
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MOXIE
By Selena Kitt
High school senior, Moxie, agrees to be moral support for her friend, Patches, who is totally enamored with a college boy, so she says yes to a double date, even though she has to lie to her parents to do it. But Moxie wasn’t counting on lying about her age to get into an x-rated movie, and she definitely wasn’t counting on her date’s Roman hands and Russian fingers, or the fact that the pants she’s borrowed from Patches are several sizes too small. By the end of the night, Moxie finds herself in far more trouble than she bargained for!
Sexy, sultry India's passion in life is dancing, but she has another, secret desire. The man of the house is an artist whose famous classical ballerina wife has grown tired of being his muse. India burns for him, and when she finds the man of the house secretly sketching her, she realizes he wants her too. Even though she knows it's taboo, she makes up her mind to give in to her naughty feelings, tempting her way into his bedroom, dancing her way into his heart, and bringing that forbidden passion alive for them both.
By Selena Kitt
She was looking at her mother nude.
India had seen her mother naked before, but never like this. She was seeing her through her stepfather’s eyes—not as a wife and mother, but as a woman, vibrant, alive, and terrifyingly sexy. Is this how Robert really saw her? There was such eroticism in the sketch, it almost pulsed with heat.
Cecile’s legs were spread wide open as she sat, spine straight, on a chair, clothed only a pair of six-inch heels, her small, hairless pussy exposed. The erotic depiction of her mother, simple pencil on paper, made India’s breath shudder on exhale as she turned the page in her stepfather, Robert’s, sketchbook. Here was yet another sketch of the woman in a highly sexual pose, captured this time in various colors of ink.
India’s mother had a dancer’s body, feminine but heavily muscled, while still remaining thin and trim. She had a long neck and legs, but the shorter torso typical of classical dancers. Ballerinas didn’t always have the most beautiful bodies, but in her stepfather’s skilled hands, India thought her mother looked more beautiful than she’d ever personally experienced.
Cecile was a former dancer, her body slowly aging, but still, the woman had retained her figure, although her rock hard body had softened around the edges. India, on the other hand, had built a modern dancer’s body on a well-muscled, proportional, solid frame. But that wasn’t the only contrast between mother and daughter.
They were night and day.
Cecile sported light, blond hair with white, powdery skin and bright blue eyes. India’s dark hair was a long chestnut, her skin a healthy tan, her eyes a rich coffee-color. While she actually took after her biological father, she had the same darkness to her skin, hair, and eyes as her stepfather, so much so people often mistook her as his real daughter.
She gazed at her mother’s form, admiring each sketch, the detail bringing the suggestive poses to life. Anyone looking through—of either gender—would appreciate the artistry, the sex appeal in her stepfather’s work. India looked at the next drawing of her mother, this one of her standing, bent at the waist, lace panties pulled down, stretched in a line across her thighs, her tiny breasts exposed, nipples pointing toward the floor.
India’s brow furrowed as she flipped through the spiral bound book, looking through image after image of her mother exposed in a variety of poses. It happened gradually, but India realized that the further she got, the more clothes her mother had on.
The images started to change—a sheet wrapped loosely around her hips or arranged over her breasts—still arousing, always beautiful, but by the time India had gotten half way through the book, her mother was posing completely clothed. Flipping back to the beginning, seeing the dates below the artist’s initials, India realized that her mother’s willingness to pose nude had been short-lived after the initial date of their marriage.
Moving on to the next sketchbook, always impressed with the way her stepfather saw the world and reproduced it with fluid lines and graceful strokes, India discovered the sketches he’d made of his stepdaughter.
He’s drawing me!
Most were recreations of photos. Many of them showed her dancing, capturing her, a moment at a time, in dramatic poses, arms stretched, legs bent. He’d captured all of her best moves. Her heart beat faster, fluttering in her chest.
India had grown up in the shadow of her famous, classical dancer mother. She had grown used to being invisible, even on stage. Her mother’s presence and reputation simply dwarfed her own. But Robert—he had seen his stepdaughter as talented and beautiful in her own right.
He sees me, he knows me.
This proved it. It showed on every page, and she flipped through, breath coming faster with the realization.
As she got toward the end of the sketchbook, the drawings changed. In many of these, her eyes were closed in a peaceful state of slumber. In one, she was curled up on the couch, a bowl of popcorn beside her, where she’d fallen asleep watching a movie. He’d been watching her? Sketching her? The thought made her tingle with feeling.
In the next, she was in her bed, a small, sleepy smile softening her face. I wonder what I was dreaming? She thought, turning the page. Although she had some idea. She wondered if her stepfather knew she dreamed about him sometimes—in ways she knew she shouldn’t.
In the next sketch, a thin blanket was draped over her waist, her small, round breasts glorified by the tight fit of the tank top she’d fallen asleep in. Her nipples appeared, slightly hardened, dark under the taut, light-colored material.
It was the most erotic image she’d ever seen.
And it was
of her.
Not only that, but this was how Robert saw her. He’d found her beautiful enough to sketch over and over again, capturing all of her best features with the angle of his pencil, the seemingly simple shading of graphite on paper. He’d spent time, hours by the looks of it, looking at her, recreating her form with his talented hands
She lit up inside at this realization.
“India!” her mother called. “India! Dance class! Let’s go! Now!”
“Coming!” India hesitated only a moment before secretly shoving the sketchbook into her bag.
Leaving her car parked on the street, so as not to wake her parents, India crept through the front door, sighing in relief as she got it to close with only the slightest hint of the lock engaging. Once she was safe in her room, she stretched her well-utilized limbs, giving her muscles much needed relief. Although no one in her family had been there to see it, she’d danced like she never had before. Not that she expected them to come. She didn’t dance for anyone else anymore. But tonight at her recital, she’d done her best, feeling unusually confident, even inspired.
It was silly, coming home from a recital like she was sneaking in after curfew, but while she was expected to dance—to utilize her talent, as her mother would say—there was little praise left over for India. Cecile’s interest in her daughter’s talents had waned when the older woman realized their paths would diverge. India’s focus on modern dance left her mother cold—and bitter. Cecile had always been far more focused on her own career than her daughter’s performances.
India remembered her stepfather coming to a few of her recitals, sneaking into the back, bringing her roses and kissing her cheek with the admonishment, “Don’t tell your mother.” But he couldn’t often get away from his studio, as he was usually under the calm, calculating and frosty eye of her mother. He, too, was expected to “utilize his talents.”
“If you want a model, use one of your young whores.” Her mother’s voice cut through the silent house, harsh even at low volume.
“They’re not my whores,” her stepfather protested. “I sketch them. That’s all, Cecile. It’s art, not sex. And if my wife was interested in posing for me, I wouldn’t have to pay someone...”
“I’m old and have no interest in being your muse anymore,” she snapped. “I’m no longer beautiful that way. I see them come and go from your studio. I have eyes—and a mirror. I see the difference.”
“Beauty radiates from within,” he said softly.
“Oh, don’t give me that.” Cecile snorted and India pictured her rolling her eyes.
“It’s true!” Robert insisted. India pictured him too, dark eyes flashing, passionately pleading with the woman he loved. It broke her heart. “Why do you shut me out? You’re a beautiful woman, Cecile. It’s only your anger that makes you ugly. Why do you close yourself off from me? You used to make my heart soar when you came into a room. My fingers would itch to pick up a pencil and capture your energy. But now? I feel trapped. Caged by your bitterness…”
“Leave then,” she hissed.
India knew what was coming. She’d heard it a hundred times. Her stepfather said nothing, but Cecile couldn’t drop it.
“I just want to remind you—our prenuptial agreement gives me the rights to all of the artwork produced during our marriage in the event of a divorce.” Cecile’s voice shook with anger. She didn’t want the man anymore—but she didn’t want anyone else to have him either. “I can make you a starving artist again in a second. Just say the word. I’ll call a lawyer.”
“Do you really care so little for me?” he asked, the sadness in his voice breaking India’s heart. But it was a rhetorical question. They all knew the answer.
India heard the back door to their kitchen open and slam closed hard enough to send vibrations through the floor. He’d go to the studio, work out his frustrations with the fast sweeps of his pencil or paintbrush. She’d seen him do it before, mulling a piece of clay into something beautiful.
Often when they fought, he’d stay in the studio all night, working, then sleeping on the large model’s platform he’d built with his own two hands in the far corner. She’d found him in there more than once, sad, bleary-eyed, a day’s stubble growing on his chin.
The air in her room quivered with an eerie silence. She walked over to the drawer where she had stashed the sketchbook. Retrieving the drawing she’d torn out—and planned to keep once she’d snuck the book back into his studio—she got herself ready for bed. Lying under the covers, she held up the sketch Robert had done of his stepdaughter to study the curves he saw, the ones his black pen had brought to life with simple crosshatching. Was she anywhere near as beautiful as he made her seem?
She thought her mother was a fool. India knew, if she had a man like Robert in her life, someone who worshipped her, saw her as his personal muse, she would welcome it. She would never dismiss such a man, demean him, belittle him, refuse to pose for him, clothed or unclothed. If she had a man in her life who saw her the way he depicted in his drawings…
But he does see you that way.
She was holding the proof in her hands. That realization made her feel warm all over. Her muscles tingled, still singing from her performance, and she stretched, closing her eyes, letting that warmth lull her to sleep.
Hours later, her eyes shot open, startled awake to an odd sensation of being watched.
A man. There’s a man in my room!
She nearly screamed before it registered that it was her stepfather sitting on a chair beside her bed. He sat, pencil positioned over the paper, wearing the dreamy smile that overtook his face when his work carried him away.
She had a thought—
he’s sketching!
—before remembering, she’d fallen asleep holding one of his sketches. The one she’d torn from the book she snuck into her bag.
Where’s the sketch?
She didn’t see it anywhere and relief flooded her when she realized it must have fallen to the floor. As long as he hadn’t seen it, didn’t know she’d been snooping through his sketches. She didn’t want him to find out she’d stolen his drawing of her. He probably wouldn’t have cared, but she didn’t want him asking her about it. She didn’t want to tell him the truth—that she found it erotic, arousing, to know that he watched and drew her while she was sleeping
The lamp light was soft, low, probably not great to sketch in, but he didn’t seem to mind. She shifted on the mattress, resisting the urge to pull the comforter up. The room was warm and she’d kicked most of her covers off, exposing her body in just boxers and a tank. Still half-asleep, she mumbled something, but even to her, it was intelligible.
“Go back to sleep, India,” her stepfather whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you. You’re just so beautiful—I had to sketch you.”
She let her eyes fall closed, not wanting to ever disappoint him, but she couldn’t hide the smile that turned up her mouth as the word—
beautiful
—flitted through her brain.
She marveled at the power of his words. Why should they bring such heat, spreading through her limbs like warm honey? She spelled the word out in her brain,
b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l
, a vision of white bubble letters that dispersed into a fiery rain. She probably would have dismissed those words from anyone else, but from him, they were like magic.
Slowly, she unfurled. Rolling to her back, she stretched her arms out to her sides with a sexy yawn. She felt as if she was literally glowing under his gaze. The scratching of the pencil on the paper was hypnotic, the rhythm changing from long, lazy swipes to short, hurried ones. After studying his sketchbook today, she could see her body forming on the page without even looking at it. Small noises came from his throat, subtle groans followed by short, pondering sounds he often made when thinking out his current project as he worked on it. His noises made her want to moan out loud too.
The eroticism of the moment took her breath away.
It wasn’t long before her body was filled with the urge, the absolute need, to be touched—not just drawn. She watched him through eyes only opened to slits, through the thick, dark soot of her lashes. Robert had a scruffy, bohemian look about him. The rich, golden tan of his skin highlighted the course mix of chestnut brown, rich reds and subtle hints of dirty blond in his stubbly beard. He loved to work outside, bringing to life on paper to anything in nature that stood still long enough.
His pencil paused, the hand holding it rising to his chin to rub his beard as he tilted his head, his gaze moving over her body. Her skin prickled, a phantasmal static sensation, like being touched, not by hands, but by just a look.
India’s eyes fluttered open and she met his gaze.
In that moment, which seemed to go on forever, they connected. India recognized the creative spark in his eyes, the longing and hunger there that only an artist could know. They’d always connected on that level. Her body was her instrument, the dance floor her canvas. She became pure self-expression, taking her body to its limits and back again. Robert saw that spark in her and fed it. The woman he’d married was a dancer, but Cecile studied what someone created for her, perfected the fluid movements of classical ballet, but the truth was, she didn’t have a creative bone in her body.
