Our parents got home late the next afternoon. The house filled with their voices, suitcases thumping on the floor, and questions about how our “quiet time” went. Sophia and I acted normal—smiling, helping unpack, talking about nothing important. But under the table at dinner, her foot slid up my leg. My p***y clenched instantly. I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning.
That first night back was torture. We had to sleep in our own rooms. I lay in bed touching myself slowly, thinking about her tongue, her fingers, the way she looked at me when she was deep inside me. I came quietly, biting my pillow, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close.
The next morning we stole our first moment in the laundry room. While Mom and Dad watched TV upstairs, Sophia pushed me against the drye
