Breakfast is a special kind of filthy.
I’m sitting across from Vivian in our parents’ kitchen wearing her black thong under my shorts. It’s already soaked through. Every time I shift on the chair I feel the wet fabric drag over my c**t. She knows. She keeps looking at my lap like she can see it.
Our parents think we’re finally getting along.
Vivian drops her spoon, leans down like she’s picking it up, and slides her hand straight up my shorts under the table. Two fingers press against the soaked crotch of her own panties.
“Drenched,” she mouths.
I almost drop my glass.
She doesn’t take her hand away until Mom asks her a question. Then she licks those two fingers clean right there at the table, smiling like she just tasted syrup.
The second our parents leave for errands, she has me a
