Family Secrets and Filthy Games

From a young age, I noticed I wasn’t like my friends. At least twice a day, an overwhelming itch between my legs would hit me so hard I’d have to sneak off — sometimes even locking myself in a gas station bathroom during a road trip to take care of it. I never dared tell anyone. My dreams were wild, filled with images of hooking up with my stepmom’s coworkers or getting taken rough by a group of strangers in the back of a pickup truck. The idea of being used like a toy by at least three guys at once drove me absolutely crazy. The only person I could confide in was my cousin, Tara, and when I finally spilled it all, I caught her shifting in her tight tank top, her breath quickening as she listened.

She smirked and told me it ran in the family — this insatiable, almost primal need. Tara said the healthiest thing for my body and mind was to stop fighting it and let those fantasies run wild. She even shared how her stepdad had “broken her in” when she turned 19. She’d confessed her dirtiest thoughts to him, and for her birthday, he took her to a cabin in the mountains where a group of bikers spent a weekend showing her just how filthy things could get — every second of it caught on camera, which only made her hotter.

Tara offered to guide me into living out my own twisted desires. She started emailing me little challenges — like letting my best friend’s older brother catch me touching myself in their hot tub or “accidentally” getting seen rubbing one out on a crowded subway. One night during a holiday break at home, I woke up soaked, thinking it was another wet dream. Then I heard it: deep groans echoing down the hall. The only room in that direction was my stepdad’s man cave — a decked-out spot with a bar, dartboard, and massive TV he’d claimed as his private hangout. Women weren’t allowed in there unless it was for some cheesy family movie night.

Too turned on to care, I crept down the hall in my thin sleepshirt. The door was cracked open, and the sounds got louder — raw and desperate. Peeking inside, I nearly gasped. On the big screen, a rough group scene was playing, while my stepdad and a couple of his buddies from the neighborhood sprawled on the leather sectional, getting worked over by the 20-year-old girl from down the street. It escalated fast — one guy barked at her to climb onto his friend’s lap, and she did it with a grin. My stepdad, not missing a beat, slid in behind her, taking her hard. She rode them both like she was born for it, moaning – “God, yes, wreck me!” – as a third guy egged her on, asking if she loved being their little plaything. She screamed through a climax, begging for more.

I couldn’t tear myself away. For an hour, I stood there, hand between my legs, imagining it was me they were passing around. I’d just turned 18 a month ago, and the need to dive into my nastiest fantasies was eating me alive.

Tara, who was a year older, and I hatched a plan. We’d head to Chicago for a long weekend. She’d already lined up some sketchy meetups online with guys over 35 who were down to “teach me the ropes.” She kept the details vague, just promised it’d be raw and relentless. A bit about us: Tara’s a blonde firecracker, short and curvy with a chest that turns heads — family trait. My own figure filled out early too; by 16, I could twist just right and tease my own nipples without even trying.

Since Tara lived in another state for college, we met up in Chicago. She greeted me at the train station with – “We’re already late for the first hookup. Here, put this on!” – tossing me a black lace garter set and some killer heels. – “It’ll make you look sweet but slutty,” – she said with a wink. Before I could ask questions, she shoved me into a cab and gave the driver an address. We pulled up to a sleek townhouse and rang the bell. A guy in a crisp suit answered, smirking like he knew exactly why we were there, and led us to a den where five men lounged around a pool table. A screen in the corner played something steamy — two women tangled up and moaning.

The guy who owned the place waved us in, told us to ditch our jackets, and said to hang tight. The vibe—the porn, the hungry stares — had me dripping already. Then the host sauntered over, unzipped, and pulled out something massive. – “Ever handled one this big, Callie?” – he asked, not waiting for an answer before guiding it past my lips. I heard one of the others chuckle – “She’s still shy, huh?” – as I glanced over to see Tara already on her knees, working two guys like it was nothing. Emboldened, I slid a hand down to tease myself, and that was all the invite they needed. One guy jammed his fingers into me, rough and fast, while another yanked me onto his lap, stretching me open with zero warning. A third stepped up, spreading me wider, and forced his way in alongside the first — grunting – “This tight little thing’s gonna make me lose it.”

They were feral, swapping me and Tara between them, pounding away while shouting at each other to go harder. I lost track of how many times I shattered that night. Back at our motel, I thanked Tara by burying my face between her thighs, tasting the mess we’d made. She laughed into my sweaty hair – “Surprise good enough? Hope you’re not tapped out, ‘cause tomorrow’s round two.” – She had a truck stop lined up — me, two rough-looking drivers, and her filming every second. I barely slept, waking up soaked and aching for it all over again.