Read Little Brats India: Forbidden Taboo Erotica for Free Online

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