Little Brats: Olivia: Forbidden Taboo Erotica

by Selena Kitt

  Selena loves hearing from readers!

  website: http://www.selenakitt.com

  facebook: http://www.facebook.com/selenakittfanpage

  twitter: http://bit.ly/UTj97X@selenakitt

  blog: http://bit.ly/1o1TvLn

  Get ALL FIVE of Selena Kitt’s FREE READS

  by joining her mailing list!

  MONTHLY contest winners!

  BIG prizes awarded at the end of the year!

  GET THESE FREE READS

  A Twisted Bard's Tale

  Hannah's Choice

  Sibling Lust: In the Barn

  Connections

  Taken

  PLUS EXCLUSIVE to Newsletter Subscribers:

  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!

  Table of Contents

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  Little Brats: Olivia

  IF YOU LIKE THIS SERIES, CHECK OUT THESE

  GET FIVE FREE READS!

  ABOUT SELENA KITT

  BONUS EXCERPT

  SELENA KITT’S OTHER WORKS

  MORE FROM EXCESSICA!

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  Little brat Olivia hides her curves under men’s shirts and draws her taboo fantasies in her sketchbook. When the man of the house discovers that she’s has been secretly watching and drawing him--without any clothes on--he finally gives up on his gold digging wife and gives in to his forbidden lust for his curvy little brat.

  Little Brats: Olivia

  By Selena Kitt

  IF YOU LIKE THIS SERIES, CHECK OUT THESE

  Little Brats:Anna

  Little Brats: Becca

  Little Brats: Clara

  Little Brats: Christa

  Little Brats: Darla

  Little Brats: Eva

  Little Brats: Fiona

  Little Brats: Georgia

  Little Brats: Hanna

  Little Brats: India

  Little Brats: Jenna

  Little Brats: Kayla

  Little Brats: Leila

  Little Brats: Maya

  Little Brats: Nina

  Little Brats: Paula

  Little Brats: Qesa

  Little Brats: Tina

  Camping Brats

  Heavenly Brats

  Traveling Brats

  The Preacher and His Naughty Brat

  The Cougar and Her Cub

  The Nudist and His Princess

  The Man of the House

  “Are you going upstairs already?” Olivia’s mother caught her trying to make a quick exit.

  She should have known the woman would notice her leaving. Catherine Comstock didn’t miss much, even with every room in their giant house filled with author bigwigs and various other names in the publishing industry, from bottom-feeding agents and lowly editors all the way up to the heads of some of the largest publishing companies in the world.

  “I was just… going…” Olivia eyed the curving staircase longingly.

  “I noticed.” Catherine sighed, tucking a bit of short, red hair, almost the same color as her daughter’s, behind her delicate ear. “Have you see your father?”

  “Stepfather,” Olivia corrected under her breath, but her mother didn’t hear.

  She didn’t correct her because she had any objection to the man as a father figure. He was actually quite good in the role, far better than any of the others her mother had paraded through their large estate. No, she corrected her mostly to remind herself—they weren’t related. Not by blood. Not technically. And that meant, the things she felt about him, while they weren’t exactly ethical, weren’t altogether illegal either.

  “I wanted to introduce him to Stephen Pines.” Catherine’s eyes narrowed as she searched the room, looking for her husband. Randall Ahrens—that was his name on all his bestselling thriller novels—was nowhere to be found. And if he was around, Olivia would have known. Her body had a way of telling her when her stepfather entered a room.

  “The agent?” Olivia frowned at her mother. “But Daddy has an agent. He’s writing young adult now.”

  “Yes, I know.” Catherine rolled her pretty green eyes—also very like her daughter’s. “But Stephen was supposed to help me convince him to go back to writing thrillers. He could go A-list again, if he wanted to, you know. He’s simply throwing his career away.”

  Olivia did her best not to roll her eyes. She was tired of hearing about how Randall was throwing his life away writing books for teens. Catherine crossed her arms over her large, fake breasts—they practically fell out of her expensive Dior dress—and surveyed the room again, as if just by doing so, she could make her husband appear.

  Hair and eye color were where the similarities in mother and daughter ended. Catherine was tall, thin, almost waif-like. She hardly had any curves at all—her breasts were it, and those were fake—let alone the kinds of curves her daughter sported. Catherine had picked out not only her dress tonight, but her daughter’s as well, including the torture device Olivia wore underneath, designed to not only keep in any “unsightly rolls” but apparently to keep air out of the lungs as well. Olivia had broken out in a sweat just trying to get the damned thing on.

  Olivia looked longingly again at the stairs, wanting nothing more than to go change into something more comfortable—like an over-sized men’s dress shirt, preferably one of her stepfather’s. She liked wearing them with loosely worn ties and comfy, stretch jeans. It worked well to hide the chubbiness her mother was always either complaining about or begging her to lose. The latter wasn’t easy, considering how much Olivia love to bake. And eat what she baked.

  “So you haven’t seen him?” Catherine asked, narrowing her eyes at her daughter.

  “No,” she replied, smoothing her hands over her dress, self-conscious with her mother’s gaze on her. “Not for a while.”

  “I bet he went upstairs.” Catherine glanced up the stairway with a long sigh. “Just like you, trying to escape.”

  “I can go look for him,” Olivia offered hopefully.

  “No,” Her mother wagged a finger at her. “You go check on the kitchen help. Tell them we need more crab cakes out.”

  “Okay.” Olivia nodded, turning away from her possible exit, heading in the other direction.

  “And don’t eat any more of those cookies!” Her mother called, her voice carrying over the crowd, making Olivia wince. “Just because you made them doesn’t mean you get to eat them all.”

  Olivia just kept walking, heading toward the kitchen.

  She hadn’t just made the cookies for tonight’s little soiree. She’d made the cupcakes, the pastries, the truffles, the tarts and the petit fours. Why shouldn’t she taste her efforts? She knew she was a little too heavy, according to the height and weight chart at the doctor’s office as well as her mother’s discerning eye, but she enjoyed baking. And she enjoyed eating what she baked.

  In the kitchen, she informed the “help” that they were out of crab cakes. There were a dozen people working in their giant kitchen, pulling trays out of the oven, putting ice in buckets. Someone would handle the crab cake crisis. In the meantime, Olivia was going to sneak up the back stairs instead of trying to make it up the main ones this ti
me. Then she was going to change and find a quiet place to draw for a while.

  She wrapped half a dozen of her favorite cookies—salted peanut butter chocolate chip—in a napkin before she headed up the back stairs.

  Her room was at the far end of the hall. She stripped down to bra and panties, leaving the white elastic torture device her mother had forced her to wear under her dress on the floor. But she hung the dress on a hanger. She’d seen the price tag. It was a three-thousand dollar dress. Olivia munched on a cookie as she slipped an over-size men’s dress shirt on, buttoning it over her curves. Her skin was pale, crisscrossed with angry red marks that would fade, now that she was no longer snugged into the “slimming” device, as her mother called it.

  Olivia kicked the thing across the room, lamenting the fact that she hadn’t snuck up a glass of milk with her cookies, as she slipped on a pair of comfy jeans. There, that was much better. She wrapped up the remaining five cookies and grabbed her sketchpad and colored pencils. She considered staying in her room, but that was a bad idea. It was the place her mother would look for her first, when she noticed her missing.

  The good news was, the house was more than big enough to get lost in. She could easily find an out-of-the-way room to hide and draw in. The upstairs library would be perfect. It was smaller than the one downstairs, divided by book shelves with recliners in between. There was a big old desk at the back. It was perfect for hiding in. The long, padded window seat on the back wall was her favorite place to draw. She could squeeze into the little cubby and sketch while she watched the help try to get guests and their cars out an in orderly fashion. That, at least, would be amusing, because of course all of the guests believed they were too important to wait.

  Olivia wended her way through the hallways, carrying her cookies, pad and pencils. She could occasionally still get lost in her own house, it was true, but she knew the way to the little library. Her mother’s comment about the cookies still made her cheeks burn. It was true, two of Olivia’s favorite things in the world were snacking and drawing. Her mother didn’t have a creative bone in her body—the woman had made her living leeching off other people’s creativity—so she didn’t understand the inclination. And as for snacking, Catherine had more willpower than anyone Olivia had ever known.

  She really didn’t know how in the world they were related to each other.

  Olivia heard a noise as she stepped into the library, one of the doors wide open. A dim light lit the room—likely the desk lamp. She was familiar with its glow, how it shaded her paper as she sketched.

  The sound was a woman’s soft sigh, followed by a man’s low grunt. She ducked in between the last row of books that blocked the view of the window seat. Creeping along the heavy, floor-to-ceiling, oak bookcase, set up just like a real library, she scooted a few books aside to see if she could locate the source of the noise.

  Another sigh, almost a squeak. Another low grunt. Olivia pulled two more books out, reaching through so she could slowly edge two more from the other side back toward her. That made a generous, vertical, rectangular peep hole to spy through. She satisfied her curiosity, peeking through, quiet as a mouse.

  Olivia’s hand clapped over her mouth to stifle her gasp, but the three people on the window seat were lost in a world unto themselves and didn’t hear. Her mother’s long, golden, floor-length dress—six thousand dollars of material, including her flowing wrap—was discarded over the desk. Catherine sat on the bench, a cock in each hand, on each side of her face, sucking first one, then the other.

  The sound of her mother’s mouth, full of saliva, slipping on and off each erection, made Olivia’s mouth water. Maybe she and her mother had more in common than she realized, because Olivia greatly appreciated the male form, especially the cock. She had drawn hundreds of them—thick lengths, fat mushroom heads, long and short, wide and thin. The variety was fascinating.

  Olivia stared as her mother stroked the pair of them—bulging veins, one slightly bigger than the other, sacs hanging down, swinging as Catherine fisted them both. The men’s genitals framed her mother’s goddess-like features as she sucked the sac of one, then the next. The men moaned and Olivia felt her nipples harden, a growing tingle between her legs.

  “Very nice cocks.” Her mother praised them matter-of-factly. “Hopefully you can do something with them.”

  And of course, as Olivia knew, her mother’s praise always came with a caveat.

  She bent lower, angling her vision up so she could see their faces, trying to place the two men. One was rugged, chiseled, the other softer, more bookish, still cute in an ultra-nerdy sort of way. Both had rippled muscles, even the nerd, though his body was one size smaller than the other guy. Where one was a bodybuilder type, chiseled with short, dark hair, the other stood lean, trim, with longer, dirty blond hair.

  Then she recognized them.

  The nerdy guy was a new author her mother was trying to land. Ian Corbett. An author name if she’d ever heard one. She’d seen him next to the dark-haired guy, his agent, what was his name again? She couldn’t come up with the surname, but she was pretty sure she’d heard her mother laugh and poke the dark-haired guy, calling him, “Jason.”

  Olivia watched, wondering how long her mother had been sleeping her way to the top. Or perhaps she’d gotten the book, and this was how she celebrated?

  Does this happen at all the parties thrown to land new clients?

  “Suck ’em, boys.” Catherine arched her back, which presented them with her big, fake tits, barely contained in her black lace bra.

  Both men fell to suckling, pulling her bra down to get at the silicone softness. Olivia watched her mother stand, directing the agent, Jason, down to her lace-covered mound as she stood up in a wide-legged stance between them. She was still wearing her heels, but Catherine was in control, even now. It was something her daughter marveled at. Some called her ambitious, some called her cruel, but Olivia knew how cold and calculating the woman could be, without apology, to get what she wanted.

  Apparently, two guys, neither her husband, was what she wanted at the moment.

  Together, they stripped her of what lace remained. Catherine moved to the desk, stretching out over her dress like it didn’t cost a small fortune. She waited, spread eagle, to be waited on. Olivia hadn’t even gotten her mother’s height, let alone her hard, lean body. Her mother towered over her, slim-hips, generous, albeit fake, breasts, a hard, flat stomach, almost concave. Olivia, a good four inches shorter, just had curves—everywhere. So many curves. Her breasts were the same size as her mother’s now, but hers were God-given.

  “Make me feel it, boys,” her mother instructed as she mashed her own breasts together and then took to sucking them, one nipple after the other.

  Agent guy Jason, his beefy hands spreading her thighs, went to work with his lips and tongue. Olivia watched, horrified and more than a little aroused, as the man licked mother’s pussy. He was good at it from the sound of things. The other nerdy guy, Ian, took his hard cock around the side of the desk where Catherine took him into her hand and mouth while his friend got her wet for their invasion.

  Olivia knew she should go, but her own pussy was quivering with need now. She cupped her mound through her jeans, almost wishing she was still wearing her dress, for easier access.

  On the desk, Catherine began to writhe, moaning louder around Ian’s pumping cock. Jason was really licking her now, face buried in her crotch, hands on her hips. He could barely hold onto her, the way she bucked and squirmed.

  “Oh fuck, that’s it!” Catherine moaned. “Lick that cunt! Lick it! Make me come!”

  It was an absolute demand, and Jason didn’t waver. He kept his tongue moving, fingers pumping in and out of her wetness.

  Watching, breathless, Olivia slid a hand down the front of her stretchy jeans. She was still wearing the silk panties, and she nudged those aside, sliding a finger through her own wetness. A wave of shame hit her, made her flush even as her stomach coiled with a ru
sh of feeling. There was an incredible heat building in her.

  She closed her eyes, still listening to the sound of sex filling the room, but she didn’t want to watch. She wanted to imagine. Her imagination flitted to her stepfather, the man whose wife was spread eagle, naked on the desk, allowing two men to pleasure her. What would he think, coming up on the scene? Instead of picturing his anger at her mother, she imagined his reaction to finding his stepdaughter masturbating in the library. What then?

  Would she dare to stand and slide her jeans down, bending over so he could see the generous swell of her ass, the pink of her pussy peeking out at him? Would she spread her legs to show him more? Unbutton her men’s shirt and give him her curves? Everything in her longed to do just that.

  She petted her folds with her fingers, daydreaming they were his tongue licking over her. Squeezing her labia, massaging them, she imagined him sucking them into his mouth. He’d tell her she was beautiful in all her fullness. He’d worship every inch of her with his hands, his mouth, his tongue, and finally, his cock.

  Her mother’s voice disrupted her fantasy, controlling the two men as she did everyone else, “Fuck me, boys. You want me to publish your book, make you a bestseller. Then you take me just the way I want it—rough, hard. Agent underneath. Author on top. That means you get the ass, boy.”

  Olivia watched again as her mother got up, opening the desk drawer and tossing a bottle of K-Y Jelly onto the surface. Then she pushed the big guy’s chest until he fell across the window seat sideways, along the length of the cushion, rather awkwardly, back flat, head against the wall. She climbed on him, legs on each side of his waist. Like royalty, a queen sitting on her throne, the woman, back straight, chest out, lowered herself onto his waiting erection.

  Then, she paused, tilting her ass out to the author. He came up behind her rather tentatively, but as she grabbed her ass cheeks, opening herself wide, he took the cock he’d lubed up, while her mother had gotten into position, and pushed the head into her ass. He went in with such ease and made her mother cry out in such delight, surely he wasn’t the first to take her there.