Young Emily is petite and innocent. She had a birthday party sleep over at her best friends house. At the end of the night as she lays next to her best friends dad. Hand begin to roam and she is touched by a man for the first time.
Emma Harper, Eighteen
Emma Harper had always been the smallest person in every room.
Ninety-five pounds, barely five-foot-one, all fragile bones and huge hazel eyes that gave away every secret before she could swallow it. Over the summer her body had finally decided to grow, but only in the places that made her want to hide: small, high B-cup breasts that sat impossibly pert on her narrow chest, nipples that tightened at the slightest breeze, a waist so tiny it looked unreal, and the softest dusting of light brown hair between her legs that suddenly felt childish.
The morning of her eighteenth birthday sleepover she arrived at the Carter house at eleven, duffel slung over one narrow shoulder. Lily met her at the door in an oversized T-shirt and sleep shorts, barefoot and grinning.
“Mom’s already in Chicago till Tuesday,” she sang, dragging Emma inside. “Dad’s at the hardware store. We own this place until tonight.”
They spent the day like they were still ten: sprawled on Lily’s bed eating gummy worms, painting toenails neon pink, blasting music loud enough to rattle the windows. At some point the conversation turned, the way it always did with Lily, to boys and bodies and things they’d never done.
“I’m doing it,” Lily announced, brandishing a fresh razor and shaving cream. “Completely smooth. Jules says it feels insane.”
Emma flushed scarlet. “You’re serious?”
“Birthday dare. I go first, then you.”
They locked themselves in Lily’s bathroom, giggling like maniacs. Lily went first—perched on the counter, legs spread, absolutely shameless—shaving until she was baby-bare. When she finished she hopped down and spun. “Your turn, tiny.”
Emma’s hands shook, but this was Lily. They’d changed in front of each other a thousand times. Nothing weird. She pushed her cotton shorts and panties down her skinny legs and climbed onto the counter. Lily coached her through every stroke—gentle, teasing, steadying Emma’s trembling knee. When it was done Emma stared at herself in the mirror, stunned: flawless, porcelain-smooth skin, delicate outer lips the color of pale roses, tiny inner folds tucked neatly inside, her clit a hidden pearl that throbbed when the cool air hit it.
They stood side by side, flashed each other, and dissolved into hysterical laughter.
Lily’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit, Em,” she whispered, genuinely awed. “You have the most perfect pussy I’ve ever seen. Look at mine—my lips stick out a little, it’s never this clean and smooth. I’m actually jealous. Yours is like… art.”
Emma turned crimson but couldn’t stop smiling.
Later, when the sky was turning orange and the other girls were due any minute, Lily produced the real gift: a baby-pink satin pajama set—camisole with lace trim and the shortest matching shorts Emma had ever seen.
“You’re wearing these tonight,” Lily declared. “Birthday girl rules. No arguing.”
Emma tried. She really did. But Lily pouted and threatened to tell everyone she chickened out, so Emma changed in the bathroom, heart hammering. The satin slid over her skin like cool water. The camisole clung to her small breasts, thin enough that her nipples poked visibly through the fabric the second the air-conditioning hit them. The shorts barely covered the curve where thigh met ass; every movement made the hem ride higher, exposing the lower half of her smooth cheeks and miles of slender leg. She felt naked, hyper-aware of every breath of cool air on her freshly shaved skin, every rub of satin against nipples that refused to soften.
She walked out tugging at the hem, cheeks on fire.
Lily wolf-whistled. “Jesus, Em. You’re trying to murder my dad.”
The night was chaos: six pizzas, peach vodka mixed with Sprite, fairy lights, dancing in sock feet. Ryan appeared once the neighbors’ lights went out, rolling a joint with the same calm fingers that once tied Emma’s shoes when she was six. “House rules,” he said, voice low. “You do it here where I can keep an eye on you.” Emma took the tiniest hit, coughed until her eyes watered, then floated for hours in a haze of giggles and warmth, the satin rubbing her nipples raw, the tiny shorts riding higher with every spin.
Eventually exhaustion won. The basement lights clicked off. The television flickered blue. The other girls passed out—Sarah on the floor, Mia curled around her stuffed shark, Lily and Jules tangled together in the corner, breathing slow and even.
Emma curled into the smallest ball on the long sectional, knees to chest, arms hugging a pillow. The air-conditioning was brutal; goosebumps swept over her bare thighs and narrow shoulders. The satin shorts had ridden so high that cool air kissed the lower curve of her smooth ass with every breath.
Ryan stretched out at the far end of the same couch. There was a careful foot and a half of space between her tiny socked feet and his thigh; she looked almost doll-sized beside him.
Then he flicked the enormous fleece blanket over them both.
The blanket settled like a private tent, trapping their heat. The space between them vanished. She could smell him—cedar soap, faint smoke, warm skin. Her heart slammed once, hard, against her fragile ribs.
Minutes crawled by.
Then his hand found hers under the blanket.
Just the lightest graze of knuckles. She froze. It has to be an accident. Then it happened again—deliberate. His fingers slid between her tiny ones, swallowing her hand completely, thumb sweeping slow circles across her knuckles. Her pulse exploded, frantic hummingbird beats roaring in her ears. Goosebumps detonated everywhere.
This is Lily’s dad.
This is Lily’s dad touching me and I’m not stopping him.
Terror flooded her, sharp and metallic, but beneath it something hotter coiled low in her belly. She was too small, too scared, too shocked to move.
His hand left hers and began to move.
He started at her knee, palm gliding up the outside of her thigh. The satin shorts were so scant that by mid-thigh his fingers brushed naked skin. He traced the curve where thigh met hip, then let the backs of his knuckles drift over the smooth globe of her ass—slow, deliberate passes that made her stomach flip and her breath catch in tiny, soundless gasps. The shorts had rolled into nothing more than a thin band; he mapped every bare inch, thumb brushing the crease beneath her cheek, fingertips grazing the soaked satin that barely covered her pussy.
He spent forever just touching her legs and ass—long, soothing strokes from knee to hip, knuckles gliding over satin-smooth skin again and again until she was dizzy, thighs trembling uncontrollably.
Eventually he slid his arm around her waist from behind, palm settling flat on her stomach—his hand so large it nearly spanned her entire mid-section. With the gentlest pressure he drew her backward until her narrow back pressed fully against his chest.
The contrast stole her breath. Ninety-five pounds swallowed completely. She could feel his heartbeat, the rasp of stubble against her hair. Her own heart felt like it might shatter her ribs.
His thumb drew lazy figure-eights across her belly, nudging the camisole higher until cool air kissed the skin just beneath her breasts. Goosebumps swept over her chest; her small nipples throbbed visibly against the fabric.
When his hand slipped fully beneath her top she bit her lip until she tasted blood.
He traced her sharp ribs, then cupped one small, perfect breast. It disappeared in his hand. When his thumb swept slow across her nipple, fire shot straight between her legs. He spent ages there—teasing, rolling, tugging gently until her hips rolled helplessly.
Eventually his hand drifted lower, pausing at the waistband, tracing it until she was shaking. Then his entire palm settled between her legs, cupping her tiny, soaked pussy through the satin.
When he finally slipped beneath the fabric and touched her bare, the world narrowed to his fingers on her flawless, baby-smooth mound.
For a long, long time he did nothing but feel the silky rise of her freshly shaved skin—slow, reverent glides from the top of her slit to where her outer lips began, spreading the slickness that betrayed her. She was trembling so hard the couch vibrated. Without thinking, terrified and helpless, her knees fell open wider under the blanket, offering everything.
Only then did he part her delicate outer lips with one broad finger.
He traced her seam up and down, up and down, coating himself in her wetness, never quite touching her clit. When he finally circled it—lazy, wet, maddeningly slow—her hips jerked involuntarily. He kept that pace for what felt like hours, alternating between gliding along her silky lips and those cruel circles around her throbbing pearl, denying direct pressure until tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
Only when she was sobbing silently into the pillow did he finally give her more.
He traced her tiny entrance and pressed just the tip of one finger inside.
The stretch burned sweetly; she fluttered around him, terrified and greedy. He paused, withdrew, returned to slow circles on her clit until her body relaxed and begged for more. Over and over—tiny presses inside, retreat, more circles—each time gaining another fraction until the first full knuckle slipped inside and she felt impossibly, perfectly full.
He began to move: tiny, shallow thrusts paired with perfect, unhurried circles directly on her clit at last.
The pleasure coiled so tight it frightened her. She had never come before—never like this. She felt it building, huge and unstoppable, and panic flared alongside the heat.
It broke over her without mercy.
The first clench was violent—her entire body bowed off the couch, her tiny pussy clamping down on his finger in hard, rhythmic pulses that went on and on and on. Fresh wetness flooded his hand in hot pulses; her clit throbbed wildly under his thumb. Tears streamed down her temples into her hair. Her thighs shook so hard her toes cramped. The orgasm was too big for her small body—it felt like shattering, like dying, like the most terrifying and perfect thing she’d ever felt. Silent sobs wracked her as wave after wave tore through her, longer and stronger than she thought possible, until she was limp and trembling and utterly undone.
He kept stroking gently, drawing every last aftershock out of her until she went boneless against him, tears drying on her cheeks, pussy still fluttering weakly around the finger buried inside her.
Only then did he ease out, press a soft kiss to the top of her head, and rest his hand innocently on her hip.
Morning came too bright, too loud, too ordinary.
The smell of bacon and coffee drifted downstairs. Ryan stood at the stove in running shorts and yesterday’s T-shirt, flipping pancakes like the world hadn’t cracked open six hours earlier. The other girls stumbled up one by one, hair wild, demanding syrup and complaining about headaches. Emma moved among them like a ghost.
She couldn’t look at him.
Every time she accidentally did, the memory slammed into her: his finger inside her while Lily slept ten feet away, the way her body had clenched and flooded and betrayed her completely. Shame sat hot and heavy in her stomach, a sick, churning weight that made her want to fold in on herself until she disappeared.
She was disgusting.
She was ruined.
She had let Lily’s dad touch her there, had spread her legs for him, had come so hard she cried. And the worst part—the part that made her want to die—was that some traitorous piece of her still thrummed with the echo of it, still felt the ghost of his hand between her thighs every time she shifted on the barstool.
When Ryan slid a plate across the island to her—three perfect pancakes, two strips of bacon arranged in a smiley face like he used to do when she was eight—their eyes met for half a second. His were warm, conspiratorial, a little hungry. The look speared straight through her. Heat flooded her face and her traitorous body at the same time. She felt fresh slickness between her legs and had to grip the edge of the counter so her knees wouldn’t buckle.
She spent the rest of the morning helping clean up streamers and crushed Solo cups, laughing too loudly at jokes she didn’t hear, hugging Lily goodbye with arms that felt borrowed. In the car on the way home her mom asked innocent questions—Did you have fun? Was the vodka any good?—and Emma answered in a voice that didn’t sound like hers, staring out the window so the tears wouldn’t fall.
At home she locked herself in the bathroom and stared at her reflection until the mirror fogged from the shower she never turned on. She looked the same—tiny, huge-eyed, breakable—but she wasn’t. Something inside her had cracked wide open and would never close again. She pressed her thighs together and felt the throb that hadn’t stopped since she woke up, the slick reminder that her body didn’t care about shame. It only remembered how perfectly his finger had filled her, how gently he had broken her apart.
She was a terrible person.
A terrible friend.
Lily would never forgive her. Claire would hate her. Ryan probably thought she was easy, desperate, pathetic. She had always been the good girl, the quiet one, the one who apologized when someone else bumped into her—and now she was the girl who came on her best friend’s dad’s hand while everyone slept around them.
That night she sat at her desk pretending to do homework, thighs clenched so tightly her muscles ached. Every shift in the chair sent a pulse of heat through her swollen pussy. She hated herself for it. She hated how part of her kept replaying it in perfect, humiliating detail: the slow glide of his finger over her smooth lips, the way she had opened her legs for him like she was born to do it, the moment she shattered and cried into the pillow.
Her phone buzzed on the comforter and her heart stopped.
Unknown number:
You left your pink hair tie on the basement couch.
Claire’s still in Chicago until Tuesday. Lily’s sleeping at Jules’s tomorrow night.
Door’s unlocked after 10 if you want to come get it yourself.
—R
She stared at the screen until the words burned into her retinas.
Guilt screamed at her to delete the message, block the number, pretend last night never happened.
Shame told her she didn’t deserve to ever set foot in the Carter house again.
But her body—small, treacherous, aching—already knew what she was going to do.
Her hands shook so badly she had to type with one finger.
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