A room comes with a cost - Part 3 - Sexgeschichten

A room comes with a cost - Part 3

... my cheeks, the way my shorts wedged deeper with each push. Bare legs flexed under the tank, muscles taut, and I caught my reflection in the TV screen... flushed face, hair sticking to my neck, shorts tight around my curves.

Stevens hand "guiding" the cord away from my feet. Fingers brushed my calf, then higher, lingering on the back of my knee.

"Steady there. Wouldn't want you trippin."

I jerked the vacuum forward, away from Liams touch, but the cord caught again... tangled in my haste. The machine tipped, buzzing wild against the couch leg, and I bent to untangle it, ass up, shorts riding high. Cool air kissed the crease of my cheeks, panties peeking. Liam's whistle cut through the hum.

"Spot check.", Liam said.

No time to straighten... his palm landed flat on my exposed skin, not a slap but a slow drag, thumb hooking the shorts' edge and tugging them aside just enough to bare half a cheek. The lace of my panties shifted, fabric pulling taut against my soaked core, and I felt it: the damp outline, visible, embarrassing.

"Stop... fuck!"

I twisted, vacuum clattering, but Steven was there, steadying me with hands on my hips. His grip tightened, thumbs circling the dimples above my ass, pressing me back into position.

"Demerit 6: Equipment mishandle. And 7: Sass. You're rackin' 'em up, Sarah.", noted Steven.

Seven. The number burned, evaluation threshold looming like a guillotine. I shoved them off, yanking the shorts straight, the fabric chafing my ...

... swollen lips. The vacuum whined back to life, and I finished in silence... strokes mechanical, body screaming. By the end, the living room gleamed, but I didn't. Sweat-slick, thighs glistening (not all from effort), I coiled the cord with shaking hands.

"There. Living room is clean. Happy now, assholes?"

Liam snatched the log, pen flying: 7:17 PM: Backtalk post-chore. Demerit 8.

"Over the top, sis. Evening's gonna sting."

I didn't argue. Couldn't. The fight curdled into something heavier... resignation laced with that sick spark low in my belly. I fled to my room, door slamming, collapsing onto the bed in a heap. The tank clung, shorts damp where it counted most. I peeled them off, staring at the crotch: Dark, obvious, the cotton molded to my shame. *Why? The squeezes, the checks, the eyes... it's like my body's rewriting the script, turning humiliation into heat.* Anna's words echoed: *The mix of hate and heat.* Fuck her for being right.

Fingers circled slow over my clit, slick and swollen, the memory replaying: Steven's heel grinding, that pressure building. A soft moan escaped... hate it, need it. But the door creaked.

"Sarah! Dinner. Then review."

Mike's voice, gruff through the wood.

No time. I yanked on fresh shorts... loose ones, rebellion's small win... and headed down. The table was set: Pasta steaming, but the air? Charged. Mike at the head, boys on sides, the log open like a bible between them. I sat, legs crossing tight. The dampness still a ...