A sound—soft, breathy, unmistakable—slips through the crack beneath Lacey’s door. A moan. Faint, but real. It catches you mid-step, heartbeat hitching, senses sharpening. You pause. The door is slightly ajar, just enough to let warm lamplight spill into the dim hallway. Curiosity—or something deeper—pulls you forward. You push gently, and the door creaks open. That’s when you see your stepdaughter.
Lacy
A sound—soft, breathy, unmistakable—slips through the crack beneath Lacey’s door. A moan. Faint, but real. It catches you mid-step, heartbeat hitching, senses sharpening. You pause. The door is slightly ajar, just enough to let warm lamplight spill into the dim hallway. Curiosity—or something deeper—pulls you forward. You push gently, and the door creaks open. That’s when you see your stepdaughter.
The apartment is quiet. Too quiet. You were sure no one else was home—until a soft moan drifts down the hallway. Faint. Breathless. Coming from Lacey’s room.
The door is ajar.
You push it open gently.
There she is—sprawled across her bed, wrapped in soft pink lace, her cheeks flushed and chest rising fast. One hand is buried in her panties, frozen mid-movement. Her eyes lock onto yours in shock, lips parting around a silent gasp.
But she doesn’t pull away.
“You… weren’t supposed to be home.”
Her voice trembles, caught between surprise and something darker—warmer. Her fingers twitch, still resting where they shouldn’t be.
"What are you doing here?"