Broken Rules, Wet Sheets: A compilation of short erotic stories

Ellen’s pov

His tongue dove in, expert, filthy, lapping my clit in tight circles, sucking my folds.

“Damn! You taste so good.” He murmured as my juices coated his chin; I rode his face shamelessly, tits spilling free, nipples hard from the cool air, and his growls vibrating through me.”

“Fuck!” I bit my lower lip as goosebumps and pleasures flooded me all over, the sensation making my head about to explode.

When I couldn’t stand it, I slid down, hungrily took his cock in my mouth — thick, veined, leaking from his pre-cum.

I sucked deep, gagging myself on purpose, my tongue swirling the head. I got teary as I tried to keep eye contact with him, humming so he felt it in his balls.

His hands fisted my hair; his hips jerked, chasing my throat.

I nodded rhythmically, making his cock dig deeper in my throat.

“Ellen…stop..” I pulled off fast, my heart slamming against my ribs.

“Cane? What’s wrong?”

He clutched his chest, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. Face flushed red, sweat beading on his forehead. Not the good kind of exertion sweat—this was wrong. All wrong.

“Call… ambulance,” he managed, his voice sounded thin and frail.

My heart pounded fast. Fear. Confusion.

They all clouded me.

I scrambled for my phone, hands shaking so bad I almost dropped it.

911.

Words tumbled out

“He developed a sudden chest pain, I… I don’t know.” They kept asking a series of questions I didn’t understand. “Just fucking come!”

The paramedics arrived in what felt like seconds but was probably minutes. They loaded him onto the stretcher while I hovered, still half-dressed, thighs sticky, his taste on my lips. Mom was still away on her trip. I rode in the ambulance with him, holding his hand the whole way.

Diagnosis came fast in the ER: acute coronary syndrome. Blocked artery. They stented him that night, but the damage was done; his heart muscle weakened, and his ejection fraction was low. Congestive heart failure followed.

Cane would never be the same; his health failed him.

He sent for Zac three months later. Mum had to resume her shift; life continued.

There was a knock on the door.

I walked to the door with my shorts and tank top, the door opened, and I didn’t know when I suddenly gasped for air.

Zac was tall, broad like his father used to be, with the same dark hair, same piercing eyes. But younger and stronger.

“You must be Ellen,” he said, voice bold and husky.

“Ermm…. Yes!” I stuttered, forgetting what I was about to say for a second. His features were striking.

“You’re his son.” I stepped aside. “He’s upstairs. He’s… been asking for you.”

Cane’s room smelled of antiseptic and old cologne. He lay propped on pillows, thinner than I remembered, but his gaze still sharp when it landed on his son.

“Zac.” Cane’s voice was weaker, but the command in it hadn’t faded. “Sit.”

They talked—awkward at first. Old wounds. Cane apologizing in fragments for being absent, for the divorce, for everything. Zac listening, jaw tight, not forgiving, but not walking away either.

I stayed in the doorway, quiet. Watching the resemblance hit me all over again. The way Zac’s shoulders filled the room. The way his hands flexed when he was holding back anger. The way his eyes flicked to me once, twice—lingering.

Days turned into weeks. Zac started coming more often. Bringing groceries, fixing things around the house Cane couldn’t anymore. I cooked for three now instead of two. Late-night talks in the kitchen while Cane slept upstairs.

Whiskey poured into coffee mugs because it felt safer than wine glasses.

The first real spark happened one night after Cane had taken his meds and drifted off early. Zac and I were in the living room, TV on low, half a bottle of scotch between us.

“You’re so beautiful, Ellen,” Zac said quietly, staring at the screen but not really watching. Then he faced me, “You take my breath away every time I look at you.”

I froze. That was unexpected. “Please don’t say anything else, so I don’t pounce on you right now.”

Zac turned his head, and his eyes met mine.

Lingered.

“I think I want you now,” he groaned. “You don't have to pretend. I caught you staring at me while I was working out this morning. Don’t you want to feel these muscles on you?”

His words sent sparks of desire through me, and my clit picked up the signal.

“I looked him deep in his eye.” Fuck me till I can walk no more, Zac,” I whispered in the most sultry voice, feeling no ounce of shame.

I’m so filthy. I fucked my stepfather, now I’m about to fuck my stepbrother. Call me a whore.

Silence stretched. Then Zac reached over, slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed my knee.

I could feel heat building up from within.

He slid closer on the couch. Slowly, his hand moved up my thigh—gentle at first, then firmer. I parted my legs just enough.

Inviting and urging him to ruin me, right there on the couch.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered.

I didn’t.

His mouth found mine—rougher than Cane’s ever was, tasting of scotch and pent-up everything. His hands roamed freely under my shirt, his calloused palms on my skin.

I arched into him,

“Hmm, yess.” I moaned straight into his ears as his fingers slipped beneath my shorts, finding me already wet.

We didn’t make it to a bedroom. Right there on the couch, with Cane asleep two floors up, Zac pushed my shorts down, freed himself, and sank into me, slow—inch by thick inch—eyes locked on mine the whole time.

“Fuck,” he breathed against my neck. “You feel…so tight.”

I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t. Slow at first, he gave me long, deliberate strokes that made me tremble. Then he went harder and faster, his hand flew over my mouth to muffle my cries and moans so we wouldn’t wake the house. I came clenching around him, my nails digging into his back. He followed right after, burying deep, and spilling inside me

“You feel so good, Ellen.” He whispered with a choked groan.

We stayed tangled, breathing hard, the room smelled of his cum mixed with mine, and it did nothing but arouse me more.