Sore About Her Test Score

Reagan's chopping onions when Leana waltzes in. The girl's never once offered to help before, so Reagan's already smelling bullshit. They stand side-by-side, knives tapping on the board, and Leana's laying on the sugar like maple syrup. Reagan's seen this song-and-dance before. She spins around, hands on hips, and drops the hammer: “Cut the crap. What'd you do?” Leana winces, drops her carrot, blurts it out—fucked-up test score, total fail. Reagan's jaw clicks. Without another word she backs Leana up against the counter, yanks those tiny shorts down past her hips, and snaps a firm smack across bare skin. Heat blooms on the plump cheeks, and Reagan feels her own pulse hammering south. One spank turns into two, then three, each clap echoing. Reagan's fingers linger a beat too long, sliding over the red handprints, and her voice goes low. “Gonna make sure you remember.” She spins Leana around, hoists her onto the cool marble, legs parted. Reagan’s mouth is hot and hungry, tongue dragging in long, greedy strokes. She eats her like she’s starving, fingers sliding in deep, knuckles slick, pushing Leana up onto her toes. Leana gasps and grabs Reagan’s hair, grinding against her face, and soon they’re both half-naked—tees hiked, shorts dangling from an ankle. Reagan bends her stepdaughter over the edge of the island, palms flat, hips pistoning in tight, hard circles. Wet, filthy sounds fill the kitchen while dishes clatter untouched, dinner left to go cold. Reagan’s palm keeps popping every few thrusts—little reminders—until both of them come shaking, moaning, hungry for more.