Free Little Brats India: Forbidden Taboo Erotica by Selena Kitt

 
    She was looking at her mother nude.
    India had seen her mother naked before, but never like this. She was seeing her through her stepfather’s eyes—not as a wife and mother, but as a woman, vibrant, alive, and terrifyingly sexy. Is this how Robert really saw her? There was such eroticism in the sketch, it almost pulsed with heat.
    Cecile’s legs were spread wide open as she sat, spine straight, on a chair, clothed only a pair of six-inch heels, her small, hairless pussy exposed. The erotic depiction of her mother, simple pencil on paper, made India’s breath shudder on exhale as she turned the page in her stepfather, Robert’s, sketchbook. Here was yet another sketch of the woman in a highly sexual pose, captured this time in various colors of ink.
    India’s mother had a dancer’s body, feminine but heavily muscled, while still remaining thin and trim. She had a long neck and legs, but the shorter torso typical of classical dancers. Ballerinas didn’t always have the most beautiful bodies, but in her stepfather’s skilled hands, India thought her mother looked more beautiful than she’d ever personally experienced.
    Cecile was a former dancer, her body slowly aging, but still, the woman had retained her figure, although her rock hard body had softened around the edges. India, on the other hand, had built a modern dancer’s body on a well-muscled, proportional, solid frame. But that wasn’t the only contrast between mother and daughter.
    They were night and day.
    Cecile sported light, blond hair with white, powdery skin and bright blue eyes. India’s dark hair was a long chestnut, her skin a healthy tan, her eyes a rich coffee-color. While she actually took after her biological father, she had the same darkness to her skin, hair, and eyes as her stepfather, so much so people often mistook her as his real daughter.
    She gazed at her mother’s form, admiring each sketch, the detail bringing the suggestive poses to life. Anyone looking through—of either gender—would appreciate the artistry, the sex appeal in her stepfather’s work. India looked at the next drawing of her mother, this one of her standing, bent at the waist, lace panties pulled down, stretched in a line across her thighs, her tiny breasts exposed, nipples pointing toward the floor.
    India’s brow furrowed as she flipped through the spiral bound book, looking through image after image of her mother exposed in a variety of poses. It happened gradually, but India realized that the further she got, the more clothes her mother had on.
    The images started to change—a sheet wrapped loosely around her hips or arranged over her breasts—still arousing, always beautiful, but by the time India had gotten half way through the book, her mother was posing completely clothed. Flipping back to the beginning, seeing the dates below the artist’s initials, India realized that her mother’s willingness to pose nude had been short-lived after the initial date of their marriage.
    Moving on to the next sketchbook, always impressed with the way her stepfather saw the world and reproduced it with fluid lines and graceful strokes, India discovered the sketches he’d made of his stepdaughter. He’s drawing me! Most were recreations of photos. Many of them showed her dancing, capturing her, a moment at a time, in dramatic poses, arms stretched, legs bent. He’d captured all of her best moves. Her heart beat faster, fluttering in her chest.
    India had grown up in the shadow of her famous, classical dancer mother. She had grown used to being invisible, even on stage. Her mother’s presence and reputation simply dwarfed her own. But Robert—he had seen his stepdaughter as talented and beautiful in her own right. He sees me, he knows me. This proved it. It showed on every page, and she flipped through, breath coming faster with the realization.
    As she got toward the end of the sketchbook, the drawings changed. In many of these, her eyes were closed in a