The screen door slam-squeaked behind me, cutting through the cicada buzz of a Mississippi July. I’d sweated through my shirt before even reaching the porch—three-hour drive with busted AC, road grit still crunching between my molars. Aunt Cheryl’s voice carried from the backyard, that syrupy drawl turned up to eleven for extended family. That’s when I saw her.Perched on the kitchen counter like a stray cat claiming territory, legs swinging short enough her neon pink sneakers didn’t graze the floorboards. Cropped tank top riding up to expose a stripe of stomach so taut I could’ve strummed it. Ribs defined like piano keys under sun-kissed skin. She sucked a glittery straw from a juice box labeled “Big Girl Berry Blast” with cartoon unicorns. Entire presentation screamed mid-20s trying too hard—until those doll eyes locked onto mine. Hazel, with flecks that caught the light like stirred honey.“Oop!” Juice box made a glug-glug-splort as she hopped down. Bare feet slapped linoleum. “You’re Donny, right? The step-uncle who missed Nana’s funeral?” Her voice pitched high, almost babyish, but the words carried edge. She stopped two feet away, forcing me to look down—way down. Five-nothing if an inch, top of her head barely clearing my pecs. Close enough to smell coconut sunscreen and something sugary. I wiped my palm on jeans before offering a hand. “Don. You must be Tara.” Instead of shaking, she pressed cool fingers against my wrist. “Mmm, nuh-uh. Not til you ‘pologize.” Her thumb swept over my racing pulse point. “Nana cried every Sunday ’cause her favorite nephew ghosted.” “She was my step-aunt by marriage, and I sent flowers—” “Pfbt!” Her tongue poked between glossed lips, making a wet thppp sound. “Flowers die. You should’ve come. Now—” She rocked onto tiptoes, putting her mouth dangerously close to my ear. I caught the tremble in her stomach muscles as she strained upward, that infinitesimal quiver where hip bone met concave abdomen. “You gotta make it up to me.” The fridge hummed. Somewhere outside, kids cannonballed into the pool with a ka-blosh. Her pinky hooked around mine, tugging. “H-how?” Stupid vocal crack. Forty-two years old, divorced, three promotions—none of which explained why my knees felt like overfilled water balloons. Tara giggled, an artificial teehee that didn’t reach her eyes. “First, daddy issues.” She spun, ponytail whipping my sternum. “This way!” Glrk went my throat as she led me through the house—past framed cross-stitch samplers and a plastic Jesus nightlight. Her denim cutoffs strained with each step, seams digging into firm cheeks. Should’ve looked away. Didn’t. Backyard chaos unfolded: sweaty uncles manning grills, toddlers smearing watermelon on picnic tables. Tara zigzagged toward the pool cabana, grip vise-tight. Inside, chemical tang of chlorine and mildew. She shoved me onto a lounge chair, its plastic straps groaning skreeeek under my weight. “Stay.” Petulant pout, index finger jabbing air. When she turned to yank closed the flimsy curtains, I caught the jiggle of her chest—small but unrestrained under that flimsy top. My fingers dug into the chair’s armrests. Sunlight bled through yellowed vinyl, striping her torso as she faced me. Deliberately slow, she raised both arms, fingers laced behind her neck. Rib cage expanded, drawing my gaze to the ladder of abs flexing beneath honeydew-smooth skin. Belly button a perfect hyphen. Her thumbs hooked into the tank top’s hem. Click. Not a literal sound, but the switch flipped in my brain when fabric slid upward. Inch by torturous inch. The dip of her navel deepened with each controlled exhale. Dust motes hung suspended, catching in the peach fuzz above her waistband. “You’re staring, Donny.” Mock chiding tone. Top cleared her breasts—plain black bra, practical yet devastating against her compact frame. A scar curved under her left rib, whitish-silver. My tongue mapped the shape before I could stop it. She cupped her own stomach, nails painted like candy sprinkles. “Wanna touch?” Pool water gloop-glooped through the filter. Kids shrieked “Marco Polo” in the distance. Sweat trickled down my back, but Tara’s skin looked dewy-cool. Her pinky traced the scar. “I was fourteen. Appendicitis. Wanna know how many nurses asked if I was anorexic?” “Jesus, Tara—” “Six.” She bounced onto her toes again, making her chest jounce. “But now…” Hands slid down to grip her hips, thumbs denting soft flesh above the cutoff shorts. “People notice me.” Her foot nudged my knees apart. Straddling the chair, she settled onto my thighs—featherlight but intentional. Heat radiated through my jeans. My hands flew up like she’d pulled a gun. “Uh-uh.” She caught my wrists, guiding them to her waist. Skin seared my palms, muscle twitching under tentative fingers. “Hold proper, or I’ll tell Mom you felt me up.” “That’s not—” Her hips rolled. Once. Experimental. Denim rasped against denim, zippers clinking tik-tik. Every ridge of her abs pressed visible through the thin barrier of clothing as she arched. “You’re shaking.” Breath hot on my neck, baby voice gone throaty. “Big strong exec can’t handle a little girl?” Thump-thud-thump from the main house—someone dropped a cooler. Tara’s head snapped toward the noise, grin flashing sharp. As sudden as she’d mounted me, she slid off, tank top still rucked up. “Catch!” She lobbed a sunscreen bottle at my chest. “My back’s peeling.” Blinking, I fumbled the tube. “You’re not serious.” “Daddy taught me never to joke about skincare.” She presented her bare back—delicate shoulder blades like fledgling wings, the notch of her spine a dashed line descending into shorts. A pink strap bisected her tan lines. Lotion squicked out too fast, cold on my fingers. She jumped at the first touch. “Eep! Warn a girl!” “You’re the one making demands,” I muttered, spreading cream over her trapezius. Underneath the sunscreen scent, her skin held a whisper of salt. My thumbs dug into knots. Tara’s head lolled forward. “Hnngh… right there.” Movement at the cabana entrance. I froze as Cheryl’s silhouette darkened the curtain. “Y’all decent?” “Just sunscreen!” Tara chirped. Cheryl’s laugh hee-hawed through the vinyl. “Don’t hog your uncle, babygirl! Don, get your butt to the horseshoe pits—Bobby Lee’s talkin’ smack!” “Five minutes!” Tara singsonged. As her mother’s footsteps receded, she twisted to look at me, cheek smushed against her own shoulder. “You missed a spot.” My thumb brushed the hollow above her hip. “Here?” “Lower.” Touch dipped, catching the waistband. Her breathing hitched—real this time. A bead of sweat cut through the sunscreen on her lower back. The air tasted like melted plastic and Coppertone. Tara’s ponytail grazed my forearm, individual hairs clinging to sweat. Somewhere beyond the cabana, life continued—sizzling meat, Uncle Hank’s off-key harmonica. But here, now, her stomach muscles fluttered under my palm, a live wire inches from crossing circuits. She turned, my hand trapped between her back and the lounge chair. Inches apart now, knees bracketing my hips. The scent of her shifted—sweetness curdling into something muskier. Her index finger smeared sunscreen across my collarbone. “You’re blushing, Donny.” “Heatstroke.” “Mhm.” Her fingertip trailed up my neck, leaving a cool stripe. “Wanna know what I’ll make you do next?” A clatter of grill tools. Closer now. Tara’s doll face lit with malicious glee. “Too slow.” She sprang up, tank top falling back into place. “Race ya to the pool!” She darted out, cackling. I stared at my lotion-glossed hands, their phantom imprint still burning. Thwap-thwap-thwap of her bare feet faded toward the chlorine laughter.

Upon arrival, Don encounters Tara, a provocative young woman, in their family reunion. She criticizes him for missing his step-aunt's funeral and demands an apology. In the ensuing encounter, Tara guides Don to a lounge chair by the pool, where she intentionally exposes her body andups the ante with suggestive behavior. Despite the family festivities, the two continue to engage in flirtatious banter.



The screen door _slam-squeaked_ behind me, cutting through the cicada buzz of a Mississippi July. I’d sweated through my shirt before even reaching the porch—three-hour drive with busted AC, road grit still crunching between my molars. Aunt Cheryl’s voice carried from the backyard, that syrupy drawl turned up to eleven for extended family. 

_That’s when I saw her._

Perched on the kitchen counter like a stray cat claiming territory, legs swinging short enough her neon pink sneakers didn’t graze the floorboards. Cropped tank top riding up to expose a stripe of stomach so taut I could’ve strummed it. Ribs defined like piano keys under sun-kissed skin. She sucked a glittery straw from a juice box labeled “Big Girl Berry Blast” with cartoon unicorns. Entire presentation screamed mid-20s trying too hard—until those doll eyes locked onto mine. Hazel, with flecks that caught the light like stirred honey.

“Oop!” Juice box made a _glug-glug-splort_ as she hopped down. Bare feet slapped linoleum. “You’re Donny, right? The step-uncle who missed Nana’s funeral?” 

Her voice pitched high, almost babyish, but the words carried edge. She stopped two feet away, forcing me to look down—way down. Five-nothing if an inch, top of her head barely clearing my pecs. Close enough to smell coconut sunscreen and something sugary. 

I wiped my palm on jeans before offering a hand. “Don. You must be Tara.” 

Instead of shaking, she pressed cool fingers against my wrist. “Mmm, nuh-uh. Not til you ‘pologize.” Her thumb swept over my racing pulse point. “Nana cried every Sunday ’cause her favorite nephew ghosted.” 

“She was my step-aunt by marriage, and I sent flowers—” 

“Pfbt!” Her tongue poked between glossed lips, making a wet _thppp_ sound. “Flowers die. You should’ve come. Now—” She rocked onto tiptoes, putting her mouth dangerously close to my ear. I caught the tremble in her stomach muscles as she strained upward, that infinitesimal quiver where hip bone met concave abdomen. “You gotta make it up to me.” 

The fridge hummed. Somewhere outside, kids cannonballed into the pool with a _ka-blosh_. Her pinky hooked around mine, tugging. 

“H-how?” Stupid vocal crack. Forty-two years old, divorced, three promotions—none of which explained why my knees felt like overfilled water balloons. 

Tara giggled, an artificial _teehee_ that didn’t reach her eyes. “First, daddy issues.” She spun, ponytail whipping my sternum. “This way!” 

_Glrk_ went my throat as she led me through the house—past framed cross-stitch samplers and a plastic Jesus nightlight. Her denim cutoffs strained with each step, seams digging into firm cheeks. Should’ve looked away. Didn’t. 

Backyard chaos unfolded: sweaty uncles manning grills, toddlers smearing watermelon on picnic tables. Tara zigzagged toward the pool cabana, grip vise-tight. Inside, chemical tang of chlorine and mildew. She shoved me onto a lounge chair, its plastic straps groaning _skreeeek_ under my weight. 

“Stay.” Petulant pout, index finger jabbing air. When she turned to yank closed the flimsy curtains, I caught the jiggle of her chest—small but unrestrained under that flimsy top. My fingers dug into the chair’s armrests. 

Sunlight bled through yellowed vinyl, striping her torso as she faced me. Deliberately slow, she raised both arms, fingers laced behind her neck. Rib cage expanded, drawing my gaze to the ladder of abs flexing beneath honeydew-smooth skin. Belly button a perfect hyphen. Her thumbs hooked into the tank top’s hem. 

_Click._ 

Not a literal sound, but the switch flipped in my brain when fabric slid upward. Inch by torturous inch. The dip of her navel deepened with each controlled exhale. Dust motes hung suspended, catching in the peach fuzz above her waistband. 

“You’re staring, Donny.” Mock chiding tone. Top cleared her breasts—plain black bra, practical yet devastating against her compact frame. A scar curved under her left rib, whitish-silver. My tongue mapped the shape before I could stop it. 

She cupped her own stomach, nails painted like candy sprinkles. “Wanna touch?” 

Pool water _gloop-glooped_ through the filter. Kids shrieked “Marco Polo” in the distance. Sweat trickled down my back, but Tara’s skin looked dewy-cool. Her pinky traced the scar. “I was fourteen. Appendicitis. Wanna know how many nurses asked if I was anorexic?” 

“Jesus, Tara—” 

“Six.” She bounced onto her toes again, making her chest jounce. “But now…” Hands slid down to grip her hips, thumbs denting soft flesh above the cutoff shorts. “People _notice_ me.” 

Her foot nudged my knees apart. Straddling the chair, she settled onto my thighs—featherlight but intentional. Heat radiated through my jeans. My hands flew up like she’d pulled a gun. 

“Uh-uh.” She caught my wrists, guiding them to her waist. Skin seared my palms, muscle twitching under tentative fingers. “Hold proper, or I’ll tell Mom you felt me up.” 

“That’s not—” 

Her hips rolled. Once. Experimental. Denim rasped against denim, zippers clinking _tik-tik_. Every ridge of her abs pressed visible through the thin barrier of clothing as she arched. 

“You’re shaking.” Breath hot on my neck, baby voice gone throaty. “Big strong exec can’t handle a little girl?” 

_Thump-thud-thump_ from the main house—someone dropped a cooler. Tara’s head snapped toward the noise, grin flashing sharp. As sudden as she’d mounted me, she slid off, tank top still rucked up. 

“Catch!” She lobbed a sunscreen bottle at my chest. “My back’s peeling.” 

Blinking, I fumbled the tube. “You’re not serious.” 

“Daddy taught me never to joke about skincare.” She presented her bare back—delicate shoulder blades like fledgling wings, the notch of her spine a dashed line descending into shorts. A pink strap bisected her tan lines. 

Lotion _squick_ed out too fast, cold on my fingers. She jumped at the first touch. “Eep! Warn a girl!” 

“You’re the one making demands,” I muttered, spreading cream over her trapezius. Underneath the sunscreen scent, her skin held a whisper of salt. My thumbs dug into knots. 

Tara’s head lolled forward. “Hnngh… right there.” 

Movement at the cabana entrance. I froze as Cheryl’s silhouette darkened the curtain. “Y’all decent?” 

“Just sunscreen!” Tara chirped. 

Cheryl’s laugh _hee-hawed_ through the vinyl. “Don’t hog your uncle, babygirl! Don, get your butt to the horseshoe pits—Bobby Lee’s talkin’ smack!” 

“Five minutes!” Tara singsonged. As her mother’s footsteps receded, she twisted to look at me, cheek smushed against her own shoulder. “You missed a spot.” 

My thumb brushed the hollow above her hip. “Here?” 

“Lower.” 

Touch dipped, catching the waistband. Her breathing hitched—real this time. A bead of sweat cut through the sunscreen on her lower back. 

The air tasted like melted plastic and Coppertone. Tara’s ponytail grazed my forearm, individual hairs clinging to sweat. Somewhere beyond the cabana, life continued—sizzling meat, Uncle Hank’s off-key harmonica. But here, now, her stomach muscles fluttered under my palm, a live wire inches from crossing circuits. 

She turned, my hand trapped between her back and the lounge chair. Inches apart now, knees bracketing my hips. The scent of her shifted—sweetness curdling into something muskier. Her index finger smeared sunscreen across my collarbone. 

“You’re blushing, Donny.” 

“Heatstroke.” 

“Mhm.” Her fingertip trailed up my neck, leaving a cool stripe. “Wanna know what I’ll make you do next?” 

A clatter of grill tools. Closer now. 

Tara’s doll face lit with malicious glee. “Too slow.” She sprang up, tank top falling back into place. “Race ya to the pool!” 

She darted out, cackling. I stared at my lotion-glossed hands, their phantom imprint still burning. 

_Thwap-thwap-thwap_ of her bare feet faded toward the chlorine laughter.

Delve into the romance between Don, a middle-aged businessman, and his new step-niece Tara in "Soft Spills and Powerful Surrenders," a story that combines themes of age gap relationships, stepping into a Dominant Little Girl (DLG) role play, and repeated encounters filled with desire and temptation. As family tension brews during a family reunion, Tara seduces Don under the guise of innocence, testing his willpower and giving into the impossibility of their illicit escapades.

Soft Spills and Powerful Surrenders

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