Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
“Unnnh, your dick is so deep in my butt!” I cry out in the stairwell. “Ooooh!”
“You love this,” he says, voice barely a hiss. “You love being filled anally. You love having your anal rim stretched, baby, and your rectum taken to the limit. Your asshole is molded to my cock now, just like your pussy, because I popped both of your cherries.”
His words are filthy, but I can’t even answer, I’m so far gone.
“Unnnnh,” is all I can say. “Ooooh.”
We move faster, his cock ramming deep into my rectum again and again as I wail with pleasure, cupping my big breasts. The slap of our bodies echoing up the stairwell is obscene, mixed in with elemental grunts and cries of ecstasy. I feel another orgasm building, sharper this time, and as it breaks, I clamp a hand over my mouth to keep from howling. My ass squeezes down around his cock, convulsing, and he shudders, thrusting up hard as he comes inside me, heat blooming deep in my belly.
“Mmmmm!” I cry out, throwing my head back as a deep anal orgasm overtakes my curves. My asshole ripples and shudders, milking the fuckshaft buried deep inside. “Give it to me, Daddy!”
“Fuck, I will!” Thomas roars in return, his balls pulsing as his cock ejaculates like a hose in my anus. “I’m dumping a gallon of come in your ripe asshole, fuck fuck fuck!”
We scream and shudder, the climax overtaking our forms as pure ecstasy flows through our veins. I milk him again and again with my asshole, and there’s so much sperm that it literally flows out between us, dripping down his balls.
But all things must come to an end, and after a few minutes, we cease moving, just holding there, trembling and sweaty and utterly spent.
For a long moment, there’s only the sound of our breathing, and the faint drip of water from a pipe overhead.
He strokes my back, his hands gentle now, and kisses my forehead. “You’re fucking incredible,” he whispers. “I swear, I come harder each and every time.”
I laugh, dizzy and high. “Yeah, but we’re going to get caught.”
He grins, then gently lifts me off his lap, watching with avid eyes as that huge monster reappears inch by inch from my ravaged anus. Then, he turns me around and kisses my quivering pucker, licking a bit at the sperm there.
“I love knowing you’re filled with my seed,” he says in a throaty voice. “Goddamn.”
“Yeah, but we have to get dressed!” I stage whisper. “We can’t do this forever, Daddy!”
Thomas chuckles, like he wants to argue, but then helps me pull up my panties and jeans. He tucks himself away, wipes his hands on his shirt, then smooths my hair and straightens my bra, kissing the tops of my breasts before covering them.
When we’re both mostly presentable, he takes my face in his hands and kisses me one more time, slow and deep. “See you tonight?” he asks.
I nod, dazed. “Definitely.”
We grab the box from the floor, and he opens the stairwell door. The light outside is harsh, the voices of girls in the hallway shockingly loud.
As we step out, I glance back into the stairwell, a weird chill running down my spine. For a second, I could swear I saw movement on the floor above—just a glimpse, a shadow.
I shake it off. There’s no one there.
It’s just my imagination.
I wipe the sweat from my brow, adjust the box, and follow Thomas down the hall, feeling the heat between my legs with every step.
I’ve never been so alive.
Or so thoroughly fucked.
And as I rejoin the chaos of move-out, no one even glances my way. Everything’s perfectly normal.
I smile to myself, my dirty secret burning under my skin, as Thomas’s come drips from my backdoor. I’m fucked-out, but also all-powerful and ready for whatever comes next. That’s what Thomas Moreland’s done for me … and I only want more.
15
THE GUILT IS KILLING ME
Andie
The city sparkles in the sunlight, like it’s trying to impress a beauty contest judge. I park two blocks away—on the far side of the river, the side where the streetlights are cracked and the sidewalk buckles up around the roots of old trees—and walk the rest of the way. Café Soleil is one of those places that feels private even when it’s full. The window is narrow, its yellow light fogged. You can’t see anything from the street except the vague geometry of bodies moving behind the glass.
I push open the door and step into warmth, in every sense. The smell hits first: scorched espresso, heavy cream, the earthy rot of overwatered ferns in the corner. The walls are exposed brick, dark with decades of brewing and spill. Mismatched velvet chairs sag in little clusters around battered tables, and a redhead with a sleeve tattoo is hunched over the counter, dropping a record onto a turntable. Billie Holiday. “Strange Fruit,” slow and bleak and perfect. The barista doesn’t look up. Maybe she knows not to.