Seven
DALTON
I ’ve seen a lot of bodies—like, a lot. Possibly too many if I’m being honest (and definitely too many if I’m being puritanical). But Essie’s is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most mind-bogglingly exquisite body I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Her tiny brown nipples are even puffier in real life than they look on camera. They’re pearled and ready—utterly suckable—but they look so unbelievably soft. I can’t believe I’m about to put my lips on them. For two years, I’ve spent hundreds of hours fantasizing about grabbing and licking handfuls of these perfect breasts and keeping my face wedged between them, working them until she feels the sensation in her pussy.
But her pussy looks soft and puffy too, and even in the dim bedroom light, it shines with arousal. As ready as I’ve been to pledge loyalty to her tits, I’m also prepared to pilgrimage to and worship that pussy.
I’m speechless, which hasn’t happened since my mother informed me she was going to marry Essie’s father and subsequently ruin my entire life. Like, thanks mom—way to bring me into the world and then implode it. Super appreciate it. Can’t wait to send you a Mother’s Day card. Definitely not going to buy you a bar of scented soap and pretend I got it in Paris when I actually got it at CVS—a place you’ve never been in your life.
But it’s true; I’m speechless. It’s legitimately ridiculous how beautiful she is.
Essie’s eyes travel down to my hand and stop there—and I look down too.
Oh. Damn.
My hands have tightened into fists of their own volition. When I look back at Essie, her top teeth have dented her lower lip, and she’s gazing at me—or at the mask where my face would be.
“You’re sure about this?” I ask, and part of me hopes she’ll be the one to stop us. We shouldn’t be doing this— I know, I know, I know …but I’m not known for my impulse control.
And to my chagrin—or relief—Essie nods. “You can make it hurt.”
Fuck .
She takes a small step forward. “I just hope it fits.”
FUCK .
I’m going to hell for this, which is fine by me because everyone knows the good fuckers go to hell. I bet it’s a nonstop orgy. I bet it’s, like, tits and sweat for eons—really nasty shit too.
Fine. I’ll accept my fate.
I put my hand on my mask to remove it, but Essie darts forward and tugs it back down. “It stays on ,” she asserts, eyebrow raised in that stern way of hers. “Don’t try that again.”
Oh shit. I see what’s happening here…
… Essie’s a little freak , which bodes super well because I am too. I mean, not little, obviously.
Obviously.
“Anything you want,” I reply before I put my hands on her waist, lift her, and toss her onto the bed behind her. She sails phenomenally—like we could be figure skaters in another timeline—and when she bounces on the mattress, her tits bounce with her. Her little nipples are pointed right at the ceiling, erect and needy, and I want to kiss and suck and lick them more than anything. But it stays on , my girl said, so the mask stays on.
Time for my hands to shine.
I climb over her splayed body, careful not to put too much weight on her, and I run my hand over her breasts. The first contact spurs an unfettered, wicked groan from my throat.
We’re actually doing this.
I can’t take my shirt off because of the mask, but I unzip my jeans and slide them down, taking my boxer briefs with them until I’m looming over Essie, half-naked.
Her jaw lowers.
Part of me wants to pretend it’s because she’s scoping out the thigh tattoo she’s likely never seen before. Part of me wants to pretend it’s because she’s finally seeing what it looks like when a guy takes leg day more seriously than the signing of the Magna Carta (which I don’t fully understand because I don’t remember what the Magna Carta is, but it’s some shit Everett mentions all the time, so it must be important).
I know it’s because she’s scoping out my dick.
Essie has wanted this dick for two years now. I know it. She knows it. Everyone knows it.
All that certainty doesn’t stop her from mouthing the words, “ Holy shit ,” before she reaches out, tugs me onto the bed, and rolls me onto my back.
When I’m laid out like a picnic, Essie straddles me and positions my erect cock upwards. Her hand doesn’t even fit around it, but she grips it firmly like I always knew she would—like a girl who loves a fat cock would. And in the fastest series of motions I’ve ever witnessed, she orients her pussy right over the head and sinks down onto me.
It’s my turn to say, “ Holy shit .”
I’ve never, ever made a sound like the one I make when Essie seats her pussy around my cock in a single swoop. My groan is ungodly.
Her pussy is the tightest thing I’ve ever felt, and the gravity of the moment is beyond definition. It’s momentous—and yet Essie is gyrating on me like she has no interest in memorializing it at all.
She took me without prep or foreplay. That’s insane—truly unheard of…but I know she probably did prep with one of her thick, intimidating toys. She knew I wouldn’t be able to stay away tonight.
Girls who plan are so hot to me.
“You feel so good,” I manage to say, but my voice comes out thick and muffled through the mask. Annoying—I’m a talker. But, she doesn’t seem to mind.
Her hands are on my chest, and she’s bouncing on me while I piston up into her. Over and over again, I thrust into her hot, wet pussy, and she bears down, taking me top to bottom every time. The strokes are luscious, the pressure is indescribable, and Essie Romero is so goddamn gorgeous.
She grabs my hand and pushes it into her mouth, stuffing it full and sucking on my four fingers while her moans vibrate around my hand. I plunge faster. Frantic.
When she throws her head back, her hair tickles my bent knees, and the ribbon from her mask grazes my skin and heightens the sensory overload I’m barely keeping at bay.
“I love this,” she manages to say when she yanks my hand from her lips. “Are you close?”
I’ve low-key been on a hair trigger for two years, but my climax control is unmatched. “Tell me when.”
Essie’s hands fly to her heavy breasts, and she cups them in handfuls, massaging her sensitive flesh. “Keep going,” she urges, shutting her eyes tight. “Shit … I’m supposed to—”
“What?”
She inhales through her teeth. “Whatever, you can—no. No, you should pull out.”
“Baby, what?”
“ Pull out ,” she requests, clearly reluctant.
Devastated doesn’t begin to cover it, but I pull out like she instructed—and immediately flip her onto her back before shoving my fingers inside her.
Over my dead body are we going to come separately.
The warmth of her pussy drapes around my three fingers, and she takes them easily—and eagerly—rocking her hips against my hand. The way her muscles clamp around me is a sign she’s cresting, and I’m so damn ready to hear the sound she makes when she comes. “There it is. Fuck my hand. Rut that tight little body on my fingers,” I tell her before I curl them at her entrance and jerk my cock with my other hand, clenching my teeth behind my mask to push through the exertion.
Her fingers work her perky nipples, pinching them unforgivingly like she needs them handled. “Just like that. Make me scream. Please. Please don’t stop.”
My entire arm is aching, but she’s so damn close. Barely a moment later, when I feel my own climax rising, Essie cries out. Her head tilts back against the mattress, and she’s clawing and scrabbling her hands over the bedspread. “Holy shit,” she groans right when I release my cum onto her stomach. And miraculously—in an act of divinity—a second orgasm passes through her, making her body shudder.
Actually, fuck divinity. It was me. I did that shit.
I lower to kiss her, and only when my mask bops her nose do I remember it. I chuckle and say, “I promised you I would fuck that tight little pussy the way it deserves to be fucked.”
Immediately, her body stiffens underneath mine. When her muscles remain taut, I hoist myself up.
Her brows have scrunched together. “Say that again,” she murmurs, barely opening her lips to speak.
“I promised you I would fuck that tight little pussy the way it deserves to be fucked,” I repeat, starting to frown now too. Essie’s face is no longer tight with confusion. On the contrary, she looks terrified . Without a word, she shoves up my shirt—and her eyes widen as they dart from the tattoos below my abdomen and on my side.
I’ve thought about what it would be like to make love to Essie countless times. In every fantasy, she curled up next to me and told me she couldn’t wait to do this for the rest of our lives.
Needless to say, when it finally happened, I really didn’t expect her to scream at the top of her lungs. That said, I’ve seen weirder shit.
But watching her roll off the bed and turn off a recording—nope, not a recording but a whole ass livestream on her laptop—is beyond comprehension.