6. Maura
MAURA
The campus gate spits me out at seven sharp, the heavy doors swinging shut behind a trickle of students who still have somewhere else to be. My bag hangs from one shoulder, textbooks and notes digging in, but the real weight sits lower, familiar now.
Pressure builds behind my ribs and across my chest, the constant low hum of discomfort I’ve learned to ignore until I can’t.
Mark stands beside the black Range Rover like he owns the sidewalk. He probably does. Six-six and dressed in another crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled to show the dark ink climbing his forearms, he takes up every inch of space around him.
People give him room without realizing they’re doing it. His gray eyes lock on me the second I step through the gate, and something in my stomach flips hard.
He doesn’t smile. He never really does. Instead he reaches out, big hand closing around the strap of my bag.
“Give it here.”
The command lands soft but absolute. I let the bag slide off my shoulder. He takes it like it weighs nothing, which it basically doesn’t, and tucks it behind the passenger seat.
The Rover’s windows are tinted so dark they look like mirrors. My reflection stares back at me—flushed cheeks, hair slipping out of its low ponytail, eyes too bright.
Mark opens the passenger door. “Get in.”
I climb up. The leather seat is cool against the backs of my thighs. My dress is one of the thrifted sundresses, soft cotton with tiny blue flowers, hem hitting just above my knees. It rides up when I settle. He shuts the door, circles the hood, and folds himself behind the wheel.
The interior shrinks around his shoulders. Even with the seat pushed all the way back, his knees still brush the dash.
The engine purrs to life. He glances over, takes in the way I’m sitting stiff, the small wince I can’t hide when the seatbelt crosses my chest.
“Dinner can wait,” he says. Voice low, final. No question in it.
My nipples tighten against the fabric of my bra. The pressure spikes, sharp and insistent. I shift again. He notices everything.
“Turn toward me.”
I do. The console separates us, but he reaches across anyway, one large hand cupping the side of my neck. His thumb strokes once along my jaw.
“Straddle me.”
Heat floods my face. We’re still in the parking lot, campus lights cutting across the windshield. Anyone could walk by.
The thought should make me hesitate. It doesn’t. My body already knows what it wants from him.
I unbuckle, hike my dress higher, and swing one leg over the console. The Rover is wide enough that I can settle across his lap without my knees jamming into the door.
His thighs feel like concrete under me. Solid. Unmoving. He watches my face the whole time, gray eyes steady, jaw tight like he’s holding the rest of himself in check.
The dress bunches at my waist. Cool air hits the tops of my thighs. Mark’s hands settle on my hips, fingers splaying wide. They nearly meet at my back.
“Arms up.”
I lift them. He peels the dress off in one smooth motion, cotton whispering over my skin. The bra comes next—black, plain, nothing special. His fingers find the clasp between my breasts and flick it open. Fabric falls away.
My breasts spill free, heavy, already leaking at the tips. The relief of being uncovered mixes with fresh shame and fresh want.
He looks at me like I’m something he’s been starving for.
“Fuck, Maura.” The words scrape out of him. “These pretty tits have been aching for me all day, haven’t they?”
I nod before I can stop myself. The admission feels filthy in the quiet of the car.
His palms slide up my ribs, thumbs brushing just under the swell. Milk beads at both nipples, slow and warm. The sight makes his breathing change.
“Lean forward. Feed me.”
The command sends a pulse straight between my legs. I brace my hands on the headrest behind his shoulders and arch my back, offering my chest. He doesn’t dive in. He waits, letting me feel the moment stretch. His mouth hovers an inch from my left nipple. Hot breath ghosts over wet skin.
“Please,” I whisper.
That breaks him. His lips close around me, firm and wet, and he sucks hard.
The relief is instant and overwhelming. Pressure releases in a rush. I feel the milk flow, hear the low sound he makes in his throat as he swallows. My eyes flutter.
The pull of his mouth travels down my spine, settles low in my belly. He works me with slow, deliberate pulls, one big hand cupping the breast he’s drinking from, squeezing gently to help the flow.
My hips roll without permission. The lace of my panties drags over the hard ridge already straining his dress pants. The friction drags a gasp out of me.
Mark switches to the right breast, tongue flicking over the nipple first, teasing the sensitive tip before he seals his lips and sucks again. The wet sounds fill the car. Obscene. Perfect.
The ache between my thighs sharpens into something vicious, a pulsing throb that makes my clit feel swollen and desperate. I grind down harder, chasing the friction, the obscene drag of soaked lace against the rigid length trapped beneath me.
His massive hand clamps onto my ass, fingers digging into soft flesh with enough force to bruise. The growl that vibrates against my nipple sends a fresh gush of wetness flooding my panties. “Not yet.”
I whimper, the sound pathetic even to my own ears, but I can’t stop the way my hips twitch against his iron grip. Inside my head, everything narrows to the wet heat of his mouth, the heavy fullness of my breasts finally easing, and the terrifying, perfect stretch I know is coming.
He keeps nursing like he owns me, switching from left to right with deliberate laziness. Each deep pull sends lightning straight to my core. The relief is so intense, pressure bleeding out in warm, rhythmic spurts that he swallows with low, greedy sounds.
My breasts grow lighter, softer, the constant ache I’ve carried all day finally draining away under his tongue. My soaked panties cling obscenely to my folds, the slick fabric dragging over my clit with every helpless roll of my hips.
My fingers tremble as I reach between our bodies. The leather of his belt is warm from the heat radiating off his massive frame, and I fumble it open, the metallic clink loud in the quiet car.
The zipper rasps down. His cock surges free—thick, veined, burning hot against my palm, the broad head already slick with precum that smears across my fingers. The musky, salty scent of him hits me, and my mouth waters so badly I have to swallow.
“Maura.” My name comes out rough, half warning, half raw hunger.
I don’t wait. I can’t. Hooking my drenched panties aside, I notch the fat head against my entrance.
The first push burns—God, he’s so big, stretching me wide enough that my walls flutter and clench in protest. I sink down inch by torturous inch, feeling every ridge, every vein as he splits me open.
The sting mixes with liquid pleasure until I’m gasping, thighs trembling. When my ass finally meets the hard muscle of his thighs and he’s buried to the hilt, the pressure against my cervix makes my eyes roll back.
Mark’s head drops back against the seat. A guttural sound rips from deep in his chest, vibrating through me where we’re joined. The sheer size of him inside me steals my breath; I feel him in my stomach, in my throat, everywhere.
“Jesus Christ. So fucking tight. This greedy little pussy swallowing your stepfather's cock like it was made for it.”
The words arrow straight to my clit. I rock forward experimentally, and the new angle drags the thick head across that spongy spot inside me that makes my toes curl.
My swollen clit grinds against the coarse hair at his base on every downstroke, sending sharp sparks shooting up my spine. Pleasure coils tighter, hotter, faster than I can handle.
He returns to my breasts with renewed hunger, sucking harder now, almost punishing. The contrast wrecks me—his mouth rhythmic and wet on my sensitive nipples, pulling more milk from me in steady streams, while his enormous cock stays huge and unmoving inside my clenching heat.
My thighs shake violently. I start riding him for real, lifting until only the tip remains inside me, then dropping down with deliberate, filthy slaps. The wet sounds of my pussy sliding up and down his shaft fill the Rover, loud and obscene in the enclosed space.
Every time I bottom out, the soft smack of skin on skin echoes alongside my broken moans.
His hands lock onto my hips, fingers spanning wide enough to nearly meet at my spine. He guides me without taking over. Not yet.
The restraint in those huge palms makes me ache even more. His mouth pulls off my left nipple with a wet, filthy pop, cool air hitting the glistening, leaking tip.
Laughter cuts through the night.
We both freeze.
A cluster of girls—three, maybe four—are heading straight to the parking lot. Their laughter bounces off the brick walls and concrete, sharp and carefree, while my pussy continues to flutter helplessly around Mark’s throbbing cock, still buried so deep I can feel his heartbeat inside me.
My thighs tremble with the effort of staying still, milk beading at my nipples, the scent of sex thick in the air between us.
The scent of us—salty skin, sharp arousal, the faint sweetness of my lactation—hangs heavy in the Rover's confined air, coating my tongue with every shallow breath.
I can't stop moving. My hips roll in tiny, frantic circles, grinding my swollen clit against the base of his shaft. The denim of his open pants scrapes the sensitive insides of my thighs, a rough counterpoint to the slick velvet heat of him stretching me so wide I feel it in my spine.
God, I'm so close it hurts, this desperate, clawing edge that makes my toes curl against the leather seat and my fingers dig into his massive shoulders. His white dress shirt feels damp under my palms, the fabric stretched tight over muscle that barely yields.
His hand clamps down harder on my ass, fingers sinking deep into the soft flesh, a silent, bruising warning that only makes me wetter.