17. The Truth Revealed #3
Kent’s bedroom looks nothing like the showpiece spaces on the rest of the main floor.
No cold art, no abstract furniture; it’s all shadow and density.
Heavy velvet curtains wall off the night, just a rim of sodium streetlight leaking through the crack at the edge.
The bed is the centerpiece, a wide black rectangle with sheets the color of dark roast, the kind of cotton that gets softer with every wash and never loses the memory of sweat or skin.
There are no knickknacks at all because that’s the way my man likes it.
Spartan and spare, all angles and lines, just like him.
There’s a single lamp on, its shade the color of honey, casting an oval of soft light across the headboard.
There are candles too—three fat ones, all the same off-white, currently unlit, the wax pooled and glossy at the rim.
The air is thick with their leftover scent though, something resinous and sexual.
The only other light is the blue of the clock on the far wall, numbers ticking down in the dark like a time bomb.
He lets go of my wrist only long enough to shut the door and twist the lock.
Then he’s on me, hands spanning the width of my hips through the oversized flannel, the pressure so sudden it steals the air from my lungs.
He kisses me again, but this time it’s not a question.
His tongue is in my mouth before I can even gasp.
His teeth graze the edge of my lip, not enough to hurt but enough to make my knees go soft.
I reach for his belt but he catches my hand, pins it against my lower back, and then lifts me clean off the ground.
I squeal, but he’s already walking, carrying me like a prize to the bed.
He drops me on the mattress and the bounce is so hard I nearly roll off the other side.
Kent follows, crawling over me, his body huge and heavy and hot.
He looms above me for a second, breath coming in ragged, and then he tugs at the flannel shirt, working the buttons open one by one.
The air kisses my skin as it’s exposed—shoulder, collarbone, the curve of my breast—and everywhere he uncovers, he leaves a trail of heat, his mouth and tongue following the path of his hands.
“Oooh!” I cry out as he tongues a hard nipple. “Mmm!”
But Kent means business tonight. He pops off the nipple before leaning over to lick the other one, and then kneels at my knees and peels the leggings off, slow enough to be a tease but fast enough that I don’t get cold.
He balls them and throws them at the far wall, then runs his palms up my shins, over my thighs, to the soft under-curve where my legs meet my body.
I’m bare for him, and wet already, and when he looks down at me, it’s like he’s staring at an answer to a question he’s been asking his whole life.
“Good, you’re not wearing panties,” he rasps, his voice like dark molasses. “You know Daddy’s rule: no panties when you’re in the house so that your pussy’s always fresh and open for me.”
It’s true because Kent likes to fuck me whenever and wherever he wants, and access to my sweetest spot is of utmost importance. As a result, I never wear panties anymore, and my man fucks my cunt regularly, leaving me with trails of come leaking down my thighs on a regular basis.
But Kent has more than just my pussy on his mind tonight.
He strips off his own shirt, then the rest, until he’s naked above me, all hard muscle and dark hair and the kind of cock that makes you shudder before clenching your thighs together in need.
He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost frightening—bigger than I remember, more animal, and when his hands settle on my hips, I feel claimed.
He turns me over with a single, smooth motion, belly-down on the bed, my arms folded under my head. The cotton is cool against my cheek but the rest of me is burning. Kent kneels behind me, his hands on my ass, kneading the flesh and squeezing the soft mounds.
“Fuck you’re so fucking curvy,” he rasps. “Just like a woman should be.”
Then, he helps me so that I’m on all fours, and spreads me with his thumbs, exposing everything. The cold air over both holes makes me clench. I want to say something clever, but all that comes out is a whimper.
He bends down and breathes in, long and slow, and then he parts me again, bringing his face right to my ass. I giggle, a nervous hiccup, and try to wiggle away, but he growls—actually growls—deep in his chest. “Stay put,” he commands.
I shiver and go still. The anticipation is torture.
Then, he puts his mouth on me, right on the tight little knot of my asshole, and licks.
Just the tip of his tongue at first, circling, teasing, tasting.
I gasp, the sensation so sharp and intimate that my whole body jolts.
He licks again, firmer, then flattens his tongue and drags it up and down, making sure I can feel every inch.
His hands grip my hips, holding me in place, and when I try to bury my face in the sheets, he just licks my asshole harder.
“Good girl,” he rasps, voice hoarse. “You’re clean. Perfect. So fucking fresh with a tight asshole that was made to be fucked.”
I moan, high and broken, my thighs trembling. The words make me feel helpless and invincible at the same time.
He doesn’t stop. He pushes his tongue in, deeper and deeper, fucking my asshole with slow, deliberate thrusts. The wet heat of it is obscene, but it sends sparks all the way up my spine. I claw at the sheets, arch my back, do everything I can to get more of him inside me.
“Oooh!” I wail. “Mmm, that feels so good!”
He grins against my asshole before slipping his tongue in once more.
“I love the taste of your ass, baby, and I can tell no other man’s been in here before. I don’t taste any sperm, not one drop.”
I moan again, my face buried in the pillow because how can this be happening? How can I have my stepfather’s tongue deep in my butt, telling me that my anal canal doesn’t have sperm in it? OMG!
But Kent’s on a roll because he wants to break all the barriers tonight.
He licks my asshole once more and switches to his fingers then, one first, slick with spit and the oil he keeps on the nightstand.
He works it in, slow and careful, stretching me open until I can’t tell where the pain ends and the pleasure starts.
I bite the pillow, trying to muffle the sounds coming out of my mouth.
“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs, and his free hand moves under me, between my legs, stroking my pussy until I’m dripping. “You want Daddy to ruin you back here?” he asks, circling his finger in my rectum.
I let out a sharp shriek. “Yes, Daddy,” I whimper, barely able to breathe. “Yes, yes, yes!”