Wendy #2
“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs, watching my pupils blow wide. “You want to taste how much I’ve been thinking about you. Beg for it, Wendy. Beg me to fuck you.”
He slides the length of it down my cheek, then under my chin, forcing my head back so he can see the desperation in my eyes. He’s breathing hard now, his hand tightening in my hair until it hurts, the scent of him—musk and power—filling the small space of the car.
“I hate you,” I whisper, even as I lean closer to the heat.
“I know,” he grins, dragging the tip of his cock over my tongue. “Now open up and prove it.”
The car swerves as we hit a pothole, but Peter doesn’t flinch. His hand is a vice in my hair, tilting my head back at an agonising angle until all I can see is the dark, jagged ink on his throat and the terrifying, thick heat of him inches from my mouth.
“Open,” he orders, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates through the floorboards.
I hate him. I hate the way the leather smells, I hate the way the city lights strobe across his scarred chest—but mostly, I hate the way my mouth waters the second the velvet head of his cock brushes against my bottom lip.
I open for him. Just a sliver.
He doesn’t wait. He guides himself in, the thick, hot silk of him sliding past my teeth. I gasp, the sheer size of him stretching my jaw, and he let out a sound—a jagged, guttural moan that makes my chest vibrate.
“Fuck, Wendy,” he growls, his fingers tightening in my curls until my scalp stings. “Your mouth… it’s so fucking tight. Wrap those lips around me. Suck it like you’ve been dreaming about it since you were a kid.”
I slide my lips further down the length, my tongue swirling around the crown, tasting the salty, bitter tang of him. He’s massive, the veins along the shaft pulsing against the roof of my mouth. Every time I move, I hear him catch his breath, his hips bucking up just a fraction into my face.
“God-fucking-damnit,” he hisses, his head snapping back against the headrest. “That’s it. Work it, Darling. Use that tongue.”
As I take more of him, his other hand—the one not fisted in my hair—begins a slow, torturous descent. He drags his palm over my bare, shivering shoulder, down the curve of my waist, and lower, until his fingers reach my slick, aching pussy.
He groans when he feels the state of me.
“You’re a fucking mess for me,” he murmurs, his thumb finding my clit and circling it with brutal, expert pressure. “You’re dripping all over my fucking car, Wendy. Look at what you’re doing to my car. Look at how much you want the monster.”
I try to pull back, to breathe, but he holds me there, trapped on his cock. I moan, a muffled, desperate sound that dies in my throat as he slides two fingers deep inside me, right as his cock hits the back of my throat.
“You like that?” he asks, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “Feeling me from both ends? You’re so fucking full of me right now, you don’t even know your own name.”
He starts to move his hips in a steady, punishing rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of my mouth while his fingers do the same to my pussy.
The friction is too much. I’m drowning in him, my senses short-circuiting as the heat builds in my gut.
I want to cum. I need to cum. My hips start to twitch, my body begging for the release.
But Peter knows. He always fucking knows.
Just as the first wave of a climax starts to ripple through me, he rips his fingers out. He freezes his hips.
“Not yet,” he pants, his eyes burning into mine. “I didn’t give you permission to cum, Wendy.”
“Peter… please,” I whimper around him, my eyes welling with tears of pure frustration.
“Please what? You want to finish?” He lets out a dark, cruel chuckle. He drags his thumb over my swollen clit once, twice—then stops. “Beg me. Take it all the way to the base, suck me until I’m about to break, and maybe I’ll let you have it.”
He pulls back slightly, then thrusts deep, hitting a spot that makes my toes curl.
“That’s it, swallow it,” he growls. “Suck the life out of me, you little brat. You want this cock so bad? Prove it. Show me how much you’re willing to ruin yourself for a taste.”
I’m desperate now. I lean in, my hands gripping his thighs—feeling the hard, corded muscle under his slacks—and I take him deep, my throat working, my breath coming in ragged whines through my nose. I’m on the brink, my body vibrating with a need so intense it feels like a physical wound.
“Fuck, Darling… you’re so good at this,” he moans, his hand fisting in my hair again, forcing the pace. “So fucking good. I’m going to make you stay like this all the way home. I’m going to make you stay on the edge until you’re screaming for it.”
The driver takes a sharp turn onto a darkened, wooded road, and Peter looks out the tinted window with a predatory grin.
“Almost there,” he whispers, his fingers sliding back down to tease the entrance of my pussy, refusing to go in. “Don’t you dare cum yet. I want you screaming my name when I finally break you open.”
The car swerves onto a gravel path, the vibration of the tires rattling through my knees, but all I can feel is the thick, throbbing pulse of him against my tongue. I’m drowning. My face is flushed, my makeup smeared, my hair a wild tangle in his tattooed grip.
“That’s it, swallow it all,” Peter rumbles, his voice a jagged edge of pure filth. “Look at you. Clara’s little angel, face-down in the dirt of my car, taking every inch of my cock.”
I take him deeper, my throat stretching, my eyes watering as the sheer size of him hits the back of my throat. I swirl my tongue around the head, suctioning hard, desperate to please the man I’m supposed to hate.
The way his cock feels is intoxicating—smooth as silk but hard as iron, hot enough to burn. Every time I suck, a low, animalistic ungh rips from his chest.
“Fuck, Wendy… your mouth is a goddamn miracle,” he pants, his head falling back, his neck cords standing out like steel cables. “You’re sucking the soul right out of me. So tight. So fucking warm.”
But while my mouth is in heaven, the rest of me is in hell.
I’m grinding my hips against the seat, my pussy aching, swollen, and weeping with a need that’s turning into actual physical pain. I need a finger, a tongue, his cock—anything to break the tension that’s coiling like a spring in my lower belly.
Peter looks down at me, his eyes dark with a cruel, mocking intelligence. He sees me squirming. He sees the way I’m trying to rub myself against the seat.
He reaches down, and for a second, I think he’s going to show mercy. Instead, he grabs my hips and shoves me back, pinning me so I can’t move an inch.
“I told you to stop moving,” he snarls, his thumb catching a drop of my slick and smearing it mockingly over my thigh—anywhere but where I need it. “You don’t get to grind. You don’t get to touch. You stay empty until I tell you otherwise.”
“Please,” I whimper, the word vibrating around his shaft. “Peter, I’m… I’m going to die. Please.”
“Then die,” he whispers, leaning down to bite my earlobe hard enough to draw blood. “Die for me. Stay right on that edge. Feel how much it hurts to want me this bad. I want you so desperate that you forget how to breathe.”
He starts to thrust his hips, his cock sliding in and out of my mouth in a slow, torturous rhythm.
Each shove is deliberate, hitting the back of my throat, forcing me to take the full, heavy weight of him.
I’m making pathetic, muffled noises, my hands clutching his thighs so hard my nails are drawing white marks in his skin.
“You’re dripping all over the car, Darling,” he mocks, watching me struggle. “I can smell you. You’re so fucking turned on by how much I’m hurting you. My own personal, filthy little Darling.”
He speeds up, his breath coming in short, harsh stabs. “Fuck. You’re so wet. I should make you lick the seat clean when we’re done. Show you exactly what a mess you are for me.”
I’m sobbing now, my body shaking with the effort of not cumming. The edge is a razor, and I’m balanced right on the tip of it. Every time his cock slides past my lips, I feel a jolt of electricity shoot straight to my clit, but there’s no release. Only the ache. Only the hunger.
“Suck it harder,” he commands, his hand fisting in my hair and pulling my head down with a jerk. “I’m close, Wendy. If you let me cum in your mouth, maybe I’ll let you touch yourself. Maybe.”
The challenge is enough. I redouble my efforts, my tongue working frantically, my throat opening up as I take him as deep as I can. I’m working him like my life depends on it, the taste of him filling my senses, the heat of his body radiating over me.
“Fuck… yes… right there,” he groans, his hips snapping forward in a sharp, violent motion. “That’s it. You fucking brat. You perfect, filthy little bitch.”
The car screeches to a halt in front of the massive, dark silhouette of his estate. The engine cuts, leaving us in a silence so heavy it feels like it’s pressing the air out of the car.
Peter pulls out of my mouth with a wet, haunting sound. He looks down at me, his cock red and glistening, his eyes cold and triumphant. I’m gasping for air, my lips swollen, my pussy throbbing so hard I can feel my heartbeat in it.
“Out,” he says, his voice devoid of any warmth. “We’re going inside. And if you think this was bad? You have no fucking idea what I’m going to do to you in a bed.”
The car dies, but the air inside is screaming.
I’m collapsed in the footwell, my bare knees digging into the grit of the floor mats, my body a frantic, weeping mess of unspent friction.
I can’t help it—I start to grind. I’m rubbing my aching, swollen pussy against the edge of the leather seat, a pathetic, rhythmic hitching of my hips because the pressure in my gut is so high I think I’m going to go into cardiac arrest.
A low, mocking chuckle vibrates above me.