8. Soren #2
For a second, I just stand there, looking down at the soft, bare shape of her ass, the way the apron ties rest against her skin. Then, I take both strings in my hands and pull them tight, cinching the fabric under her tits so the rest of her stays completely open to me.
I slide both hands under the apron from behind and cup the full weight of her breasts first, the soft heat of them filling my palms before the first warm trickle runs between my fingers the second I give a slow, firm squeeze; she gasps but the spoon keeps turning in the bowl.
I keep my left hand on her breast and bring my right hand down to her bare ass. I don’t spank her right away. I just rest my palm there, feeling the soft heat of her skin, the way she pushes back into my touch almost without thinking.
Then I lift my hand and give her the first sharp slap.
The sound cracks through the quiet kitchen—loud, clean, and wet against her soft skin. She jumps, a startled little moan slipping out of her throat, then pushes back into my palm while the spoon keeps moving in the bowl.
I watch the faint pink bloom across her right cheek.
I give her another one, harder this time, right in the center.
The impact makes her ass jiggle. She whimpers and rocks forward against the island, but she doesn’t stop stirring.
A third slap lands on the left side, then a fourth, lower, catching the soft underside where it meets her thigh. Her skin is already warming under my hand, turning a pretty shade of pink.
I spread her butt cheeks with both hands for a moment just to look in between, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh.
She makes a quiet, shaky sound. Then I deliver two more firm, measured spanks that make her gasp and push back into me again.
“Soren—”
“Keep stirring,” I remind her, voice low against her ear. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”
She forces the spoon to move again, slower now. I can feel her thighs pressing together. Milk is already dripping from her nipples onto the floor.
Only then do I use both hands to yank the front of the apron down so both tits spill free. They hang heavy and full, milk already beading at the tips.
I brace my left hand on her hip to keep her bent forward over the island and latch onto her left nipple from the side, the first rush hitting my tongue hot and sweet as I suck hard enough to draw another soft sound from her throat.
She moans and her hips rock back against the hard line of my cock, but she still tries to keep the spoon going.
When both sides are softer I shove my jeans down just enough with one hand. I drag the head of my cock through the wet mess between her thighs, then push in slow from behind.
One long stroke until I’m buried to the hilt. She’s still tight, still swollen around me even after a month of this. Her bare ass is flush against my hips, the apron bunches uselessly around her waist.
I hold there, reach under her with both hands, and milk both tits while I stay deep. Streams of milk splash the counter. The mixing bowl is still right in front of her; her hands stay braced on either side of it so she doesn’t knock it over while I fuck her.
“Soren…”
“Stay still.”
I start fucking her hard from behind, deep thrusts that slap skin and make her tits bounce against the stone. Every time I bottom out I give one breast a firm squeeze so milk shoots out in arcs.
The kitchen smells like sex and sweet milk and flour. Her hands stay flat on the counter for balance, fingers spread wide. The spoon finally slips from her grip and clatters into the bowl.
She grips the edge tighter, breathing hard. “Don’t stop.”
I don’t. I keep her bent over the island, my left hand locked on her hip, my right still milking her while her body rocks forward with every thrust.
“You’re making such a mess,” I tell her, voice low against her ear as another warm trickle tracks down the side of the bowl, “all over the counter, all over the batter—you’re going to come for me just like this, bent over the island for your stepbrother’s birthday.”
She comes the first time with my cock buried and my mouth back on her nipple, shaking so hard the mixing bowl slides a few inches across the island. I hold her in place with both hands and keep going.
“Again,” I say.
I don’t give her time to recover. I reach around with my right hand and rub her clit in tight circles while I keep thrusting deep.
The second wave hits harder. She cries out and soaks my balls. Milk keeps leaking down my chest. Her legs tremble against the cabinet.
I pull out, take her by the waist, and turn her around to face me before lifting her straight onto the edge of the island so she sits a little to the side of the bowl, bare thighs spreading wide around my hips while the apron slips uselessly off one shoulder.
I drive back in and latch onto a nipple again as I start to move.
Her arms go around my neck for balance, her tits pressed to my chest, milk smearing between us.
“Right here,” I say against her wet nipple. “I’m filling you up right here. On the kitchen counter. Where anyone could have walked in. You’re going to take every drop and keep it.”
She nods on my shoulder, voice small and broken.
“Okay—please?—”
I thrust deeper, feeling it build, then come hard, grinding deep, flooding her. Pulse after pulse. She milks me with her cunt and I keep sucking until both of us are shaking.
I don’t pull out. I stay inside her, soft at first, then hardening again while I clean the last of the milk from her skin with my tongue. She’s limp, breathing hard, apron half-tied and completely ruined. Flour and milk cover the island around the forgotten mixing bowl.
“Not done yet.”
She nods.
I lift her off the island, turn her back around so she’s facing the counter, and bend her over it a second time. Her chest flat to the granite, ass up, legs slightly spread.
I place both hands on her tits from behind while I fuck her, thumbs working in slow circles as I watch the thin white streams track down the cabinet doors and drip into the batter still sitting in the bowl.
“These are mine.”
She also comes a third time with my name broken in her throat.
I’m buried to the hilt, still pumping the last of my second load into her, when we hear the front door open.
Keys jingle.
“Selena? Soren? Anyone home?”
Mom’s voice.
Selena freezes under me. I go still. My cock is still inside her, still twitching. Milk drips from her nipples onto the counter in steady drops. The mixing bowl and spilled flour still sit on the island like nothing happened.
Footsteps move through the living room.
“I came back early. My book club got cancelled. Is someone in the kitchen?”
Selena freezes under me.
I pull out fast, yank my jeans up, and shove her behind me. She’s trying to cover herself with the ruined apron. It doesn’t work. Her heavy breasts spill over the top, nipples still wet and dark, milk continuing to bead and fall.
The kitchen door swings open.
Mom stops dead in the doorway.
Her eyes go from my open jeans to Selena’s bare chest to the mess on the counter. The color drains from her face so fast I think she might fall.
Silence stretches for one long, terrible second.
Then Mom’s voice comes out shocked and broken.
“Oh my God.”