Chapter 14 #3
She lifts her hips so I can slide her panties off. Her pussy is pink and slick and slightly parted, as if begging for touch. I run a finger along her slit, feeling how wet she is, then bring the finger to her mouth.
“Open,” I command, and she does, sucking it in, tongue swirling. She moans around it, and the sound goes straight to my cock.
“Good girl,” I rasp.
I kneel on the bed, pull her closer, and let my hands roam up the backs of her thighs, kneading the flesh, gripping the strong, round curve of her ass. I spread her open and admire the sight—her pussy glistening in the moonlight, the tight bud of her asshole winking at me.
“You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are,” I tell her.
She laughs again, but it’s a nervous sound. “You’re not just saying that?”
“Never,” I say, and I mean it.
I pop the lube open, squeeze a clear glob onto my fingers, and rub it gently around her rim, circling, pressing, but not pushing in yet. She gasps, more from surprise than pain. I work slowly, prepping her, massaging the tight muscle until it begins to give.
“Relax,” I murmur, “just breathe.”
She does, her whole body shivering under my hands. I ease a finger into her anus, just the tip, then pull back, then in again, gradually working it deeper. She’s so tight I can feel her heartbeat, feel every tremor and flutter.
“Is this okay?” I ask, watching her face.
She nods, pupils huge, lip between her teeth. “It’s weird, but—yeah. Keep going.”
I do, adding more lube, working my finger until she’s loose enough for a second. She moans louder this time, hips pushing back into me. I use my other hand to stroke her clit, circling it softly, just enough to keep the pleasure ahead of the pain.
“I need to stretch you, sweetheart,” I say in a low voice. “My cock is big and your ass is so fucking tight.”
She nods and starts to pant, her voice catching with every new movement. “Oh my god, Liam—” she gasps, “that feels—fuck, it’s so—”
I grin and begin to scissor my fingers in her asshole before lowering my face to fuse my lips to her clit.
A spurt of pussy juice flows from her cunt, and I use the liquid to coat my fingers as I stretch out the walls of her rectum.
Goddamn, she’s still so tight, but this is going to have to do.
I pull my fingers out of her asshole with a pop, and smear more lube on my cock, which is hard enough to cut glass.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods, and there’s a wild, defiant light in her eyes.
I line myself up and press the head of my cock to her slick, prepped hole. Nothing happens. I push, gentle but insistent, and she hisses at the stretch.
“Easy,” I whisper. “Let it happen. You’re in control.”
She grabs the sheets, knuckles white, but she doesn’t pull away.
Inch by inch, I slide in, stopping every few seconds to let her adjust. The sight is incredible.
I watch avidly as my massive, girthy cock disappears slowly into her tight, straining anus, the rim so fucking stretched.
When I’m halfway, I pause and lean down to kiss her spine.
“You’re doing so well, baby,” I tell her. “You’re perfect.”
She whimpers, but it’s a good sound. “Don’t stop.”
I push deeper, and now I’m buried to the hilt in her butthole, her ass snug around my cock. I grip her hips, holding her steady, letting her get used to the feeling.
“You’re mine, you hear that?” I growl. “Every fucking inch of this asshole belongs to me.”
She moans, long and loud, arching her back so her ass presses tighter against me.
“Jesus Christ,” she pants, “why does that feel so good?”
I fuck her slow at first, shallow strokes, letting her learn the rhythm. I reach under her and rub her clit again, and when I do she bucks against me, the pleasure doubling up on itself.
“Such a filthy girl,” I say. “Taking Daddy’s ten inch cock all the way into your ass on the first try. What does that make you?”
She groans. “Mmmmh.”
I spank her, just once, the sound sharp. “I asked you a question, Simone.”
She’s insensate with pleasure. “Mmmmnh.”
I spank her again while drilling her asshole with my cock.
“Say it, Simone. Who’s my little buttslut?”
She shivers, a full-body quake, and says, “Me! I’m your buttslut, Daddy. It’s meeeeee!”
I groan, pistoning into her ass now.
“That’s right, you’re Daddy’s anal whore that loves getting her ass fucked. Isn’t that right? You’ll be begging me for butt sex on a daily basis going forward because this little asshole loves getting stretched by Daddy’s cock so much.”
I lose it then, fucking her harder, deeper, every thrust sending aftershocks through her whole body. She cries out, her big breasts swaying with the rhythm because it’s all pleasure—she’s loving this, loving being used, loving the filth of having a man’s cock buried deep in her rear end.
“You’re such a dirty slut,” I snarl, the words hot in her ear. “You’ll let me fuck you in any hole, won’t you? All of your filthy holes crave cock.”
She nods, face mashed into the pillow, drool pooling at the edge of her mouth. “Daddy, yes! Please. Don’t stop.”
I grab her hair, twist it in my fist, and use it as leverage as I slam into her, over and over. My shaft throbs, the pressure building, and I know I can’t last much longer.
I slow, desperate to make it last, but she’s lost in the haze of sensation. Her pussy spasms once, gushing down her thighs as I piston in and out of her ass.
“You gonna come for me?” I ask, rubbing her clit in tight circles.
She gasps, “Yes, oh god, yes, I’m so close—”
I fuck her harder, faster, and she screams as she comes, the orgasm ripping through her, ass clamping around my cock so tight I almost black out.
“Oh god, Liam! Yes yes yes mmmmm!”
The sound of her pleasure pushes me over the edge. I roar, hips snapping forward as I unload, every spurt of ejaculate painting her insides, the white-hot pleasure blinding.
“Fuck!” I shout, pounding her butt with the full force of my fuckshaft. “Shit shit shit!”
She screams again, her asshole spasming around my cock as she experiences a deep anal orgasm for the first time.
“Liam!” she wails. “Oh god, Daddy, yes!”
We shake and wail for ages, my cock pumping gallon after gallon of sweet, hot sperm deep inside her anal passage.
Her butt ripples around me, milking me dry of every drop, the pleasure so great that I lose my vision temporarily.
Finally, I collapse over her, both of us shaking, sweat pooling between our bodies.
The moonlight through the blinds paints stripes across our skin, zebra-stripes of blue and white and the red of my flushed face.
For a long minute, neither of us moves.
Finally, I pull out, slow, watching the way her asshole gapes, glazed and slick with lube and my cum. Unable to resist, I lean forward and lick it, enjoying the flavor of her used rectum.
She rolls onto her side, hair plastered to her cheek, eyes glazed.
“Daddy, what are you doing?” she whispers in a scandalized voice. “That’s— that’s!”
I pull her close, spooning her, my hand over her heart.
“Daddy does whatever he wants with your body,” I growl. “And you were perfect, sweetheart. Exactly the kind of anal whore I’ve always craved.”
She stares at me.
“Am I really an anal whore?”
I grin, flashing white teeth in the darkness.
“You will be after I’m done with you, sweetheart. You’ll be gaping on a 24/7 basis if I have my way.”
Simone is scandalized and tentatively clenches her backdoor for a moment, testing it. Deciding she likes the used feeling, she snuggles back, and we lie there in silence, listening to the city hum, the echo of our bodies still buzzing in the air.
I stroke her arm, feeling the goosebumps rise under my fingers.
“I love you,” I say, before I can stop myself.
She doesn’t reply right away. But she kisses my hand, and that’s enough.
We fall asleep tangled together, the sheets a disaster, the world outside forgotten.
Tonight, there’s no remainder.
Tonight, we fit.
The light in the kitchen is different in the morning.
It’s sharp, honest—a pattern of rectangles on the tile, every grout line and speck of dust suddenly lit up in high definition.
I don’t mind. I like seeing the place in its most unforgiving state.
There’s a truth to it, a refusal to hide anything, and after last night that seems appropriate.
I’m at the stove, spatula in hand, the sizzle of eggs loud against the hush.
The only other sound is the soft click of Simone’s nails on her phone as she scrolls, sitting at the island in nothing but my shirt, which shows off her big breasts.
She’s looped her blonde hair into a messy knot on top of her head.
She looks completely at home. Better than at home—she looks like she belongs here, which is something I never let myself hope for.
She glances up, eyes barely open, and makes a vague gesture at my apron. “Is that new?”
I look down. It’s red and white, ruffled at the edges, a cupcake of an apron with PEANUT BUTTER IS MY JAM in bubble letters across the chest. I’d bought it on a dare, but now it seems to fit, in an ironic way.
“It’s a classic,” I say, flipping an egg with more flair than necessary.
She grins, stretches her arms above her head, and yawns. The shirt slides up, showing a bare patch of thigh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it.”
“Yeah,” she says, “I do.”
I dish the eggs onto plates, slice a baguette, and bring everything to the island. She takes her plate and digs in, no preamble. I watch her eat, the way she chews with her eyes closed, the way she chases stray bits of yolk with her fingertip.
“This is really good,” she says, a note of surprise in her voice.
“I told you. Full service.”
She smirks. “Is that how you seduce your women? With the promise of eggs benedict?”
I roll my eyes. “I’m usually work with more of a French toast M.O., but yeah. That’s the general approach.”
We eat in a rhythm, passing the pepper mill back and forth, trading little bits of gossip about our classes and the people we hate in common. There’s a comfort to it, a feeling that maybe we’re just two normal people having breakfast.
After a while, she looks up from her food. “Hey, do you have a copy of The Scarlet Letter? I need it for a paper.”
I nod. “On the shelf in my office. Want me to get it?”
She stands, draining her coffee. “I can find it.”
She pads down the hall, bare feet slapping the hardwood. I watch her go, the shirt swishing around her hips, and I feel a strange kind of pride. Like I’ve finally managed to hold onto something good.
I finish cleaning the pans, rinse the plates, set them in the dishwasher. The routine is soothing, familiar. I hum under my breath, the morning slipping by faster than I want.
When Simone comes back, she’s holding the book, but she’s also clutching a stack of papers. Her face is hard to read—neutral, maybe, but with a tightness around the eyes that wasn’t there before.
She sets the book and papers on the counter and flips through the top sheet. It’s an ad for an egg donor service. The next page is a printout of a surrogacy agency. The third is a blank application, half-filled in with my name.
“Liam,” she says, voice flat. “What is this?”
I dry my hands and walk over, heart dropping into my stomach.
She holds up the egg donor ad, shaking it. “Are you trying to have a kid? Like, right now? I thought you didn’t want a family.”
I start to speak, but the words jam up in my throat. “It’s not—those are just—”
She waits, arms folded, her whole body tensed for something.
“They’re just forms,” I say. “I was curious, okay? I wanted to see what the process was. It’s not like I’m buying a baby off Craigslist.”
She doesn’t smile. “You told me you didn’t care about any of that.”
“I don’t,” I say, maybe too loud. “Not with you. Oh shit, this is coming out all wrong. I just—” I run a hand through my hair, trying to piece it together. “After the divorce, I thought maybe I’d missed my chance. I looked into it, but it never went anywhere.”
She flips the application to show me the date: last month.
I can feel myself sweating, the morning chill suddenly gone. “It was just a what-if,” I say. “An impulse. It doesn’t mean anything.”
She looks at me, really looks, and I realize I’ve lost her. Not entirely, maybe, but enough.
“Simone,” I start, but she cuts me off.
“You said it didn’t matter to you. Those were your words.”
I don’t have a good answer.
She nods, once, and starts to gather her things. She pulls her jeans on under the shirt, her movements clipped and efficient. I want to reach for her, to stop her, but I know better.
She grabs the book, tucks it under her arm, and walks to the door. She pauses, looks back at me, and says, “You should have just said what you really wanted.”
I stand there, apron and all, hands wet and useless at my sides.
She leaves, the door shutting with a soft, final click.
I don’t move for a long time. The sun keeps rising, filling the kitchen with brutal, perfect light. I stare at the empty chair where she sat, trying to remember how to breathe.
When I finally pull off the apron, the words PEANUT BUTTER IS MY JAM sneer at me, hurting my eyes.
But my heart hurts even more.
I turn off the lights, one by one, and let the house fall silent.