5. Millie #2
Maxwell's hands go to my trousers, his fingers working the button with rough, impatient movements. The metallic rasp of the zipper fills the quiet car. He yanks the fabric down my thighs along with my panties—expensive black lace he bought me, now a crumpled mess around my knees.
"Spread your legs," he commands.
I comply, the cool air hitting my bare skin as I open myself to him in the cramped space. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. The leather seat is cold against my ass.
Maxwell's fingers slide through my pussy lips, parting them with deliberate slowness. I'm already wet—embarrassingly wet. I can feel the slickness coating his fingers.
"Soaked," he growls, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that makes my stomach flip. "Were you thinking about that boy? Imagining his hands on you?"
"No," I gasp, my breath catching. "Only you. I only want you."
It's the truth. Even when Ryan was smiling at me, being friendly and harmless, Maxwell was the only person on my mind. He's always the only person on my mind.
Maxwell pushes three fingers inside me roughly, no warning, no gentleness. The stretch burns, my pussy struggling to accommodate the sudden intrusion, but pleasure follows immediately—sharp and overwhelming.
"Ahh—!" I cry out, my head falling back against the seat.
He pumps his fingers hard, curling them to hit that spot deep inside me that makes my vision blur. The heel of his hand grinds against my clit with every thrust, rough and relentless. I can hear the wet sounds my body makes as he moves inside me.
"This pussy belongs to me," he snarls, his eyes locked on my face. "Not some college boy who doesn't know how to fuck you properly. Not anyone else. Mine."
"Yes—yours—only yours—" I moan, my hips rocking to meet his thrusts. My hands grip the edge of the seat, desperate for something to anchor myself.
Maxwell withdraws his fingers abruptly, leaving me empty and gasping. I hear his belt buckle clink, the rasp of his zipper loud in the confined space. He shoves his trousers down just enough to free his cock—thick, hard, angry red at the tip. Pre-cum beads at the slit.
He grips my hips with bruising force, maneuvers me in the confined space until I'm facing the window, bent over the back seat. The leather is smooth and cold against my palms. My hands press against the tinted glass, fingers splaying wide.
"I'm going to fuck you hard," he warns, his voice rough with need. "You're going to feel me for days. Every time you sit down in class, every time you move, you'll remember this. You'll remember who you belong to."
Before I can respond, before I can even take a breath, he slams his cock inside my pussy in one brutal thrust. No easing in, no gentle pressure—just one hard, claiming stroke that buries him balls-deep.
"Oh fuck—!" I scream, the sound torn from my throat. The penetration is intense, deep, overwhelming. My pussy stretches around his thick shaft, struggling to take all of him. I feel impossibly full.
My hands press harder against the window, fogging the glass with my breath. My forehead rests against the cool surface.
Maxwell doesn't give me time to adjust. He sets a punishing rhythm immediately, hips slapping against my ass with sharp, stinging impacts. Each thrust drives me forward, my body rocking with the force. The car creaks with our movements.
The angle is so deep. His cock reaches spots inside me that make me see stars, that make my toes curl. I can feel every thick inch of him, every ridge and vein as he moves inside me.
"This is what you need," Maxwell growls, his fingers digging into my hips hard enough that I know I'll have bruises tomorrow—five distinct marks on each side. "Not gentle college boys who don't know what they're doing. You need a man who knows how to claim what's his. You need me."
"Yes—yes—Maxwell—" I gasp, my voice breaking. I can barely form words. My mind is nothing but sensation—the stretch of my pussy, the slam of his hips, the ache building deep in my core.
His hand slides around my hip, finds my clit, rubs it roughly in tight, fast circles. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pleasure layering on pleasure until I can't think, can't breathe.
"You're going to come on my cock," he commands, his breath hot against my ear. "Then everyone will see you walking around campus knowing your stepbrother just fucked you in his car. They'll look at you and know you're mine."
The taboo words push me closer to the edge. My pussy clenches around him, gripping his cock tighter.
"Oh god—I'm close—I'm so close—" My voice is high and desperate.
Maxwell's thrusts become harder, faster, more erratic. "Come for me. Show me this pussy knows who owns it. Come on your stepbrother's cock."
My orgasm crashes over me like a wave, sudden and violent. My pussy clenches and spasms around his cock, gripping him so tight I feel him groan. Pleasure explodes through my body, radiating from my core to my fingertips.
"Maxwell—fuck—yes—ahh—ahh—ahh—!" I scream, not caring if anyone somehow hears, not caring about anything except this feeling.
"Fuck—so tight—milking my cock—" Maxwell groans, his voice strained.
He thrusts twice more, deep and hard, then stills. I feel his cock pulse inside me as he empties himself deep in my pussy. Hot spurts of cum fill me.
"Take it all," he groans against my neck. "Take your stepbrother's cum. Every drop."
We're both shaking, breathing hard. Sweat dampens my silk blouse, making it cling to my skin. I can feel it between my breasts, along my spine. The windows are completely fogged now.
Maxwell pulls me up slowly, turns me carefully to face him. He kisses my neck, his lips soft against my overheated skin, then bites down—hard enough to make me gasp, hard enough to leave a mark.
"Ahh—" I gasp at the sharp pain, my hands gripping his shoulders.
He sucks the spot, his mouth hot and wet, ensuring a visible bruise. Then he moves to the other side of my neck and does it again, marking me deliberately.
"Maxwell, those will be visible—" I protest weakly, even though part of me likes it. Part of me wants everyone to see.
"Good. I want that boy to see them. I want everyone to see that you're claimed. That you're not available."
He pulls back, examines his work with obvious satisfaction. Two dark hickeys bloom on either side of my neck, angry purple marks that will be impossible to hide completely.
His hands move to my breasts through the silk blouse, squeezing possessively. I can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.
"Mine," he states firmly. "Every inch of you is mine. This body, this pussy, these tits—all mine."
We separate slowly, awkwardly clean up as best we can in the confined space. I pull my panties back up, feeling his cum already starting to leak out. My trousers follow. My legs are shaking so badly I can barely manage the button.
Maxwell tucks himself back into his trousers, rebuckles his belt with steady hands. Then he pulls me into his lap, his touch gentler now that his jealousy has been satisfied. His arms wrap around me, holding me close.
"I don't like seeing other men look at you," he admits quietly, his voice softer than before. Vulnerable.
"I wasn't encouraging him. Ryan's just friendly. That's how he is with everyone."
"I know. But you're beautiful, wearing clothes that draw attention, and you're in an environment full of young men your own age. Men who could approach you without hiding. Men who could take you on real dates, introduce you to their friends, their families."
I turn in his lap to look at him properly. His gray eyes are troubled. "Are you... are you insecure about the age difference?"
Maxwell's laugh is harsh, bitter. "Not insecure. But aware. You're nineteen, surrounded by potential partners who are age-appropriate. Who society would approve of. And I'm a forty-one-year-old man who can't publicly claim you because we're stepsiblings. Who has to hide what you mean to me."
"I don't want Ryan. I don't want anyone my age. They're boys. You're a man. There's a difference."
Maxwell's eyes soften, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "You mean that?"
"Yes. You're the only one I want. The only one I think about. The only one who makes me feel like this."
He kisses me, tender this time. His lips are soft against mine, his hand cradling my face. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go. Ever."
Maxwell climbs back to the driver's seat, starts the Bugatti. The engine purrs to life. We drive through campus, past clusters of students who don't even glance at the expensive car, and onto the highway toward Manhattan.
I examine myself in the visor mirror. The hickeys are prominent, dark purple marks on both sides of my neck that stand out against my pale skin. My lips are swollen from kissing, pink and tender. My hair is mussed, strands falling loose from where they were tucked behind my ears.
I look thoroughly fucked.
Maxwell glances over, smirks. "You look perfect."
"I look like I just had sex in a car."
"You did. With your stepbrother. In a three-million-dollar car on a college campus," he says, clearly pleased with himself.
The absurdity of the statement—the sheer wrongness of it combined with the thrill—makes me laugh despite myself. It bubbles up from my chest, half-hysterical.
Maxwell's hand finds mine across the center console, his fingers interlacing with mine. His palm is warm and dry. "I'm sorry for being jealous. But I can't stand the thought of anyone else touching you. The idea of it makes me violent."
"No one else will. I promise."
Maxwell brings my hand to his lips, kisses my knuckles softly. His beard tickles my skin. "I'm going to hold you to that, stepsister."