4. Her First Cck Wrship Lesson
HER FIRST C*CK W*RSHIP LESSON
Hunter
Catching my little niece with her panties around her ankles about to be dicked down by the tiniest dick I’ve ever seen is not what I was expecting. Hell, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t a sad little pink earthworm pointing at her moist pussy.
After all, Stella’s always been a wildcat.
At least, that’s the impression she gives with her too-tight outfits, flirtatious looks, and big, bouncy breasts.
Plus, my bro has his hands full. Tom didn’t tell me much about the two-week babysitting job, but the motherfucker begged me to come over.
Literally, begged into the phone, saying something about “assault,” “battery” and finally “naked striptease that got Stella out of jail.” What the fuck?
I hadn’t been listening to his words, but suddenly I was all in.
That’s why I showed up tonight. Because I want to see what my saucy little niece has been up to, with her flirtatious smile and round rear end.
So I pulled up to the mansion a little early.
It’s no big deal. I thought I had a meeting early Saturday, but it was canceled, and so I decided to surprise Stella.
But when I roll to a full stop, twelve hours ahead of schedule, already every window in the house is blazing, the kind of warm, golden glow architects sell to clients in renderings but never achieve in real life.
Except here, in this monument to Moreland excess, it’s not for show.
It’s for whoever the hell is throwing a rager in my stepbrother’s ostentatious castle on a Friday night.
The drive is littered with cars—Mercedes, a battered F150, two white BMWs with parking passes for the U of M business school, a Prius with a bumper sticker that says “GIRL BOSS” in a rainbow.
I let the Range Rover idle in the circle drive, jaw tight, forearm draped over the wheel.
I take a minute, counting the vehicles, watching silhouettes cut in and out behind the creamy velvet drapes of the grand room.
From here, I see flashes of movement: a pair of girls giggling with champagne flutes in hand, a guy in a varsity jacket holding a beer like a trophy.
The bass is so loud it rattles the glass in the rear windows.
It takes me less than two seconds to realize what I’m walking into, and exactly who is responsible.
I pop the trunk and grab my duffel, the old leather one from Budapest that’s been to every continent.
I don’t bother with the front steps—already some kid is passed out on them, face buried in his own arms. Instead, I hit the side entrance, use the code Thomas texted, and let myself in through the mudroom.
I don’t slam the door, but it echoes anyway.
The first thing that hits me is the smell—vodka, Red Bull, cheap weed, and underneath, something cloying and sweet: a top note of female perfume and, beneath that, the unmistakable tang of sex. This is what happens when you leave a saucy blonde home alone with no guardrails.
The hallway is trashed. Red Solo cups line the floor like breadcrumbs.
A discarded tube of lip gloss is crushed under one heel of Andie’s favorite silk slipper chair, which is currently hosting two girls—one in a rhinestone bikini, the other in a puffer vest, both texting in total silence.
I move past them, barely sparing a glance.
When you run a billion-dollar construction company, you get very good at assessing chaos and parsing what matters. Right now, none of this does.
In the formal dining room, the antique table is littered with empty bottles and a forest of shot glasses.
Two frat guys are playing beer pong with Thomas’s Waterford crystal.
They don’t even notice me, which is a first. I pause, just long enough for one of them to realize there’s a six-foot-three man in a Brioni topcoat standing behind him.
He looks up, meets my eyes, and the confidence seeps out of him like water from a cracked pipe. I don’t say anything. I don’t have to.
The kitchen is worse. The fridge is open, lights blinking, its contents ransacked.
Something sticky has congealed across the quartz island.
I watch as a couple makes out against the double ovens, the girl’s hands tangled in the boy’s hair, her short skirt hiked nearly to her waist. For a moment, she makes eye contact with me.
She breaks away, startled, and I nod. The boy turns, sees me, and immediately scuttles out. I don’t follow.
I move down the main hall, up the split staircase, and into the second level, where the air is quieter but the sense of illicitness is even thicker.
There’s a thrum of energy—panic, maybe, or just the sharp edge of anticipation.
I don’t miss a beat. I navigate the hallway like it’s my own, shoes silent on the runner, scanning for the only thing in this house I’m actually here for.
I hear her before I see her: that laugh. It’s lighter than I expect, almost breathless, the sound of someone not yet sober but trying to play it cool. There’s a burst of giggling, then a hush, and then a muffled moan. The door is closed, but it doesn’t matter. I could pick this lock in the dark.
I knock once—hard enough that the sound cuts through whatever is happening on the other side. There’s a scuffle. A shush. Something knocks over and rolls across the floor.
I open the door.
And that’s where the scene ends, with everything I expect, and everything I don’t, on full display.
The lamp is the only thing that saves me from total darkness—one of those ugly designer ones, shade the color of bone, casting enough glow to make everything look expensive and exhausted.
At first, I see only a tangle of limbs on the bed: pale thighs, bare feet arched in white stilettos, and a spill of hair so bright it’s almost silver in the artificial light.
Then she sits up, and it’s Stella.
She’s nude except for the heels, her dress crumpled on the rug like a surrendered flag, the straps still warm from her skin.
Her breasts are even bigger than I remember—gravity-defiant, rose-tipped, and trembling as she tries to breathe.
She has that look, the one she inherited from her father: shocked, then embarrassed, then defiant in the way only a Moreland can be.
Her eyes, huge and blue, flick to mine and then away, like she’s weighing whether I’ll hit her with a lawsuit or just a moral lecture.
But I don’t see her. Not really. Not at first.
Because crouched over her, both knees braced on the comforter, is a boy sweaty from embarrassment.
Athlete. Face like a cement truck, but shoulders that could carry a rowing shell.
His jeans are around his thighs, and he’s got his hand between her legs, which is wet and pink and glistening in a way that nearly distracts me from the disaster perched above it because the boy’s cock is hard—sort of—but it’s comical, a pale earthworm, about the length of my thumb.
I can see the moment he realizes that I’m there, too: his jaw bunches, his face goes a shade paler, and he looks to me for mercy, as if I’m the parent coming home to find the neighbor’s kid spray-painting the garage.
I laugh. There’s no other reaction that fits. It’s a short, barking sound, and it fills the room with something close to violence.
“Jesus, Stella,” I say, and her name cracks the air like a whip.
The small-dick jock scrambles off the bed, dragging his boxers over his softening earthworm, already apologizing with his eyes. He’s up and out of the room before I can say a word, the door clicking behind him so softly it’s almost a whimper.
I let it hang, the silence. Then I close the door and twist the lock.
Now there’s just me and her.
She doesn’t move to cover herself. She just sits there, bare to the world, her knees drawn up, the soft underside of her thighs glowing in the lamp light.
She licks her lower lip, which is already swollen and red.
Her hands are fisted in the sheets, and she watches me with a look that says: I dare you to say something worse.
I put my bag down. I take off my coat, draping it over the armchair, and I sit at the foot of the bed. I let her sweat. That’s half the point.
“So,” I say, “you want to learn the art of cock worship.”
It’s not a question.
She blinks, her pupils blown wide, mouth open just enough to show her teeth. She tries to say something, but her tongue is tangled. Instead she gives a gurgle, the kind you’d expect from someone who’s never actually been told what to do.
I don’t smile. I don’t move. I just watch her, letting my gaze drag over every inch of skin—her pink-tipped nipples, the faint scar on her hip, the place where her thighs touch. I want her to feel it, the weight of being seen.
Then I reach for my belt. I don’t break eye contact as I undo it, the motion slow and deliberate, the sound of leather sliding through the buckle loud enough to make her flinch.
My cock is already half hard from the spectacle, but I don’t rush.
I take my time, freeing it from the expensive fabric, letting her see what’s coming.
I undo my pants, releasing the shaft.
It’s huge.
A full ten inches with veins bulging along the sides, the tip already wet with arousal.
She doesn’t look away. Not once. Good.
“On your knees,” I tell her, my voice flat as a judge’s gavel.
She slides off the mattress, her breasts jostling as she drops to the floor. She kneels on the Persian rug, thighs wide, hands on her lap, her hair falling in tangled waves around her face. For a second, she hesitates, not sure what comes next. I let her wallow in it.
Then I stand, and step in front of her.
My cock hangs heavy, thick and ruddy, the head flared and leaking a bead of clear fluid. It’s the opposite of what that hockey idiot had: dangerous, almost overbuilt, the kind of thing that forces a reaction. She stares, breath hitching, and I watch her fight the urge to lick her lips again.