14. Dial Three For A Good Time
DIAL THREE FOR A GOOD TIME
Hunter
I’ve never seen anyone eat risotto like Stella does, spoon in hand, hair falling wild down her shoulders, every second bite licked from her lower lip as if she’s just on the cusp of orgasm.
Maybe it’s the wine—Montrachet, not cheap, the bottle nearly drained by now—or maybe it’s the strange friction of the three of us, alone and private in Lachlan O’Toole’s square white box of a church apartment, that makes her so unconsciously sensual.
It’s not a big place, just one open room with a kitchen pass-through and a living area split by a low, dark coffee table.
A crucifix in the corner, stark and plain, and nothing on the walls but the ghosts of old tenants.
A single lamp throws amber light across the table, and the way it picks out the shine on Stella’s bare legs—fuck.
Who knew I’d be so into legs?
But when it comes to this gorgeous female, I’m into everything.
I sit at the end of the table, a position that feels both like king and referee.
From here, I can watch everything: Stella directly across from O’Toole, her posture just shy of formal, the line of her back sharply curved, and oh so feminine, but the tilt of her chin determined.
The blond man has rolled his sleeves up past the elbow, bared his scarred arms to the cold, and he pours us another round with a steady hand.
The wine gurgles, the candle flickers in a slow pool of its own wax, and all the while I can feel the tension vibrating between us like a tripwire stretched across a church aisle.
“So.” O’Toole leans back, sets the bottle down with a soft click, and lets his gaze hang on Stella a second longer than necessary.
“I think we’ve exhausted the safe topics.
Are you ready to tell me what you actually want out of this?
” He asks it in the voice of a man who’s never been afraid of an answer.
There’s a little heat to it, but no judgment.
Stella doesn’t look away. She turns her glass in her hands, lets the surface tension of the wine swirl up the rim and then settle.
For a minute, she says nothing, the little drama of the silence playing out on her lips and the edge of her jaw.
Then she glances at me—not for permission, but to see if I’m really listening. I am.
“You mean outside the confines of what a pastor is supposed to hear?” she asks softly.
The Viking thinks for a moment.
“You’d be surprised at what I’ve heard,” he says in an even tone. “Although I’ve only officially been in this job for a year or so, I was the unofficial confessor for my unit in the Marines. There’s a ton of shit that goes down and I heard more than my share.”
Stella nods, weighing her words. She’s gorgeous in the dimness, the faint light turning her hair into a mass of heavy gold.
“I guess I want what I’m not supposed to have,” she says, her voice soft but pointed.
“I want to see how far it can go.” Another sip, a delicate swallow, the tip of her tongue wetting her upper lip before she speaks again.
“Hunter is the first man who’s ever made me feel—” she hesitates, then, “owned. Like he actually means it. Not just in bed, but everywhere. And I don’t even know if I’m supposed to like that.
I mean, aren’t women supposed to be liberated these days?
We’re in charge of our own destinies now, right? ”
I have to interject at that with a snort.
“You'd be surprised how many women still want to be taken care of in every way,” I rasp, my hands flat on the table. “Not just financially either. They want to be coddled, ravished, wooed, and dominated all at once. It’s quite the tricky balancing feat.”
O’Toole’s jaw flexes. He nods slowly.
“Yeah, there are a lot of paradoxes in modern life,” he says. “But tell me, Stella. You have a man already. So what do you want with me?” he asks in a low tone.
She shivers. The reaction is so honest, so unguarded, I feel my cock twitch under the table.
“With you, it’s different,” she whispers. “I don’t know if I want you to own me, or destroy me, or save me.” She laughs, a little wild. “Or maybe all three, in that order.”
The air is heavy. O’Toole’s eyes never leave hers.
I set my glass down, slow and deliberate. I don’t say anything, because this is his business. I’m waiting, too.
For a second, it looks like O’Toole is going to let it drop.
But then he pushes away from the table, rises to his full, intimidating height, and crosses the few feet to the living room in three deliberate strides.
The shift in the room is immediate: the scrape of his chair, the ripple of his movement, the way he just stands there at the edge of the light, waiting for her.
“Come here,” he says. “I can see that talking’s not going to be the answer. It’s time to act.”
It’s not a question.
Stella sets her glass down. Her hands shake, barely, as she rises, but the look on her face is one I’ve never seen before—not submission, not obedience, but pure, uncut anticipation.
She walks to him. He cups her face in one palm, his thumb stroking the line of her jaw, and then he kisses her, slow and deliberate, like he’s making an oath on her lips.
The sound of her gasp is loud in the silence.
For a beat, she stands absolutely still, then melts into him, her hands climbing his chest, clutching at the starched fabric as if she can’t help herself.
I stay seated. I watch. I cross my arms and let my eyes go dark, cataloguing every detail: the way O’Toole’s massive hands find her waist, the way his fingers splay to claim as much of her as possible, the way she arches up on tiptoe to meet his mouth, hungry, almost desperate.
“Mmmm,” she moans against his lips, her eyes falling shut. “Oh yes.”
The floor lamp throws their shadows long and gold on the white wall.
I can see the outline of her big breasts, nipples hard and obvious through the fabric, her dress riding up just enough to show the curve of her thighs.
O’Toole slides a hand up her back, finds the zipper, and works it down in one smooth move.
The dress slips, puddles at her feet, and in the hot amber light she’s left in nothing but a slip of lace panties and a bra that might as well be transparent.
Her tits are huge and creamy, the nipples visible beneath the lacy fabric.
“Holy fuck,” I whisper, and it’s not for their benefit, but for mine.
Stella turns her head, hair flying, and meets my eyes.
There’s a challenge there, a spark I didn’t know she had.
She doesn’t break the stare as O’Toole unhooks her bra, lets it fall away, and cups both of her breasts in his hands.
Her nipples are a gorgeous pink, hard as candy, and when he pinches them, she moans—a long, low sound, all the more obscene for how public it is.
“Mmm!” is her cry. “Oh oh oh!”
He leans down, takes a nipple in his mouth, sucks it hard, then bites just enough to make her writhe. Her back arches, her ass sticks out, and I can see her pussy through the high-cut lace, a dark, wet triangle against the white of her skin.
I stand up. Not because I’m jealous, but because the view is too good to waste.
O’Toole slides her panties down, drops them on the floor, and steps back half a pace.
He doesn’t say a word; just takes a moment to look at her, really look, his eyes traveling down the line of her body, the fullness of her tits, the curve of her belly, the impossible width of her hips that turns her into an hourglass.
“On the sofa,” he says, voice gone rough.
Stella obeys. She climbs onto the couch, turns, and sits, her knees together, her hands folded in her lap. She’s shaking with adrenaline, but her eyes are on fire.
O’Toole kneels in front of her. He parts her knees with both hands, spreads them wide until her pussy is on full display, pink and glossy. He stares at it, then at her, and then runs a finger up the slit, slow, like he’s tracing a line in wet sand. Stella whimpers, her hips twitching.
“Look at you,” he says, soft. “You’re fucking drenched, sweetheart.”
I move closer, circle over to the couch, and watch over his shoulder.
The angle is perfect: I can see Stella’s pussy, the slick shining in the lamplight, and I can see her face, open and raw and desperate.
Her gaze flicks from O’Toole’s eyes to mine and back again, and I know that if I told her to stop, she’d do it in an instant. But I’m not going to.
“Fuck,” he grunts, holding her labia wide to reveal her little hole and fat clit. Then he pinches her nub, making her scream a bit. “Yeah, that’s what I like to hear,” he chuckles deep in his chest.
Then the pastor stands, undoes his belt, and drops his trousers. His cock is huge, not quite as long as mine, but thick as a rolling pin, and already leaking at the tip. He doesn’t stroke it, just lets it bounce, heavy and eager. Stella gasps, her hands going to her thighs, nails digging in.
“Do you want it?” he asks, low. “Is my dirty little girl ready for some fat church cock?”
She nods, tongue darting out to wet her lips.
“Ask for it,” I say. My voice is low, but it cracks the moment open. O’Toole looks over his shoulder at me, then back at her.
“Please, Pastor,” she whispers. “Fuck me. I want that hard cock deep in my cunt.”
He doesn’t make her wait. He grabs her under the knees, drags her down the sofa until her ass is hanging off the edge, then lines up his cock and pushes in, slow and relentless.
The sound is obscene: a wet, squelching sigh as he splits her open, the head of his cock disappearing inside her cunt with a stretch so wide I half-expect her to scream.
She does.
“Unnnnh!” Stella wails, head thrown back, hands gripping the cushions. “Oh my god, oh my god, it’s too much!”
“Take it,” I growl, moving around to watch from the side. “You can stretch, can’t you, baby?”