Tasting Candy: Over 60 Erotic Pregnancy Stories

As I teetered in my heels, forearms pressing into the fine sofa, my vision returned and I sucked in a breath.

I had to do something. To say that wasn’t acceptable.

I stood up, or, well, I tried to. That hand on my spine kept me pinned.

He must have felt the conflict in me, because he stroked my spine comfortingly, spoke to me in a hushed voice that was so fatherly with its paternal concern.

“Shh, it’s okay. Just a little bit more,” he said before the next smack of his hand landed, and he continued to spank me, lightly at first, bringing that blood to the surface and making my pale flesh go rouge. I looked over my shoulders at him, at my ass, and shuddered as the sting went through me.

Another came, and that powerful mobster just exacted the price for my indiscretions. My out of control lusts that had made me break the rules for the first time in my life.

But he was just warming me up, getting my nerves primed and ready for the true assault.

It made the spanks of earlier seem like childsplay as his hand cracked down upon my supple ass with such force it drove me forwards and I nearly collapsed at the shocking and quick punishment.

“No!” I cried, but there was no one to hear me. We were alone in his penthouse, all but his guard completely blocked out from hearing my cries.

And a swanky hotel, for the penthouse? I was almost positive it had to have some soundproofing for the wealthy clientele. Especially when they included the mob.

My eyes went to the gun on the table, and I felt a shiver go through me of real terror, but then his hand cracked down on me again and I lost my vision for a moment.

“No girl breaks the rules in my club,” he chastised, and for a moment I hated him. He’d teased me, turned me on to the point that I couldn’t help but cum. He’d tempted me to break the rules, forced me to teeter along that line.

My knees trembled as his hand rubbed my stinging flesh, the soft touch contrasting to the hard spank that followed.

“Shhh,” he said to me about my whimpering, taking hold of my cheek and guiding my face towards his again. “It’s okay,” he said, rubbing some of the moisture from my cheek with his thumb.

“It had to be done, because I don’t want to hold anything against you, sweet Alice,” he said so calmly and affectionately, leaning in and placing another of his soft, romantic kisses to my lips.

My body was still quivering as I stood, as I reluctantly wrapped my arms around his neck. It was such a contrast, the warmth and softness of his kiss contrasting against the angry heat of my backside.

I didn’t even notice until kissing him that I was breathing so hard, my chest heaving as I tried to suck in oxygen through my nose.

Those big strong arms wrapped around me, and he wasn’t using them to make me hurt anymore, he was instead holding me, comforting me, rubbing me fondly. Such hard hands upon my soft flesh. As our tongues entwined, he lifted me up off the floor and carried me in his arms on into the bedroom.

The large, lavish bed was room enough for a whole group, but he laid me out gently among the sea of cushioning comforters and pillows.

He rose back then, and I watched as he unbuttoned his shirt, showing off that thick, ripped chest of his. Bulging pecs and abs, biceps that could be used to easily crush a man. Suddenly those spanks of his no longer seemed like the worst he could do; they were controlled and gentle compared to what he was capable of.

And there, along his right arm, he had a large, black tattoo. Something I didn’t recognize, a symbol maybe? But it looked scary, ominous even. Another adorned his chest, of a simple rose.

I’d been with my last boyfriend since I was 18, and I’d never been with anyone else. Even when I was dancing, that had always been business, and I never mixed it with pleasure.

Until Luc.

I looked over his body with such curiosity, such interest, and couldn’t help but compare him to my ex. He was so much more filled out, so much more masculine, and I found myself staring at the tattoo, trying to figure out what it was. My hands went to it, curiously rubbing over his veins and the dark symbol.

“What’s it mean?” I asked, breathlessly.

He watched me, let my soft fingers roam over the hard muscles and jutting veins of his body as he unbuttoned his pants at the side of the bed.

“That one means in matters of life and death, I am judge as the right hand of God,” he stated so casually. “It means I am The Boss. The boss of bosses, with no higher authority on earth,” he said just half a moment before he dropped his pants and the snug boxer-briefs beneath it, letting a thick slab of meaty cock spring out, so long and hard, suspended over a pair of heavy balls.

I should’ve been more concerned at his words. He was the right hand of God? In control of life and death?

Those were definite things that should’ve made me run back to my simple life, beg for my job back, and live the rest of my life with my head low.

But instead, my eyes were on his package, and my hand gripped his arm tighter.