His Little Secret

I whimper around his next invasion, then fingers in my hair growing more insistent, the pace of his hips picking up. Maybe I’m not just a troublemaker, maybe I’m a bad girl, because I picture the scene he’s painted, Mase setting down his fork at the dinner table, tossing aside his napkin and rounding the furniture toward my seat. Unzipping his jeans and plowing himself between my lips while everyone gasps in outrage. The texture of him on my tongue, the hoarse sounds he’s making, the vision…they all join forces and lust coils in my belly.

My hands move of their own volition, wrapping around his swollen sex and stroking him toward my eager suck. Mase’s cock is in my mouth. I can’t believe it. It’s better than I could have imagined, especially when he makes a broken sound and starts to push deeper with every thrust of his hips, nudging the back of my throat with the enormous head of his manhood.

“Yeah, I knew you’d be like this, didn’t I, Rip? I knew as soon as you got a taste of your uncle’s fat cock, you’d be climbing the walls for it. You can barely stop yourself from stripping naked when we’re in the same room already.” He growls and starts to pump faster, more insistently, his ruddy arousal spearing between my lips so fast, his balls make a smacking sound off his thighs every time he rears back. “If I’d given in and dicked you down while your parents were off staring at their fucking phones, the next time I came over, you’d have crawled to me on hands and knees, fingering yourself and whining for another fuck. We’d never get away with it.”

God oh God oh God. Yes, he’s right. We’ve only just started and I can feel something inside of me blossoming. Finally. All of those times I strutted around in my bathing suit or a short skirt in front of Mase, I was frustrated and achy. Now I know. I was made to give this man pleasure. I was made to get pleasure from him. The switch is being flipped with every drive of his mighty hips and I’m never going back to before.

“All right. Enough,” he pants, using his grip on my hair to pull me off his hard length and I lick my lips, staring at it, internally begging for another suck. “That’s a sweet, little mouth you’ve got, Ripley, but I’m after the hot cunt you’ve been offering me for a lot longer than I should have been tempted. Take off the robe and get on your back.”

My hands are shaking so severely from need, from nerves, from everything in between, but I manage to peel the robe off my shoulders. I’ve barely got it down over my braless breasts when Mase rips it the rest of the way off, throwing it on the floor. He rakes hungry eyes over my chest, my belly, the blue silk panties—and in one fell swoop, he picks me up and throws me down in the center of the bed.

Visibly agitated, he strips off his shirt, but doesn’t bother removing his jeans. I have precious few seconds to marvel over the brute strength of him, seething muscles covered in intimidating tattoos, before he climbs onto the bed and kneels between my thighs. The panties are drawn down my legs slowly, painstakingly, and as soon as my sex is uncovered, a rope of white liquid belts from the head of his erection and stripes across my stomach. “Fuck,” he grates. “Let you give me head too long. Not going to last.” Throwing my underwear over his shoulder, he drops down on top of me and locks his attention on the picture beside my head, groaning, wetting his lips. “Been dreaming of getting between your thighs so long, Ripley. You’re going to open them now and give Uncle Mase that little cherry.”

5

Ripley

My back arches on a gasp, my knees falling open.

Yes.

Finally.

I want to moan those words into his ear, but I bite my lip and endure the wonderful suffering in silence. His fingertips trail down the center of my body, the pad of his middle one sliding between the lips of my womanhood. I jerk on the bed when his touch travels over my sensitive nub and I want him to linger, to massage it, but he’s breathing heavily, sweat starting to speckle his wide shoulders. There’s a desperation to him that makes me think of mating season between animals, full moons and the feverish bucking of hips.

As soon as he finds me wet, he gives a low, reverent curse and grips himself, prodding my opening with the broad tip of his arousal. “God, Ripley, sweetheart, I tried to stop wanting you so fucking bad, but you make it impossible.” He inches inside me, pressing, working his hips to stretch me, and just when the pain begins and my muscles start to seize, he seats himself inside of me with a snapping thrust. “Ahhhh. Jesus.”