The Fighter's Prize

Whitney must notice my indecision, because she pats my shoulder. “Could you maybe sit down?” She glances around. “In that chair.”

It is amusing that this fragile girl seeks to direct me.

It is alarming how quickly I obey her.

I settle her carefully on her feet and sit down in the overstuffed armchair, stretching my arms out on the rests, though my hands dangle well over the edges. I didn’t bother to turn the lamp on in the office, so Whitney is backed by the halogens from the main floor, rimming her in light like an angel, and my chest starts to lift up and shudder down, my palms sweating. I’m very aware that I could rip off her tight, flimsy red dress with a swipe of my pinky.

I make a rough sound when she steps between my outstretched thighs and settles her hands on my shoulders. Tentatively. This has brought her tits even closer, those tiny buds straining so close to my face, I might live up to my nickname and go mad. This is when I notice her smell. Fresh fruit. Cantaloupe, grapes, pineapple. It imprints on my senses forever.

“I guess I’ll just go for it, then,” she whispers, lowering her face to mine.

My fingers dig into the arm rests.

Her soft, painted mouth touches mine and she sips at my upper lip. Feather light. My lower lip is given the same exquisite treatment. She teases my mouth so softly, but my cock reacts as if it is being suckled, standing straight up like a column in my shorts. I open my mouth to groan and she hesitates a second, before sliding in her tongue, lapping at mine like the kitten she is. And I can no longer let her explore.

I reach for her hips and drag her down into my lap, giving her no choice but to straddle me, though I am so much larger, her knees do not even reach the seat of the chair. Caught off guard, she loses her balance slightly and her tits land hard against my bare chest, her hair falling forward over one wide blue eye.

Beautiful. So beautiful it feels as if someone is sawing my windpipe in half. It is also obvious that whatever game Whitney came here to play, she is clearly very innocent.

She pushes up slightly, but the hem of her dress is caught between us, so the material pulls and out pop two luscious, little tits.

My hoarse moan is loud in the small office.

“We cannot let me spill, kotik.”

“Right. Right.” Whitney scrambles to pull up her neckline, but the dress is too short. She cannot accomplish the task without sacrificing the material covering her ass.

“See?” I rasp, reaching behind her yanking the hemline up and over her hips, baring her backside. “This is why pants are important, da?”

She stares at me with pink cheeks. Nods.

And then she slides closer in my lap…and her warm pussy pins my cock to my belly.

Every nerve ending from my head to my toes twists into tight knots, my balls wrenching up and digging into my lower body. Ordering me to ease the pain. But I can’t. I can’t.

I drop my head back and pant up at the ceiling.

Whitney’s face appears over mine, her lips brushing my mouth and there is no more gentleness after that. I clutch her young ass in my hands and urge her to hump me through my shorts. And…oh God. One rub of her pussy and I almost shout the ceiling down.

It is wet.

I can feel the moisture through my shorts.

This beautiful girl is attracted to me, but I don’t have time to find that shocking. Or surmise why she is not terrified, does not recoil from me like everyone else. No, I have no time to speculate because she moans, the sound long and stuttered, then her hips start to rifle up and down, dragging her sex all over mine, her tiny ass muscles flexing in my palms.

Blyad! This is very dangerous. But her excited breaths make me crazy. Her arousal is my responsibility and I know I will not be able to stop this torture until hers is over.

“Maxim,” she sobs against my lips. “What is happening?”

I want to remind the sneaky kitten she never asked my name. But instead, I rear up and capture her tricky mouth, brutalizing it with mine, suctioning her into thorough, invading kisses until her fingernails are buried in my shoulders. My cock is a vessel of pain and agony at this point but she rides it, grinds on it, as if there will be no consequences.

“Are you going to come on it, little kotik?”

“Y-yes.” Her eyes glaze over. “Oh God. I can’t stop rubbing…”

“I am allowing this torture, Whitney,” I say through my teeth. “Because I know how rough I will be on you tomorrow. As soon as my fight ends, I will fuck you full of my seed.”