Chapter 11: Dad Can’t Know

He thrust in, one brutal stroke, bottoming out with a wet slap as his balls smacked against my ass, the stretch burning so good, his thickness splitting me open, filling every inch until I felt impossibly full, his pubic hair grinding against my clit. I screamed again, nails raking his shoulders, drawing red lines across his sweat-slicked skin, the coppery scent of blood mixing with our arousal. 
He groaned, forehead dropping to mine, his breath hot and ragged. “So fucking tight, baby girl. Taking every inch like you were made for me,” he rasped, his cock throbbing inside me, the veins pulsing against my walls as he held still for a moment, letting me adjust to the invasion. 
He set a punishing pace, hips snapping forward with raw power, the counter rattling beneath us, my tits bouncing wildly with every thrust, nipples grazing his chest hair in electric friction. The wet, rhythmic slaps of skin on skin filled the room, mingled with my breathless moans and his deep grunts, his balls slapping my ass in sticky smacks. 
I wrapped my legs higher, heels digging into his firm ass, meeting him thrust for thrust, feeling his cock drag along my inner walls, hitting every sensitive ridge. 
“Harder,” I begged, my voice breaking. “I want to feel you for days—pound this pussy like you own it, Marcus—make me yours.” The pressure built again, coiling tight in my belly as his girth stretched me to the limit, the friction igniting sparks with every plunge. 
He flipped me suddenly, bent me over the counter, my breasts pressing against the cold granite, nipples hardening further from the chill, and entered me from behind in one slick thrust, the new angle devastating—his cock hitting deeper, brushing my cervix with each slam, sending jolts of pleasure-pain through me. 
He covered my body with his, one hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back to expose my throat, the pull on my scalp stinging, the other hand snaking around to rub my clit in brutal, slippery circles, his calloused fingers pinching and rolling the nub until it throbbed under his touch. 
“Dreamed of this,” he rasped against my ear, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine as he pounded deeper, his hips grinding in circles to stir his cock inside me. “Claiming you in your daddy’s house while he’s gone—filling his little girl’s cunt with my cum, watching it drip out of your ruined pussy.” 
“Me too,” I sobbed, pushing back to meet his thrusts, my ass cheeks rippling with each impact, the heat building to a fever pitch. “Wanted you to ruin me on every surface, fuck me like the desperate slut I am for you.” 
He spanked me, sharp and hot, the crack echoing in the kitchen, the sting blooming into heat that made my pussy clench tighter around him, milking his cock as he drove in harder. 
I came again, my walls spasming wildly, clenching around him so hard he cursed and followed, slamming deep with a guttural roar, his cock swelling and erupting in hot, thick pulses that flooded my depths, the warmth spreading through me as cum leaked out around his shaft, dripping down my thighs in creamy rivulets. The sensation of being filled, claimed, pushed me higher, my orgasm prolonging into blissful aftershocks. 
We stayed locked together, panting, his cock still twitching inside me, softening slowly as our mixed fluids trickled out. 
Then he scooped me up, effortless, carried me to the living room couch, his strong arms cradling me like I weighed nothing. 
He laid me down, spread my legs wide, hooking them over his broad shoulders, and dove back between them, his tongue plunging into my cum-filled pussy, lapping up our combined essence with hungry slurps, the salty-sweet taste making him groan against me. 
“Gonna clean this pussy just to fill it again,” he growled, his beard tickling my folds, fingers spreading me open wider so he could suck his seed from my fluttering hole, his tongue swirling deep, cleaning every crevice while his thumb circled my clit lazily, building the sensitivity anew. 
I moaned, hands in his hair, tugging him closer. “Yes, eat your cum out of me, make me come on your tongue again,” I pleaded, feeling the obscene wetness, the way his licks sent fresh arousal pooling. He obliged, sucking my clit with renewed fervor, his fingers dipping in to scoop out more cum, feeding it back to me on his tongue when he kissed me midway, the filthy taste exploding on my lips. 
He made me come once more on his mouth, my body arching as I squirted again, soaking the couch cushions in a warm gush, the fabric darkening beneath me, the scent of sex permeating the room. 
Then he fucked me again on the couch slow this time, my legs over his shoulders, folding me in half so he could sink impossibly deep, eyes locked on mine as he whispered how perfect I was, how he’d been hard for me for years, how he was going to keep me filled all weekend. Each thrust was deliberate, his cock gliding in and out with wet, sucking sounds, the drag against my walls exquisite, building to a slow-burn orgasm that had me trembling, tears of pleasure streaking my cheeks as I clenched around him, pulling his release deep inside once more. 
We collapsed together, sweaty and spent, his cock still buried in me, softening but never fully leaving as we caught our breath. 
“Stay the weekend,” he murmured against my hair, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin. 
“I will,” I promised. 
And I did. 
All weekend, in Dad’s house, we fucked like animals, kitchen, couch, Dad’s bed, desperate and filthy, whispering how wrong it was while we came together again and again, his cock stretching me, filling me, marking me inside and out with bruises, bites, and endless loads of cum that left me dripping and sore in the best way. 
The taboo made it hotter. 
And when Dad came home, Marcus was gone. 
But the marks on my body, the ache between my legs, the cum still dripping from me, that was our secret. 
Our filthy, perfect secret.