Kinky Pleasure Vol. 1

Lara

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat echoing the raw need throbbing between my legs. Three years. Three years of watching John work himself into a hollow shell, of seeing the ghost of my mother in his tired eyes. Tonight, the ghost was gone, drowned in a bottle of whiskey. And I was done watching.

He was slumped at the kitchen table, head in his hands, a big, broken man. The sight used to make me sad. Now it made something else coil tight in my belly. Heat.

“John,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He looked up, his gaze blurry. “Lara? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

I am going to be, I thought. With you. I didn’t say that. Instead, I walked to him, the tile cool under my bare feet. “I can’t replace her,” I whispered, the truth of it aching. “But I can give you something she can’t. Not anymore.”

Confusion clouded his face. Then shock, pure and stark, as my fingers went to the hem of my sleep shirt. I pulled it over my head in one fluid motion, letting it fall to the floor. The air kissed my naked skin, pebbling my nipples. His breath hitched.

“Lara… what are you…” His words died as I undid the button of my shorts, shoved them and my panties down my hips. I stepped out of them, standing bare before him in the dim kitchen light. His eyes were locked on me, wide and dark, the alcohol doing nothing to hide the sudden, fierce hunger in them.

I saw the thick ridge of his cock straining against his jeans. Good. I sank to my knees between his spread legs, my own pulse a deafening roar in my ears. My hands, trembling only slightly, went to his belt. The buckle clinked. The zipper rasped. I tugged his jeans and boxers down just enough to free him.

God. He was big. Thick and heavy, already dripping a bead of clear pre-cum from the tip. The musky, male scent of him filled my nose, and a fresh gush of wetness soaked my inner thighs. I didn’t hesitate. I leaned forward, my lips parting, and took the head of his cock into my mouth.

A guttural groan tore from his throat. His hands flew to the chair arms, gripping them like a fucking vise. “Jesus, Lara…”

I ignored him, focusing on the taste of him, salt and skin and promise. I swirled my tongue around the crown, sucking gently, before sliding down his length. I couldn’t take it all, not yet. But I took what I could, my cheeks hollowing, my head beginning to bob. This is what you need, I thought. This is what I need. To feel him, to taste him, to claim him. My pussy clenched around nothing, aching, empty, desperate.

After a minute of my hungry mouth working him, I pulled off with a wet pop. I stood up on shaky legs, took his rough hand, and led him, stumbling, to his bedroom—the room he’d shared with my mother. The ghost was here, too, in the perfume that might still linger. I was going to exorcise it.

I pushed him to sit on the edge of the bed. Then I turned my back to him, bent over, and placed my hands on the mattress. I arched my back, presenting myself. The cool air of the room kissed my wet, exposed pussy lips. I looked over my shoulder, my hair a messy curtain.

“Fuck me,” I said, the words vulgar and perfect. “Fuck me like you fucked my mom.”

It was the key that shattered the last of his resistance. With a raw, animal sound, he was on his feet behind me. I felt the blunt, hot head of his dick nudge against my soaked entrance. He didn’t ask if I was sure. He didn’t need to. My body was screaming it.

He shoved forward in one brutal, claiming thrust.

Oh, fuck! The stretch was immense, exquisite, a burning fullness that stole my breath. My cunt gripped him, muscles fluttering wildly around the invasion. He was so deep, hitting a place inside me that made stars burst behind my eyelids.

“Tight… so fucking tight…” he grunted, his hands grabbing my hips, his fingers digging into my flesh.

He began to move. No gentle rhythm. This was raw, desperate fucking. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony of emptiness. Each slam back into me was a thunderclap of pleasure, his balls slapping against my clit with every drive. The bed rocked, the headboard knocking the wall in a ragged tempo.

“Yes! John, yes! Fucking use me!” I cried out, the words torn from me. This was it. This was the connection, the feeling, the life we’d both been missing. I pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, milking his cock with my desperate, clenching pussy.

One of his hands left my hip and snaked around my front, his rough fingers finding my swollen, needy clit. He rubbed hard, fast circles over the sensitive nub as he pistoned into me.

The dual assault was too much. Pleasure coiled, tight and hot, deep in my core. It built with every slap of skin, every grunt from his lips, every filthy, perfect sensation. My cries became incoherent, just gasps and moans and pleas for more, harder, deeper.

“Gonna come…” I whimpered, my body tightening like a bowstring.

“Come on my cock, Lara,” he commanded, his voice a rough growl against my ear as he leaned over me, never slowing his punishing pace. “Squeeze that pretty little pussy for me.”

That was all it took. The coil snapped. My orgasm detonated, a white-hot wave of pure ecstasy that ripped through me. My cunt spasmed around his shaft, gripping him in rhythmic, pulsing contractions. I screamed, my vision whiting out, my legs trembling so hard I would have collapsed if he wasn’t holding me up, still fucking me through the incredible, shattering waves.

Feeling me clench and pulse around him sent him over the edge. With a final, deep roar, he buried himself to the hilt inside me. I felt his cock jerk, throbbing, and the hot, sudden flood of his cum filling me up, painting my insides. The feeling of his release triggered another, smaller climax for me, my exhausted pussy fluttering weakly around his still-hard length.

For a long moment, we stayed like that, bent over the bed, joined, panting, sweating. The room smelled of sex and sweat and us. Slowly, carefully, he pulled out. A trickle of our mixed fluids traced down my inner thigh. The evidence.

He turned me around. His eyes were no longer sad. They were dark, intense, alive. He looked at my flushed face, my heaving chest, my well-used pussy. He didn’t say he was sorry. He didn’t say this was wrong.