Broomer X Chalky Novels & Stories

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I’d spent an hour flat-ironing my brunette hair and applying makeup, hoping it would hide the puffiness in my eyes from crying over the latest email from my divorce lawyer. At the back of the room, Chloe sat with her legs crossed, spinning a pink highlighter between her manicured fingers. She wasn’t looking at the book. She was looking at me. Or rather, she was looking through me. “Chloe, page one-fifty-four,” I repeated, trying to inject some authority into my tone. She didn’t move. “I don’t really feel like it today, Mrs. McKnight. Or is it Ms. Miller now? I heard the paperwork is almost done.”

"I just said yes to her because you were dancing with that Mouth person." "Mouth isn't some slut who will try and sleep with me!" She argued that he would even compare her sweet Mouth to Rose. "How am I supposed to know if he is or isn't?" Jaxx questioned. "I mean his name is Mouth, I feel like someone nicknamed Mouth couldn't be sweet and innocent," he said not getting why she started to laugh a little. "Broody you are so cute," Eve got over her mood, wrapping her arms around his neck. "Mouth got the nickname Mouth because he talks all the time about sports," she shakes her head. "Any other reason, I do not know."

I had Val get on her knees & suck us all as we stood over her. I still get turned on til this day thinking about how gorgeous she looked in the middle of us four, sucking dicks, in this camper, dimly lit by the porno making slurping noises, the spit trickling down her tits, as she alternated between four dicks. We'd reach down, rub on her pussy, lightly smack her on the ass. There was a couple of moments, I'd stand back, go over to the table, do a "bump", take a shot of whiskey, purposely taking my time getting back to the action.

But my eyes betray me, sliding over Bryson's frame even while I keep my mouth set in a hard frown. He's leaner than I expected, but there's muscle definition from hockey training. His skin is pale except for a few faded bruises on his ribs from practice. He's wearing plain black boxers that somehow make everything worse. Rebecca works quickly, her hands professional as she wraps the measuring tape around his chest, his waist, the length of his arms. She calls out numbers to her assistant, who writes everything down. "Arms up," she instructs, and Bryson raises them over his head.