Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
“You are,” I rasp. “You’re my little cockhungry fuckslut, judging by how your pussy’s creaming right now. But I love that, sweetheart. I love innocent little girls who are whores at heart.”
She whines, then shakes her head, then whines again. She’s lost, her knees shaking as she trembles beneath my ministrations.
I keep her right on the edge, working her, letting the tension build and build until Kayleigh’s breath becomes a single, animal wail. Then I clamp my hand on her hip, hold her in place, and shake my fingers vigorously.
“Ahhhh!” she cries out, throwing her head back as her eyes close. “Ohhhhhh!”
“That’s it,” I rasp. “You love having Daddy’s digits deep in your pussy. You love being fingerfucked, don’t you, my little whore?”
Kayleigh can’t answer, but I don’t stop until she convulses around me, pussy squeezing and pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She comes with a high, keening cry, collapsing forward until she’s almost spread on the coffee table, ass still up and twitching.
“Mmmm!” she screams. “Oh oh oh unnnnh!”
Fuck, her pussy’s so powerful that my digits almost break off from the powerful spasms. But I love it and continue to shake them inside her cunt as her eyes roll back, the tremors almost violent now. In fact, I don’t stop shaking my fingers in her cunt until the last spasm passes with a whimper. Then I pull them out slow, watching a gooey loop of pussy fluid grow between my hand and her cunt.
“Goddamn,” I rasp before breaking the string. “So fucking wet.”
She’s panting still, big breasts heaving, barely able to stand. I stand and stroke her hair, pushing it back from her neck.
“Shhh,” I say. “You did so good, Kayleigh. You were perfect.”
She doesn’t speak, just shivers.
I let her recover. I walk back to the bar, pour myself a fresh drink, and savor the hot, raw pleasure in my chest. Damn, I can still taste her fluids on my tongue.
When I return to the living room, she’s now seated on the sofa, one hand clutching the robe to her chest. Her face is flushed, eyes huge.
I hand her a glass of water, and when she doesn’t take it, I put it down on the coffee table.
“Get dressed,” I say, voice gentle but firm. “We’ve got all day. I want you to go home, shower again, and then come back tonight. Wear something that makes you feel like a whore.”
She nods, still not meeting my eyes.
I lean down and kiss her forehead, just once.
“You’re my dirty little secret now,” I whisper. “And I’m not done with you yet.”
She looks up then, eyes shining, and for a split second, I see the rest of our future: Kayleigh bent over my desk, her knees on my kitchen floor, her body opening for me again and again and again. All the taboo and all the filth, made sacred by the fact that it’s ours alone.
I smile and walk out, leaving her ruined and perfect in the morning light.
The city is still there, forty stories below, but for once, I don’t feel like I’m looking down on anything at all.
12
STELLA ALWAYS HAS THE GOODS
Kayleigh
Ilet myself into the apartment as quietly as possible, but the deadbolt is loose, so it clacks—a sound that echoes down the empty hallway like a starter pistol. I half expect to find a Welcome Home banner, or a mob of cops with handcuffs, or at least a lingering cloud of humiliation to greet me. Instead, there’s only the gentle hum of the AC and the long, rectangular sunbeam that cuts across the living room rug, catching in the threads like it’s got nowhere better to be.
Our apartment used to feel crowded, almost alive with chaos: four girls, three bedrooms, one bathroom, and a rotating cast of boyfriends, family, and weirdos from the college drama program. Now it’s just me and Stella. Mary Kate moved out recently because she’s fallen in love with her stepdad, Kent Robinson; Andie moved out even earlier to be with Stella’s dad, Thomas Moreland, leaving behind only a half-dead succulent and an unpaid cable bill. You can still sense them in the place, though, like echoes that haven’t finished reverberating. There’s a hair tie on the bathroom sink that doesn’t belong to me. There’s a flip-flop in the hallway that’s a size too small. It all feels haunted, but only by the kind of ghosts who might offer to split a pizza if you could see them.
But this is still my home. Sure, I stay with my parents sometimes, but this is where I pay rent. I kick off my shoes, sink my toes into the rug, and immediately collapse onto the couch, not even caring about the coffee stains on the slipcover or the way the cushions flatten under me like I’ve been exiled from gravity. I’m in a loose t-shirt and shorts, hair up in a bun that’s half war zone, half anime sidekick. My muscles ache in the delicious, humiliating way that only happens after someone’s wrung the last ounce of resistance out of you.