Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
He steps out of his jeans and tugs me onto the bed, pulling me onto his lap. My thighs are trembling, but I steady myself with my hands on his chest, feeling the rhythm of his heart—fast, uneven, like mine.
His hands move over me, stroking and squeezing, thumbs brushing the points of my nipples. My body reacts before my brain does—heat spirals out, my breath catches, and I tilt my head back, letting him kiss along my neck and jaw. I fake a low, throaty moan, the kind I’ve practiced in private, and he growls, a real, hungry sound.
We fumble together, two kids playing dress-up in adult skin. His hands are everywhere, and I do my best to match him, trying to remember everything I’ve seen and read, every whispered story traded in dorm rooms or in the Nicolette fitting room. When he slides my thong down, he does it with an almost reverence, and I want to thank him, or maybe warn him.
He reaches between my legs, and I tense, not quite ready, but unwilling to break character. He must feel it, because he pauses, then kisses my forehead, the gesture so gentle I almost lose my composure.
“Still good?” he whispers.
I nod, biting my lip. “Yeah. Better than good.”
He lines himself up, and for a terrifying second, I’m sure I’m about to be exposed as a fraud. That he’ll see the way I hold my breath, the way my whole body locks down in anticipation. But he’s careful, so careful, and when he pushes in—just a little—he groans, a real, desperate sound, like he’s been starving for this all his life.
Unfortunately, I don’t feel anything. Literally, he’s so small that I don’t feel anything enter me, or exit me, for that matter. I pause, unsure what to do.
“Um, is it in?” I finally ask.
Brad’s eyes flip open, gaping holes in the dark.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just that I’m not sure if you’re in or not. I mean, you could be, but I’ve been using numbing gel so I can’t feel anything down there,” I lie furiously when I see the hurt pooling in his eyes. “Vaginal numbing gel,” I add quickly. “It’s not you, it’s me, I swear—!”
Oh shit, I’ve completely screwed up. Brad’s eyes go glossy as his eyes fill with tears because it’s obvious I’m lying. What the hell is vaginal numbing gel anyway? But then, the door bursts open and I’m saved by a dark figure who lets out a loud, nasty laugh.
Sure enough, it’s my Uncle Hunter.
And the alpha male just caught us en flagrante, with my bare pussy hovering over a small, male penis.
“Got what you were looking for, sweetheart?” Hunter chuckles.
Hot shame heats my cheeks even as my cunt moistens at the very sound of that deep growl because Hunter’s the man I want … as Brad squirms below me, his penis small, deflated, and oh so sad.
4
HER FIRST C*CK W*RSHIP LESSON
Hunter
Catching my little niece with her panties around her ankles about to be dicked down by the tiniest dick I’ve ever seen is not what I was expecting. Hell, I wasn’t sure what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t a sad little pink earthworm pointing at her moist pussy.
After all, Stella’s always been a wildcat. At least, that’s the impression she gives with her too-tight outfits, flirtatious looks, and big, bouncy breasts. Plus, my bro has his hands full. Tom didn’t tell me much about the two-week babysitting job, but the motherfucker begged me to come over. Literally, begged into the phone, saying something about “assault,” “battery” and finally “naked striptease that got Stella out of jail.” What the fuck? I hadn’t been listening to his words, but suddenly I was all in. That’s why I showed up tonight. Because I want to see what my saucy little niece has been up to, with her flirtatious smile and round rear end.
So I pulled up to the mansion a little early. It’s no big deal. I thought I had a meeting early Saturday, but it was canceled, and so I decided to surprise Stella. But when I roll to a full stop, twelve hours ahead of schedule, already every window in the house is blazing, the kind of warm, golden glow architects sell to clients in renderings but never achieve in real life. Except here, in this monument to Moreland excess, it’s not for show. It’s for whoever the hell is throwing a rager in my stepbrother’s ostentatious castle on a Friday night.
The drive is littered with cars—Mercedes, a battered F150, two white BMWs with parking passes for the U of M business school, a Prius with a bumper sticker that says “GIRL BOSS” in a rainbow. I let the Range Rover idle in the circle drive, jaw tight, forearm draped over the wheel. I take a minute, counting the vehicles, watching silhouettes cut in and out behind the creamy velvet drapes of the grand room. From here, I see flashes of movement: a pair of girls giggling with champagne flutes in hand, a guy in a varsity jacket holding a beer like a trophy. The bass is so loud it rattles the glass in the rear windows. It takes me less than two seconds to realize what I’m walking into, and exactly who is responsible.