Chapter 127: Sucking My Father-in-law's Cock 03

The guest bedroom smelled faintly of lavender from the sachet tucked in the dresser drawer and the clean linen Mark’s mother had insisted on using whenever she visited.

I hated that smell now, and it made everything feel more wrong.

I had arrived there fifteen minutes before Daniel appeared after lunch. The white sundress clung to my skin, the cotton was already damp between my breasts and at the small of my back from nervous sweat.

I had no bra and no panties on, exactly as he’d instructed.

I stood near the foot of the bed, fingers twisting the hem of my dress, listening to the house settle around me.

Mark was at the office until at least six.

His mother was at her bridge club, and the cleaning lady had left minutes ago.

So, we had hours to ourselves.

The door opened without a knock.

Daniel stepped inside wearing navy chinos and a pale blue polo—casual Saturday clothes that somehow made him look even more authoritative. His hair is still slightly damp from a shower. His eyes immediately found mine, darkening the second they landed on the dress.

He closed the door, making sure to lock it.

He then crossed the room in four strides, cupped the back of my neck, and kissed me like we hadn’t seen each other in weeks instead of hours. The kiss was deep and possessive, his tongue sliding against mine, tasting the mint gum I’d chewed on the way upstairs to hide the fact that I’d been sucking on my own fingers earlier, imagining they were his.

When he pulled back his thumb traced my swollen bottom lip.

“On the bed,” he said quietly. “On your back. Legs open.”

I obeyed without hesitation.

The mattress dipped under my weight.

I lay back against the pillows, the sundress riding up my thighs on its own.

I spread my knees wide, feet flat on the comforter, letting the fabric pool around my waist.

I was exposed, dripping, and already aching.

Daniel stood at the foot of the bed and simply looked. For almost a full minute he didn’t move—just studied me like I was something he’d bought and now owned outrightly.

His gaze moved slowly to my flushed face, my hard nipples pressing against the thin cotton, the way my chest rose and fell too fast, the slick shine already visible between my thighs.

“Touch yourself,” he said. “Show me how wet you got waiting for me.”

My right hand slid down my stomach, under the bunched fabric, fingers finding my clit immediately. I was swollen, slippery, and embarrassingly ready.

I circled slowly at first, then faster, letting him hear the soft, wet sounds my fingers made.

His jaw tightened.

He unbuckled his belt without looking away—slow, deliberate clinks of metal. Then he shoved the chinos to mid-thigh along with his briefs. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, and already leaking at the tip.

He stroked himself, matching the rhythm of my fingers.

“Two fingers inside,” he ordered. “Fuck yourself the way you wish I was fucking you right now.”

I pushed two fingers in, it glided easily, with no resistance.

My head fell back against the pillow on a shaky moan.

“Deeper,” he said.

I curled them, stroking that spot that made my hips lift off the bed.

“Tell me whose fingers those are pretending to be.”

“Yours,” I gasped. “They’re yours, Daniel… I want your cock… please…”

He climbed onto the bed then, knees bracketing my calves, towering over me.

He lowered his head and sucked one nipple through the cotton—hard enough to make me arch—then the other.

The fabric grew wet and transparent under his mouth.

When he finally pulled back the sundress was plastered to my breasts, outlining every curve.

He hooked the straps and tugged them down my arms, baring me completely from the waist up. Then he leaned down and kissed a slow path from my collarbone to my navel, pausing to dip his tongue into the shallow dip there before continuing lower.

When his mouth reached my pussy he didn’t tease. He simply opened me with his thumbs and licked straight through my folds—long, firm, claiming every inch.

I cried out, and he pressed one hand over my mouth again.

“Quiet, sweetheart,” he murmured against my clit. “You don’t want the neighbors hearing what a needy little slut my son’s wife really is.”

The humiliation burned deliciously.

He ate me with ruthless focus—sucking my clit, fucking me with his tongue, then sliding two thick fingers inside to replace it while his mouth latched on again.

He curled them perfectly, stroking that spot over and over while his tongue flicked fast little circles on my clit.

I came hard within minutes, my thighs clamping around his head, back arching, and muffled sobs behind his palm.

He kept licking, kept fingering, drawing the orgasm out until it hurt in the best way, until I was shaking, pleading, and trying to push his head away because it was too much.

Only then did he rise up on his knees.

His cock was dark red now, glistening with pre-cum. He rubbed the head through my soaked folds, coating himself, teasing my entrance.

“Look at me,” he said.

I forced my eyes open.

He held my gaze as he pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, letting me feel every ridge, every vein, and the way my walls had to stretch around him again.

When he bottomed out he stayed buried, hips flush to mine, letting me feel him throb deep inside.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned. “Even after yesterday, even after this morning. Still gripping me like you never want me to leave.”

I whimpered, nails digging into his forearms.

He started moving then—long, deep strokes that dragged over every sensitive place. Each withdrawal almost all the way out, just the head still inside, then one smooth glide back to the hilt. Again and again.

My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct, heels digging into his lower back, trying to pull him deeper.

“Please… harder…”

He smiled slowly, like a predator. “Not yet.”

He fucked me like that for what felt like forever—slow, deep, controlled—until I was trembling, babbling, and begging.

Only then did he hook my knees over his shoulders, folding me nearly in half, and gave me what I’d asked for. Hard. Deep. Relentless.

The headboard tapped the wall with each thrust, the bed creaked, my breasts bounced painfully, and his balls slapped wetly against my ass.

His hand found my throat again—not squeezing, just holding—while the other rubbed fast circles on my clit.

“Cum again,” he ordered. “Cum on my cock while I fill you up.”

I shattered, my walls clamping, pulsing, and milking him.

Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, as my whole body shook.

He fucked me through it—harder, faster—until his rhythm broke.

A low, guttural groan tore from his throat.

He buried himself to the root, hips jerking, cock pulsing as he came—hot, thick spurts flooding me, overflowing, leaking out around him onto the sheets.

He stayed deep, breathing hard against my neck, letting every aftershock ripple through both of us.

When he finally eased out the rush of cum followed—warm, obscene, soaking the white comforter beneath me.

He kissed me then—slow, filthy, tasting of me. Then he rolled us so I was draped across his chest, his softening cock still nestled against my thigh, sticky and warm.

His fingers traced lazy patterns on my back.

“Stay like this for a while,” he murmured. “Let it soak in, let it mark you.”

I pressed my face into his neck, inhaling the scent of his skin mixed with sex and guilt.

And I stayed, because tomorrow there would be another room, another time, and another way for him to claim what wasn’t his.

And I would let him. Every single time.