Chapter 125 Sucking My Father-in-law's Cock 01

Chapter 125 Sucking My Father-in-law's Cock 01


I was already on my knees when the thought finally flashed in my mind, that I had crossed the line I could never uncross.

The kitchen tiles were cold against my legs. The house was silent except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the wet, rhythmic sounds my mouth was making around my father-in-law’s cock.

Daniel stood with his hips braced against the edge of the granite island, one hand flat on the countertop for balance, the other buried in my hair—not forcing, just guiding with that calm, steady pressure he always used when he wanted something done exactly his way.

His slacks were open but still on, belt undone, zipper down, black boxer-briefs shoved just low enough to free him. The thick length of him filled my mouth completely, heavy on my tongue, his skin stretched tight over my lips. Every time I took him deeper the fat head nudged the back of my throat and my eyes watered automatically.

A low groan rumbled out of his chest when I hollowed my cheeks and sucked harder on the upstroke. The sound vibrated through me, settling hot between my own thighs.

I’d been wet since the moment he’d walked into the kitchen twenty minutes earlier, still in his golf shirt and slacks from the club, his hair slightly roughened from the wind, looking at me the way he’d been looking at me for months—quiet, patient, certain.

He hadn’t said much.
Just: “Your husband’s golf game ran long. They’re having drinks at the nineteenth hole.”

Then he’d stepped closer, then closer still, until his fingers had brushed my jaw, tilting my face up, and I’d opened my mouth before he even asked.

Now here we were.

My hands rested on the fronts of his thighs, feeling the expensive fabric of his trousers, and the muscle underneath. I could smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with sun and fresh-cut grass and the darker, muskier scent that was simply him.

I swirled my tongue around the ridge beneath the head, flicking against the sensitive frenulum the way I knew made his hips twitch. Sure enough, his fingers tightened in my hair—just enough to sting pleasantly.

“Christ, Jenna…” His voice was rough, quieter than usual. “That mouth.”

I hummed around him in answer, letting the vibration travel up his length.

He exhaled sharply through his mouth.

I took him deeper then, relaxing my throat the way I’d practiced alone in the shower more times than I cared to admit. The head slipped further down my throat, my nose brushed the crisp hair at his base. I held him there, breathing through my nose, my throat fluttering around the invasion.

His control slipped for half a second—hips jerking forward, pushing another inch into me.

I gagged softly, just enough to make my eyes tear and my pussy clench.

He cursed under his breath and pulled back so I could breathe.

Strings of saliva connected my swollen lips to his glistening tip when he slipped free. I gasped, chest heaving, then immediately leaned forward again, chasing him.

He let me have him, and I sucked greedily now—messy, hungry, no more teasing. My head bobbed in a steady rhythm while my tongue worked the underside, tracing the thick vein that pulsed against my tastebuds. One hand wrapped around what I couldn’t fit, stroking in time with my mouth, slick with spit.

The other hand slipped between my own thighs.

I wasn’t wearing panties under the little cotton sundress, I hadn’t been since the second time Daniel had caught me in the laundry room and simply lifted the hem, found me bare, and smiled like he’d won something.

Now my fingers slid through my drenched folds, circling my clit in slow, slippery loops while I worshipped his cock with my mouth.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and dark. “Touching yourself while you suck your father-in-law’s dick in his own kitchen.”

The words landed like a slap and a caress at the same time. Heat flooded my face, my chest, and my core.

I moaned around him, the sound muffled.
His hips started moving then, in small, controlled thrusts that matched the rhythm of my hand between my legs.

“Such a dirty little secret you are,” he continued, almost conversationally even as his breathing grew ragged. “My son’s sweet wife… on her knees… dripping for an old man’s cock.”

I whimpered, fingers moving faster on my clit.

He was right, I was dripping, and I could feel it on my inner thighs, slick and warm.

He pulled out of my mouth suddenly, his wet length bobbing in front of my face, shiny with my spit.

“Up,” he said.

I scrambled to my feet, legs shaky. He turned me in one smooth motion, bent me over the island, flipped the sundress up to my waist.

He simply spread me open with both hands and drove into me in one long, ruthless thrust.

I cried out, wanting to escape the torture and also wanting more at the same time.
He was thick, so fucking thick.

Even after months of stolen moments, the stretch still stole my breath every time.

He didn’t give me time to adjust. He fucked me hard from the start—deep, steady strokes that slapped our skin against skin, that made my breasts bounce painfully against the cold granite, that made the entire island shift slightly with each thrust.

One of his hands wrapped around my throat from behind—not choking, just holding, possessively. The other slid around to find my clit again, rubbing fast, merciless circles.

“You’re going to cum on this cock,” he growled against my ear. “You’re going to come while your husband is probably ordering another scotch nineteen miles away, and you’re going to cum knowing exactly whose dick is inside you.”

I shattered almost immediately.
The orgasm hit me violently, blinding, and my walls clamping down on him so hard he groaned like he’d been punched. My knees buckled, but he held me up with the arm around my waist and kept fucking me through it, drawing it out until I was sobbing, oversensitive, and pleading.

Only then did he let himself finish. A handful more brutal thrusts later and he buried himself to the root, hips jerking, cock pulsing as he emptied inside me—hot, thick spurts that I could feel coating my insides.

He stayed deep in me for a long time after, breathing hard against my neck, letting me feel every twitch, and every aftershock.

When he finally pulled out I felt the warm rush follow, his cum sliding down my thighs in slow rivulets.

He turned me around, kissed me once and slowly. Then he fixed my dress with careful hands, smoothed my hair, and wiped the tears and spit from my cheeks with his thumbs.

“Clean yourself up before Mark gets home,” he said quietly, his voice gentle now. Almost tender.

He pressed one last kiss to my forehead.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.”

And then he walked out of the kitchen like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t just fucked his son’s wife over the same island where we’d all eaten pancakes two mornings ago.

I stood there shaking, dripping, heart hammering, and tasting him on my swollen lips.