It was the first time I really felt like she was mine.
I pull her off my cock, so laser-focused that I don’t even give myself time to admire the thread of spit leading from the head to her red lips. Instead, I haul her up and crash my mouth to hers, swallowing her soft, surprised sound, because this isn’t a show. The camera is long gone. The only people here are the two of us, and I don’t need skilled or assured.
I slide one hand under her hair and the other over her tit, squeezing, feeling out the pebble of her nipple. “Gonna let me fuck you?” I ask, finally tearing that strap over her shoulder. It’s a frantic, barely-restrained movement that completely belies my words, because I’m already yanking half of her top below her chest and giving her breast a massage that’s too rough, too impatient.
She’s a stark contrast to it, her mouth gentle as it skitters over my jaw, lips finding a spot on my neck. “Maybe you’ll let me fuck you.”
I freeze, unaware that my dick could even get any harder. What the fuck?
“Can I?” she whispers, giving me this tiny little shove toward the bed. “Like you said, back when you told me your plans. You said—”
“I know what I said.” I remember it like it was yesterday, Story between my legs as I edged her senseless, whispering dirty little things into her ear.
“I would have let you be on top…I was going to show you how to ride me, nice and slow. Let you set the pace.”
I step back, kicking off my jeans as I go, and she watches with dazed eyes, hand still held halfway aloft, a moment suspended in time. I lie back on the bed, bared for her. Cock hard. Hands tucked behind my head. Waiting.
It takes her a second to get with the program, but when she does, there’s no hesitation. She works her tank top off, tossing it aside, giving me a nice view of her perfect tits. I watch, enraptured as she shimmies her pants down her legs, panties and all. It makes me think of those early days, back in high school—days when she’d be shy about wearing something too tight, nights where she’d pull a cardigan around her middle, hiding all her womanly curves from our predatory eyes. Story’s not that same shy teenage girl, though. Since living here, she’s become unabashed about showing her body to the three of us. Baths, showers, hasty shirt exchanges—punishments—she rolls with it, uncaring, almost mechanical in her nudity.
When we were first rolling around the idea of making her our Lady, I used to have all these fantasies about what a future would be like with her in it. Living with us, catering to our every whim, our perfect, pale, irritated doll. She could do homework naked, a leg slung over the arm of a chair as she lounged back. Make phone calls topless. Eat dinner at the table, stark-ass nude. Come to bed naked, wake up naked, take a shower naked. She could just never put anything on, existing for us in a constant state of bare-bare-bare. It was a juvenile thought, some vestige of a tired, teenage daydream, but it still had some shine.
Now, I’m not sure if any of us have a future at all.
If we don’t, we might as well enjoy the present.
I stay perfectly still as she knees herself up on the bed, slowly—fucking agonizingly slowly—crawling over me. Her tits look nice from this vantage and I enjoy the view, biting down a flinch as her long hair tickles over my thighs, hips, sides.
It must be a tease, the way she manages to not touch me in any significant way as she does this. I lick my lips and wait for her to engage, touch, anything—she could do anything, what will she do—and it’s embarrassing how long I take to understand what this fizzy, frenetic thing inside my chest is.
Excitement.
She sits back, holding my gaze as she rests her center right on the hard, throbbing length of me. I can feel her wetness and heat without even having to thrust against her. That’s one of the best parts of Story, that her body will always let me know what it’s thinking.
Like how her cheeks have gone pink, or the quaver in her voice when she says, “It’s weird being in here without music.”
Unable to stand it anymore, I let my eyes descend, taking in the sight of her body mounting me. “Then I guess you need to make some.” That’s how it’s been, my putting the phone on speaker at night, letting the sounds of her rushed breaths and small, tortured cries fill the space with our own melody. It’ll be good to hear it without all the static between us, to watch as she makes it, to be the one to drag it out of her.
Usually I try to avoid looking at her scars. They always come with a rush of conflicting thoughts and one can’t possibly reconcile with the other—guilty thrill, somber possessiveness. They’re both hideous and breathtaking. But tonight, I let myself look. I let myself notice how the ‘R’ carved into her chest is a little thicker, deeper, than the ‘K’ and the ‘T’。 I let myself remember the way I’d felt that night, because nothing less would be fair. I told her once I couldn’t bring myself to regret it, but it’s not that simple.