by Jess Bentley
“No way! You know I need my beauty sleep!”
“Okay, okay, okay,” I say, with my hands up. “There will be enough work for both of you, I promise. But that's up to me. It’s my job. I decide what gets done and who does it. Deal?”
I look at both of them seriously, pointing with my index finger so they know I really mean it.
“Well… no, I don't know —”
“I'm the boss. I'm the woman. And in this, you both answer to me, understand?”
They both dip their heads, going hangdog and obedient. I love it, this feeling of power pulsing through me. They both love me so much. I think they'll do anything to make me happy. And I’ll do anything to make our baby happy.
Silas comes closer to me, stroking my shoulders tenderly.
“Whatever you say, Mother Angel,” he murmurs sweetly. His lips cover mine, kissing me slowly with heartfelt tenderness.
I feel Owen's hands snaking across my belly, cupping around the fullness that's there.
“You can't feel it yet, silly,” I whisper. “It's too early.”
“So, the little guy’s just safe in there? Can't feel anything from out here?”
I raise my eyebrows. “What do you mean, exactly?”
Owen unbuttons the single button at the back of my dress, sliding the silk off my shoulders at letting it puddle on the floor. Silas's eyes widen as he inspects me hungrily, attuned to the tiny differences in me that already show. My breasts are fuller. My waist is slightly thicker. I don't look pregnant yet, but I do look solid.
He runs his thumbs over my nipples, drawing them into peaks. I arch my back into his touch, thrilled to feel goosebumps washing over me in waves.
“I mean, we don't have to be gentle with you or anything, do we?” Owen asks. I hear the smile in his voice.
“You better not!” I smile back. Gentle, with me? No way. I’m tougher than I look.
Ready to take the challenge, Owen sweeps me up off my feet, clasping me to the front of his body before dropping me in the middle of our enormous bed. Silas dives for the other side, coming up next to me with his hands already stroking me, pinching me, exploring me with this new knowledge. I can hear him growling as he bites the top of my neck, his kisses trailing down to my breasts, his tongue circling my nipple hungrily. The snarl that rumbles through his chest is desperate, inspired by the life inside me.
“I want to be inside you, now,” Owen growls. He takes my lips in his, his tongue pushing past my teeth, filling my mouth. I suck at it hungrily, overwhelmed with lust for my men.
Heaving himself to his feet, Owen’s fingers work quickly to unbutton his shirt and he almost tears it off, revealing those perfectly sculpted muscles, lit from behind by the last rays of sunlight. His pants slide from his narrow hips to the floor, freeing his beautiful, thick manhood.
“Wait for me, brother!” Silas commands him, but Owen pretends not to hear. He pulls my legs open while Silas rushes to disrobe, then leaves close in a messy heap on the floor.
“I can't wait,” Owen sighs, his mouth covering mine again as his cock slides against me. I'm already wet and wanting, ready to be filled with more of him. I spread my legs, angling up onto my side as Silas comes up behind me.
But he does wait. He gives Silas another three seconds so that they can both enter me at the same time. This is what they love, the feeling of their cocks plunging into the center of me at the very same time, one in front and one in back. My body is crushed between them, all of our flesh fitting together like we were formed from the same clay.
I cry out, overwhelmed by this transcendent sensation. My body is rocked back and forth by both of them, thrusting in unison, filling me more than I ever thought that I could be filled. Completing me.
Explosions burst behind my eyelids and I cling desperately to my men, shuddering with wave after wave of bliss that rockets through me, threatening to shatter me into a million pieces. But I don't shatter. Instead, I am made complete.
Owen roars into my mouth as he comes, hilting himself at the same time as Silas, as they both fill me with their hot, thick seed. Our bodies slide together, slippery from sweat and lust, until finally we just lay, panting, confused and awash in the joy that our love has brought together.
As the sun goes down, I can see the shimmering lights coming up from the pool and remember we have a house full of guests to attend to. I need to get dressed again, gather myself, and somehow leave this room without smiling in bliss and triumph. Everyone will know, somewhere in the back of their minds. Though hardly anyone would believe it from a little church mouse like me, this is my secret life.
It all worked out. Life has a funny way of coming together. Like we have. Now that we have found each other, everything is perfect.
SAVE ME, DADDY
Copyright © 2017 by Jess Bentley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Introduction
Some cherries are too sweet not to pop…
KITA
The Chi Ro Pi Cherry Pies make me feel like I finally have a home again.
But when they send me to their Sorority ‘Bake Sale’ in a skimpy halter-top,
I find out the cherry pie they’re selling is… my virginity.
Up on that stage, I’m more vulnerable than ever.
Until he takes me in his big, strong arms.
I want to stay there forever... if he'll let me.
I can’t wait to show him just how grateful I am. Save me, Daddy!
DANIEL
Virginity auctions aren’t my thing, but when I find the Chi Ro Pies holding one in my building?
I’m furious.
I’m clearly too old for these girls. Ex-military. Way too tough for college kids.
But then she steps on stage. Soft, delicate, beautiful.
Practically trembling in fear. Lost. Bewildered.
She actually thought the Cherry Pie auction would be selling baked goods!
Even as she quivers in fear, my cock is stiffening.
I want to protect her. I want to own her.
So I take her, telling myself I’m her hero.
But who’ll protect her from me?
Preface
Daniel
She knows that this is exactly what I like. She's wearing one of those long T-shirts that bounces around her thighs as she walks barefoot through the hall, dancing lightly up the stairs while making hardly a sound.
I just catch a glimpse of her as she turns the corner, maybe a flash of her blonde hair flying out behind her. It's almost like hide and seek, or trying to catch a firefly in the forest.
She is my obsession ever since the first time that I saw her, I haven't been able to think about anything else. Definitely not anyone else. She is the only one in the world to me now.
The part of my mind that thinks this is wrong is all but obliterated. At first I was startled by the depth and intensity of my desire for her. I held back as long as I could. But all the while, I knew that eventually I would give in. Eventually, it would be like tapping a vein and finding what was hot and throbbing there.
I squint at the screen of my laptop, trying to make it come back into focus. This new business is also taking up quite a lot of my time. It's the sort of thing that I would have thrown myself into completely, six months ago. Now, I struggle to stay focused on it at all.
It, or anything else.
There's just not enough room in my consciousness for anything but her.
She's upstairs, waiting for me. She knows I can hear her, that I'm acutely aware of her presence.
I only have a little bit more work to do, and now I'm just stalling. I sort of like it, the anticipation. That ache in my core. That sharp tang of pain, right where it meets pleasure. She is the hunger I can never quite satisfy. She is the
source of all of this.
And she knows I’ll come to look for her. She knows I won't stop, now that she's teased my attention. I put away my work, loudly snapping my laptop closed. She knows I'm coming for her.
It's late. Past her bedtime. She's already dressed for bed and I can imagine it clearly. The long T-shirt riding up her thighs as she stretches on the bed, throwing her arms back with abandon. The smooth, creamy skin disappearing into thin cotton panties. The sweet blush in her cheeks when she knows I'm watching her.
I take the stairs two at a time, letting my heels hit the treads loud enough that she knows I'm coming. I want her to know, to anticipate as well.
She left her door open for me a few inches. The light that slices through is a honey-colored invitation.
Pushing the door open, I pause to let the scene appear slowly before my eyes. She's already in bed, blankets up to her chin. Her hair is fanned out over the pillow and she blinks me with those wide green eyes, the tip of her nose pink, her cheeks reddening in the low light.
“You didn't say good night,” I observe.
She mumbles something, but the sound is muffled behind the blanket.
“What's that, Kita?” I ask her, tugging the blanket away from her.
She doesn't move as I slowly pull the sheets to the side, exposing her small, lithe form. She tugs the hem of her T-shirt down over the neat triangle of fabric that covers her sweet, bare pussy, pressing her knees tightly together.
“Let me see,” I request. “You know I like to see.”
Saying nothing, she only nods and moves her knees apart just a little bit, just a few centimeters. Her hands push away from her along the sheet, and the hem of her T-shirt springs back up, revealing just an inch or two of pink fabric.
I know all the hidden delights in there. I know if I touch her panties, the fabric will be hot, maybe even soaked through with moisture. Every time. Without fail. She's always ready for me, but she knows I like this moment right before she asks me. Right before she begs me, the moment where every part of me comes alive.
I can already feel my cock jumping, eagerly pointing to her, rigid as a flagpole. A divining rod, seeking her wetness. I can almost feel her sweet, tight sheath enveloping me, squeezing against me, drawing the life out of me.
My fingers drift along the inside of her thigh, pushing her legs open further. She doesn't resist, but her eyes telegraph a sense of urgency and I see her draw her lower lip in between her teeth, like I have so many times before.
“You want it?” I ask her, when I think I can't stand to wait any longer. My thumb draws a line down the fabric of her panties, tracing her seam from the outside. It is hot, almost warmer than I expected.
She nods tightly and I hear her breath coming out in abbreviated, feral pants.
“Say it,” I growl. I lean in closer, letting my fingers drift along the elastic band of the fabric, sliding just the tips underneath.
“I want it,” she whispers hoarsely, lifting her hips to angle closer to my touch.
I look up at her, waiting. She likes to make me wait. I watch her lips part as she draws in a breath to say it and finally press my finger to her wet, slippery furrow as the word I’m waiting for finally slips from her glistening, pouting mouth.
“I want it... Daddy.”
Chapter 26
Kita
Lizzie's hands snake around from behind me, sneaking underneath my arms and then unbuttoning the top button of my blouse. I try not to wiggle away as her fingers hesitate, then pop open another button. That's definitely two buttons too many, by my count.
Her head appears over my left shoulder, and she squints at me in the full-length mirror. I watch her eyes skim across the outlines of my body and can't help but notice her sigh of dissatisfaction.
I just press my lips together and raise my eyebrows at her, wondering what she thinks she's going to say next.
She purses her lips to one side, scowling until that single vertical line appears between her perfectly auburn eyebrows.
“Are these your real tits?” she frowns, slapping lightly at the underside of each one of my admittedly smallish breasts.
“What do you mean?” I ask her and reflexively cross my arms over my middle as she steps to the side of me. She nudges me out of the way with her hip so that I can watch her in the mirror. For a few tortuously long seconds, her fingers drift over the key areas of her own body — the D cups, the 23 inch waist, and the wide hips that somehow perfectly fill in the jeans she's wearing as though they were made just for her.
“You haven't had any work done?” She asks, quirking a perfect eyebrow. But her eyes aren't even on me, she is only admiring herself.
I frown at the mirror, noting my substantially less curvy figure next to hers. We look like the before and after shots in a plastic surgeon's office.
“I haven't had any work done," I affirm shyly. “I didn't even know I was grown enough to be thinking about that.”
“No, I mean, it's a good thing,” she fusses as she arranges her coppery locks over her collarbones. She’s still talking to me, I think, but she's really only looking at herself now. “I mean… if those aren’t your real tits, then it shouldn't be any problem to go ahead and get new ones, right? You've got, like, a clean slate or whatever.”
I take a half step back, glancing down at the V-shaped, cavernous entrance to my blouse. A boob job? Me? I'm still waiting for the ones I've got to do their thing, whatever their thing is going to be. I mean, I shouldn’t mess with it, should I?
But it's hard not to think about it, standing here in Lizzie’s room, surrounded by pages torn out of magazines featuring every overflowingly buxom celebrity from the last thirty years. Pages upon pages, taped to the pink walls so densely they’re like wallpaper. All those duckfaces staring at me, like they’re just about to say something. I wonder which ones of these she brought to her plastic surgeon’s office so she could point and say, that's it. Those ass cheeks, just give me those. And these boobs right here, can I get them supersized? And put a little dimple in my chin while you're at it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can still see me, reed straight. Built like a fencepost. Or like an eighth grader or something. I mean, if I look hard enough I'm curvy, in a certain subtle way. But standing next to Lizzie, not so much.
Finally she gets tired of gazing at the best nipple reconstruction money can buy and casts her eyes back in my direction.
“Do you have anything tighter, at least? We’re not going to a square dance, you know.”
“Do I have anything tighter?” I repeat. Actually, I sort of don't. I'm just small, like my mom and my grandma. A gymnast body, my mom always pointed out: compact and strong. And maybe not as far along developmentally because I spent so much time training when I was younger. But I’m stronger than I look, or so grandma always told me. That always made me feel proud.
I stopped taking gymnastics when I was fourteen after my sixth sprained ankle in one season. The doctor said one more and we would be looking at surgery. My career was over anyway, so we just had to let it go. And that is a lot like my life in general: a list of things that I have to let go that’s way longer than the list of things I get to hang onto.
There's a ghost of me somewhere in an alternate universe who’s just a springy little gymnast, flipping diagonally across a rectangular patch of floor. A little sprite being the best she can be. But somehow I ended up in this weird universe, far away from my home, pledging for this snobby sorority, letting this fashion tyrant tell me what to wear, and feeling slightly less than evenly matched.
“Well?” she asks me again. She scowls pointedly at my lack of cleavage.
“I guess I really don't have anything tighter than this,” I shrug. I don't tell her that finding a top I could tie over my midriff like this, per her demands, was actually kind of a challenge. I don't really have any other options for her at all.
With a sigh, she flings open one of her dresser drawers, yanking out a cloud of see-th
rough and glittery underthings that spill over the side and land on the cluttered, shag carpet. After a moment of rummaging around, she pulls out a slip of fabric that looks like a sock or something.
“Okay, wear this.”
It dangles off her finger like a beanie for an American Girl doll or something. Obediently, I reach out and take it from her, but I'm really not sure what she expects me to do with it. Slowly I raise it toward my forehead and peel the double-layer apart. Is it a headband? I try to smile winningly at her, but she just rolls her eyes.
“I hope you know: you're not funny.” She shakes her head at me.
“So, it's not a headband?” I venture.
What the heck is this thing?
“Geez, Kita!” she bawls. She turns away from me in frustration and stalks to her desk, pushing a dozen lipgloss tubes around from the new Urban Decay collection until she finds the one she wants. I know she wishes I would leave, but I'm afraid of what will happen if I exit this room without solid instruction. Other Chi Rho Pi pledges have been dismissed for less than a headband infraction, after all. And it's not like Lizzie is my biggest fan, if you know what I mean.
“Um…”
She whips around, lip gloss halfway to her parted lips, her eyes blazing with disdain. But after another moment, she seems to collect herself and rearranges her expression into something so sweet it's a little unnerving. She scrunches up her nose and gives me a pained little smile.
“Kita, sweetie, we’re going to be late. I still have to do my smoky eye and everything. Do you think that maybe you could take your fashion emergency over to Claudia for a little look-see?”
“You bet,” I nod, smiling like a cheerleader. At least Claudia is nice, most of the time. I leave Lizzie to her eye makeup and pick my way along the cluttered hallway to Claudia’s room, just two doors down, and almost run right into her as she’s rushing out.
