by Francis Ashe
“Ohhhh, oh daddy, yessss...”
Daddy rose up again and ran one of his hands down the center line of my body to the beginning of my slit. He fingered the line of my sex and then pushed between my lips, letting all that slickness begin to trickle onto the comforter.
His lips went down my neck, sucking and nibbling along my collarbone to the front of my chest. One of Peter’s fingers rotated slowly, drilling gently into my pussy. I gasped when he sunk deep enough that his palm pressed against me. He slid another finger in beside the first, both circling, until he found my favorite spot. As soon as I started to squirm, he pushed harder, dragging his tips along the front of my pussy and rubbing back and forth over my aching clit.
Peter’s palm felt tremendous and those fingers turning inside me had cranked up my body temperature probably ten degrees since he started. His airy, fluttering kisses up and down my jaw-line were enough to swoon over. But, I thought as I reached down between my legs, this cock is what I really want.
My hand on his tool made my daddy jump a bit and brought a smile to his lips. “Why baby girl,” he said, “seems to me like you want something, huh?” He kissed me again, this time he tasted my mouth, his tongue swirling inside. As I began to stroke his long, thick cock, he started to breathe heavier. Wrapping my legs around his hips, I was able to rub the backs of Peter’s muscular thighs with my heels, which made him groan appreciatively. The harder I pressed, the more satisfied he sounded, and the closer his dick came to my sopping wet hole.
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Her Billionaire Breeding Bull
By Francis Ashe
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Her Billionaire Breeding Bull
Copyright 2012 Francis Ashe
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All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author or publisher except for the use of brief quotations in critical articles or reviews.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, actual events or locales is purely coincidental.
