“Inside your what?”
“My...” She looks like she might combust from embarrassment. “My... pussy.”
The word sounds foreign on her tongue. Like she’s speaking a language she barely knows. But she said it.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and I feel her clench against me at the praise. Interesting. “What else?”
“I liked how you felt inside me. How... big you were.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
“And what did you want me to do to you?”
“I wanted you to...” She leans forward, her lips at my ear again, voice barely audible. “Fuck me harder.”
The words send a surge of heat through me. Not because they’re particularly filthy—they’re not—but because of how much they cost her to say. How far outside her comfort zone shehad to go. I can feel the tension radiating from her body, the slight tremble in her thighs as they press against mine.
This admission—these three simple words—represent a surrender of the careful control she maintains over herself.
It’s a big win.
Her breath is warm against my neck, quickened with the effort of her confession. The scent of her—that intoxicating mix of vanilla and something uniquely her—fills my senses. Her hair brushes against my cheek, soft as silk, and I resist the urge to wrap it around my fist and pull her head back to see the flush I know is spreading across her skin. The blush that always starts at her chest and climbs upward when she’s aroused or embarrassed—and right now, she’s clearly both.
I remain perfectly still, savoring this moment of her discomfort. Not because I enjoy her suffering—though there’s a part of me that does—but because I recognize the value of what she’s giving me. Each stilted confession, each reluctant admission is a piece of her armor being stripped away. And beneath that armor is something far more valuable than her body, something she guards even more fiercely: her true self.
I slide my hand up her thigh, just beneath the hem of my shirt. “Fourteen demerits gone,” I tell her, rewarding her confession. “Back to five. But now I want to hear you moan when I tell you exactly what I’m going to do to that tight little pussy of yours.”
Her breathing quickens, chest rising and falling against mine.
“I’m going to spread those pretty thighs and bury my cock so deep inside you that you’ll feel me for days,” I continue, voice low enough that only she can hear. “Every time you sit down, you’ll remember how I stretched you open.”
She shivers against me, eyes widening at my language. Good. She should be shocked.
I brush my thumb over her nipple again, then twist it just hard enough to make her gasp.
“These perfect tits,” I murmur, cupping one in my palm. “I want to mark them. Leave bruises where only I can see them. Would you like that?”
She doesn’t answer, but her pulse jumps visibly at her throat.
“Answer me,” I demand, pinching her nipple just hard enough to make her gasp.
“Yes,” she whispers, the admission barely audible over the music.
I slide my other hand between her legs, finding her already wet through the thin fabric of her underwear. “You’re soaked,” I observe clinically. “All this talk about fucking you has your pussy dripping.”
She tries to look away, but I catch her chin, forcing her to meet my gaze.
“Don’t hide from me,” I tell her. “I want to see your face when I make you come. When I fill you up and ruin you for anyone else.”
A small moan escapes her, and I feel her hips shift subtly against my hand, seeking more pressure.
“That’s it,” I encourage, rubbing slow circles over her clit through the fabric. “Show me how much you want it.”
Across the pool, I spot Rico watching us, his expression a mixture of interest and calculation. He raises his glass in a mocking toast. I ignore him, focusing instead on the woman in my lap, on the way her thighs tense as I increase the pressure of my touch.
“Everyone’s watching you,” I tell her, nodding toward the men whose attention has been drawn by her quiet sounds of pleasure. “They all want what I have. They want to bend you over and fuck you until you scream.”
Her eyes dart nervously to the onlookers before returning to me.