His come leaking down my thighs

Chapter 2

The marble slab was cool against my bare thighs the moment I sat on it, the ache from last night still deep between my legs. I'd worn the sundress on purpose, no underwear, the hem riding up as I settled on the edge. Bruno looked up from the reserve wheel he was arranging, his hands pausing on the rind.

"The cream line," I said, keeping my voice even. "You wanted me to check the cream line before the morning wash."

He set down the tasting knife and walked toward me. His eyes moved from my face to my bare knees to the shadow between my thighs, and I watched his jaw tighten.

"Show me the paste," he said.

I leaned back on my elbows and spread my legs. The cool air hit my wet cunt and I felt myself flush, the shame and the want tangling in my belly. He stepped between my knees, his hand sliding up my inner thigh.

"You came down here like this," he said, his thumb brushing my wet slit. "No panties. Offering yourself on the slab like a finished wheel."

"You told me to—"

"I told you to check the cream line." His thumb pushed inside me, one knuckle, then two, and I gasped. "This isn't a cream line, Dahlia. This is a mess."

I should have said something. Should have pushed his hand away. But his fingers curled inside me, finding that rough spot, and my hips rolled forward on their own.

"Daddy," I breathed.

He pulled his hand back and brought his fingers to his mouth, tasting me. His eyes stayed on mine while he sucked my wetness off his skin, and I felt my cunt clench around nothing.

"Are you sure you want this outside the blind spot?" he asked, his voice low. "The intercom's live. The kitchen phone is right there."

I knew what he meant. The camera couldn't see this corner of the slab, but it could hear. My mother's number was one touch away on the counter, and she was due to check in any minute.

"Please," I said. "Daddy, please."

He grabbed my ankles and pulled me to the edge of the slab, my ass hanging off the marble. His mouth found my cunt without warning, his tongue flat against my slit, licking up the wetness I'd been leaking since I walked in.

The sound was obscene—wet mouth on my cunt, slurping and sucking, his beard scratching my inner thighs. He pushed his tongue inside me, curling it against my inner walls, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.

"Quiet," he murmured against my c**t. "You know the rules."

I nodded, my hands gripping the slab edge. He went back to eating me, his tongue circling my c**t, then pushing deep, then circling again. The marble was cold against my back, and his mouth was hot, and I could smell my own s*x on the air, mixing with the cave stone and the brine on his beard.

He pressed two fingers inside me, curling them against that rough spot while his tongue worked my c**t, and I felt the orgasm building. My inner walls fluttered, my toes curling, my belly tightening.

"Come on my tongue," he commanded. "Now."

I came with a strangled gasp, my hips bucking against his face, my walls clenching around his fingers. He kept licking through it, drawing out every pulse, until I was trembling and oversensitive.

He pulled back, his chin glistening with my wetness. "Round two," he said. "On your back."

He lifted my legs over his shoulders and lined his c**k up at my entrance. The head pressed at my opening, the ring of muscle stretching around him, and I felt every inch sliding in—past one fold, then another, the ridge dragging over my rough spot until his hips were flush against mine, his c**k seated deep against my cervix.

"f**k," I whimpered.

He pulled out slowly, almost all the way, then drove back in. The rhythm was punishing—slow, deep, each stroke hitting my cervix, my inner walls gripping him like I was trying to pull him deeper.

"That's it," he growled. "Take all of me. You're my good little batch."

The phone rang.

The sound cut through the cellar from the counter speaker, shrill and insistent. Bruno froze inside me, his c**k pulsing, and I saw the caller ID: Mona.

My mother.

"Don't move," he whispered. "Don't make a sound."

He reached over without pulling out, his hips still pressed against mine, and hit the speaker button.

"Hello?"

"Bruno." My mother's voice filled the tasting room, tinny through the speaker. "I'm checking in. How's the humidity in the cave?"

I clamped my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide. Bruno was still buried inside me, his c**k twitching, and I could feel every pulse of his heartbeat through my inner walls.

"Humidity's stable," he said, his voice calm, professional. "Holding at eighty-five percent. The reserve wheels are coming along nicely."

"Good." There was a pause. "Is Dahlia there? I wanted to ask her something."

Bruno moved. Just a fraction, a slow grind of his hips against my cervix, and I bit down on my palm to keep from moaning. My walls clenched around him, and I saw his jaw tighten.

"She's here," he said. "She's checking the cream line on the slab."

"Mmm." My mother's voice was distant, distracted. "Tell her I'll call back in a few minutes. I just wanted to hear her voice."

I couldn't breathe. Every small wet sound of his c**k inside me could be picked up by the speaker. I could feel my own wetness pooling on the marble beneath me, the slick sound of his slow thrusts echoing in the small room.

"She's right here," Bruno said. "Say hi, Dahlia."

I stared at him. His eyes were dark, commanding, and he moved inside me again—a slow, deliberate push that made my vision blur.

"Hi, Mom," I managed, my voice breathless. "The humidity's perfect."

There was a pause. A long one.

"You sound winded," my mother said. "Are you okay?"

Bruno pulled out almost all the way, then drove back in, hitting my cervix. I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, my walls clenching around him.

"Just—" I swallowed. "Just lifting a heavy wheel. I'm fine."

"Okay." She didn't sound convinced. "I'll call back in a bit. Love you both."

"Love you," Bruno said, his voice steady.

The line clicked off.

Bruno didn't stop. He pulled out and drove back in, harder this time, his hand clamping over my mouth. "You already said yes with your hips," he growled. "Neither of us pretends this is work anymore."

He f****d me harder, faster, the marble slab creaking under us. I could feel my second orgasm building, my inner walls fluttering around him, and he groaned—a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through his chest into mine.

"I'm going to fill you," he said. "I'm going to come inside this wet cunt and you're going to take every drop."

"Yes, Daddy," I sobbed against his palm. "Fill me. Please."

He drove into me, his balls slapping against my c**t, and I came with a sharp cry, my body convulsing, my walls milking him. He followed a second later, his c**k pulsing, hot come flooding my cunt, filling me to the brim.

He pulled out slowly, and I felt his seed leaking down my thighs, warm against the cool air. He grabbed the tasting knife from the counter and lifted a sliver of cheese to my lips. I opened my mouth, and he pressed it onto my tongue, then licked the same blade, then licked my cunt, drawing a direct line between the paste he tasted and me.

"The core is softening," he said, his voice calm again. "Just like I planned."

He wiped the wet spot off the marble with the same cloth they used on the wheels, and I watched him log the humidity check in his notebook, the official entry reading "22:04"—a written alibi that could be checked later.

I slid off the slab, his come still dripping down my thighs, and I knew this was a pattern now, not an accident. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I saw myself in the stairwell last summer, watching him wash wheels in a soaked shirt, and I imagined his mouth on me in that same spot, and I bit the memory shut.