His come leaking down my thighs

Chapter 3

The stone table was cold under my spread thighs, the ache from the slab still deep in my cunt, and Bruno stood over me with the cheese iron in his hand. The stainless steel cylinder glinted under the cellar light, the blade no wider than two fingers, and I watched him run his thumb along its edge like he was checking a wheel for cracks.

"Core inspection," he said. "I need to see how the paste is softening."

I knew what he was really asking. I spread my knees wider on the stone, the cold biting my inner thighs, and the smell of cave brine and wax sealant filled my nose. His leather apron creaked as he stepped between my legs, and I saw his eyes drop to my bare cunt, already wet from the walk down the stairs.

"This is only a work tool," he said, and he pressed the chilled iron against my slit.

The cold hit me like a shock, the steel flat against my c**t, and I gasped, my hips jerking off the stone. He held it there, letting the cold seep into my flesh, and I felt my inner walls clench around nothing.

"Daddy," I breathed.

He didn't answer. He tilted the iron, the cylindrical blade pressing at my entrance, and pushed.

The cold steel slid inside me inch by inch, the rim dragging against my inner walls, and I felt every ridge of the tool's barrel as it sank deeper. My cunt clenched around the metal, trying to pull it in or push it out, and the cold spread through my core like ice water. He pushed until the blade was seated deep, the handle resting against my c**t, and I felt the chill against my cervix.

"Hold still," he said. "I'm checking the core."

I couldn't speak. The cold was everywhere, filling me, and I could feel my own wetness coating the steel, warming it from the inside. He twisted the iron a quarter turn, the rim scraping my inner walls, and I whimpered, my hands gripping the stone edge.

"That's it," he murmured. "The paste is softening nicely."

I reached back and grabbed my thighs, pulling them apart wider than he'd asked. The cold steel shifted inside me, and I watched his eyes darken.

"You're spreading for a work tool," he said. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He pulled the iron halfway out, the cold barrel dragging against my inner walls, and I felt the emptiness where it had been. Then he pushed it back in, harder, the handle pressing against my c**t, and I moaned.

"This is only a work tool," he repeated, his voice low. "But your cunt is gripping it like it wants to keep it."

The intercom crackled.

The sound cut through the cellar, sharp and electric, and I froze. Bruno's hand stopped on the iron, his eyes flicking to the speaker on the tool bench, and I saw the delivery van through the glass pane of the cellar door.

"Wax-sealant delivery," a man's voice said through the speaker. "Need a signature."

Bruno's hand moved to the iron, and he pushed it deeper. The cold steel hit my cervix, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste blood.

"Sign for it," he whispered. "And don't make a sound."

He pressed his thumb to my c**t, the pad rough against the sensitive nub, and I felt my whole body lock up. The delivery driver was one pane of glass away, his silhouette visible through the cellar door, and I could hear his boots scuffing on the pavement.

"Hello?" the driver said. "Anyone in there?"

Bruno's thumb circled my c**t, slow and deliberate, and I felt my walls clench around the cold iron. The steel was still inside me, the chill mixing with the heat of his thumb, and I could feel my wetness dripping down the barrel onto the stone floor.

"Say we're in the back," Bruno said, his voice barely a whisper.

I pressed the intercom button, my hand shaking. "We're—we're in the back."

My voice came out an octave too high, breathy, and I heard the driver pause.

"You okay in there?" he asked.

Bruno twisted the iron, the rim scraping my inner walls, and I felt my eyes roll back. His thumb pressed harder on my c**t, and I clamped my free hand over my mouth, the wet sound of the iron moving inside me filling the cellar.

"We're fine," I managed, my voice cracking. "Just—just moving wheels."

The driver's silhouette shifted. He was looking through the glass, and I could see his eyes scanning the cellar, the cave door chain visible behind him, the intercom crackling with static.

"Sign here," he said, and I heard the rustle of paper.

Bruno pulled the iron out an inch, then pushed it back in, the cold barrel sliding against my inner walls. I felt my orgasm building, the cold and the heat and the fear all tangling in my belly, and I bit down on my palm to keep from moaning.

"Where's the signature?" the driver asked.

Bruno's thumb moved faster on my c**t, and I pressed the intercom button again, my voice a strangled whisper. "On the—on the clipboard. Leave it on the step."

The driver paused. I could hear him breathing, the static of the intercom, the wet sound of the iron moving inside me. Bruno twisted it again, the handle pressing against my c**t, and I felt my walls clench around the steel.

"You sure you're okay?" the driver asked.

"Fine," I gasped. "Just—heavy."

Bruno's thumb circled my c**t, and I felt the orgasm cresting, my inner walls fluttering around the cold iron. The driver's silhouette moved, and I heard his boots on the pavement, the clipboard clattering onto the step.

"Alright," he said. "Have a good one."

The door clicked shut. The intercom crackled, then went silent.

Bruno didn't stop. He pulled the iron out in one slow motion, the cold steel dragging against my inner walls, and I felt the emptiness where it had been, my cunt clenching around nothing. He set the iron on the stone table, the barrel slick with my wetness, and I heard his zipper open.

He grabbed my hips and pulled me to the edge of the stone, his c**k hard against my thigh. He lined up at my entrance, the head pressing at my opening, and pushed.

The heat was overwhelming. His c**k filled me where the cold steel had been, the warmth spreading through my core, 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 almost all the way, then drove back in, hard, his balls slapping against my c**t. 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."

"Yes, Daddy," I sobbed. "Fill me. Please."

He grabbed my hips and flipped me over, my hands catching on the stone, my ass in the air. He drove into me from behind, deeper this time, his c**k hitting that deep spot inside me, and I felt my orgasm building again.

"You held still for me," he said, his hand coming down on my ass with a sharp slap. "Under the driver's voice. With cold steel in your cunt."

"Yes, Daddy," I gasped.

He slapped my ass again, the sound echoing off the stone walls, and I felt my walls clench around him. He drove into me harder, faster, the wet sound of his c**k sliding in and out of my cunt filling the cellar, and I felt my orgasm cresting.

"Come on my c**k," he commanded. "Now."

I came with a sharp cry, my body convulsing, my inner 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 cellar rag from the bench and wiped the wetness off the stone floor, the rag soaking up my cream and his come, and I smelled my own s*x rising from the cloth.

He picked up the cheese iron and held it to my lips. "Taste it," he said.

I opened my mouth, and he pressed the cold steel against my tongue. The metallic ghost of the iron mixed with the taste of my own cunt, and I sucked the barrel clean, my eyes on his.

"Good girl," he said.

He wiped the rag down and set it on the bench, and I saw the delivery clipboard on the step through the glass. The driver's signature was on the wax-sealant log, and I knew the smell on that rag would linger.

My phone buzzed on the tool bench. I reached for it, my thighs still trembling, and saw the text from Mona: "Checking the camera log tomorrow. Make sure the timestamp gap from tonight is explained."

Bruno read it over my shoulder, his hand still on my hip. I felt the cold ghost of the iron still inside my cunt, and the heat of his come leaking down my thighs, and I knew the camera servo had recorded every second of the gap.

"Tomorrow," he said, his voice low. "We'll make it look like a humidity check."

I nodded, the metallic taste still on my tongue, and I felt the shame making me wetter. The craft was inside me now, literally, and I knew this was only the beginning.