Stroke My c**t
833 Words
I still couldn’t believe he did it.
One minute I was on my knees, face dripping with his c*m, p***y gaping and soaked, the door knob shaking. The next, Jax zipped his jeans like nothing happened, and walked over to open it wider with that perfect, golden-boy smile. He didn't even wait a few seconds for me to pose like a good girl.
“Mom, Richard, you’re early,” he said, all warm and surprised, like he hadn’t just f****d my throat raw thirty seconds ago.
I stayed frozen on the rug. My heart tried to punch out of my chest. I prayed the couch hid me. Mom’s happy laugh floated in first, bright and bubbly as always. “Traffic was a dream for once!” Richard’s deeper chuckle followed. “Figured we’d surprise you kids.”
Jax didn’t even glance back at me. He just stepped aside and let them walk right past where I knelt, I could have been naked from the waist down, his c*m sliding down my neck.
He didn’t care if the few seconds was enough for me to cover quickly. That was the worst part. He really, truly didn’t care.
I was barely sane when I made it to my room. I scrubbed my face raw and changed into the outfit he’d texted me an hour before dinner: Wear the white oversized button-down. Nothing underneath. Be a good girl.
I told myself I wouldn’t obey.
I did anyway.
Now we were at the dinner table.
Richard sat at the head, Mom beside him, Jax and me on the long side. Except Jax had dragged my chair so close our thighs touched the second we sat down. He had no phone in his hand for the first time ever. He just fixed those dark eyes on me every time Mom or Richard looked away.
Mom was in full sparkle mode, wineglass in hand, telling some story about the luncheon that had her giggling before the punchline.
“So Margaret leans over and whispers, ‘Darling, your Botox is slipping!’ and the woman didn’t even notice her own forehead was frozen in shock!” She burst out laughing. Richard shook his head with that fond, indulgent smirk.
Jax laughed too, low and easy, like the perfect son. His left hand rested on the table, cutting his steak. His right hand?
Not in sight.
I felt it a second later. A warm palm slid under the hem of the shirt, over my bare thigh, slow and inevitable.
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.
He didn’t look at me. He just kept nodding at something Richard said about the new yacht club membership while his fingers traced higher, higher, higher, until the pads of two fingertips settled directly on my p***y lips.
I choked on air.
Mom turned to me, beaming. “Sweetie, you okay?”
I managed a nod and squeezed my thighs together.
Too late.
Jax parted my folds like he owned them (because he did) and slid two thick fingers deep inside me in one smooth push.
The world narrowed to the stretch, the sudden fullness, the way my walls fluttered helplessly around him under the f*****g dinner table.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted blood.
Richard raised his glass. “To family nights at home. Been too long.”
Everyone clinked. I barely got my glass up in time because Jax chose that second to curl his fingers and stroke that spot that made my vision white out.
Mom grinned at me over the rim of her wine. “You’ve been so quiet tonight, baby. Everything good?”
Jax pumped slowly, in and out. His thumb brushed my c**t on every upstroke. My p***y made the softest wet sound. I prayed the music covered it.
“Y-yeah,” I squeaked. “Just… hungry.”
Jax’s fingers twisted, scissored, spread me open while he smiled at Mom like an angel. “She’s always starving lately,” he said, voice velvet. “Can’t get enough.”
I almost moaned out loud.
Richard launched into a story about some businessman who tried to outbid him on a particular painting today. Mom hung on every word, laughing in all the right places, tossing in happy little jokes only people their age would find hilarious.
Jack felt fake-smiling.
And in all of it, he never stopped.
He f****d me with his fingers under the linen tablecloth, slow and deep and merciless. He drew it out until my thighs, and my n*****s were so hard they hurt against the shirt. He kept me teetering on the edge, never letting me go, or come.
Sweat beaded at my hairline. My fork scraped the plate too loud.
Mom tilted her head. Her eyes sparkled with that clueless maternal curiosity.
She fixed her eyes on me.
“Sweetheart… when we came in this afternoon, why was the couch all wet? And why on earth were you on your knees?”
- Writer
