Unholy Cravings and Desires

~ Amira ~ I’m Amira Jackson, and I’ve been f*****g obsessed with my dad’s best friend since I was a teenager and now I’m twenty years old, and I can’t control it anymore. It’s been a week since my dad dropped me off at Mr. Jeffrey’s house, I’d had a blowout fight with his new wife, the one he brought home so he decided I needed space. He drove me straight to his best friend’s place to stay for a while. Little did he know, he’d just handed me the best gift of my life. Because Mr. Jeffrey is the man I’ve dreamed about for years. The one I’ve pictured bending me over his desk, f*****g me mercilessly, pounding into me so hard and deep that I’m sobbing, begging for mercy and he doesn’t stop. “Amira, we’re leaving! See you next week,” Joyce and Ethan called out, lifting their bags over their shoulders. Mr. Jeffrey was divorced, so his sixteen-year-old twins always split their time between parents. This week it was their mom’s turn, which meant the big house would be empty except for him and me. I followed them down the long driveway, Mr. Jeffrey walking just a step behind me and I was hyper-aware of how close he was—the faint scent of his cologne. Their mother waited outside the gate in her silver SUV, engine idling. Joyce and Ethan threw their bags in the back, then turned to hug me. “I’ll miss you guys,” I said, squeezing them both tight, mostly so I could steal a quick glance over Joyce’s shoulder at Mr. Jeffrey leaning against the gatepost, arms folded, watching us with that quiet, unreadable look he always has. The kids climbed into the car, waving through the windows as their mom pulled away, I waved back until they turned the corner and disappeared. Then it was just us. The gate clanged shut behind me, I turned around slowly. Mr. Jeffrey hadn’t moved, his dark eyes met mine, steady and calm, like he already knew exactly what kind of week this was about to become. One whole week, no kids and no interruptions. Just him and me in that big, quiet house. And every filthy fantasy I’ve carried since I was old enough to have them. The evening stretched out slow and heavy after the kids left, we ate dinner together…the steak he grilled, salad I threw together while making small talk about school and work. But every time his eyes met mine across the table, my pulse jumped, every time his fingers brushed mine passing the salt, heat shot straight between my legs. By nine o’clock he pushed back from the table. “I’m gonna take a shower and turn in early,” he said, voice low and even. “Long week.” I nodded, throat tight. “Goodnight, Mr. Jeffrey.” He gave me a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and headed upstairs. I waited exactly five minutes after I heard his bedroom door click shut. Five minutes of sitting on the edge of my bed, thighs pressed tight together, trying to talk myself out of it but the ache between my legs was already throbbing, wet and insistent, and every time I closed my eyes I saw him at the grill earlier, his shirtless sculpted body and forearms flexing while he flipped the steaks. Fuck it. I crept down the hallway in my bare feet, wearing nothing but those tiny cotton sleep shorts and the oversized T-shirt I’d stolen from the laundry basket this morning because it smelled like him. The house was dead quiet except for the low hum of the AC. His bedroom door was a little open and the bathroom light spilled out in a warm strip across the hardwood floor, and I could hear the shower running strong and steady. Steam curled out through the crack he’d left open, probably thinking he was alone in the house tonight. I stopped just outside, heart slamming against my ribs, I should go back to my room…I should be good. Instead, I walked in, close enough that the steam kissed my face, and I looked. Holy f*****g hell. There he was, completely naked and water pounding down on those wide shoulders, running in thick streams over the hard lines of his back, down to that perfect ass I’ve jerked off thinking about for years. His muscles shifting every time he moved. I squeezed my thighs together, but it wasn’t enough. My hand was already sliding under the waistband of my shorts before I could stop myself. He turned a little, giving me the side profile of his chest, f*****g thick, powerful, with that trail of dark hair leading straight down to his c**k. Even soft, it was heavy, thick, hanging long between his thighs. My mouth actually watered. I bit down hard on my bottom lip to keep from whimpering out loud. My fingers slipped through my soaked folds, finding my c**t swollen and begging. I’d want him right now, damn it. I started circling it slow at first, eyes locked on him as he tipped his head back under the spray. Water poured over his throat, down his chest, over those cut abs. One big hand dragged through his hair, the other bracing against the tile wall. I imagined that hand fisted in my hair instead, forcing my head back while he f****d my mouth. My p***y clenched hard around nothing, I shoved two fingers deep inside myself, pumping them in time with the filthy rhythm in my head. Wet sounds filled my ears…mine and the shower’s, both loud as hell to me, but he couldn’t hear. He had no idea I was right here, getting off to the sight of his naked body like a desperate little slut. He grabbed the soap, worked it into a lather, and started washing himself. His hand slid down his chest, over his stomach, then wrapped around that gorgeous c**k just to clean it but the way he stroked it firmly, thorough…made it swell and thicken right in front of me. Veins standing out, the head getting darker, shinier under the water. I f****d myself harder, palm grinding against my c**t, thighs shaking and I was dripping down my own fingers, so wet I could feel it on the inside of my thighs. Please, I thought, staring at him. Please turn around let me see how big you get when you’re hard. He didn’t but just watching his strong hand grip himself once, twice more, was enough. My orgasm slammed into me, sudden and brutal. I had to slap my free hand over my mouth to muffle the high, broken moan that tore out of me. My p***y spasmed around my fingers, pulsing so hard my vision blurred at the edges, I sagged against the doorframe, knees buckling, riding it out while he kept washing, completely oblivious. The water shut off. Panic hit me like ice water, I yanked my fingers out, wiped my p***y juice frantically on my shirt, and bolted back to my room on wobbling legs. I shut the door as quietly as I could, collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving, p***y still fluttering with aftershocks. Six more days. Six more days of this torture. And tomorrow night, I already knew I’d be right back at that door, fingers buried deep, praying he’d never catch me. Or maybe praying he would.