Page 78 of The Parent Trap

Faster, then. I plunge my fists on him, down around his thick throbbing shaft faster and faster, and I know I’m ruined for all other men, all other cocks, all other bodies. He’s just too perfect, and this is a wet dream come true, my wildest sexual fantasy come true—my secret fantasy, the ones which once felt so deviant and perverse and impossible, made real, with the last man on earth I’d ever have even dared imagine.

His breathing is an impossibly fast pant, as if he’s sprinting the hundred-meter dash. Wild gasps. As I drive my touch faster, his hips pulse forward in time with my downstrokes. Faster and faster, until my forearm and wrist nearly ache with the speed of it.

My god, how long can he last? How long have we been here, in the ocean, like this? I don’t know, but it feels like an eternity, a glorious moment stretched out into years.

Don’t end, please god don’t be over too soon.

My breasts ache, tight nipples like buds of diamond, begging for his mouth. My pussy is drenched, slit clenching around nothing. Arousal slams through me in waves—need, raging like a tsunami.

One single touch and I’d come with him.

My thighs tremble against each other.

My tits ache as they shake wildly, almost painfully, as my hands blur on his cock.

“Come,” I whisper. It’s a command.

Thai obeys.

I gasp, an aroused, breathy, whimper as I feel it begin in him. He, for his part, snarls, and then the snarl becomes a low moan, and then the low moan becomes the roar of a maddened, feral beast. He cannot withstand the need any longer, cannot hold out any longer, cannot be still another moment.

His hands, up till now fisted at his sides, reach for me as he lets go. One knots in my hair at the nape of my neck, gripping my wet tangled hair in a death grip that somehow doesn’t even tug on my scalp; the other hand goes to my hip, fingers clawed into the flesh, gripping hard.

Now, god yes, now.

I slow my touch.

Reverse the grip of one hand, cradling his balls against his shaft while with my other hand I caress him slowly with one tight circle of my finger and thumb. He pulses in the ring of my fingers, sack tightening in my palm.

“Ohfuck!” His voice is ragged and growling.

He comes.

It’s a spurting detonation of cum, and it spills over my hands, coats my fingers. Another jet leaves him, this one rocketing hard enough to splash against my stomach—and still he’s not done. I stroke him, gentling my touch.

“More,” I murmur.

God, who am I? Who is this wanton thing speaking with my voice, this greedy creature, this slavering, sensual siren with my body, my voice?

Slow touches, petting his tip and tracing his length with a tickling fingernail, the other clutching him at the root and squeezing and fluttering quick shallow pumps. His body is wracked with jerking shivers, he’s growling wordlessly, hips heaving.

Cum drools out of his tip, over my fingers. Again, and again.

So…much…cum.

My fingers are wet with it, the sticky thick wet warm seed drenching my fingers in a viscous sheen. The burst that splattered on my stomach drips downward—and then a wave sloshes up suddenly, and the receding riptide of it washes my belly clean and scours my hands clean.

I want to touch him like this for always. I almost wish the waves hadn’t washed his cum off me—I liked the sticky wetness on me, liked knowing I’d done that to him, drawn it out of him. I like seeing him faint and swaying, liked hearing him groan. He dips at the knees as I continue caressing him, and still more white cream seeps out of him, little dribbles which I smear with my thumb.

I’m shaking.

Trembling all over with my own need.

Will he see it?

What happens now?

His finger touches my chin, and I tilt my face up to meet his eyes, and I know this is not going to be easy to get past—this wasn’t a lapse in judgment, a frantic moment of errant weakness, like in my house last week.