Page 33 of Red Flag Bull

Thirteen. Fourteen. Grape Number Fifteen pops back out to see me twice, so I push it back in and hold the cold cloth to her again, to keep them all inside her.

The counter is high enough that she’s forced to stand on tiptoes, and I smile when she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. She’s probably churning the cold grapes inside her, bumping them around her sweet spots and getting them nice and honeyed for me.

I kick her legs a little further apart, and then crouch down behind her, to gently pinch her pussy lips together over her cargo, so I can ditch the cloth. I massage her sweet clit with my tongue, until her toes are curling into my polished hardwood floors. When she moans and lifts her foot to stamp a few times like a restless animal, each toe leaves a tiny halo of moist heat where it was pressed to the cooler surface.

She slaps the counter and rumbles when I flick my tongue at her asshole, and I smile as I then let her birth Grape Number Fifteen into my mouth.

So fucking sweet.

Fourteen. Thirteen. Twelve.

Juicy.

Such a treat. I swallow down the goodness, open the cupboard next to me, and slide out the shelf of cooking oils. I set the tub of organic coconut oil on the counter. From the sound, I know it’s in solid form, despite my house’s being kept at a moderate temperature.

I stand, keep her loaded cunt sealed with the flat of my hand, and give her a little clit pressure, slowly rubbing in circles.

Careful not to lose grapes or cause them damage, I turn her, wrap my arm around her hips, and lift her onto the counter.

She gasps as her ass hits the cold stone slab, and she takes my measure while I position her with her legs spread, her knees bent high, and her heels at the counter’s edge.

I lower my face to her pussy and gaze up at her, as I let another grape slip from her cunt, to be devoured by my waiting mouth.

Her lips part, and her breaths are getting closer together. It makes her tits rise and fall, all quick and pretty, like her nipples are trying to flag me down. Perhaps they’re in need of my assistance.

“Jason…” she protests in a whisper, when I take hold of the T-shirt she’s wearing and start to lift it.

“It’s my T-shirt.” But I pause. It’s her chance to either opt out or let herself be mine. Apparently, she doesn’t want me to see her naked. Do I give her more time? If I rush her, she can use the safe word, but I’m hoping she’ll play along if I take things slowly.

She presses her lips together and averts her gaze as her cheeks flush. “I don’t look the same,” she says quietly. Like she’s so hideous beneath her clothes, she needs to warn me.

“I’m sure you don’t,” I say, brushing my knuckles against her soft skin as I grip the T-shirt harder. “But I want to see.”

She swallows visibly, still avoiding eye contact. “What if you don’t like what you see?”

“What if I do?” I counter. “What if I like it so much, I can hardly peel my gaze from your skin? Or my tongue? Are you going to keep me from finding out?”

Mandi closes her eyes and shakes her head. “No.”

Her voice is quiet. Scared. How harshly does she think I’ll judge her? Is she covered in tattoos of some other man’s name? What does she need to hide? Should I be worried?

I wrench up the T-shirt, but she’s beautiful. Rounder and softer than she was. A woman now. Suited to a man my age. I slide my shirt over her head, removing it completely so I can study the canvas beneath, now that another lifetime has been painted over the girl I remembered.

With one hand pressed to her sex, I use the other to hold her still, as I lean in to inspect her more closely. Her breasts are larger, round and firm, and when I trace the full curve of one with the tip of my nose, I smell a sweetness that makes my mouth water. She pumped but didn’t let the baby suckle. Does she hate the thought of a warm mouth pulling from her? Would she hate it if I tried?

I slowly massage her pussy with my hand, as I shift my attention to the pink and silver streaks on her belly, where her skin was stretched to accommodate a growing child. Her lower belly is sort of wrinkled and sags a little, empty.

Is it wrong that I want to fill it so badly? That I want my baby to be bigger than the last, so she gains new stripes because of me? So I brand her permanently, my mark tattooed on her flesh? Mine — in nature’s own writing.

Nobody else can give her what she needs — make sure she’s taken care of. Safe. Always.

Is there a real way to have her returned to me if she gets lost again? Like fucking property?

I trace the lines with my fingers. Their size denotes the change she had to go through. How significant it was. And she did that heroic thing for someone else, without anyone to love and support her through it. They used her body, chewed her up, and spat her out.

I lift my gaze to meet hers. “Do you know how fucking good and strong and beautiful you are?”

Her cheeks flush, and she puffs a little air from her nose as she looks away. “Yeah. I’m flawless.”

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