Page 22 of Meating Dalton

“Dalton.” His name is a breathless plea, but I don’t know what I’m asking for. A predatory grin spreads over the landscape of handsome features, dimples winking. His lips find my neck, peppering kisses, making me arch into him. A hand glides up my thigh, teasing my folds.

“Dalton,” I beg again. He can’t do this to me. I shouldn’t let him.

“Relax,” he coaxes, fingers growing bolder. Pleasure coils within me and I lift my hips impatiently. A groan gets trapped against my skin, two of Dalton’s fingers slipping inside of me. Biting my lip, I roll my hips again, moaning at the semi-thickness of his fingers impaling me.

“Fuck, love. You’re so wet in here.” His fingers curl, hitting a spot that curls my toes.

“Right there,” I shout, rocking my hips, fucking his fingers. But before I can come apart, he yanks his fingers free, pulling a growl from me. He laughs, easing his weight off of me, unbuttoning his shirt. Saliva dries up in my mouth. I’m really doing this, watching each button pop free until he’s pulling the halves off, abs flexing with the movement.

Standing up, he makes quick work of his jeans, kicking the discarded garment to the side, cock bobbing in the air. My walls clench at the thickness, my pussy begging to be filled. Dalton kneels until we’re eye level.

“I’ve never done this before, my sweet flower, so bear with me. There’s no going back after this.” His hair flops against his forehead as he shakes his head. He’s right. Licking my lips, I run a finger along the veiny length. Dalton hisses, hips jerking toward me.

“Now,” he groans. “I need inside you now.” My legs spread wider in invitation. Dalton rushes forward, body caging me in.

“Here goes,” he whispers, leaning to give me a chaste kiss, cock teasing my entrance. My legs wrap around his waist, hips raising to help ease him inside. We both groan at the first inch sliding in, my nails digging into his back. It’s so thick and feels so good. Dragging my nails down makes Dalton arch, driving more of his cock into me until he bottoms out.

“Fuck,” he chokes out, eyes closed, tendons jumping in his neck. I can feel his cock twitching inside me, fighting to not release immediately. It’s kind of cute. Kissing the side of his mouth, I clench around him and he shouts, eyes snapping open and cock jerking, filling me with his cum. I laugh, emboldened at taking his first time and making him come on the first thrust.

“Damned minx,” he mutters, pulling out, and before I can complain, he thrusts back in, hard, scooting me forward. His smile is malicious, and he picks a fast pace, cock hardening inside me, pelvis teasing my clit with each thrust. Within minutes, I’m moaning, walls fluttering around his cock.

“That’s it. Come for me. Come all over my cock. It’s fucking yours,” he growls, hips diving into me rapidly, allowing me no time to breathe around the intense pleasure flooding me, edging me closer and closer to splintering apart beneath him. What the fuck am I allowing him to do?

The next thrust breaks me, ripping a scream of pure bliss, my body tightening around Dalton. He groans in my ear, never breaking pace, fucking me through my climax and into another like a damn man possessed.

“Give it to me, Natalia. All of it. I want all of you.” His hand wraps around my throat, cutting off my gasps and pleasure slams into me. Dalton quits thrusting, grinding his hips into me, prolonging my orgasm and I can feel his cock filling me up. When the last aftershock fades, we lie there, his cock nestled within me, foreheads touching.

Fucking Lasher. I let a Lasher fuck me. Sarah will never believe this, or maybe she will.

PARENTS

DALTON

With Natalia’s naked body pressed against me, skin slick with sweat, I can feel her heart beating, slowing, rhythm trying to match mine. It feels nice. I never thought I’d enjoy gelatinous limbs and a limp, satisfied dick nestled within a woman’s wet pussy, my cum leaking out around my cock.

Arms trembling, I slide my hand beneath my flower, rolling my body until she’s on top of me. She grunts, walls spasming briefly around my cock, cheek pressed to my chest. Feeling victorious, I twirl a curl around a finger, sliding my thumb over the thick strand. The texture is so different from mine.

Her face tilts, eyes narrowing at my hand in her hair. I bark a laugh, jostling her some and tightening my grip.

“You’re a prick,” she says without heat, slumping back down. Humming, I nod. She’s not wrong. Losing my smile, I wonder why the fuck people try to hide their flaws? My mother tried it. It didn’t work out for her.

Bright smiling faces, sunshine, and large groups of people shine up at me from the pamphlets spread across the dining room table.

“You’re eighteen now,” Samantha’s saying, voice coming at me from a long dark tunnel. My fingers brush one pamphlet, New Hope Sanctuary, printed in large letters across the top. Sanctuary. Another word for asylum.

“It’s time you do something with your life, Zachary. You can’t live off of us forever and these are our terms. You need help.” The cunt’s lips keep moving, but I quit tracking the sound, narrowing my eyes on the pulse in her neck.

What. A. Bitch.

But I’ve played this game before, and she always loses. I hope she feels the fucking gravel of dirt digging into her back from being pressed into a corner. Are you feeling frightened, dear Mother? Good.

Masking the rage incinerating the blood in my veins, boiling it to unprecedented portions, I turn to Charles Lewis, the fucking third. Praise the big guy that my biological parents demanded they keep my given first and middle name. Lewis. The only thing of theirs I can keep, if Samantha has her way.

Charles’ dark hair rests at an angle, brushed off his forehead, pomade reflecting the light. A newspaper clutched in aged hands hides the spectacle of Samantha and me from view, intentionally, no doubt.

My life at the Lewis’ would be more than a living hell it currently is if the dull guy didn’t step in frequently, pulling me from Samantha’s snares. Neither could claim the affectionate parent award, but at least Charles feigned caring if I lived or died, helping bandage my scrapes, occasionally reading a bed-time story and double checking his cunt wife didn’t starve me. Being a standup guy saves his damn life.

“Father,” the word slips out smoothly. No mums and paws in this house. “Why don’t I work for you?” Charles lowers his paper, salt and pepper brows shooting up. We both know I suck at math. He’s the co-CEO of a merger and acquisition company, working with some guy named Lasher. Never paid attention to find out the first name.

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