I’m seeing her come to my defense all over again and give all of those annoying legal aids a piece of her mind after getting on her last good nerve. I remember how serious and strong her face was. Her face was super stern and super sexy. A queen’s face, but with more beauty and fire. I rub myself harder and faster to this idea. This image I’ve conjured.
I imagined her face and posture confronting my father. All of his cruelty. His treatment of me. I imagine Melissa saying all the things I could never say to my dad. I imagined her throwing my dad out to the curb or getting him wrapped up in charges of physical and emotional abuse for what he did to me, and to this, I pump my shaft more and faster.
I squeeze it, imagining how she would come to me after getting my dad away from me for good. Getting him out of this house and out of my life for good. I imagine her being naked, coming to the bed I’m sitting on right now, and sitting on my lap. She’s straddling it and letting me fuck her on my lap.
I drag my hand down my shaft, squeezing and releasing as I do, simulating what I imagine her pussy would be like. How it would tighten and release at intervals, due to my motion and hers. I imagine what it would be like to hold her against me and rub my chest against her gorgeous breasts as I fuck her until she comes. Until she squirts all over me and lays trembling in my arms.
I whimper thinking about this, how cute she would look. How I would pretty much devour her and kiss her all over. Then I would call myself her “boss” and I would ask her to call me that or sir. Especially when I take her again. But this time over my bed, with her hands and feet tied to the posts. Maybe even a ball gag in her mouth, in case she’s a screamer.
I gasp, stiffening. “Oh, God,” I growl, imagining taking her a second time. How wet and warm she would be from the first time. How I’d fill her so full, she’d scream for me. How much she’d enjoy every inch of my big, thick cock. How she’d say it’s getting her in all the right places. In places she’s never been “gotten” before, and then she’d beg for more.
And I’d give her more. I would order her to get on all fours for me, lean over, spread her cheeks, and let me have her tight pink asshole. I shudder and enjoying the thought that I’m her boss, and she’d beg me to ride her. Pound her. Make her my pet for a while, before sucking my cock dry in her tight little mouth.
Just as I imagine what it would be like to fill Melissa’s mouth with my cock, I cum. My head explodes. It comes in fast, heavy squirts. With each one, I experience violent, pleasant spasms. It’s enough to have me groaning and grunting like the beast I am.
As I milk myself for one last bit of pleasure and one last drop of cum, I imagine Melissa looking up at me. Her eyes and face calm as a little bit of my cum dribbles down her chin. “You went wild with it. Naughty with it, sir,” I imagine her saying. “I want you to take me like this every time. I want you to tie me up and use me for your pleasure. Make me your good pet.”
I blush, embarrassed by the content of my imagination, and the vividness of it. If anyone else saw these imaginings, they’d think me mentally unstable. And kinky. Though I’m not sure which is worse, more embarrassing and exciting to me at the moment.
What the fuck? Why do you keep thinking of Melissa that way? Why do you keep conjuring kinky things when it comes to her? I blush deeply, more so than before, and realize it’s another little secret I’ve always kept. I like this kind of thing. A bit of enjoyment I couldn’t ever explain or admit to, but I have to admit to it now. Especially when it comes to Melissa, and that dominating energy she represents. That desire she represents, even though I’m still nervous around her. Uncomfortable with the power she seems to exert over and around me and my surroundings.
“And when that’s the worst idea ever with a woman like that,” I say, moving to get myself cleaned up. “I can’t imagine someone as proper as Melissa being into kinky stuff like that.”
I can hear someone stomping around upstairs. I can hear the screen door clacking closed, and that only means one thing. Dad. He’s home and itching to start something with me.