Briana gets fucked

He doesn't make her wait. The moment the words leave her lips—please fuck me—my father's hands are on her hips, and he drives into her with a single, brutal thrust that makes her whole body jerk against the mattress.

The sound she makes is nothing I've ever heard from her. It's not a moan, not a scream—it's something raw and shocked and utterly involuntary, torn from somewhere deep in her chest. Her back bows off the bed, her mouth falling open, her eyes going wide as he buries himself to the hilt inside her.

"There," my father says, his voice low and satisfied. "That's what you needed, isn't it?"

Briana doesn't answer. She can't. Her hands are scrabbling at the sheets, her thighs trembling around his hips, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I watch her body adjust to him—the way her stomach flutters, the way her chest heaves, the way her fingers clench and unclench in the expensive cotton.

He doesn't give her time to recover. He starts to move, and the rhythm is immediate, relentless—fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—each thrust measured and deep, driving the air from her lungs in little punched-out sounds.

Her tits bounce with every impact. I can't look away from them—the pale, perfect weight of them, the way they move in counterpoint to his hips, the way her nipples are still hard and flushed from his mouth. They're the tits I've touched a hundred times, kissed, worshipped, and now they're jiggling for my father, bouncing in time with his cock, and the sight of it makes something dark and shameful twist in my gut.

"Oh god," she gasps, and the words are broken, fragmented, shattered by the force of him. "Oh god, oh—fuck—oh god—"

"You feel that?" My father's voice is calm, almost conversational, utterly at odds with the force of his hips. "You feel how deep I am? How full you are?"

"Yes," she moans, and the word is dragged out of her, hoarse and desperate. "Yes, yes, yes—"

"Better than my son?" He punctuates the question with a harder thrust, and Briana cries out, her head thrashing against the pillow. "Better than the boy who's been fumbling around inside you for eight months?"

"Don't—" she starts, but the word dissolves into a moan as he hits something inside her that makes her whole body convulse. "Don't—ahh—don't talk about—fuck—don't talk about him—"

"Why not?" He's still thrusting, still talking, his voice a low, mocking counterpoint to the wet slap of their bodies. "He's the reason you're here, isn't he? He's the reason you're spread out on my bed, taking my cock like you were made for it."

"I'm not—" She gasps, her hands flying up to grip his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. "I'm not—nng—I'm doing this for—oh god—for him—"

"For him." My father laughs, low and dark, and the sound vibrates through the room. "Of course you are. That's what you keep telling yourself. But we both know the truth, don't we? We both know that when I'm inside you—when I'm stretching this tight little pussy—you're not thinking about him at all."

"That's not—" She tries to shake her head, but her hips answer him despite her words, rising to meet each thrust. "That's not—fuck—that's not true—I love—ahh—I love him—"

"Say it, then." He slows down, just enough to make her whimper, just enough to show her how much she needs it. "Say who you're doing this for. Say it while I'm inside you."

"I'm doing this for—" She gasps as he thrusts deep, her voice breaking. "For my—nng—for my boyfriend—I'm doing this for—oh fuck—for my boyfriend—"

"Again." He speeds up, harder, faster, the wet clap of skin filling the room. "Louder."

"For my boyfriend!" The words come out strangled, half-sob, half-moan, and her voice rises in pitch with every thrust. "I'm doing this for my—ahh—for my boyfriend—I love him—I love—fuck—I love him—"

"Good girl." My father's voice is soft, almost tender, and he reaches down to cup her breast, his thumb circling her nipple. "Now tell me how it feels."

"It feels—" She moans, her back arching. "It feels—oh god—it feels so—fuck—it feels so good—"

"Better than him?" He pinches her nipple, and she cries out, her hips bucking against him. "Better than my son?"

"I can't—" She's shaking her head, her blonde hair a tangled mess on the pillow, her face flushed and sweating. "I can't—nng—I can't think when you—ahh—when you—"

"Good." He leans down, his lips brushing her ear, his hips never stopping. "I don't want you to think. I want you to feel. I want you to stop pretending this is about him and start admitting what it's really about."

"It's about—" She gasps, her hands sliding down his back, her nails raking his skin. "It's about—fuck—it's about protecting him—it's about—oh god—it's about—"

"It's about you." He thrusts deeper, harder, and she screams—a raw, animal sound that echoes through the room. "It's about what you want. What you need. What you've been denying yourself for eight months while you played the good girlfriend to a boy who can't satisfy you."

"He satisfies—" She tries to argue, but the words keep breaking apart. "He satisfies—nng—he satisfies me—he's—ahh—he's a good—fuck—he's a good man—"

"A good man." My father laughs, and the sound is cold and knowing. "Is that what you tell yourself when you're lying in bed at night, aching for something he can't give you? Is that what you whisper when you're touching yourself, imagining a real man between your legs?"

"I don't—" She gasps, her face flushing with shame and arousal. "I don't—oh god—I don't do that—I don't—fuck—I don't imagine—"

"Liar." He says it almost affectionately, and he shifts his angle, hitting something inside her that makes her whole body convulse. "You've been imagining this your whole life. You've been waiting for a man who knows how to fuck you properly. And now you've found one, and you're terrified."

"Please," she moans, and the word is so raw, so desperate, that it makes my chest ache. "Please, Mr. Hartley, I can't—ahh—I can't take much more—fuck—I can't—"

"You can." He's still thrusting, still talking, his voice a low, commanding murmur. "You can take everything I give you. You're going to take it all, and you're going to thank me for it."

"I won't—" She gasps, her hips rising to meet his, her body moving in perfect rhythm with his. "I won't—nng—I won't thank you—I'm doing this for—oh god—for him—"

"For him." My father's voice is dripping with condescension now, and I watch him look down at her with that cold, assessing gaze. "For the boy who threw a party in my house without asking. For the boy who can't even look me in the eye. For the boy who's probably passed out on the couch right now, too drunk to notice that his girlfriend is getting fucked by his own father."

"Don't—" She tries to protest, but her voice breaks as he thrusts deeper, harder. "Don't talk about him like—fuck—like that—he's not—ahh—he's not—"

"He's not what?" My father's hips are relentless now, the rhythm punishing. "He's not a man? He's not worthy of you? He's not capable of making you feel the way I'm making you feel right now?"

"He's—" She gasps, her hands flying to her face, covering her mouth and nose the way women do when they're trying not to scream. Her nails are painted a pale blue, and I watch them tremble with the force of his thrusts. "He's—mmph—he's a good—nng—he's a good person—he's—ahh—he's—"

"He's a cuck." My father says the word casually, like he's discussing the weather, and I watch Briana's eyes go wide above her hands. "That's what he is. A cuck. A boy who lets his girlfriend spread her legs for another man because he's too weak to stop it."

"He's not—" She shakes her head, her hands falling away from her face, her expression a mix of horror and arousal. "He's not a—fuck—he's not a cuck—he doesn't—oh god—he doesn't know—"

"He doesn't know." My father laughs, low and dark. "That's even worse. He's not even a willing cuck. He's just a fool. A boy who thought he could throw a party in my house and face no consequences. A boy who thought his pretty girlfriend could charm her way out of any situation."

"Please," she moans, and the word is barely coherent now. "Please, Mr. Hartley, I can't—ahh—I can't think—fuck—I can't—"

"Good." He reaches down and grabs her hips, pulling her onto him with each thrust, driving deeper, harder. "I don't want you to think. I want you to feel. I want you to stop pretending this is about my son and start admitting what it's really about."

"It's about—" She gasps, her back arching, her tits bouncing with every impact. "It's about—oh god—it's about—fuck—it's about—"

She can't finish the sentence. Her body is shaking now, her hips bucking against him, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I watch her face contort with pleasure—real pleasure, the kind I've only seen glimpses of in our eight months together—and I feel something inside me crack.

For him, I think, and the words are ash in my mouth. She's doing this for him. For me. And she's losing herself in it.

"Say it," my father commands, his voice soft but implacable. "Say what you are. Say what my son is."

"I'm—" She moans, her hands gripping the sheets, her knuckles white. "I'm his—nng—I'm his girlfriend—I'm—ahh—I'm doing this for—fuck—for him—"

"And what does that make him?" My father's hips are relentless, and I watch Briana's body jiggle with every thrust, her tits moving in hypnotic circles. "What does it make a man when his girlfriend fucks his father to protect him?"

"It makes him—" She gasps, her eyes squeezed shut, her face a mask of pleasure and shame. "It makes him—oh god—it makes him—fuck—it makes him—"

"Say it." He spanks her thigh, sharp and sudden, and she cries out, her eyes flying open. "Say the word."

"He's not a cuck!" The words burst out of her, raw and desperate, and I watch her glare up at him with a defiance that makes my chest ache. "My boyfriend's not a cuck! He's a good man! He's a—ahh—he's a better man than—fuck—than you'll ever be!"

My father laughs, and the sound is genuinely amused, like she's just told him a joke. "Is that so? Then why are you lying on my bed, taking my cock like a bitch in heat? Why are your hips moving like that? Why are you so wet that I can hear it every time I thrust into you?"

"I'm doing this for—" She gasps, her hips still moving, still grinding against him despite her words. "I'm doing this for—nng—for him—I'm doing this because—oh god—because I love him—"

"Love." My father says the word like it's a foreign language. "Is that what you call it? Love? You're not doing this out of love. You're doing this because you want it. Because you've wanted it since the moment you walked into my study. Because you're a pretty little thing who's used to getting what she wants, and right now, what you want is my cock."

"That's not—" She tries to shake her head, but her hips answer him again, rising to meet his, her legs tightening around his waist. "That's not—fuck—that's not true—I don't—ahh—I don't want—"

"Liar." He spanks her again, harder this time, and she moans—a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that makes my stomach clench. "You want this more than you've ever wanted anything. You want me to fuck you so hard you forget your own name. You want me to make you come so many times you lose count. You want me to ruin you for my son, and you hate yourself for it."

"No," she sobs, but the word is weak, thready, and her hips are still moving, still grinding against him. "No, that's not—oh god—that's not true—I love him—I love—fuck—I love my boyfriend—"

"Then say it." He slows down, just enough to make her whimper, just enough to show her how much she needs it. "Say it while I'm inside you. Say that you love him. Say that you're doing this for him. Say it like you mean it."

"I love him," she gasps, and the words come out broken. "I love my—nng—my boyfriend—I'm doing this for—ahh—for him—I love—fuck—I love him—"

"Again." He speeds up, harder, faster. "Louder. Say it like you believe it."

"I LOVE HIM!" The words tear from her throat, raw and desperate, and I watch her face contort with a mixture of pleasure and shame. "I love my boyfriend! I'm doing this for him! I'm doing this because—oh god—because I love him!"

"Good girl." My father's voice is soft, almost tender, and he reaches down to cup her face, his thumb tracing her cheek. "Now let go."

And she does.

The orgasm hits her like a wave, crashing over her body and sweeping away everything in its path. Her back arches off the bed, her thighs clamp around his hips, and a sound tears from her throat—a raw, animal cry that I've never heard from her before. It's not my name. It's not anyone's name. It's just pure, unfiltered pleasure, stripped of context, stripped of meaning, stripped of everything except the moment itself.

I watch her come, and I feel something inside me die.

When it's over, she collapses back onto the bed, her chest heaving, her body limp, her eyes glazed. Her tits are still trembling from the force of her orgasm, her skin slick with sweat, her thighs glistening with the evidence of what just happened. She looks like a painting—something classical, something tragic, something beautiful and utterly destroyed.

My father pulls out of her, still hard, and looks down at her with an expression I can't read. Satisfaction, maybe. Or something darker.

"We're not done yet," he says. "Not by a long shot."

Briana turns her head to look at him, and I see something flicker in her eyes—fear, yes, but also something else. Something that looks almost like anticipation.

"What do you mean?" she asks, and her voice is small, uncertain, but not entirely unwilling.

My father smiles, and it's the coldest smile I've ever seen.

"I mean," he says, "that you came here to negotiate. And I haven't finished laying out my terms."

He doesn't wait for her to respond. He reaches down, grabs her hips, and flips her onto her stomach with a strength that makes her gasp. Her face presses into the pillow, her ass rising into the air as he positions her on her hands and knees. The shift is sudden, disorienting—one moment she's on her back, legs wrapped around him, and the next she's on all fours, exposed and vulnerable, her body still trembling from the orgasm.

He slides back inside her with a single, smooth thrust, and Briana moans, her fingers twisting in the sheets. The new angle is deeper, more intimate, and I can see the way her whole body responds—the way her back bows, the way her ass jiggles with every impact, the way her tits sway beneath her.

"Now," my father says, his voice low and commanding, "let's talk about that party."