Father in Law

An unknown man, standing in the doorway with a glass of water in his hand, his eyes fixed on your hand between your legs, on the glistening evidence of your arousal, and a slow, knowing smile spreads across his face as he sets the glass down and steps closer, and you should feel caught, should feel ashamed, but instead the danger of it, the risk of being discovered in the act of remembering another man's cock, sends a fresh wave of heat through your core, and you don't stop, can't stop, your fingers moving faster as he approaches, his voice low and rough when he finally speaks, "Don't you dare stop on my account."

Your fingers don't stop their rhythm, as this unknown man watched, standing there watching you finger yourself to the memory of another man's cock, and the shame should make you stop but instead it makes you wetter, your hips bucking against your own hand as he steps closer, his shadow falling over you, and you see the bulge growing in his pants, see the hunger in his eyes that mirrors your own, you had no idea who this man was, or why he was in your home.

Your fingers still moving, still working that slick heat between your thighs, when the man reaches past you and picks up the baggie of weed from the side table, holding it up to the light as if examining a fine wine, and the casualness of the gesture, the way he ignores your exposed, writhing body to inspect the product, sends a fresh jolt of humiliation through you, and you hate how much that turns you on, how your hips buck involuntarily at the dismissal, the stranger's eyes flicking back to yours as he pockets the weed and says,

"I was wondering when you'd return," his voice dropping an octave as he steps between your spread legs, his hand replacing yours, his fingers sliding into your wet heat without preamble, and you gasp at the intrusion, at the newness of a stranger's touch, but your body welcomes him like an old friend, already clenching around his digits, already betraying you again, "I'm glad that son of mine isn't around!"

His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur, and he chuckles at your helpless moan, "That boy of mine, couldn't satisfy a woman if his life depended on it," he says, his thumb pressing against your clit in slow circles as he works you open, "always was a useless little cuck, running around with his tail between his legs while his daddy takes what's his," and the words should disgust you, should make you push him away, but instead they sink into your bones like whiskey, warming you from the inside out as his fingers pump faster, harder, his other hand coming up to grip your throat, not choking, just holding, claiming, "I knew the moment I saw you that he'd never be able to keep you satisfied, that I'd have to step in and show you what a real man feels like," and you're cumming before you can stop yourself, your back arching off the couch as waves of pleasure crash through you, a whimper passes through your lips, lost in the moment you shouldn't even be in.

As your orgasm subsides and you lie there panting, his fingers still inside you, he leans down close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin, and whispers, "Did you let that dealer fuck you yet?" and the question hangs in the air like a challenge, like an accusation, and you should say no, should lie, but your body betrays you again with a fresh pulse of wetness around his fingers, and he feels it, chuckling darkly as he withdraws his hand and brings his slick fingers to his lips, tasting you, tasting the evidence of your infidelity, his eyes never leaving yours as he says, "Good girl, anything for that fix huh." he laughs.

He pockets the weed with a smirk, the baggie disappearing into his jeans as he watches you still trembling from your orgasm, and says, "If you want it, you gotta do something for me," and before you can ask what, he's already unbuckling his belt, his cock springing free, thick and hard and veined, already glistening at the tip as he strokes himself lazily, watching your eyes track the movement, watching the way your thighs press together involuntarily, "You took my son's cock, you took that dealer's cock, now you're gonna take your father-in-law's cock, and you're gonna thank me for it," he says, stepping closer until the head of his cock is inches from your face, and you can smell him, musk and salt and something darker, something that makes your mouth water even as your mind screams at you to stop, but your hand is already reaching up, already wrapping around his shaft, because the shame and the pleasure have become the same thing now, indistinguishable, and all you can do is surrender to it, after all, far worse may happen.