Aaron moaned, head rolling from side to side on his pillow. His jaw was tightly clenched, as were his fists. He thought hazily that he must be bruising the soft, perfect pear curves of her hips, but he couldn't help it. He was dying. His cock was wedged tight in the hot clench of her no-longer virgin cunt and she was riding him, tits bouncing prettily, long red corkscrew curls springing and sliding over her lightly freckled shoulders. Her mouth was a lush rose bed of pleasure, lips wet and parted on harsh, hard, eager moans.
He watched her astride him, lithe body wringing and squeezing and massaging his cock while she rode up and down, and he was writhing and groaning under her, complete captive to her enchantment.
So fucking close to erupting inside her...
Leaning forward, she put her pretty face close to his. Her hot-sauce colored curls curtained around his face; his nose was suddenly filled with her, the woman-child sweetness of honey, strawberries, and rose. So perfect. So innocent....
"C'mon Mister Wagner," she whispered, that same innocence in her smile even as she squeezed her slick cunt around him. His hips and upper thighs were her saddle as she rode astride him mercilessly. She was sweet and wild, a newly ruined virgin, his Lolita temptress, now his sweet little cumslut.
"C'mon Mister Wagner," she breathed again, this time over his lips. "You want to. Come on. Do it. Cum inside me."
His body snapped upward in a hard arc and he made a wild, open mouthed cry of pleasure that bordered on a howl. He shook while molten blasts of orgasm flashed through his blood.
"Baby--" he gasped. "Sweet....sweet...baby--"
Aaron Wagner woke from his erotic dream gasping those words and shaking. He lay on his back; cock spurting a few last drops of warm cum onto his belly; the final, shredded remnants of yet another wild wet dream.
And, as always, inspired by the same incredible female. His neighbor. His Lolita.
His best friend's daughter.
Groaning, Aaron raised up on one elbow, dragging a hand through his hair before reaching across the bed to the nightstand for a tissue. Lying back on his pillow, he found himself looking at the breeze punching the curtains inward. Cleaning himself off, he caught brief glimpses of the second story window of John McAlton's house next door.
He'd known John, a widower, since college. While he was still married and his own boys were off to college, John's only child, Leila, had just turned 18 and was finishing her last few months of high school.
And driving him totally insane.
Watching the curtains, catching brief glimpses of Leila's open window, he sighed, thinking of the night his obsession had begun.
Mid October had been uncomfortably warm, the nights deep and dark and heavy with humidity. He'd been feeling restless for several months; they'd just sent their youngest son off to college weeks before and his wife had been gone for nearly a week, on the first of what would prove to be many frequent business responsibilities out of town. He and Maggie had always had a good, stable marriage he supposed, but he'd been restless in the bedroom for several years now and she'd been less than interested in spicing things up.
A week before Halloween, he'd been sitting on the far side of their bedroom nursing a beer after a long, cool shower and sporting a very stiff cock. He'd leaned back, unbelting and opening his robe in an attempt to allow what little breeze existed to cool him off, sipping beer in the dark.
When Leila's bedroom light suddenly poured out her open window he'd been surprised, glancing up automatically. It had been well after midnight, but she was, after all, 18 and pretty as a doll and it had been a Saturday night. With a tiny nudge of something that felt like jealousy (but he attributed at the time to nothing more than an almost fatherly concern since he was, after all, like her second father) he was relieved to see her home, and apparently happy.
He couldn't have said if, before that event, he'd noticed the things he did that night: the ethereal gold-red halo that seemed to shimmer about her hair; the way her shoulders shifted--gently, with catlike grace; the sweet, almost invitational curves of her calves. She'd been wearing a short white sleeveless dress with a little matching jacket, stockings and strappy white heels. He'd been transfixed at the moment she snapped off the harsh overhead light, turning her back to him and slipping off that little jacket, baring shoulders of creamy, pale skin luminous in the moonlight.
She bent forward at the waist to snap on a little table lamp, surrounding herself with soft, low light. And while she was bent down, his cock throbbed suddenly and hard at the quick glimpse of that short dress riding up over gorgeous, delicately plumped thighs encased in pretty lace topped stockings, and the shadowy lower curves of an ass that made his palms itch.
He sat there in the dark, feeling incredible guilt for the purely sexual thoughts he was having about pretty little Leila and on the other hand, his cock was standing at proud attention and shouting hallelujah at the mere thought of those thighs.
She switched on the stereo next to the lamp. Rather than being irritated as he sometimes was with her bass-pounding choice of something unintelligible, he found himself thanking the unintelligible band for their pure unadulterated genius, because Leila started moving her hips in a way that made his fingers twitch, dropping the nearly empty bottle of beer onto the carpet.
She lifted her slender arms, taking something from her hair and letting it shower down her back, glimmering copper and fire against the stark white of the dress. Hips rolling in sensuous rhythm she stood there, her back to him, beginning a striptease that made him groan aloud in the dark.
She unzipped the dress; shimmied out of it, hips wriggling.
Aaron had seen her in a bikini a thousand times, but there was definitely something different about watching her dance in a skimpy white bra and panties.
She reached behind her and unhooked the bra; turned to face him. In an instant, the filmy scrap hit the ground.
So did Aaron Wagner's good sense.
She lifted her hair off the back of her neck, hips rotating to the beat.
He had to open his mouth to breathe.
She slid her hands down her neck and caressingly over her high, tight breasts; the tip of her pretty tongue slid over her bottom lip.
Aaron was stroking his cock at the thought of that sweet, kittenish tongue; warm, wet and slightly rough, on his tightly stretched shaft.
He'd been held in an aroused thrall, filling the bedroom with his throaty, grinding moans and the scent of hot skin and salty precum. The wet sound of his fist masturbating his cock was raw and rhythmic.
She'd disappeared into her bathroom, but it didn't matter then. Aaron sat staring into that room, the sight of a sweet, young, red-haired siren stripping for him lingering, bringing him to a spattering, teeth-grinding orgasm.
Since then he'd watched her, shamelessly. Walking to school with a friend, her ass and thighs hugged tight by the jeans she loved to wear. Sitting on her front porch, a sunny yellow T-shirt skimming over her belly and pulled taut over her breasts. And very occasionally, a glimpse of her in bubble-gum pink babydoll pajamas or panties and bra, moving past her open window.
And in some of those moments, his hunger imagined that when she looked back over her shoulder, the saucy smiles she smiled were for just for him; that every extra little wriggle of her hips was designed to entice him. Each time she waggled her fingers in passing, grinning and saying in her near Southern drawl, "Hey, Mister Wagner" he imagined a shot of hundred proof naughty in her voice.
Groaning at the idea, he dragged himself out of bed before his cock had him at the mercy of his fantasies.
The next few weeks seemed to drag. All Aaron could think about was Leila; she seeped into his skin, invaded his thoughts, monopolized his dreams. Maggie was working more hours than she was home and Aaron found himself with plenty of time to fantasize. It also gave him plenty of excuses to sit in the dark in their bedroom, stroking his cock, hoping for a glimpse of his red-haired angel.
And every day, the guilt grew. Leila was no longer a child, but he was married, for cripe's sake! He had no business thinking how badly he wanted to sneak into her bedroom late at night and get his fill of her. She was the daughter of his best friend. He shouldn't be imagining how tight the fit of her cunt would be grasping his cock, or how slick the roof of her mouth would be if he could push the swollen head of his cock back and forth against it.
How she would look, hair mussed, naked, on her knees, swallowing his thick cum.
With only a month left in the school year, Leila was getting ready for prom and graduation. Several nights, Aaron sat watching her parading in front of a full-length mirror trying on different outfits, each one better than the last. Despite John's obvious disapproval, she settled on a green spandex dress that hit her mid thigh and high green heels.
Early the evening of the prom, Aaron was in his room, repairing one of the hinges on a closet door--one of the myriad little chores Maggie had listed on a "honey do" list on the fridge. A thousand things to keep him busy on all the evenings she was away. She'd left the house hours before, dressed to the nines, for yet another out of town business dinner and "intolerably stuffy" meetings. As his obsession with Leila grew, her increasing absences felt somehow like a slap in the face.
He thought about those two things and how they might be--or were--connected: the continuation of their lack of enthusiasm for their marriage, and his increasing desire for his best friend's daughter. As he worked, he caught glimpses of Leila sprinting excitedly around her room, getting ready for the prom. She'd obviously had her hair done professionally; it was a beautiful mess of soft red curls atop her head and trailing down to tickle her throat and shoulders. She pranced, danced and sang, in her happiness clearly not caring that she was only wearing a light pink-peach bra and silky matching panties and that her curtains were wide open.
And that a grown man, his cock throbbing hard and his mind projecting dream films of her riding his swollen manhood, lived next door.
Aaron had ten minutes worth of work to do on the hinge. At 5:30 he sat down with his tools to repair the hinge.
At 5:45 she was smoothing some luscious cream that he imagined smelled of roses and sugar all over her delectable body and the hinge was still broken.
At 6:06 she threw on a robe to answer her door and hug her dad, who Aaron heard drive off a few minutes later. He wondered why on earth John would leave at a time like this. Hell, if she were his daughter, he'd want to embarrass her silly by doing the "yeah-I'm-the-parent-and-yes-I-have-to-take-pictures" routine and have a few minutes with the boy who had the nerve to think himself worthy of his princess, just to set the boy's ego straight about who the man in her life really was.
And the hinge was unrepaired.
At 6:18, after she'd thrown off the robe again, she proceeded to dance to something that surely was too erotic to come out of the throat of anyone as sweet as Brittany Spears. The hinge had one of six screws as loose as all of his were and his hand was on his thigh, his thumb arcing back and forth over the fly of his jeans. The denim was nearly groaning with the effort to restrain his erection.
At 6:26 she bent over to smooth on a pair of iridescent gray stockings and he moaned so loudly that he was afraid she'd turn her head to look out her window and jam the curtains closed in disgust.
John had mentioned that the prom was at seven, so at 6:30 when the date was no doubt close to arriving, Aaron ignored his agonizing desire to cum, grabbed his car keys from the bureau, and ran down the stairs and out to his car.
Five minutes to the hardware store wasn't enough time to get his swelling down and come up with a good excuse for going to the hardware store, so he drove out into the country for an extra fifteen minutes before heading back to town from the direction opposite his house. He jacked up the volume on the radio, drank half of a stale can of cola in the drink holder, and generally gave himself hell for ever having thought the kinds of things he was thinking about sweet, innocent Leila.
By the time he was pulling into the more developed end of town and heading back toward his own house, he'd decided that he really didn't need anything from the hardware store except a big chunk of common sense, and he doubted Maggie left enough on the Visa to pick up one of those. So he breathed deeply, and tried to relax in the knowledge that when he got back to the house he could finish his hinge because Leila was gone. He'd jump on the net and get off to something he didn't have to feel guilty about, and then spend the rest of his evening being responsible and husbandly. He had to admit that the ideas weren't as arousing as the thought of teaching his best friend's 18 year old daughter how to use her mouth to make a man cum, but hey, it was his life.
He pulled into his driveway and the first thing he noticed was that only the porch light was on next door. His own house looked equally unappealing and empty. Locking up the car, he headed in the kitchen door at the back of the house, ignoring the lights and heading toward the front hall stairs. He needed a damn shower, but he couldn't figure out a way past the laws of physics to get the water cold enough before it froze.
It was the smell that stopped him.
Halfway down the hall to the living room, it drifted into his lungs, a potent paralyzing agent despite its delicacy.
Lilacs. Roses? Sugar. A tiny waft of spice.
"Leila." He said the name aloud, instantly recognizing her in the scent, then cursed and went forward, certain he had lost his mind. Emerging from the dark hall, he froze.
She was standing in a halo of a small lamp left burning in the far corner, innocently sexy and sweetly sophisticated in her womanly hairdo and thoroughly modern prom dress: a perfect tube of emerald green hung over her slender shoulders by two thin rhinestone straps and swaging dangerously low between her exquisite breasts. Her legs, encased lovingly in the shimmering pale pearl-gray stockings were perfect as far as he could see them--halfway up her thighs--and her high heels glimmered soft green and made her look tall and mature, and her legs mouth-wateringly sexy.
His best friend's daughter. His best friend's daughter....his best friend's daughter.....his best friend's daughter......
"L--Leila," he managed to choke out again, this time instead of thinking he'd lost his mind, wondering if his incredibly painful erection was noticeable in the half light.
She smiled, and the world wobbled. It was innocent, and sweet and so fucking erotic he wanted to groan. But he had to stay cool...she was probably here for some perfectly reasonable explanation.
"You shouldn't leave your doors unlocked," she said teasingly. "Just anybody could walk in."
He nodded, feeling like his tongue was on permanent vacation. "I'll try to remember that, honey, thanks."
Her smile widened a two almost imperceptible dimples appeared in her creamy pale cheeks. "You knew I was here," she murmured. "You said my name. In the hall."
"Perfume," he managed, finally feeling his breathing even out....but not much.
Leila nodded, setting those pretty fiery curls dancing on her throat. "Maybe I wore too much?"
"Oh, no!" he said quickly. "You're perfect."
She looked at him, clearly flattered by the outburst, while he was sure he blushed.
"You think so?"
He nodded. No reason not to agree, right? She was perfect. "Yeah. I do."
"Well, " she almost whispered, blushing herself, "that will make this a whole lot easier."
"T--this?" Oh, god...what was "this"? His fists clenched; his body tightened. He wasn't sure if he was awake, or dead on the side of the road. Yes, that was it...he'd had an accident and he was dreaming.
"Yeah," she smiled again, taking a few steps toward him, then a few more. "This." Then she was standing in front of him, the scent of her so hot and sweet he did groan aloud, but apparently that didn't bother her, as she looked up at him and smiled while her hands took one of his, lifting it between them and smoothing his fingers away from his palm. "You're tense," she murmured. "Is that what I do to you?"
"Tense?" Was he tense? All he could think about was her hands holding his, her fingers smoothing his palm, his fingers curled naturally and so close to the swell of her breast....
"Yeah," she chuckled, lifting his hand to press it to her cheek. "You're tense. Is that because of me?"
He nodded. Apparently, he was incapable of lying to her, heaven help him.
Her smile tilted to one side, making her so adorable he had to smile a little, too. She was still a little girl...he was going to be okay, right? It was all just a dream.
Then she rubbed her cheek into the back of his hand, lost the smile in favor of a look so hot the soles of his shoes melted to the floor, and slid his knuckles down her throat...toward her cleavage....
He jerked his hand away.
"Lol--um....Leila," he croaked, stepping back shakily. "Did you--" Why was she here?? What was the reasonable explanation? "Did you need something?"
Oh, lord...wrong thing to say.
She looked painfully unsure of herself for a fleeting instant in which he wanted to wrap her up in his arms and baby her; soothe her. Then she got a look of determination again and stepped toward him, leaving less space between them than before but, thank heavens, not touching him.
"Yeah, Mister Wagner. I do."
"D--don't you...have a date?" he tried to ask casually, sidestepping and walking around the long coffee table in a foggy attempt to remember where the light switches were. "You'll be late for the prom, won't you?" He glanced at the grandfather clock; it both reminded him that the prom started 20 minutes before and that he was ancient compared to her. What on earth was she doing??
"I'm not going to the prom," she informed him almost casually. "I don't have a date. Well...not from school, anyway." And she grinned at him while he nearly stumbled over the edge of a table. "Is something wrong, Mister Wagner?"
"W-wrong? No....no, nothing's wrong. Why on earth would anything be wrong?"
"You seem nervous," she replied. "You never seemed nervous around me before." Lowering her chin, she looked up at him through her lashes and pouted her lower lip just a tiny fraction, looking innocent and fragile. "You don't like me anymore?" she whispered.
His heart broke. Moving back to her, he put his hands on her shoulders in an effort to soothe away her distress, hating that he'd made her feel that way. He was imagining shadows where none existed. He'd known this child all her life, for goodness sake. His thumbs arced up and down the soft inner skin of her upper arms; she was creamy warm in his hands. But he mustn't think about that.
"Oh, honey, of course I still like you," he managed evenly. "You just startled me, that's all." He needed a drink. "Why don't you have a date? You're all dressed up." Good lord, where was the brandy? In the corner cabinet, next to the grandfather clock. Releasing her, he went to pour himself a generous glassful.
"Can I have some too?" she practically purred, somehow managing to slip up behind him and lay her cheek against his shoulder from behind.
Aaron jumped; brandy tilted over the side of the glass and spilled all over his nervous hand.
"Oh, look what I did," she said in an I'm-innocent-but-oh-so-naughty voice, coming around him, taking his hand, complete with brandy snifter, back into both of hers. Removing the crystal from his nerveless grip, she set it down on the liquor cabinet, giving him an apologetic look. "Too bad," she whispered, glancing around them. "No towels. And I have this little mess to clean up."