Forbidden Fruit Ch. 01

With no warning she took a deep breath and swallowed him whole, all six-and-a-half inches of cock in her warm throat, her nose exhaling calmly, her tongue lapping at his balls while she held herself there like a whore for him, like his good little slut. He had to fight the urge to cum. The noise that escaped him was almost pathetic. It took every ounce of character not to grab a handful of that blonde hair and gag her for as long as she could take it, but it seemed she had no need for persuasion.

She held him in her throat so long he began to grow concerned. Then with a loud, wet pop she pulled back and took a big gulp of air and smiled at him. Spit dribbled slowly down her chin. His cock was swollen and agonisingly hard and when she pumped lazily at him he bucked his hips into her hand like a horny teenager.

Phoebe giggled. Without a word she climbed into his lap. Even here, with her atop him, her in control, her leading the way, he understood just how easily he could overpower her. How simple it would be to regain control and pin her down and have his way with her. And the thought did cross his mind. Again and again and again. She straddled him where he sat, one sock-clothed leg either side, her black skirt riding high about her waist and her top spilling open and the beauty of her alabastrine skin and the faintest hint of her tits through her shirt. She leant forward now, chin glistening and lips open a slight and a wicked glint in her eyes. 'I want you inside me,' she whispered in his ear.

He did not need telling twice. With her guidance he unfastened the buttons of her shirt and peeled it away from her and she was braless underneath and oh so good, so perfect his cock throbbed. Her tiny tits and the hardness of her nipples in the cold air and the gooseflesh across her arms and the faintest hint of abs on her glistening stomach. He could not wait any longer. She leant forward and he kissed her, kissed her like he had not ever kissed his wife or his ex-girlfriends or any girl or anyone for that matter, kissed her with such passion it had his head spinning, had him groaning against her, had her giggling while he sought out her tongue and kissed her again and again. She was soft and gentle and wet and it was sloppy and full of spit and he could taste the peppermint and his cock ached and her hand shimmied her panties down her legs until they were at her knees.

'Fuck,' he said again, as if it were all he could say. It was here he waited a moment, eyes locked on her pale and mostly naked form, her cheeks reddened with the heat and eyes hooded and her cunt glistening between her legs and a tiny patch of trimmed hair in a rectangle above her wet lips.

Here remained the final barrier, the last moral wall he had yet to cross. To do so -- to stand on the precipice and jump headfirst -- would be to willingly give it all up, to surrender his past life to the temptations of the present, to do away with thirty years of middle-class idealism and a doting wife and an overachieving daughter and a loving, functional family. He knew this, and he knew also with a certain intemperance lodged in his heart that he could not go back now. Not even if he wanted to.

'Please, sir,' Phoebe said.

That was all she needed to say. He felt her hand wrap around the base of his cock and then he was inside her, so warm and so tight he had to moan, and then so did she, a faint exhale, a tiny gasp at his size inside her. She was tighter and better than any cunt he had ever fucked before. He could not believe the wetness of her. When she began to grind in his lap he had to close his eyes and bite his tongue to stop from coming and it was barely a reprieve at all. She moaned again, this time a slight louder, a desperate whine for him to fuck her, for his cock to fill her, for him to take her like he had never taken his wife before, like he had never taken any girl.

And he did.

He fucked her slowly, hilting himself in her wet cunt and holding her hips and encouraging her to ride him, guiding her to grind and bounce and do whatever she wanted to do. Her warmth was unbelievable. With one rough hand he grabbed at her tiny tits and she smiled and threw her head back and her moans were soft and quiet and it drove him wild. His desire was primal, carnal, a baser instinct to take her and fuck her and use her and ruin her. The sweat glistened off her chest. Spit still ran from the corner of her mouth. He fucked her over and over, his cock spreading her, opening her for him, claiming her for his own.

'Fuck,' she whined, and put a hand on his chest to steady herself. He could smell the sweat and the stench of sex and maybe Janet would smell it when she came home and he didn't really care. Nothing else mattered. Ties had been unceremoniously broken. Things could not be made right again. He buried himself in her cunt until she was bucking against him and she bit her lip and closed her eyes and squeezed his cock like a vice as she came, her legs quivering, back arching like a good girl, her cum staining his throbbing cock. She looked so perfect that under fairer circumstances he would have felt guilty for defiling her, for daring to handle such a delicate thing. Instead he groaned and buried himself in her to the balls.

He moved his hands to the narrow daintiness of her hips against and fucked up into her once more. Her tightness was overwhelming. She was so small in his lap that he could have slammed her until she was mewling like a whore but he wanted to savour her, to feel her gripping his cock with every thrust, to listen to her whining gently as he filled her, as he made her shake and arch and grind against him. 'Fuck,' he muttered. 'Gonna cum.'

'Do it,' she said. 'Cum inside me.'

He needed no more encouragement. With a groan he dug his fingers into her hands and held her close to him and unloaded inside of her. Her cunt spasmed around him, milking his cock for every drop, draining him, finishing him off. He moaned like he had not ever moaned for Janet, not in twenty-two years of marriage and three more of dating before that. Not for any of his flings in university or his high school sweetheart or anyone he had fucked before. Phoebe smiled at him. She seemed content to take his cum deep inside her, to feel it shooting, trembling, throbbing while he relieved himself.

When Tom was finished he just held her there in his lap, his cock softening inside her. Sweat and cherries and cum and stale spit. The scent of her was raw and filthy and maddening. She ground her hips into him again and he moaned and drew her in for a kiss that she reciprocated in kind. Then it was time for regret.

As she climbed off him and hiked up her panties to hide any evidence of wrongdoing he looked down at himself and realised with a sombre clarity he had done something irredeemable, something from which there could be no way back. The thread that tied him to a just and conscionable society had come undone. Here stood a girl of just eighteen whose trust he had betrayed to such an extent he could not bear to reconcile with it. A student. His student.

Phoebe buttoned her shirt and straightened her hair and wiped the sweat from her brow. 'Do you need a towel or anything?' she said, as if this were her house and not his. Tom shook his head.

'Will you walk me to the door? Or I can see myself out.'

He tried to formulate something coherent to say. Instead he just nodded. He took a moment to compose him in solitude, away from Phoebe's shifting, unreadable gaze. The living room stank of pussy and cum and sweat. Part of that, he knew, would never wash out. A thousand years of that smell and no less. Phoebe was stood by the front door when he went on out. She looked like she had an hour ago when she had just arrived -- smart and proper and far too enticing. A single button undone. Her skirt just slightly too short. A face that belied a dangerous faux ignorance of her own sexuality.

'Thanks for helping me today,' she said.

'Phoebe--'

He tried to think of something to say. Something that would stem the tremoring of his wayward heart. To assure her it was all going to be okay. But in a bout of uncomfortable shame all he could think was: I never got the chance to taste you.

'See you on Monday,' Phoebe said. 'Oh, never mind. You're on holiday. A week on Monday, then.'

'Phoebe...' he said. And then, as if there were nothing else to say: 'See you later.'

'Bye, Mr Lisowski. Speak to you soon.'