Schoolgirl Baby

"Do you like this, pumpkin?" he breathed, the wolf of his personality confirming itself. "Do you like the way I fuck you, sweetheart?"

She squealed at a particularly rough inward thrust and her soft laughter twinkled like that of an eager nymph. "I want more."

"More?"

"More cock. Please. Gimme more. And hard."

She writhed underneath him, her long dark hair fanned out on the pillow beneath her; she looked like an image of obscenity, one that had stolen his attentions for this passionate hour, or maybe longer. The perk of her youthful breasts arched forward without any thought on her part, and he found them irresistible as he wreaked havoc on her lower body: her full, teenage tits moved rhythmically with his thrusts, jiggling, stealing his eyes while he expertly fucked for what must've been his thousandth sexual experience. He let his head fall into her cleavage and licked this valley in one, long, slow stroke of his tongue, a string of saliva connecting their skins before it broke off. Emma sighed and opened her eyes and looked up at him.

Charlie was looking down at her with lust in his glance. His eyebrows were arched in a seductive way and, upon her looking up at him obediently, he winked at her, and they chuckled softly in the warm dampness of the room. It was a room that smelled of sweat and sex and sweet juices and saltiness. Charlie's gentlemanly ways had ceased long ago, for he had now achieved the little morsel of a prize he was now fucking. No mercy was permitted.

"Oh sweetheart, you know how I love to fuck you," he swallowed, trying to collect himself. "Oh baby, you are so tight. How is that you came into my life?"

She grinned. "I almost fainted, remember?"

"Almost fainted into my arms," he grunted out as his speed quickened. "My sweet angel."

She stroked his upper arms that just barely took shape in their slightly muscled biceps. Crawling down one of his temples was a bead of sweat, testimony to his exertion. Her fingernails had grown in just a bit from their normal, clipped fashion. Polished in a grapefruit, girlish color, her nails stroked then scraped his back, leaving a slight claw mark upon his skin. He moaned deeply in wanton pain at this sexiest of stigmata; she had tattooed him as hers. His ass clenched and moved faster, and, with a groan of a warning, he stopped, and the obvious was about to unleash: rope after rope he pumped his cum into her, the whorish glue of her insides grasping and grabbing onto the filthy souvenir that he offered her with much abundance.

With a careful gentleness, he removed himself from between her long legs and plopped down beside her on the bed. They both breathed heavily; the air was thick with their efforts and with perspiration - the air seemed to wear it as did their skin. Emma had sweated beneath him, having gasped for mouthfuls of oxygen while he fucked her. And Charlie, Charlie was a machine, Emma thought to herself and giggled at her observation.

They lie atop the blanket, naked as Adam and Eve, and he wrapped his arm around the soft skin of her shoulders that were sprinkled with just a few stray freckles. He looked at her and grinned, admiring her smile and the naughty way she composed herself after making love. She was like a suggestive little playmate - a little obedient sweetheart that he could tempt with pretty words and boss with the steeliness of his rod and rule.

"What are you laughing at, baby?" he chuckled, his thick eyelashes focusing on her fresh, adolescent face.

With two sly eyes, she glanced over at him between heavy lids and spoke softly. "You're like a machine in bed," she said, smirking mischievously at his sexual prowess.

"With you, that's true," he said. "With you, that's very true, baby. Here." He reached over her proud bosom and opened the top drawer of one of the night tables. She watched his eyes and smiled as he searched within his possessions. And he found what he was looking for: a nearly full pack of Marlboro cigarettes and a lighter. "You want one?" he said, falling back upon the pillow.

She shook her head. Charlie lit the end of the cigarette and it alit angrily. But the cosmic clouds he puffed out from his lungs looked so deliciously sexy and she changed her mind: "Actually, can I have one?"

He looked over at her and paused. "Are you sure you want one, baby?"

She nodded shyly, grinning. "Yes."

He took one out of the package and fed it to her, her mouth opening obligingly. She let it dangle from the corner of her lips, which, again curved into a naughty suggestion. He laughed gently and lit it for her.

"You'll pick up more bad habits than good ones if you stick with me, kid," he observed.

"I'm not surprised," she said, teasing him, and inhaled without much effort.

"Oh?" he asked, intrigued by her comment. "Have you thought about this beforehand then?"

She grinned. "Well, maybe, maybe not."

And at that coy and vague answer the two seemingly mismatched lovers lied next to each other in afterglow. The lamplight offered its bulb, and it was the clouds of cigarette smoke that polluted the air, much the way their fucking had polluted their neighborly acquaintanceship. They smiled to themselves as they smoked, first one cloud and then the other, alternating and taking turns. The fucking had left them both satisfied and saturated with each other's love and desire; they had left a stain on each other, marking one as the other's. Charlie marveled at her smoking skill and wondered if she had done it before. There had been many times when he had entertained questions about her in the fantasy of his bedroom: Was she a virgin? Did she ever smoke? Had she ever let a boy touch her before? No. Yes. Yes. The answers surprised him, and they continued to smoke while pondering the stranger beside them.

Part Six: The Ultimate Ending

The next morning - which was a Friday - they begged and ached for one another in poses and words. Charlie was usually the business-before-pleasure type, but even he could not refuse her adolescent charms that shined like the twin diamonds of her eyes and tits.

It was a quick session of love and breakfast, and, like any good chaperone or father figure, he drove her to school, expertly navigating his black BMW through the obstacles of road construction, which, he inferred, must've witnessed quite a little paradise when Emma passed their work zone the day before. She was paradise, yes: they had looked, but he had experienced.

During the following seven hours, Charlie and Emma concentrated - or attempted to - at their place of employment and schoolrooms, respectively. But the claw mark she had etched into his back the night before, in the midst of the mad lovemaking, had identified him as the little tramp's man - and, for the first time in his life, he was happy to be owned by a member of the female sex.

Emma fantasized in her classes about Charlie - or, Sir, as she had come to call him sometimes during their moments of passion. He had taken her strong, steel-spined, independent streak and bent the pipe; she was now whatever shape he wanted her to be, and obediently so. In her notebooks in Literature class, dotted with multicolored pens and teenage hearts, she doodled his name, smitten with the new crush she had discovered who lived so close to her all this time.

And from there on out, their little thought bubbles of fantasy and daydream collided into one cloud as they came together over and over. They became one another's possession, obsession, of the unhealthiest kind: he learned that his broad, bare back was a wall for her artistry, and she learned that her knees were meant to bend to his most sinful and normal of fantasies. The two steely structures had bent to one another's winds. Their relationship was fatherly and daughterly and playful and serious and dramatic with bursts of intense energy and pleasure.

And so it was until the hourglass drained empty.

The End.