I tighten my grip, thumb circling the rim, jacking slow and steady while I mouth her name into the wet air. My heart pounds so loud I almost miss the phantom of her voice, the imagined orders she’d bark if she saw me like this. She’d smirk, tell me not to finish, not yet—she wants to watch me edge myself until I’m dizzy, until I can’t stand up straight. And I’d tell her to get on her knees and open wide.
My knees nearly buckle at the thought. I brace myself harder against the tile, dig my toes into the wet grout, stroke with a rhythm that’s cruel and perfect. Sweat beads at my temple, slides down the back of my neck. I picture her fingers, painted blood red, digging into my thighs as she gagged on my cock and loved it.
I chase every fucked-up detail, every imagined command, until my hand is a blur and my vision tunnels and I’m right on the edge, trembling and finally…
Cum doesn’t just seep out; violent jets come out, painting the fucking wall.
Puck Pad Thanksgiving Invitees
Dash. Obviously.
Dash:
Attendance is mandatory
Koa:
That’s not how invitations work
Faulker:
It is if Dash says so
Killer:
I just got here, and I already regret this
Then Moretti jumps in.
Moretti:
Hold up, before anyone answers.
The typing bubble lingers longer than usual. When the message comes, it’s measured. Intentional.
Moretti:
I need my team around me. Not just for Thanksgiving. For what’s coming.
Moretti:
There’s family stuff. Legal stuff. PR stuff. Sofie’s running point.
Of fucking course.
Moretti:
Some of what we’re doing is real. Some of it is for socials. All of it matters.
I stop moving. Sit back on the bench.
Moretti:
Koa and Dash already know pieces. Their ladies looped them in.
Moretti:
Faulker. Killer. I want you there too, because I trust you.
