Page 25 of The Unexpected

I take his place.

Stella is still bent over, trembling, her pussy open and dripping as she whimpers with the last fragments of ecstasy. This is my chance. I kneel, grip her hips, and put my mouth on her creamy snatch—soft at first, then hungry.

“Oh!” she gasps, half turning around. “What⁠—?”

But I’m already halfway buried in her slick cunt. I taste the mingled fluids, the salt and heat, and I lap at her until she moans again, pushing her hips back into my face.

“Eat it,” Hunter rasps in back of us. “Suck my semen out of her cunt, motherfucker.”

Any other scenario, and I’d fight him, here and now. But Stella’s pussy is too creamy and delicious, and instead, I bury my tongue in her little hole. She whimpers again, hot fluids covering my chin as her excitement builds.

“Oh my god,” she pants. “I can’t believe - oh oh oh!”

“Believe it,” Hunter rasps from beside us. “It seems our pastor is a dirty fuck who enjoys used pussy.”

Shut the fuck up, asshole, and let me enjoy my dessert. I ignore the motherfucker and keep going until Stella comes again, her cries echoing off the wood paneling, her eyes rolling back into her head with the pleasure.

“Ooooh!” she screams, big breasts swaying as I suck her clit, wringing every last ounce of pleasure out of her. “Oh oh oh!”

She’s gorgeous like this, nude and bent over the couch, fucked by two men - his shaft and my mouth. It’s amazing, and this time, I do come in my pants. The beautiful blonde is too sexy and irresistible, and with a mighty roar, I erupt, drenching the front of my boxers. But am I embarrassed? Fuck no. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about when you’ve just given a woman her best orgasm, ever. With a knowing smile, I pull back from Stella’s cunt as her tremors subside, my cheeks and chin wet. Then I stand, wipe my mouth, and adjust my collar.

The moment hangs, a wire strung tight.

Stella collapses over the chair, her hair wild, curves still heaving. She looks completely fucked out, with a swollen pussy and come gleaming on her thighs. This woman is totally lost and confused. Meanwhile, Hunter stands over her, a big hand on her shoulder. There’s a new respect in his eyes as he looks at me—less predatory, more like recognition.

I return to my desk, take up the legal pad. “I think that concludes today’s session,” I say, voice calm.

Neither of them speaks. Stella manages to pull her dress back on, hands shaking, still lost and confused. Her hair is wild, make-up slightly smeared, but I love the just-fucked look. I’d say it’s her best one, to date.

With a small smile, I flip open my appointment book. “When are you available for a follow-up?” I ask, pencil poised.

Stella names a day, voice a mere murmur.

Hunter just nods, once, slow and final.

I write the time in my book, the act strangely ceremonial. I look up, and their eyes are on me—both of them.

“See you then,” I say in a professional tone, a complete contrast to what just happened. “I look forward to our next session.”

They stare at me for a moment, mouths agog, and then leave together, the door closing softly behind them.

I sit alone in the aftermath, the air thick with smoke and the echo of what just happened. My hands are steady as I close the file.

But my cock is hard again.

After all, I’m very, very satisfied, and can’t wait to see what happens next.

9

THE DRIVE HOME

Hunter

Idrive fast. Not reckless, just decisive, eating up the two-lane stretches of city road with the hunger of a man who never learned to savor. My car—black, of course, with the kind of extra tint that suggests either a sense of privacy or something to hide—glides through the Minneapolis streets like a knife through butter.

Next to me, Stella is an echo of the last hour: dress still clinging damp to her skin, hair matted into a corona of gold static from the way I fisted it. There’s a smear of lipstick at the corner of her mouth, half her face flush, half fading, and fuck it, but it makes her hotter. It makes her look just-fucked, even if she sits with her knees together, arms folded over her lap in a way that could read as demure if you didn’t know the context. I know. I smell it on her.

The car is quiet except for the faint hum of the heater (she’s always cold) and the occasional deep inhale as she tries to will her pulse down. In another context, we could have been returning from a rave, or a wild party, or a day at the rodeo. But we’re returning from a far weirder, stickier kind of service.