Pulling into the drive way Michael noticed nearly every light in the house was on, which was quite a feat, considering the amount of rooms. He braked outside the garage, staring at the house, wondering what was going on before he remembered Anna’s Christmas party. He wasn’t supposed to be home for it, but had flown back a day early from Berlin. It had been a disastrous romantic getaway, and one he was happy to cut short. Anna was sure to be disappointed that her dad was back to ruin the party and he briefly considered checking into a hotel for the night.
But he was tired, too tired to take the thought seriously. His presence would hardly matter since he had every intention of going straight to his shower and then his bed.
Festive Christmas music was playing loudly, and he found Anna had noticed his arrival and was waiting for him by the door into the house from the garage. They were just off the kitchen. Anna was scowling, her arms crossed over her chest. “Dad, I thought you were in Russia still.”
“Honey, Berlin is in Germany. The Berlin Wall? They don’t teach common knowledge at your hippie school?”
Anna rolled her eyes. “Berkeley isn’t a hippie school, Dad.” She pouted prettily. “I told you I was having a party, did you come home early just to crash it?”
“No, Anna, I came home early because the trip was a disaster.” Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Anna’s best friend Jillian standing in the kitchen in the middle of a group of other college students, next to a young man whose hand was resting on the small of her back, but drifting down slowly toward her ass. She was wearing a short black dress adorned with intricate beading that hugged her in all the right places, and her hair was piled on top of her head, a messy bun so dark it was almost black. She had beautiful hair when it was down, long and wavy and thick. Michael was glad to see her; glad Anna had maintained this friendship though they were now on separate coasts. He was less glad to see some twit with his hand making it’s way to her ass, he still thought of Anna and Jilly as the fourteen year olds who had sleepovers went to volleyball camp and fretted about Homecoming. Anna and Jilly. He called her JillyBean, a goofy and sweet name to match a goofy and sweet girl.
Anna had gone to school on the west coast and Jillian had chosen to stay in Boston, where the girls had graduated high school almost three years ago. They were halfway through their junior year now, very close to being done. He hoped.
“I promise I’ll stay out of your way, Anna. I want you to have fun at your party,” after seeing Jillian’s dress he turned his attention to Anna and realized that she, too, was in a cocktail dress. The young men in the room were in suits. He smiled to himself, seeing a bunch of kids trying so hard to be grown ups.
“I’m going to go to my room now, would you mind brining me in a scotch in about 15 minutes?”
His attention was drawn again to Jillian, who was shifting on her feet. The young man next to her was leaning close to her ear, talking enthusiastically about something, but Jillian looked distracted, her chin tucked and her head turned slightly to the side, elongating a pale, smooth neck. He saw that she had pushed the young man’s roaming hand away. Good girl. She had become a very beautiful girl in college, lost the baby fat and showed no signs of having gained weight the way some women do while at school. He hadn’t realized before, how long her legs were, but then he had never seen her in a skirt so short.
“Okay, dad, I’ll bring it,” Anna said, looking disappointed still. He pecked her on the cheek and moved away, toward the other wing of the house, where his bedroom was calling to him. His carry-on was weighing on his shoulder, a weight he was tired of carrying, as he listened to his dress shoes click slightly on the marble floor.
The house was garish, and much too big, but he’d been so desperate to move out of the home he’d shared with his wife that he’d have bought a trailer in the woods just to be free from the memories. She’d died this time, four years ago. Four years ago tomorrow, killed in a car accident on her way home from a Christmas party. Michael had intended to be out of the country on the anniversary of her death this year, but couldn’t have possibly spent another minute with the woman he’d brought with him overseas. The airline had refused to let him change his ticket; and he’d spent a fortune buying a ticket on such short notice. His escape would have been worth any cost. It had been stupid, trying to date again. It was too soon. He had sensed it was a mistake, didn’t want anyone else. He’d spent the last two years burying himself in work, and it had been working fine.
Michael slipped into the master bedroom and closed the door behind him, shutting out only some of the sounds of the rowdy Christmas party. There were well over a hundred kids milling about. He pushed his way out of his coat and suit, leaving the items draped over a chair, and made his way into the bathroom. He hated the bathroom. There was more marble than he’d ever seen concentrated in such a small area, accented with gaudy gold fixtures.
He walked past the massive bathtub he never used, and turned on the water in the shower stall. The flight had been long, the drive home exhausting, but he felt like he had sweat and dirt caked into his pores. As the shower heated he kicked off his briefs, only stepping into the spray when steam started to rise.
The shower felt amazing, and he stayed in longer than he needed to trying to wash away the trip. Finally, he was able to turn off the water and reach for a towel, pressing it against his face before wrapping it around his waist. He stopped in front of the mirror and pushed his hair around with his fingers, then decided it wasn’t worth the effort and reached for his toothbrush. He was making his way out of the bathroom when he heard the bedroom door open. He looked up, expecting to see Anna. He saw Jillian with a bottle of scotch and two glasses on a tray.
Michael stopped abruptly; he was suddenly aware of his bare chest. The towel around his waist was his only cover. This girl had seen him less covered, in swim trunks at the pool, but still he felt exposed. Jillian closed the door without taking her eyes off of him, and moved in toward the bed and nightstand with the tray.
“Jillian, hello.” He said. Her skirt was shorter than he realized when he saw her in the kitchen, her legs a little bit longer, and the heels a little bit higher. On her head she wore a bright red bow, which she hadn’t been wearing before.
“Are you my present?” he was trying to make a joke. He didn’t mean to sound like a dirty old man. He felt like a dirty old man.
She smiled elusively. “I asked Anna if I could bring in your scotch. I was curious how your trip went, Mr. C.”
I think you can call me Michael now, JillyBean. We’re all adults here.”
One corner of her mouth lifted into a sexy smile, and it occurred to him JillyBean wasn’t the name for an adult. He had known her for years, and had never seen that smile, and his body reacted in a way his body had never reacted to her before. “I’m glad that you agree.”
Suddenly, he was uncomfortable. Something had shifted between them, and he got the feeling he was standing on a frozen lake, waiting for to ice to break beneath his feet. “I- of course, let me just—” but she had turned around and was walking back toward the door. The cut of the dress made her ass look amazing, and he thought about the young man in the kitchen who’d had a hand just above the enticing curve. The boyfriend?
Michael assumed she was leaving. He was wrong; she only turned the lock and came back, sitting on the edge of the bed. He wanted to ask why she locked the door, but was afraid to. She didn’t volunteer her reasons.
“Let me just put on some clothes.”
She ignored him. “I was disappointed when Anna said you wouldn’t be here, but even more disappointed when she told me why—that you would be in Europe with someone…with a woman.”
Reality started to sink in. He was barely dressed, in a locked bedroom, with a young woman half his age. A young woman he’d known since her freshman year in high school. His throat went dry as she stood again and moved back to the nightstand, bent over to reach for the bottle. The back of the dress stretched tight across her rear as she bent forward, the skirt lifting just enough that he saw the top of a thigh-high stocking, and the clasp attached which no doubt led to a garter belt. She poured two generous servings of scotch, and but only lifted one glass off the tray. She handed it to him.
He stared at her, dumbstruck, not sure if what he suspected was happening was really happening. But then her arms went behind her, and he heard a zipper. He made a noise in his throat, a small protest, which she also ignored. She pulled on shoulder out of her dress, then the other shoulder, and pushed the dress. It dropped to her ankles and revealed her lithe body, exposing full breasts in a red lace bra, nipple peeking out over the demi-cup, and a smooth taunt stomach.
He backed away, set the cup down on the nightstand before turning back to her, ready to set the record straight. “Jillian, I—”
She reached behind her and unclasped the bra, which fell to the ground. Her breasts were perfect, untouched by time, the skin smooth and supple. He felt his cock rapidly stiffening. Something was getting set straight, but it wasn’t the record. Michael tried again.
“Jillian, this isn’t– Please get dressed.”
She shook her head, ran a hand up her body, cupped a breast and pinched a perfect pink nipple. “I was disappointed because I waited for you. I waited all this time and you went off to Europe with somebody else.”
“Jillian, this is not appropriate. I’m fifty years old.”
It had been some time since he’d seen such smooth breasts, such flawless skin. He was fully erect beneath his towel, losing his resolve.
“It’s okay. It’s our little secret,” she said, stepping closer. Michael was mesmerized. He wanted to step back, wanted to move, to stop the scene that was unfolding. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. The bed was directly behind him, but even if he hadn’t been he was stuck. He could barely remember to breathe. Her fingers slid between his skin and the towel, his hands reflexively went to hers to stop her. “No.”
Looking undeterred, she sank to her knees, ran her hands up the backs of his calves, the slide smooth, slick from the water. Under the towel he throbbed. This was insanity. He couldn’t let her see his erection, but it was so close to her face he was sure she couldn’t miss it. As if reading his mind, she pressed her face into the towel, breathed onto him
Her hot breath distracted him, so he didn’t notice her hands. Under the towel, she wrapped one hand around him. Back to his senses, he backed away, but she gripped him.
“This isn’t right, we can’t do this.”
Jillian nudged his cock with her nose, and he fought the urge to press his hips forward.
“Jillian, let go of that and put your dress back on. I am twice your age.” He knew he was repeating himself, but he’d lost the ability to create new, rational thoughts. Beyond the closed door he thought he heard what sounded like ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’. He was hot all over.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t tell me I’m too young.” She looked up at him with big, brown eyes, and he knew how ridiculous it was trying to reason with her when she was kneeling in front of his cock. He wanted it to stop, but… But he didn’t want it to stop. “I’ve waited so long, so don’t tell me I’m too young.”
She licked her lips, and he moaned as her hand worked him, sliding up and down his shaft, tugging deliciously on him, her thumb working the area between his balls. “Tell me you’re not attracted to me, tell me I’m too skinny, or too fat, or too pretentious, or tell me I’m not smart enough, or that I’m not sexy, but please, please don’t tell me I’m too young. I’ve waited so long for you, and you didn’t wait for me, so don’t tell me I’m too young.”
She looked so earnest; the longing in her brown eyes cut him like a knife. “Jillian, I—” he voice faded away. He lost words, lost time, as he stood, watching her watch him as she worked her hand so deliciously on his shaft.
She tilted her head forward, resting her forehead against his hip, and he let her, mesmerized by the feel of her warm breath through the towel. She must have sensed his resolve wavering, and looked up at him with big doe eyes as she tugged on the towel. It fell to the ground and he caught sight of her small hand, wrapped around his member. He shuddered, and then chastised himself. If his daughter were to walk in here, if she ever found out— Her hand was tiny around him, he would almost say fragile if not for the confidant grip. Looking up at him, she opened her mouth and guided him in.
He let her. He let her and then there’s no turning back. Her mouth is hot, and wet, and it’s work not to ejaculate immediately. He grunted and grabbed a handful of her hair, pushing her away. The bow fell to the ground. A trickle of spit trailed from her lips to his cock and it was all he could do not to shove his cock back inside of her mouth and allow his release to come, to coat her tongue and throat with semen. But he resisted, and motioned her to the bed.
Jillian loosened her grip and made her way to the bed, except she didn’t stand. She crawled on her hands and knees, and he stood, mesmerized by the way her ass moved beneath the lacey panties. By the time she made it to the edge of the bed he was behind her. He pulled her to a standing position, pulled her back against him and grabbed a handful of breast. She breathed in, melted against him. He pushed her forward, and she tumbled onto the bed, barely getting her arms out in front of her in time to brace herself. He grabbed her panties and pulled them down, watching as the garter belt unclipped itself from her stockings when the panties came off.
“Get on your back,” he whispered, and when she did he kneeled down next to the bed between her legs, pulled her toward the edge and shoved his face between her thighs. She spread her legs, and he pressed his mouth against her. She was hot and wet and ready, already squirming beneath him. Michael moved in, opening her pussy’s lips with his fingers and closing his mouth over her clit. His assault on her clit was brutal, unrelenting, and in no time he had her mewing and bucking her hips, trying to grind against his face. She tasted musky and sweet all at once, and he was starting to lose sight of reality. She wasn’t his daughter’s best friend, had never been the fourteen-year-old girl in the back of the car as he drove them to volleyball practice. She certainly wasn’t acting like the innocent little girl she had been. She was behaving like a slut and he wanted to make her come like a slut, wanted to push himself inside of her as she came apart beneath him.
Michael lifted his head and looked up at Jillian. She was up on her elbows watching him eat her out. Her legs were spread wide open, giving him unrestricted access. “You like that?” he asked.
“Yes, Mr. C.” She breathed. It shouldn’t have turned him on.
“I told you to call me Michael. You must like calling me Mr. C.” He kept his eyes locked on hers, but started stroking her clit with his thumb. “Does it make you feel naughty?”
He rubbed his thumb against her punishingly, and her mouth fell open as she grunted. “Yes—Mr—ah!” She bit her lip and closed her eyes, trying to focus. He thought about the young man in the other room who was more than likely going to take her back to her dorm, and was likely going to fuck her. She hadn’t been boy crazy when she was young, and he wondered when it had started. “Yes, Mr. C.”
He lowered his mouth again, licked up her juices before going to work on her clit again, this time lapping at it with his tongue, wondering if she was reliving something. Sex with a professor at school? The thrill of an older man? Had she let some married professor fuck her like the little slut she was, sliding inside her from behind while she was bent over his desk? The thought of it had him close to coming. How many times had he seen her in pajama bottoms and a tiny little camisole when she slept over in Anna’s room? Had she been lying in bed at night, touching herself while she thought about him? Her best friend’s father?
“You have a sweet little pussy, Jilly,” he told her, climbing onto the bed between her legs. “How many of those boys out there have had this sweet little pussy?” He pinched at her nipples, and her head fell back. He shouldn’t have been getting off on it; the thought of her mouth around a college boy’s cock, all while she craved his.
He guided his cock down between her legs, wet the tip but didn’t enter her. Instead, he started rubbing his cockhead against her clit, and hen sent his free hand up, sliding wet fingers into her mouth so she could clean her juices off him. She sucked his fingers into her mouth instinctively, and he worked her clit while she writhed and bucked her hips, until her mouth fell open and she moaned, her legs shaking as she came.
“That’s it,” he said, repositioning himself. “You came like a little slut now I’m going to fuck you like a slut.”
“Please,” she hissed.
“Please fuck you like a slut?”
“Please fuck me like a slut.”
Not able to hold back anymore, he slid inside her in one swift, hard stroke. Only realizing after, when he was all the way inside of her, the truth. He was fully inside her when he registered that she had cried out, that tears had sprung to her eyes—only then did he realize none of the boys in the other room had had her sweet little pussy. None of her professors had bent her over a desk. He’d felt her cherry’s initial resistance to his thrust, and felt it give way. “Oh, God, Jilly,” he said, looking down at her, stricken.
I waited for you. The realization hit him like a punch to the stomach; he had just taken her virginity.
She swiped away her tear and shook her head. “Don’t stop.” What a silly thing to say, he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to. He was balls deep inside a virgin and about to blow his load. “It’s okay.”
She was tight, and she grimaced when he started moving, but held his hips, guiding his thrusts, while repeating, “it’s okay” like a mantra. It wasn’t okay but he did it anyway. He used her pussy as she whimpered through the pain and urged him on with her hands, nails biting into the skin at his hips. She wasn’t a little slut in the way he had expected. She was his little slut. She had saved herself for him. He should have felt guilty, it was absurd, but instead he was slamming into her, listening to the sound his balls made slapping against her.
“Are you on birth control?” he asked, his one rational thought of the evening. She shook her head ‘no’ and he was so close, he could have done it. Could have flooded her pussy with cum, could have sent her back out to the party with a belly full of his cum, maybe even sent her back to college with his child growing inside of her. It took inhuman strength, as his orgasm built and his balls tightened and release was so close, the warmth of her pussy beckoning him. But he pulled out, barely in time, the first squirt landed white against her pussy lips, but he kept coming, squirting onto her flat belly and perfect tits, stream after stream until he’d emptied his balls onto her and collapsed down beside her.
They lay there for a while, her motionless, trying to avoid getting his mess everywhere, until she sat up. “I don’t want to ruin your bed.”
He sat, too, watched the white drift down her abdomen and pool between her legs, which she’d clamped closed, trying to catch his load and keep it off the bedding.
Michael stood, pulled the towel off the floor and handed it to her. Watching her clean herself up was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen, knowing that as much as she wiped she’d still be going back out into a party of horny young boys with a coating of his cum on her skin.
He pulled on some pajama pants, and then retrieved her dress and bra. She watched wordlessly as he pocketed the panties. Some tendrils of hair had gotten loose and were framing her face, which he found almost irresistible.
“I should go,” she said, and stood, slipping the bra on then stepping into the dress, turning her back to him and looking back over her shoulder at him. He took the hint, stepped forward, and zipped the dress up the back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want you to know—I thought you might…” her voice faded, and he saw it then, that innocent teenager, still there behind the façade of a grown up. “I thought you would stop. I didn’t want you to stop.”
He turned her around, smiled softly at the wonder on her face. “I probably would have. You shouldn’t have given that to me. It should have been special.”
She shook her head, stepped closer and put a hand on his chest. “It was special, don’t you—” she stopped, looked away, frowning as she searched for the words. He hooked a finger under her chin and brought her face around, then lowered his mouth to hers. He kissed her, and it was soft and sweet and full of the longing that was in her eyes, and he realized then he had fucked her before he had kissed her. He regretted that. Because her kiss was electric. Her lips were soft, hungry, and her hands soon found his hair as she opened her mouth to his tongue. He was hungry, too, not in the least bit sated. His cock stirred to life in his pants and, without thinking, her unzipped her dress again. She grinned against his lips, and he pushed the dress down.
“I fucked you like you were my slut,” he whispered, his hands sliding down her body. “Now I’m going to make love to you like you’re my virgin.”
She kissed him again. “Thank you, Mr. C.”
He lifted her up, into his arms. Shaking his head he said, “You better fucking call me Michael,” before he laid her gently on the bed.