“I’m going to come,” she choked out, her eyes rolling back. “Oh god, don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop!”
“Come for me, you little slut,” I growled, pounding into her relentlessly. “Come all over my big axe. Milk it with that tight cunt.”
Her orgasm hit her like a storm, a violent shudder that wracked her entire frame. Her pussy clamped down on me like a fist, fluttering and contracting in waves that pulled at my ownclimax. Her cries echoed through the trees, a raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated release.
“Oooh!” Kat screamed. “Oh oh oh!”
I could feel my own climax boiling in my balls, a pressure building to an unbearable peak. “I’m going to fill you,” I gritted out, my strokes becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. “I’m going to plant my seed deep inside this pretty little cunt. No protection. Just my axe, bare inside your pussy walls, marking you as mine.”
“Yes! Do it! Come inside me!” Kat wailed, her nails digging into my shoulders. “Mmmm!”
With a final, brutal roar, I buried myself as deep as I could go. The world dissolved into a blinding white flash of pleasure as my cock erupted, spurt after spurt of hot, thick come flooding her insides. I held her there, pinned against the tree, my body jerking with the force of my release, emptying myself completely into her welcoming heat.
“Fuck!” I roared. “Oh shit shit shit!”
We stayed like that for a long moment, a panting, sweaty tangle of limbs, our hearts hammering against each other. The forest was quiet again, save for the sound of our ragged breaths and the distant call of a bird. I slowly lowered the blonde goddess to the ground, my softening cock slipping out of her, followed by a trickle of our combined fluids that ran down her inner thigh.
I looked at her, at my Kat, her blonde hair a mess, her lips swollen, her blue eyes hazy with satisfied bliss. She leaned against the tree, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across her face.
“Well, Huntsman,” she murmured, her voice husky. “I don’t think I’m lost anymore.”
I chuckled, pulling up my trousers. “No, Red Riding Hood. I’d say you’ve found exactly what you were looking for.” I reached down, scooping up her discarded thong and tucking it into my pocket. “And I think I’ll keep this. A souvenir of our toll.”
A playful pout formed on her kiss-bruised lips. “You can’t just take my panties, Sir Woodsman. How will I walk home without them?”
I closed the distance between us again, my body still humming with the aftershocks of our frenzy. I tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Who said anything about you walking home?” I murmured, my thumb stroking her jawline. “I’m not done with you yet. The toll for passage was just for the path. There’s a whole forest to explore.” My eyes dropped to her chest, where her dress was still bunched beneath her big breasts. “And I haven’t even had a proper taste of my payment.”
Her breath hitched. I took it as an invitation. I lowered my head, my tongue tracing a path from the hollow of her throat to the valley between her huge tits. Her skin was salty with sweat, sweet with her own unique scent. I took a nipple into my mouth again, this time gently, swirling my tongue around the tight peak. Kat sighed, her hands coming up to rest on my shoulders, her body molding against mine.
“You’re insatiable,” she whispered, but it wasn’t a complaint. It was a celebration because I’ve hired this girl to come to my cabin for some dirty roleplay … and the fun has just begun.
1
CHAPTER ONE – AN AD IN THE PAPER
Kat
The espresso machine coughs, groans, and shudders like an old man with a dying lung, and I’m pretty sure it’s not the only thing about to give out in this place. The morning rush has blitzed my soul, left me with a sticky apron, sweat pooling under my bra, and the strange, persistent fantasy that if I just upend the tip jar over my head, I might get enough coins to drown in. My hands smell like burnt beans and sanitizer. Even my hair is now a pink mop sticky with steamed-milk humidity and flecks of chocolate powder. I wipe down the counter in lazy circles and count the seconds till my next break.
“Hey, Kat, you spelled this guy’s name wrong,” calls Amber, the manager, holding up a venti for some local who probably thinks barista names are just white noise.
“That’s not even a real name,” I mutter under my breath. “Xaveon? Is he a video game villain?”
But I smile and remake the drink, before carefully writing “X-A-V-E-O-N” with an extra heart for flourish. Then, I shuffle to the end of the bar, my sneakers sliding on the permanent film of milk scum. My calves burn, knees stiff from bending to the under-counter fridge a hundred times since five a.m., and the left side of my lower back is starting to throb in that way that makes you think you’ll be limping by thirty. Xaveon picks up his triple-shot with the bored disdain of a man who’s never worked for tips in his life. He nods at me—doesn’t say thank you—and turns to scroll his phone. I want to tell him he has whipped cream on his nose, but honestly, let the world have its small amusements.
The lull is brief. Next up is a mother with two cute toddlers, one sticky with what I pray is just caramel syrup, the other clutching a mutilated Beanie Baby. She orders a single cappuccino—bless her—and a cake pop for each child. Her hands tremble as she digs for her wallet, as her eyes plead with me. “Do you have oat milk?”
I nod. “Yes, of course.”
“Thank goodness,” she smiles. “Sometimes the super fancy places only do cow’s milk now. Don’t ask me why.”
I smile and quirk my chin.
“Yes, but not at the Thistle. We absolutely have oat, almond, soy, you name it. We’re not too fancy for anything.”
With that, I prep her drink on autopilot, muscle memory taking over while my brain slips into its usual loop: school, debt, the cold pit of not-enough that sits in my gut and gnaws louder with every shift. The latest tuition bill from Century College is folded in my purse, stained with a drop of last night’s cheap wine. Iwithdrew from school in the middle of last year and yet the bursar’s office keeps sending “friendly reminders.” Mom offered to take out another parent loan so that I could re-enroll, but after her third bankruptcy, I think it’s better if we don’t go there.
Still. There are days where I look around at the cafe and think: I could just be this. I could just pour coffee, flirt for tips, pay rent on my micro-apartment, and call that a life. But then I see a girl in a campus hoodie with a stack of textbooks, and I know I want more. I have nothing against the barista life and I love my coworkers for the most part, but I just want more. Unfortunately, what more is, or even how I’ll get there, is still unclear.
