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Luckily the little man is bursting with excitement, running around me as I turn the screwdriver and slot in the batteries. By the time I’ve set the toy on the floor, he’s overflowing with energy, grinning and running in frantic circles around the room, darting between the treadmill and leaping over the rower.
“Easy, boy.”
I laugh, hearing Rayla’s laughter join mine from across the room, better than any song, flowing through me and making me want to paint pictures on her perfect body with my flaming swollen manhood.
“He’s gone mad.”
She giggles, making my base ache, as I imagine the same high-pitched squeaking while I’m drilling her tight pink hole.
Fuck.
I need to calm down. Right now. I can’t be this close to losing control already when we just made our promise.
“So you just put the ball in the middle?” Rayla walks over, looking down with her hands on her hips. She looks so wonderfully matronly, and yet curvy and sexy at the same time like she’s ready to bring our children into this world and sit down on my throbbing dick just as passionately. “And it throws itself?”
“Exactly.” I pick up the tennis ball, tossing it from hand to hand, causing Tanker’s gaze to snap back and forth with a light glimmering in his eyes. “What do you think, boy? You ready?”
Rayla laughs again. “I think he’s ready.”
I drop the ball into the toy and lean back. It whirs and then with a snap noise the ball shoots into the air, bouncing around the room and moving between the treadmill and the weight machine.
Tanker is on it in a second, darting down and trotting back with the ball in his mouth. He stares at me, head tilted, the same way he stared at me in that alleyway when I beat up those bastards.
It’s a look that says, What now, Daddy? What now?
“Come on, boy.” I reach over and pat the toy, pointing to the ball slot. “That’s it. Right there. That’s it, boy. Come on.”
He stares for a moment longer, and then makes a whining sound, dropping the ball.
“Come here, boy.”
Rayla’s voice is soft as she kneels down, coming to my level, bringing her scent with her. It’s a just-Rayla smell, as though her womb is throwing up pheromones, invitations into the air, tempting me more and more with each second.
She takes the ball and holds it out to him. Tanker harrumphs and takes it, as though out of pride.
“Look here. You clever boy. You see this?”
She picks up the toy and I watch, captivated, as her every gesture screams to me that she’s going to make the perfect mother. There’s something casually beautifully about the way she’s adopting this role, as though there is a part of her waiting to be called into action, waiting to love and care.
“Oh my God, that’s it.”
Her voice lilts and dances as Tanker creeps closer, getting nearer and nearer to the ball’s slot. He leans down and nuzzles at it, and then makes a yipping noise as the mechanism closes around it.
Leaping back, he stares at it as it whirs, his eyes alight.
“He’s so ready.”
Rayla’s giggling is a song, a welcome reprieve from the empty darkness of my own thoughts. But then that’s everything about her, a rainbow after a storm.
But will there be a rainbow after our storm?
Snap, the mechanism goes off, shooting the ball into the air. Tanker springs into action and leaps around the room, turning his snout this way and that as he searches for the ball.
He sprints back to the machine and eyes it warily, but he works out how to use it quicker this time, dropping it in and leaping back.
“You’re a good teacher,” I tell Rayla as I stand.
She smiles up at me, moving to stand as well. But part of me wants to keep her there, on her knees, looking up at me with her flushed cheeks and those big luminous eyes. She’s got the sort of eyes that are going to go wide and glow as I make her mine.
They might even fill with tears as I tame her tight virgin hole, as she wonders if she can fit all ten-some solid inches of me.
But by then her pussy will be hot and sopping and she’ll be begging and moaning and grinding against me.
Fuck.
Look at her kneeling there, with her tits beckoning me, her mouth half-open as though she’s awaiting my instructions.
Reaching down, I offer her my hands, pretending I’m a gentleman when really I’m trying to get my hands on her body anyway I can.
I haul her to her feet – as Tanker occupies himself with the toy, dropping the ball in and running around.
“Thanks,” Rayla murmurs, our hands still clasped as she rises up.
I squeeze her hands, letting her know I’m never going to leave her, letting her know it’s me and her for the rest of our lives. And yet it’s only through touch I can communicate the message because to bring it to life with words would lead to other conversations. We’d have to talk about Millie and the future in concrete terms.
