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“Tell me how good this dick is, baby . . . tell me how good this dick makes you feel . . .” he’d murmured, urging her on with every deep stroke of his dick.
“Yes, Kendall, baby, yes . . . it’s so good. Oh sweet God, yes . . .”
And then when he’d emptied himself inside her, he’d lain there a long while, still inside her, as his breaths calmed, kissing her—her lips, her neck, her shoulders, smoothing his hands down her arms and then down her sides, telling her how beautiful she was, how much he loved her.
But was it really her that had had him so turned on? Or was it that bitch who’d had her damn titties all up on her man, feeling all up on him?
Krista hadn’t appreciated that shit. She didn’t need that bitch telling her how to talk to her man—her husband. She knew Kendall had good dick and that he was good-loving—and, shit, so did he. God forgive me, Krista thought, shaking her head. It was too early in the morning for all this heavy cursing.
Still . . . that bitch!
“Your pussy, my darling. Tell this fine chocolate man how good he feels inside of you.” Krista tsked. Kendall knew how good he felt inside of her; Krista didn’t need to tell him that. When he felt it every time they made love.
And yet, when she’d glanced down into Kendall’s lap—while Nairobia was fawning all over him, Krista had seen his dick print. Rigid. Full. Ready.
His dick had been harder than it had been in years.
And now Krista was up, way before the crack of dawn, thinking, remembering . . .
The poor chunky church-girl with the dreadful plaited hair, the deacon’s daughter with the overbite and the overly religious mother.
“You dirty heathen! You give praise. You give thanks. You give your life over to God. But you don’t ever give yourself over to sin. You don’t ever give a boy your body. You don’t let him touch you there, lick you there, or stick you there. Ever. Or so help me, I will beat you dead . . .”
Those had been Krista’s mother’s harsh words to her—the whip-like anger of her tone slashing into her, when she’d walked in and caught her youngest child sharing her first kiss with thirteen-year-old Charlie Benson, while he was on top of her eleven-year-old body—her ruffled church dress up over her hips—grinding himself on her, over her white and pink-flowered panties, causing a friction between her legs that had magically caused heat to bloom in the pit of her belly, then spread out through her body, stretching to the tips of her toes.
“I will not raise a whore in my home. Strip!”
“No, momma. Please. I promise it won’t ever happen again.”
“Naked. Now.”
“Momma, please . . .”
Slap.
“I will not give Satan the glory! I will not have some nasty heathen in my home. I will cut out your crotch before I allow you to sin in my home. Strip!”
“No, momma. Please.”
“Krista Nicole Blandberry. You do as I say . . .”
Slap!
And so eleven-year-old Krista did. She’d removed her clothes with trembling hands, her knees nearly knocking, and raised her arms high up over her head.
And then . . .
Gave into the lashings.
Determined not to go there, not to let those bad memories eat away at her, Krista shoved those thoughts solidly from her mind and propped herself on her elbow, content to watch while Kendall slept. She did that sometimes. Watched him sleep. She admittedly loved to watch him wake up, his eyes all dreamy, fogged with sleep and a half-smile on his face, before leaning in and kissing her on her lips, his morning breath clinging to hers.
She didn’t have to be a whore to get him. And she didn’t need to be a whore to keep him. All she had to do was keep him fucked. Her wet pussy kept him satisfied.
Krista smiled at that knowing, and then after a few more moments of staring, Krista reached her finger out to trace the sharp lines of his jaw. She followed it down and around and then over Kendall’s lips, enjoying the feel of him beneath her fingertips.
Wasn’t that what that bitch had urged the day out on the beach?
“. . . Ladies, reach out and touch your men. Caress his face. Allow a finger to trace the curve of his lips. Let it linger there for a bit . . .”
