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And with a disappointed grunt, he does. That big hand drops away, leaving her wide, white expanse bare, the t-shirt pulled up.
Hot damn, it’s so perfect. But still, introductions need to be made.
“So you said your name is Macy?” I ask, looking over at my brothers for confirmation.
She nods. “Macy Jones.”
And my worst fears are confirmed. Because she is that baby, the one whom I don’t remember. Which means this kid is probably barely out of high school. She’s less than half my age but, fuck, did the little filly grow up. Insanely ripe in all the right places. Nothing childlike about her now.
Time for a proper interview then. I’ll bet these five jackasses haven’t said more than seven words to her, so caught up in the sweet, magical goodness.
Grabbing my suit jacket, I wrap it around her shoulders, guiding the female to the couch, where she sits, trying in vain to keep her swollen, bare puss covered with the little bit of t-shirt fabric. No worries honey. We’ll see it all soon enough.
But modesty prevails. Macy tries adjusting the coat but it doesn’t help much. She’s got six pairs of blue eyes trained right on that darkened vee, and the fabric just won’t cooperate. Thank god for small blessings.
But it’s not just about her pulsing wet channel though. No, it’s also about the curly hair, those big, brown eyes, and that full mouth. We love her innocence and her shyness. She’s a perfect package, pronouncing “Ripe! Fertile! Young!” with every sway of her hips.
The interview starts then.
“So Macy,” I begin slowly. My brothers have followed us into the living room as well, taking strategic spots around the girl. It should be scary, all these huge, intimidating men, but the brunette doesn’t look frightened. Instead, she just looks rosy and flushed, still shy but loving the attention too.
“Macy,” I begin again. “You’re in high school?”
She looks at me sharply, eyes clearing. But then my hand rests on her thigh, and the brunette turns to look at that instead. Taking a deep breath, the girl answers.
“No, not high school,” she laughs easily. “College. I just finished freshman year, over at State.”
Good. Ten points. We don’t want a high school teen, although truth be told, that’s not a deal breaker. Age is just one consideration, and being young? It’s a problem that will fix itself.
“So how do you like it?” I drawl, sliding my hand inward, closer to her inner thigh. Her lips open in a surprised “O.” But that sweet body tells another story, because her legs part oh so slightly. My pinky could stretch out and touch her swollen lips.
I continue, acting like nothing’s wrong, that this is totally normal.
“You like it?” I ask again.
She bites her lip hesitantly.
“No,” is her soft murmur.
Hmm, that’s interesting. Why not? Kids usually love college. I definitely did, away from the evil eye glare of my high school teachers. It was the first time I was an adult, treated like an adult, and expected to behave like an adult. Freedom was a breath of fresh air.
But back to Macy.
“What do you study?” I ask casually. And at the same time, I let my pinky explore, ever so lightly. Aw shit, she’s so swollen, those lips soft and puffy. My finger comes away wet, gleaming under the light.
“Unh!” she cries out softly, eyes going wide. But then the girl shakes her head again, determined to finish the conversation.
“Restaurant management,” she breathes, wiggling a little, wetness pooling between her legs. Damn, the filly’s responsive. “My parents want me to go into business or law or banking but ….”
“But what?” I ask, pushing my smallest finger into her folds. I don’t penetrate, although the way she fidgets her hips makes me think she’s dying for it.
“Oh!” the girl gasps, throwing her head back against the sofa. But struggling to retain control, Macy takes a few desperate breaths and says, “I want to be a chef. I’m not good at school, but I love to cook. My parents think that’s a waste of time though.”
Good answer. I rub along those wet lips, my brothers craning their heads to watch the show. And sure enough, her hips move along with my hand, gyrating ever so slightly. We’re quiet for a while as she builds, breath coming faster and faster.
“Do you always do what your parents tell you?” is my gentle question.
Now she’s writhing against my hand as my brothers look on. Shaking her head furiously, her eyes open wide, pretty pink pout begging.
“Tell us what we can do for you,” is my command.
Silence for a moment as she writhes and moans again, a slave to my touch on her sensitive spot. But closing her eyes, with an almost pained expression, the girl opens them again and looks straight at me.
