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Get a grip, I scolded myself sternly. Calm down, act normal, you’re a guest in his house, the little voice reminded. I’d been naughty, more than naughty yes, but Mr. Martin didn’t know. All he knew was that I was his son’s girlfriend visiting for the holidays, a freshman at the same school.
So I smiled at him again, teasing, brown eyes wide.
“Bacon and eggs?” I asked lightly. “But I thought we were having Thanksgiving lunch in a couple hours.”
“We are,” he grinned at me from the griddle. “But I don’t want my guests to go hungry, and who knows, maybe they don’t feed you enough at school.”
I blushed as my mouth watered from the appetizing scents filling the air. Bacon always does that to me, it makes me salivate, shooting my senses into overdrive with the crispy, crackly smells. Vegans would have my head with how much I love the pork fat, each strip juicy and browned just so. But I didn’t want to seem like a pig so I perched on the counter stool and smiled back at him.
“No, we get enough to eat, thanks,” I said cheerily. “In fact, the food at school is so heavy, so creamy that I’ve gained the freshman fifteen and then some. It’s more like the freshman twenty for me and first semester’s not even over yet.”
And was it my imagination, but did Mr. Martin’s eyes linger a little too long on my breasts, on the curvy shape of my ass perched on the stool? His eyes slid away quickly, and I reprimanded myself. Get a grip, he’s not looking at you, I scolded.
But the big man actually looked at me straight then, expression firm.
“You look great,” he said seriously. “I’ve always liked women with a little extra, and the twenty pounds look amazing. Girls these days are so tiny they always look like they’re going to break in half or worse, shatter if you so much as blow on them.”
And I blushed a little. Shatter from being bent over backwards, taking his dick deep and hard? Break in half because the women were ripped in two by his huge cock, savoring his dominance? Oh god, I only wished it was me, prayed that it could be me. But these thoughts were so wrong, everything about this conversation was wrong. I was making conversation with my boyfriend’s dad about women’s bodies and it was illicit territory, we should have been chatting about the weather or school or something light. But instead we were discussing female shapes and in particular, my curvy form.
But I forced myself to get a grip again. Women’s bodies are always being scrutinized, I reminded myself. It’s the whole objectification thing you learned in that gender studies class, no big deal, Mr. Martin’s not even really talking about you, he’s talking about women in general.
So I took a deep breath and smiled lightly, eyes dancing.
“Tell that to the boys at school,” I said teasingly. “I think guys these days like skinnier girls. Even Jonah’s told me to get to the gym more often.”
And Mr. Martin frowned then, a scowl descending over his face.
“Those guys are motherfuckers,” he growled, turning back to the pan and cooking with a frenzy once more. “They have no idea what the fuck they’re talking about, they have no idea how good flesh feels, how fucking amazing it is with a real woman. And my son,” he ground out, looking me straight in the eye, “is a fool and then some. Ignore him,” he commanded. “That boy’s got his head in the clouds, he’s got his own hang-ups.”
I smiled privately then. Jonah had more than hang-ups, he had a lifestyle that his dad probably knew nothing about, something involving whips, chains, cages and humiliation. But it was the perfect time to change the topic.
“Is Jonah up yet?” I asked casually, looking around. Truth be told, I had no idea if the boy had even come home last night. After my little show, I’d passed out, sated on pleasure, exhausted, sleeping like a log.
And Mr. Martin shook his head.
“Naw, not up,” he drawled. “I think he’s still in his room, dead to the world, he’ll be snoozing until eleven,” he said wryly, scooping some bacon onto a plate. Mmm, the meat sizzled as I watched, oil pooling on the flat surface. “How was the party last night?”
I flushed, biting my lip. Should I tell him what I’d seen, that his son was into BDSM? Not that the lifestyle is wrong or anything, but Jonah was clearly into it. And not just a little bit, but a lot because his relationship with Mistress Sarah wasn’t a one-time thing, this wasn’t his first time playing the slave. But I decided against it. Jonah’s secret wasn’t my tale to tell, so I fibbed, glossing over the truth and keeping things easy.
