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Holy fuck. She felt… she felt more than good. She felt fucking perfect. So goddamned tight. I never wanted to pull out of her. I wanted to stay buried hilt-deep in that sweet pussy every hour of the day and night.
My whole body shuddered when I filled her up, and for a moment, I simply stayed where I was. I didn’t rock my hips, didn’t start fucking her. I had to remain motionless and bask in the feeling of Charlie’s perfect cunt.
Because it was perfect. It was perfect in every fucking way.
I brought my hand to her neck as I began to rock my hips, forcing her to angle her head back so she could look at me and not at my chest while I fucked her. “You’re mine, Charlie,” I told her. “You’re mine now, do you understand? Every single part of you is mine.”
Charlie couldn’t respond. All she could do was sigh out an uneven breath as I picked up my pace, fucking her harder and faster.
I wanted to fuck her all morning. All day. All night, too. I never wanted this moment to end. Fuck her stalker. Fuck everyone else in the world. I had all I needed right here.
My pace grew frantic. I wanted to make this last, but given how amazing she felt, I knew wanting to prolong it would be a losing battle. So, I guess I’d just have to fuck her again, right after I came and filled that tight cunt with my cum.
And then again, and again, and again, and I’d only stop when she asked me to.
I could feel the orgasm building in my balls. I needed to come, needed to let that inner pressure explode inside, and I, in turn, needed to explode inside her. So I didn’t fight it. I didn’t try to prolong it. I let my movements grow rougher as I chased the orgasm.
When it came, oh, when it came it was like heated pleasure had somehow bottled itself inside me, released only when I found myself buried deep inside Charlie. The release was so hard and so overwhelming that I—
…I woke up.
It was so much that I woke up with a jerk, my body covered in sweat and my boxer briefs wet like I’d actually ejaculated from a wet dream. Like I was some horny teenager. Unless it was sweat. Maybe it was sweat I felt down there.It could be sweat.
I checked, and the telltale stickiness on my still-erect cock and the boxer briefs surrounding it was enough to tell me that it was not, in fact, sweat. It was cum. I’d literally cum in my own fucking pants while dreaming of fucking Charlie.
As I pulled my hand away from the evidence, I muttered, “What the fuck?” Seriously, what the actual fuck was wrong with me? I stared at the ceiling, my eyebrows coming together. The morning sun streamed through the blinds, just like it had in that dream.
Charlie rolled over, still half asleep, but she must’ve been awake enough to hear me say that out loud, because she asked, “What’s wrong?”
Though I still wore the same jeans I’d worn last night—meaning the jeans helped hide my erection a bit—I didn’t want her to see any bulge at all, so I rolled onto my side and gave her my back as I muttered, “Uh, nothing. Go back to sleep.”
Charlie’s arm shot out toward her nightstand, and she glanced at the time on her phone. She must’ve decided it was indeed too early to wake up on a Saturday, because she rolled over and said not a word to me.
Which was good. Very good. I didn’t want to talk to Charlie right now, not after that stupid fucking dream.
Seriously, what was wrong with me? How many times had I gone on and on about how Charlie wasn’t my type? Countless. And then I got pissed at her ex and kissed her, and almost kissed her a second time without trying to posture in front of her ex… one kiss and a second almost kiss was enough to lead me to a fucking sex dream?
Jesus Christ. I needed help. Lots of psychiatric help—and coming from a serial killer such as myself, that should mean something.
Needless to say, I didn’t fall back asleep. Thankfully though, after a while, my dick lost its hardness. That left me with a messy pair of boxer briefs I’d have to wear until I got back to the treehouse, where my other clothes were.
I did not like laying there in my own cum. Not even a little.
I didn’t know what time it was when someone tried the knob on the door—and damn near gave me a heart attack. But the knob was locked, so whoever it was couldn’t get in.
“Charlie, are you in there?” It sounded like her mom. “Your father and I are going food shopping. Is there anything you want us to grab you?”
Charlie leaped up from her bed, suddenly wide awake. She tossed me a nervous look, and then she pointed to her bed, hissing out, “Get under there.”
“What?” I whispered back. “No, I’m not—”
“I have to open the door, and if she sees you—”
Charlie’s mom asked, “Is everything okay in there, honey? We didn’t hear you come home last night, and since you don’t normally go out, I wanted to make sure everything was fine before we left.”
When Charlie sent me another look, I knew I had to suck it up and crawl under the bed. I shoved my pillow and blanket under there first, and then I scooted under, remaining on my back. Let’s just say it was a tight squeeze, given my all-around size.
Charlie kicked my shoes beneath the bed, and then she raced over to the door. I couldn’t see her, but I heard her yawn dramatically as she opened the door. “Sorry, Mom. I must’ve locked it accidentally when I came in last night.” She sounded so innocent, so believable. There was no way her mom would ever think she was lying.
