Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 32248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32248 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 107(@300wpm)
It’s hard to control myself with her words ringing in my head, but I somehow do.
Each thrust driving me closer and closer.
“Promise me you’ll get me pregnant again,” she demands. “Right away.”
I can feel her orgasm approaching as she bears down hard on my cock.
Her pussy soaking fucking wet.
“Promise,” I grunt, my hips snapping against her juicy ass.
“Promise me—” she starts but I cut her off.
“I promise to fuck you every fucking hour of every fucking day,” I snarl as I bend over her back.
“Yes,” she moans, throwing her head back in ecstasy. “I want you inside me. Always.”
“I promise you’ll be so fucking full of my cum,” I growl, gripping her hips hard for better purchase, “you’ll always feel stuffed.”
Burying her head into the mattress, she suddenly screams out in release.
Her little body shuddering beneath me as I thrust hard and deep.
I pump through her orgasm, determined to wring another out of her.
Until her hips start to roll back against me, swirling me deep.
Suddenly and with very little warning, I erupt. Pouring the very fucking essence of my soul inside her.
Unable to control myself, I thrust fast and hard.
Riding the lightning shooting down my spine and blasting out of my cock.
When it’s finally over, I almost collapse on top of her.
Breathing hard and fast, I carefully pull her onto her side and drop to the bed. My cock still buried deep inside her milking cunt.
“Dammit,” I growl, “you did that on purpose.”
“Did what?” she asks, her words slow and languid from her release.
“Fucking thing with your hips,” I growl and pull her close to my chest. “You know what that does to me?”
“Oops,” Meghan giggles. “I guess you’ll just have to fuck me again to show me who’s boss.”
Initiation
Amanda
I feel like John fucking Wick as I walk forward, pistol gripped in my hands, shooting at the targets that pop up around me.
“Freak of nature,” I hear Oscar grumble behind me as the targets fall one by one, flipping back with a snap or exploding in a burst of water.
He’s not referring to how accurate my shots are. Sure, I’m hitting my targets good enough to knock them down, but not every shot is fatal.
I’m by no means a natural shot, and no one would ever mistake me for Annie Oakley. It’s taken weeks of training almost every day with him to get to this point.
He’s referring to the fact that I seem to be better with a pistol than a rifle.
Which, apparently, isn’t normal.
Most people are the opposite. They’re better with a rifle with more distance between them and the target. Something about the weight or something.
At least that’s what I think Oscar said a couple of weeks ago. I’ve gotten good at tuning the stuff I don’t need to know out.
I’ve discovered the man is a fountain information as I’ve been forced to spend weeks with him. Some of it is useful, but I don’t need half the shit he’s told me taking up space in my brain.
There’s just not enough room for it all.
I don’t need to know that the gun I like to use is one of the most popular guns on the market right now. That even the FBI is training their new agents on it because of the lack of recoil.
All I need to know is that the 9mm I’ve picked out works for me. I couldn’t care less if it’s popular or not.
But that’s Oscar for you. He’s so intent on passing on his knowledge, he tries to educate me and instruct me on everything.
I’ve gotten lectures on how I walk, how I dress, my posture, and the car I drive. One time when we were having lunch, he had the audacity to tell me I was peeling open my damn banana wrong.
I’m sure if he thought he could get away with it, he’d follow me behind a tree when I need to pop a squat and try to tell me the best technique for pissing like a lady on the leaves.
His constant ramblings are annoying as hell, but also a little flattering.
He may be so wrapped up in his head, in his own experiences and the wisdom that he’s gained over the years, that he doesn’t truly see why I’m better with this pistol than the rifle.
That it’s because I like to be a little more up close and personal with my targets.
All he sees is that it’s conflicting against all his prior experiences.
But I’ve come to see what all the information and attention he’s been dumping on me over these weeks means.
He’s invested in me and my success.
I thought for sure James was playing a nasty prank on me when I finally worked up enough nerve to drive my ass out here.
One look at Oscar when he opened the door, with his dirty jeans, muddied boots, and worn ballcap pulled down low on his head, and I was ready to turn tail. Convinced James was paying me back for whatever wrong I’ve done to him.