Warning: 18+ only. Featuring hardcore taboo and age-gap erotica.
This is an erotic boxset containing twelve stories of irresistible steam, steam, fun, and naughty stories. If you're not up to eighteen, this book is not for you.
Get ready to be intrigued. To feel. To...sin.
Warning: 18+ only. Featuring hardcore taboo and age-gap erotica.
This is an erotic boxset containing twelve stories of irresistible steam, steam, fun, and naughty stories. If you're not up to eighteen, this book is not for you.
Get ready to be intrigued. To feel. To...sin.
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“I made myself tight for Big Daddy,” she leans up and whispers in my ear. “Every morning and night, I clenched it really tight, released, clenched, released…”
As she says the words, her pussy performs the actions until I’m panting into the space between us, shudders wracking my body.
“FUCK,” I growl, sparks blinking in front of my vision. “You’re going to get it now, little girl.”
All I can do after that is make her lose her mind.
That’s the only way to define it.
I shove her legs open on the bed and do exactly as I threaten. I rail her like a dog, slamming my cock in and out of her wet blonde cunt. She screams and claws at me, begging me not to stop, rocking her hips up to meet my hectic drives, my grunts loud enough to be heard in the room next door, along with her calls of my name—and in this moment, I want that. I want everyone in this hotel to know I get to fuck this supple nineteen-year-old. I want them to know she primed her pussy for me so it would be extra snug. And I can’t believe my luck. Whether I’m paying or not, I can’t believe she’s allowing my big, hairy body on top of her smooth, tiny one for a single second. That she’s not only spreading her legs for me, but she’s also moaning with pleasure, not put off by my aggression at all. No, it’s making her hot.
“Harder, Big Daddy. Punish me.”
I’m not sure how I stop myself from ejaculating. Maybe it’s the intense need to stay locked inside her perfection for as long as possible, but somehow, I hold back. Long enough to pull out of Lia and flip her face down, yanking her hips up and back into my lap. I re=enter her with my purpling cock, our flesh slapping madly as I raw dog her from behind, employing not a hint of gentleness. She doesn't want gentleness, either. Not my girl. She tilts her hips back and asks for it harder. Faster.
Lia Amarie has been in love with Tristan Hemsworth ever since middle school when he moved in next door with his little son, who she instantly became best friends with. Now she's nineteen, and still very much lusting over the sexy, very much older billionaire Adonis's hot body, every beautiful inch. But to Tristan, Lia will always be off-limits. The little girl who always ran out to hug him whenever he came back from work. Can she rise above this silly perceived notion and show him that she can be a bad, naughty girl?
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One: Lia.
“Nine...ten. Ready or not, Eric, I'm coming your way!” I yell, pulling off the black blindfold around my eyes, and sprinting out of the house, towards the garden. We'd played hide-and-seek a thousand times — mostly when we got tired of video games and wanted a little excitement aside from board games — and each and every time, Eric always hid in the garden, close to the thickest rose patch or in the abandoned den behind their huge mansion. Today, however, he wasn't in the garden, and I start getting worn out when I see that he's not in the abandoned den as well. Taking a detour back into the house, I stand still in the foyer and shut my eyes, listening. I hear things being moved about in the storeroom to my left, accompanied by intense giggling.
Smirking, I tiptoe towards the storeroom and, with a deep breath, kicked the door open, catching Eric right before he slipped into an old sack. “Aha! Gotcha!” I lunge at him, knocking him off his feet as we both fall onto an old mattress, wrestling each other and laughing. He tickled my sides, causing my arms to fly out, and flatten themselves over his broad, solid chest. I'll be lying to myself if I said I didn't know when they morphed from soft, baby flesh, to rock hard solid overnight. Just like how I'd traded my breasts — soft handballs — for big, supple oranges.
Ever since I met Eric in sixth grade, we'd gotten along like bread and butter. His house was my second home, and we were inseparable. Literally. His friends were my friends, and one of us hardly took a decision without informing the other of it first. Little wonder why everyone expected that, after high school, when we both will move to the city, we'll get married.
I haven't given much thought to marriage. Ever. And Eric would be the last man I would want to spend the rest of my life with. I'm sure he feels the same way too. Our bond is entirely platonic and we do see each other more as siblings.
He pinches my upper arm now, and I yowl, aiming a kick for his balls which he dodges smartly. We roll about like bunnies for a while, before disentangling, our hands clasped together as we look up at the dusty ceiling, trying to catch our breaths, giggling.
“How did you know I was in here?” Eric asks, probing my side. I gasped, whirling away.
“Stop! I just... I didn't find you in the garden or the abandoned den so I...” I'm getting ready to slip out of his reach and kick him out of the bed with the heel of my foot when I hear the front door of the house open and close curtly. And I end up losing my focus and falling off the mattress instead.
He's home.
Six o'clock on the dot every evening. Not a minute more. Not a minute less.
It's him. The only man who can make my stomach flip.
Outwardly, I try to contain myself, try not to show a reaction that'd get Eric to suspect, but inside, I'm burning up like a paper that'd caught flame, rattling like a rickety old train on the railway and my stomach has been left on the dirty, metal floor.
Eric's father is home.
Tristan McHemma Hemsworth.
I catch sight of his pristine, black loafers as he passes by the storeroom, glancing in briefly and beaming when he espies me collapsed on the mattress, next to his laughing son. He shakes his head and moves on, towards the kitchen, barely giving me enough time to drink in his familiar features. Honestly, I've got to accept that it's impossible to soak in the sight of his big, sexy body. Those broad shoulders. Hard, thick, and impenetrable.
Everywhere. Even in his pants and boxer briefs, I'm sure.
Seriously, I'm not making this up. Last month, he'd taken Eric and I swimming to celebrate our birthdays — Eric and I were born in the same month and our dates were only three days apart so we also celebrated it together like twins. I hadn't envisioned that Tristan was fond of water, or that he'd strip out of his immaculate suit and join us in. I merely thought he'd wait for us at the parents' section, so you can imagine my surprise when I saw him swimming up to us in a tight, yellow underwear which did nothing but divulge just how huge, and hard his junk was. I knees wobbled under the water at the sight of his salt and pepper chest hair, the round slab of his stomach.
The painful outline of his thick, huge, veiny cock.
Each time the water molded his swim trunks to his lap, the enormous ridge in between his thighs made my belly so ticklish, I turned so red, Eric had to carry me out of the water, thinking I was having a sunburn.
Tristan Hemsworth is forty-six, a single-father widow.
I'm nineteen.
I've been silently, passionately, madly in love with him since I was roughly, thirteen.
I thought I'd get over him as I grow older, but honestly, no one compares. No one ever seems capable. What Tristan does to me in my dreams is more fulfilling than what any boy could hope to accomplish in real life. I'm not exaggerating, which is the reason why I don't even bother with them. College starts in a few months, and I'm already doubly sure the boys there won't measure up, either.
At the reminder of college — namely, the tuition fee needing to be paid — sadness clumps itself around my guts, making me groan as I rise to my feet, dusting myself off. I flash a breezy smile at Eric. “I'm going to grab some water from the kitchen. I'm so parched.” I tuck a stray strand of my ginger red hair behind my ear and exhaled. “Want anything while I'm at it?”
“No,” Eric says, standing up as well. He towers over me with a few, substantial inches. “You go ahead. I'll try and clean up this place. Pops gonna have me grounded if I don't.”
“Not if I can help as well. Be back in a bit.”
On my way to the kitchen, my hands quiver as I tuck my skirt a little higher, and knot my tank top under my breasts. I flip my hair back, and put on a flirtatious smile. It's like a superpower — I've disarmed almost every man I've come across with my smile and suggestive body language. I'm known for being a smart flirt. A sly tease. They're wrong, but Godforbid they ever find out that it's all a facade. That I'm just pretending. Treading water. Try as much as they can to resist me, I've always gotten what I wanted.
And this time, I'm intent on making Tristan mine. I don't care what I have to do, or what it takes.
You have no idea how it hurts to keep seeing someone who you desperately crave everyday. Getting a glimpse of what I can't have.
Pretending he's mine for a moment, like I always do. It's what I've brought myself to settle for.
But I've had enough. It's time I head in for the kill.
When I walk into the pristine kitchen where everything is literally stainless steel, I find Tristan leaning over the countertop, a cup of hot coffee in hand, scrolling through something on his phone, the frown on his face deepening every passing second. His mid-section is suspended as he puts his full weight on his elbows, those meaty fingers clasped around the gadget's shiny body. At the mere closeness of him, and the knowledge that we're alone, my nipples harden, skin prickling and pulsing.
“Hey there, Master Hem,” I greet, pouting as I trail a finger down the wall of the archway. “What's making you so grumpy? Bad news?”
“It's nothing, really,” he says dryly, not taking his eyes off the screen. “Hey, Lia. How are you?”
“You know I'm always better whenever you're around, Master,” I sashay over to the counter where he is standing, propping a hip on the low cabinetry. “I always feel a little safer whenever you're home. You're all big and buff...” I trail off, swallowing.
He cuts me a brief look, but his eyes doesn't seem to see any of the eye candy I'm offering.
Ugh. Of course he doesn't.
To him, I'm still the little girl who ran out to hug and welcome him whenever he came home from work.
“You know, Lia, you're safe whenever I'm not around too. You've got Eric who'll never let anything bad happen to you. The alarm system is also engaged and the gate electrified,” he reassures absent-mindedly, flipping a paper and scrutinizing it's content. “How's everything at home? How's your father?”
Broke.
Destitute.
A selfish loser whose entire life is a lie.
“He's fine. He said to say hello,” I lied. My father is barely home to acknowledge me these days. Not that I have a problem with it. Seeing his face around makes my stomach roil, and my blood boil, so I always shut myself in my room each time he's home. Which is hardly possible, considering he's always on the run, hiding, trying to dodge creditors.
Maybe it's the reminder that there's nothing left for me to use in paying my tuition fee that makes me feel a little carefree tonight. On a normal day, I'll simply flirt a bit with Tristan, and he'll send me back to Eric's room with a little pat on the head. But I need a distraction from the mess that has become my life. I want the comfort of his arms, the peace I'm sure they'll bring, now more than ever — and this is saying a lot because my panties has always been on fire for this man ever since I crossed puberty.
I take my bottom lip into my mouth, wetting it, and allow my pulse build up and trip over itself. I'm in another element, another form — I'm another Lia as I slide between Tristan and the kitchen counter, the fly of his expensive suit pants dragging across my bare stomach.
Immediately, I'm pinned by that icy blue, hooded gaze. The one that made so many women fall at his feet. That made him a no-nonsense billionaire many times over in the business world. It's piercing. Sharp. Ruthless. It makes me almost lose my act. But I don't. I latch onto my courage with an extra ferocity, and reach up to loosen his black tie. “Don't you ever get tired of working, Big Daddy? You can't work so hard all the time. It's not good for you,” I murmur, using the nickname I've been using for him since middle school. It's been a long while since I used it, and I'll be lying if I said it's not perfect for this big bear goodness of a man. “All work and no play makes Daddy a dull man. You've got to have a little fun sometimes, don't you think?”
“Lia...” he swallows hard, looking anywhere else but my face. I detect the stern warning in his tone, but I pay it no mind. “W-What are you doing?”
“Lia...” he swallows hard, looking anywhere else but my face. I detect the stern warning in his tone, but I pay it no mind. “W-What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I'm doing, hm?” I hum, grunting as I successfully take his tie off, then bat my lashes as I trail the silk down between my breasts, finally, finally getting his eyes there. I feel the heat emanating off him, a muscle jumping in his cheek when I arch my back a little. “I'm just having fun, Daddy,” I whisper seductively, dropping the tie and flattening my palm, riding it up the front of his perfumed, well-pressed suit. “You work so hard. You should burn steam sometimes. It'll be good for your health...make you less grumpy.”
To God, I'm not lying. At all.
Tristan spends six out of the seven days of the week working his arse off. The last day, Sunday, he spends it with Eric — and it's for a few hours only. Afterwards, he locks himself in his private office for the rest of the day, while Eric is left with no option than to invite me over for a sleepover.
I'm truly worried about his stress level. I'm worried that when, eventually, he's ready to lay back and have fun it'll be too late then. It's not an excuse for me to get closer, I promise.
He has always been a constant in my life since he moved in right next to us. His son is my best friend — one I'm so thankful for, and I care about the both of them even more than my own father. I see them as my one, true family.
“I'm not grumpy, Lia. And I'm fine. I really am,” he exhales, his jaw still clenched. “You shouldn't be standing so close to me...” his gaze falls to my hand on his chest. “And your hands...they shouldn't — ”
He trails off with a groan when I pop the first button open, the sight of his bare, muscled chest making heat pool in between my legs. “Oops,” I say, blinking innocently. “Bet you feel relieved. How do you breathe in this shirt? It's so tight. Too fitting. Too...perfect, even though I'm sure you'll look twice hotter wearing a T-shirt instead.”
“You should stop this at once. Why do you always wear revealing clothes? Don't you have a skirt that covers your pert, little teenage arse? You're still a child, Lia.” The question comes out rushed. He turns away, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “You know what? Forget about whatever I just said. I shouldn't have asked you that. What you choose to wear doesn't concern me.”
I can hardly think straight. This is...this is more than I ever asked for. “Oh my God. You...notice. You do notice what I wear.” My joy is inexplicable, I feel like screaming. “The way you act sometimes — ”
“We shouldn't be having this conversation in the first place. It's so goddamn inappropriate,” he buttons his shirt back and folds his big arms over his chest. “Now go back to Eric. In here, nothing ever happened. We never spoke about this. Understand?”
Knowing that I'll never have an opportunity as good as this for at least a long while, I defy his words, sticking my tongue out as I hop onto the counter, dragging my arse backwards, excited beyond words when Tristan's eyes follow the movement of my bouncing breasts, his throat bobbing, working in an awkward pattern when I inch my legs open just a little. Just a tease. Enough so he can catch a glimpse at least of my white-laced thong. “Eric is probably engrossed in his video games and wouldn't need me there to distract him. Besides, I'm having way more fun with you here.” I lean back on my hands and proceed to shift my right knee side to side, hiding my panties from him, showing them, hiding. “Chill out, Big Daddy. Relax those nerves. Have fun with me.”
“No. This...this is madness.”
We both look down at the same time, at his bulging crotch, then back up at each other. I smirk victoriously.
He's such a terrible liar.
“It's not...this doesn't mean...fuck...” He drags a palm down his face and shoves my legs together with lukewarm determination, his touch blowing up my circuits, shooting electricity through my body. “I haven't been with a woman ever since Sherry died. It's been decades, and you can't judge me. I mean, it's a normal reaction to be easily...”
“Tested? I'm tempting you, am I right?” I lean forward, taking the lapels of his shirt in my hands, pulling him closer despite his reluctance. Despite the way he stares at me with that helpless, sexy gaze. Despite the way my name leaves his throat as as a low growl. A warning. I settle my mouth over the top of his hard lips, my eyes shut. Inhaling, exhaling, inhaling. Feels so perfect. “You want me, don't you? You don't even have to say it. I can feel it. Feel the way your cock aches for me. Stop torturing yourself, Big Daddy.”
He shakes his head, but those lips come back to mine, not kissing me alright, but fueling my hope nonetheless. “You're my son's best friend, Lia. Less than half of my age. I run with your father most evenings. Fuck, I'm practically like a father to you.” Too quickly, he squeezes my knees, letting his fingers brush along my sensitive insides. Slightly higher to my higher thighs. With a breathless curse, he whirls around roughly, taking out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbing his forehead with it. “I don't know what this is. I don't know what it is you're trying to do, but it ends now, little girl. You go for people your age. I don't mind if you date Eric.”
I should be annoyed. I should be disappointed, but instead his words only make me more determined. Make me stubborn.
He came clean. Admitted that he notices me. Notices my body. He lets our mouths touch. Stroked my thighs. Things might have gone further, if he could just stop holding himself back. I'm almost trembling with happiness at this development. If I knew he'd be this responsive earlier, I could've pushed him sooner. If I'd been this brave from the beginning, I could've broken him a lot earlier. The man I burned for, love so fiercely, is turned on. He's attracted.
But also, he's thrown up a startling fifty-foot wall between us.
I'm more than happy to climb it this time. To show him I'm more than the little, horny girl he thinks I am. To show him how much I love him. How much I'm willing to be devoted.
