There’s just no fighting it. No matter how many how many Beverly Hills shopping trips my old money mother drags me along for, no matter how many vacations I have to spend at exclusive villas or on yachts in the middle of an ocean, I take after my new money father, through and through. I have his gray-blue eyes, share his shade of golden blond hair, and sport the same frown after a long day of spending enormous amounts of money on clothing and baubles nearly identical to those we already have.
She’d rather be dining at an exclusive restaurant, while Dad and I would have more fun discovering a good hole-in-the-wall ethnic place. She loves the sort of establishments where half the staff is forbidden to speak to the clientele, while I grew up sneaking out service entrances to drink cheap beer and listen to music with our housekeeper’s daughters or with busboys trying to become actors. Dad and I like life to be a tad more colorful than my mother does, and she tries not to disapprove too much.
It feels like Mother and I have already been to half the boutiques in Beverly Hills today, so when she insists we have to stop at Battaglia on Rodeo Drive so she can buy Dad another tie he doesn’t need in a color that suits her taste more than his, I sink down into the leather seat of the limo and shake my head no.
Mother perks one of her perfect sable brown eyebrows at me. “Don’t be so contrary, Cassandra.” My mother refuses to call me Cassie.
“I’m really not trying to be difficult,” I lie. “I’m just in a hurry to get home. I have a date with Ethan tonight.”
“Ethan?” The mention of his name puts a smile on my mother’s face. He’s from the right kind of family, went to the right schools, and knows the right people, so far as she’s concerned. I’m only interested in the fact that he’s got a nice cock and doesn’t want to pretend we’ve made love after we’ve fucked. He’s not my “forever lay”.
Mother has that look in her eye that says she’s thinking about wedding invitations and china patterns. “In that case,” she says, “I will have Jon drop me off and come back for me in a couple of hours.” She presses the intercom button, because she never leaves the privacy window between us and the driver down, and relays her instructions to Jon.
“Yes, ma’am,” a deep voice replies from the speaker.
The mention of Jon’s name and the sound of his voice distract me. Jon’s been working as our driver for eight years, since I was thirteen and he was twenty-one. He’s been my favorite sex fantasy all that time. Even now, I feel my pussy getting slick at the thought of being alone in the limo with him. I take every opportunity I can to try to arouse him, try to tease him into fucking me. Maybe today is the day.
The limo pulls to a stop, and I can’t wait to get Mother out of the car. Through the tinted windows, I see Jon come around the front of the limo to the passenger side. I squeeze my legs together hard at the sight of him. His hair is clipped short and a darker blond than mine is, and his eyes are water blue. Beneath the dark uniform, his body is lean, with firm, defined muscles. I know because I snuck into his quarters when I was seventeen and caught him coming out of the bathroom fresh from a shower and wearing nothing but a towel. If I’d only gotten there five minutes earlier…
Jon opens the door for my mother, and our gazes connect in a sidelong glance. He’s been through this with me enough times that he knows what’s coming. I wonder if the fleeting trace of a smile on his pale lips is just my imagination. My nipples and my clit tingle at the possibilities, and I find myself gripping the edge of the leather seat anxiously.
I resist the urge to physically kick my poor mother out of the limo and wait until we’re moving again before I hit the console button that rolls down the window between Jon and me.
“Hi, Jon,” I say in a breathy voice, trying not to giggle with excitement. Usually, I’m not the giggly sort until I’ve downed at least a bottle of champagne or polished off a dozen tequila shooters, depending on the company I’m keeping.
“Miss Warren,” he says, sticking to his usual formal address, but there’s a hint of amusement in his tone.
Knowing he’s watching me in the rearview mirror, I part my legs slightly and run my hands along my thighs, pushing the hem of my dress higher. “Are you ever going to call me Cassie?”
“No, Miss Warren.”
This is the way it always goes. We share a teasing tone. I get wet. He gets hard. But I have yet to find the trigger that will make him forget my father is his boss.
Idly, I ask, “How’s the girlfriend?”
He chuckles low, and I wonder what that rumble would feel like against my face or my neck or with his head between my legs. “We’re not together anymore,” he tells me.
This sends a thrill down the back of my neck and my spine. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“No, you’re not,” he mumbles beneath his breath. I see that gorgeous smile in the mirror.
I know this puts me in a better position than I’ve been in for a long time. Jon is rarely without a girlfriend. I’ve wondered before if that’s why I’ve never been able to seduce him, if he’s not the cheating sort. But now here he is with one less reason to resist me. I’ve been getting better at making him hard lately. Despite himself, he likes it when I talk dirty and “accidentally” flash an expanse of thigh or too much cleavage at him. Or the bulge in his pants likes it, anyway. Time to go all in.
Pulling the straps of my dress down my shoulders, I say, “You should pull over, Jon.”
“Why is that, Miss Warren?”
“Because you have no girlfriend, and I’ve been asking for a good, hard fucking for a long time now. The back of the limo is the perfect place for you to give it to me.”
His breath catches, and a moment passes before he clears his throat, but he doesn’t answer, and he doesn’t stop the car.
I wriggle out of my dress and kick it away, leaving me in black silk undies, stockings, and platform pumps. The car slows, just a little. He still doesn’t say anything.
Bolder than I’ve ever been with Jon, I pull my bra down to reveal my tits. The kiss of cool air from the AC further stiffens my already aching nipples. I pinch them and whimper, and our speed drops again.
“Jon, do you like my tits?” I hear a rush of breath from him and see his fists are clenched on the steering wheel. “I’ve always fantasized about you sticking your hands under my sweater and grabbing my tits. It would be so hot if you shoved me down on my knees and tit-fucked me.”
“Stop,” he says, but his voice lacks the edge of really meaning it.
I take off my bra and fling it toward him. It ends up draped over the edge of the open divider. Jon shakes his head, and I see that smile again.
“I’m not giving up this time,” I tell him, but he seems to be deliberately avoiding looking into the mirror now. I arch my hips and slide my panties down. The AC hits my bare cunt, and I gasp. Jon’s eyes dart toward the mirror and away again. “Jon, don’t leave me alone back here with my pussy so wet.” I spread my legs wide, kneading my inner thighs. “Did you ever wonder if I shave my pussy? I do.” I want to make him look in the mirror again, but he won’t.
As my last resort, I slip the panties off my ankle and pull on the elastic. When I let go, they fly across the limo. Though I aimed for the back of Jon’s head, they hit the mirror and fall down beside him. I feel another surge of anticipation when his right hand leaves the steering wheel.
“Do you feel how wet my panties are? Can you smell it?”
Jon’s hand abruptly returns to the wheel, and the limo speeds up.
“Almost home,” he mutters, to himself more than me, I think.
It’s not going to work, I realize. Instead of feeling deflated, I’m wound up tight. I’ve never needed to be fucked so badly in my entire life.
“Home,” I say, with a tinge of bitterness. “Fine. If I can’t have your cock instead me, I guess I’ll have to settle for Ethan’s.”
Our acceleration falters, and I see in the mirror a particularly hard expression on Jon’s face, lips pressed into an angry frown. Jon doesn’t like Ethan? But I’ve dated Ethan longer than any other guy, because neither of us really wants to get serious right now, and because dating each other keeps our parents off our backs about marriage. In two years, Jon has never shown dislike toward Ethan. Then it occurs to me. Is it dislike, or is it jealousy of the only guy I’ve kept around for any length of time? Is Ethan the trigger I’ve been looking for?
***
Jon, standing in the drive with the limo, still looks to be in a foul mood when dark-haired, athletic Ethan leads me out of the house for our dinner date. Ethan has brought his vintage hardtop convertible, sans the top, just as I asked when I spoke to him earlier. Now I make a big show of pressing close to my date.
“It’s cooler tonight than I thought it would be,” I tell Ethan, not mentioning I checked the forecast three times in hopes it would be cool and breezy. “Let’s take the limo instead of your car.”
Ethan shrugs. “Sure.”
Jon doesn’t look so agreeable, but I don’t think Ethan catches the way Jon rolls his eyes as he turns his head to look away. He can’t ignore us once we’re at the limo, and he has to open the door to let us slide into the back.
Once we’re moving, I do something that Jon has never known me to do. I press the button to roll up the privacy divider, almost all the way to the top. Knowing there’s enough of a gap to allow Jon to hear everything going on in the back, I start a heavy petting session with Ethan, complete with all the dirty talk that strains Jon’s self-control.
I’m a little louder than I need to be when I groan and tell Ethan, “Yes, mmm, pinch my nipple. Yes, harder.” It’s dead silent up front when I moan, “Put your hand in my panties.” For the crowning touch, I use an exceptionally wicked voice to ask Ethan, “Do you want to fuck my mouth?” before reaching for the arm rest behind me and the button to finish closing the divider. Feeling the limo accelerate is almost more thrilling than Ethan’s hard cock filling my mouth.
At the restaurant, Jon keeps his face turned downward as he lets Ethan and me out of the limo. I rush through dinner, my clit on fire with how badly I need Jon to suck it. Back in the car, the encore make-out session with Ethan is as much about how hot I am as it is about teasing Jon past his breaking point. As we get back to the house, I suspect Jon has broken several traffic laws, because neither Ethan nor I have had time to come by the time my chauffer opens the door.
At the foot of the steps, Ethan kisses and gropes me and suggests we sneak through the service entrance and up the back stairs to my room, but I put him off. I don’t feel bad about it, because I know Ethan has a little black book filled with the numbers of girls he can call for a late night fuck, and he knows I won’t get jealous. Still hopeful, I linger there to watch Ethan get into his car and go. Jon is watching, too.
But then Ethan is gone, the automatic gate at the end of the drive closing smoothly behind him, and Jon doesn’t turn or look at me. My frustration has become a painful ache, a willingness to spread myself for anything long and hard. I clench my fists and start up the steps with every intention of giving up on Jon and giving my vibrator the hardest workout it can handle.
I’m so mad that the sound of footsteps behind me doesn’t really register. Then Jon is grabbing me by the arm and whirling me around to face him. His eyes seem darker than they should be, intent, his gaze as physical as a caress against my skin. He glances at the house, maybe to make sure no one is watching, before he pulls me to the limo and pushes me onto the carpeted floor.
The door slams, and I roll from my hands and knees onto my back just as Jon throws his cap aside and comes down on top of me. I instinctively spread my legs for him, my short black dress riding up my thighs. His hard-on settles against my silk-clad crotch. I can’t tell if it’s my pussy throbbing or his cock, maybe both.
I moan as Jon takes a fistful of my hair to pull me into a hard kiss. His tongue surges into my mouth in a motion both smooth and forceful. He smells of soap and leather and tastes very faintly of the whiskey we keep stocked in the limo. The idea that I wound him up so much that he knocked back a whiskey while I was at dinner makes me smile into the kiss. I suck his tongue, and his hips buck against mine.
We’re both panting when we break the kiss, but I still let out a little mew at the loss of his warm tongue between my lips. Jon rises to his knees, staring down hungrily at me as he whips off his uniform jacket and white button-front shirt. His body is every bit as firm and sculpted as I remember, but a few more years have added a little more muscle in all the right places. I reach out to run my hands along his washboard stomach, but he grabs them and holds them above my head.
Looming over me, his voice husky, Jon asks, “Is this what you wanted when you made sure I would hear you telling Ethan to squeeze your tits and finger your pussy?”
Breathless, my heartbeat in my throat, I nod.
Jon bucks his hips again, and I cry out softly. Through our clothes, his cock feels huge. Against my lips, he whispers, “This is not going to be all about what you want.”
All this time, I imagined Jon would be skillful, smooth, direct, and he does not disappoint. He unzips my dress, no fumbling or feeling his way, and nudges my weight this direction or that until I’m out of it faster than I could have gotten into it. A second later, my bra is off, and his lips fasten around one tender nipple while his fingers pluck firmly at the other. I shiver in delight at the extremes of his hot skin against mine in the cool air, the pleasure of his sucking mouth and the slight, sharp pain of his pinching fingers.
Bracing myself with my shoulders, I spread my legs as wide as I can and pump my hips rhythmically under him, trying to increase the pressure of his hard-on against my clit. It feels like I’ve been wet and aching forever. Just when I think I’m getting close to coming, Jon uses his hips to pin me to the carpet.
As though reluctant, Jon unseals his lips from my nipple, but pauses to nip it gently with his teeth. My back arches with the jolt of ecstasy this sends through me. “Are you trying to tell me something?” he pants against my cheek.
“I need to come,” I tell him. “I need your cock inside me.”
Jon runs his lips along my jaw, and I turn my head to make it more available to him. “Say please,” he whispers, hot breath rolling against my neck and making my skin break out in goose bumps.
“Please, Jon.”
He comes to his knees again, his gaze so intent it heats my skin. Taking ahold of each of my legs from beneath, he lifts them and settles my calves against one of his shoulders, keeping his arm around my knees to hold them in place. He peels the wet silk of my panties away from my cunt. It feels like my juices have slicked my inner thighs halfway to my knees. I hold my breath, waiting for him to touch my pussy.
Jon thrusts two fingers inside me, and I gasp and squirm. “Wet,” he says, “but not wet enough.” He must be joking, I think. I’m dripping wet already. He begins finger-fucking me, occasionally strumming my clit with his thumb. When I’m panting good and hard, he adds a third finger and a slight twisting motion. I cry out his name, bringing a proud, devilish smile to his face.
“Play with your nipples while I finger your cunt,” he says. I think he’s figured out what it does to me to hear that deep voice telling me what to do. “Pinch them, hard, like I do.”
The position he’s holding me in is excruciating, because I cannot pump my hips or rub myself against his bulging cock. The frustration has me tossing my head and whimpering as I twist and torment my rigid nipples.
The thrusting of fingers in my dripping pussy stops, and I feel warm breath against the slick flesh as Jon bends low and blows lightly on my cunt lips. I melt into a tingling puddle of pleasure and need.
“I think you might be ready,” he says and winks at me when I look up in astonishment. “I should make sure, though.” Jon lets my legs down and spreads them wide again and clamps his lips on my clit before I can brace myself for the sensation.
My whole body tenses as a sudden orgasm vibrates through me. Jon holds my hips down and lashes my clit with quick strokes of his tongue that extend the orgasm for many more frantic heartbeats. He alternates this with sucking my clit and scraping it with his teeth. Am I still coming, or am I coming again? I don’t know anymore; I’m just trembling and pulling his hair. Just as I think he’s going to let me calm down, he takes another leisurely lap at my sensitive pussy, and spasms of pleasure reclaim my body.
When I’ve finally stopped shaking, and he lets me move again, I take ahold of Jon’s sandy hair as best I can to pull him up and roll him under me. Straddling him, I have his pants unfastened and his hard cock out of his briefs before he can react. Again, I am not disappointed. While not exceptionally thick, his dick is ramrod hard and eight inches long.
Jon has put his hands behind his head and is grinning indulgently at me, almost daring me to better the performance he just gave. I’m up to the challenge. I move back and lower my mouth to his stiff cock. Wasting no time, I use quick, sloppy licks to make his dick as slippery as if he’d rammed it in my cunt. Then I pump the shaft with my fist a few times while I suck first one ball then the other into my mouth. I have always loved sucking the balls of men who keep themselves trimmed, but it’s even better with Jon, even better tasting his salty skin and hearing his breath coming in short, uneven bursts.
There’s already a drop of pre-cum glistening at the end of Jon’s cock when I lift my head from his balls. I flick my tongue out to lap it up, and he groans. He tastes so fucking good, no bitterness at all. Not so nonchalant now, he reaches down to tangle one hand in my hair, his gaze fixed on my mouth as I linger over the head of his dick.
I go down on him and suck long and deep. As I pull back, I start pumping the base of his shaft with my hand and pause to swirl my tongue around the head. “Oh, fuck,” he groans, his voice even sexier with his obvious need. “You’ve kept me so damn hard all day. Suck that cock. Suck it like you’re my slut.”
In response, I force my mouth as far down his cock as I can, sucking harder, trying to show Jon that I am his slut. His hold on my hair tightens, and his dick begins to pulse and jerk. He’s so close.
Instead of coming in my mouth, Jon uses his hold on my hair to pull my head away. He sits up and takes my face in his hand. The tip of his tongue darts out to lick away a drop of saliva smeared at the corner of my mouth.
“Hey, no fair,” I pant. “You made me come. My turn.”
“No fair?” he says as he spins me around so I’m kneeling bent over the cushy leather seat. He grabs both my tits from behind, his firm body pressed against mine. “This isn’t about what’s fair. You wanted me to fuck you, so you have to take it the way I want to give it to you.”
I put my hands over his and urge him to squeeze my breasts. “As long as you give it to me.”
“We just have one more matter to settle,” Jon tells me and twists my nipples slowly, back and forth, as though that’s going to help me concentrate. “Are you Ethan’s slut, or are you my slut?”
The possessiveness in Jon’s voice sends an unexpected thrill through me. “I’m yours, Jon. I’m your slut.” I’ve been his slut almost since I was old enough to masturbate. Any doubt I ever had that I might just want whatever I can’t have, or that my desire for Jon is part of a rich girl’s fascination with men outside high society’s social circle, is completely gone. Everything about the way he touches me and speaks to me makes me desperate for more.
He nips my earlobe before growling, “Then it’s time for you to get the fucking you deserve.”
I expect—I want—Jon to push my face down into the seat and slam into me his full length. I’m unprepared for how delicious it feels when he nudges just the head of his cock into my sensitive cunt. He hesitates, and my pussy twitches and grasps at his cock, making it seem to grow larger, making my pussy seem too swollen to take him.
Jon keeps twisting my nipples, making me crazy with the mixture of pleasure and light pain. He sinks into me another two inches, so slowly. It creates the illusion that my engorged pussy is resisting him, that he’s forcing his way in little by little. My whole cunt is on fire with the stinging heat of my desire now. I try to push back onto his cock, but he edges away, pulling on my nipples to make me lean forward again.
He pushes the last few inches into me in one agonizingly measured stroke, and I realize I’ve never fucked a man who used his cock as well as Jon does. Even feeling his cock sunk balls-deep into my cunt, I feel the unbearable urge to push back, to take more. I put my hands on the seatback to get enough leverage to thrust myself against him, insisting on taking more of a cock already shoved eight inches into me.
The catch I hear in Jon’s throat is the only warning I get that my squirming and straining is having an effect on him. He pulls a couple of inches out of me, before he slams his cock back home. The next stroke is longer, harder, faster, as is the next. He grunts with effort, and I’m a hot whimpering mess, as my slick pussy slurps and sucks obscenely at his driving cock.
“More,” I squeal, and Jon begins pumping me at a frenzied pace. Our bodied slap together, hot and sweaty with exertion. At this angle, his cock is hitting that magic spot with every thrust, keeping me at the height of arousal without pushing me over the edge.
“More,” I cry again, though I barely have the breath. One of Jon’s hands leaves my tits and slides down my body to rub the smooth outer lips of my cunt.
“You want to come?” he rasps into my ear. “You want to come on my dick?”
Unable to more than squeak an answer, I nod my head. Jon’s fingers part my pussy, and his middle finger goes straight for my overstimulated clit. He makes rough circles around the tender nub, alternating with quick up-and-down strokes. I can’t decide whether I want to move my hips in time with his finger against my clit or with his hips as he slams his cock into me. I’m at point where I can hardly think at all.
Jon’s other hand leaves my breast and circles my waist so he can hold me in place, so he can work his hips just a little faster, a little harder. “Come for me, Cassie,” he demands. His finger keeps tormenting my clit, and just when I think I can’t breathe anymore, my body arches and falls forward against the chilled leather seat. My orgasm shudders through me as Jon holds my body and moans my name. It’s like a dream of falling and tumbling and trembling while my nerves cry out for mercy. It starts to fade, twice, three times, only to wash over me again, only a little less intensely each time.
His thrusts relent but do not stop. Jon is pressed over me from behind, his hot breath on the back of my neck. When I can move, when I can talk, I look over my shoulder at him. “Come,” I say, my voice hoarse. He continues fucking me a few moments more before he nods and pulls out of me.
Seeing I’m unsteady from the orgasm, Jon helps me turn around to sit on the carpet facing him. I lean back against the edge of the seat while he kneels over me between my spread legs, one of his hands sliding up and down his dick. I press my tits together, wordlessly urging him to paint them in his cum.
“Fuck,” he gasps, and arches of the milky liquid spurt from his dick, splattering my chest. As the streams get smaller, I lean forward to catch them against my skin, until I’m rubbing my cum-sprayed tits against Jon’s cock while he massages the back of my neck. I tilt my head back, and he hesitates a moment, watching me slather his cum over my breasts and nipples, before he leans in for a deep, possessive kiss. I taste my juices in his mouth, and that twitching in my cunt flares again briefly.
After breaking the kiss, Jon lingers over me. His breathing grows calmer, and his tensed muscles relax by degrees under my fingertips. He drags one hand through the sticky cum on my skin, taking a moment to palm one tit before lifting his hand to my mouth. I lick the cum, and his eyes glaze with lazy desire.
“I don’t share well with others, Cassie,” he says, his face still held close to mine. “That’s why I never wanted to start this with you.”
“No sharing,” I assure him.
He perks on brow. “And Ethan?”
“Don’t worry. We mostly date just to keep our parents from shoving us at every eligible match in the country club set. He’ll be more than happy to keep me as a pretend girlfriend while he discreetly fucks his way along the Sunset Strip.”
“Good,” Jon says as he strokes my cheek, “because you’re going to be busy making up for eight years of cold showers.”
I bite gently at his lower lip. “Bring it on.”
