Gettin' Back Up On The Saddle

Chanel had plans—good ones, loud music, better company. She ditched all of it to sit next to her stepdad on the couch. Filthy Rich looked like somebody hit him with a truck and then backed over the spot. Popcorn waited in a bowl the size of a kiddie pool. Rich grabbed his phone, read one line, and his face dropped like an anchor. Chanel watched the smile evaporate. She took the phone out of his hand, set it face-down, and climbed onto his lap before he could think up an excuse. Her kiss landed soft but sure. "Want me to make it better?" Rich started to answer and she covered his mouth with her palm. "Our secret." Her shorts hit the rug. She freed his cock, already thickening, and dragged her tongue up the shaft slow enough to feel every twitch. Hair curled dark between her legs; she rubbed the damp fluff along the head, back and forth, until the couch squeaked. She sank down, breath catching as the thick length stretched her open inch by inch. When she spun, that little round ass started to bounce—cheeks clapping, muscles clenching around him on every drop. Rich planted his feet and drove up, fucking her from behind until her thighs shook and a wet pulse squeezed him hard. She flipped back around, knelt, mouth open. He painted her tongue, her lips, her chin, a few streaks catching in her hair. Chanel swallowed what she could, licked the rest, and grinned up at him. "Knew you had it in you."