Single Dad's Bride

by Melinda Minx

  My arms flail wildly and I grab tight hold of the comforter, and my entire body convulses and trembles. My channel becomes so warm, and out from it warmth and total ecstasy radiates. It goes from my arms to my fingertips, and from my legs to my toes. Soon it all becomes too much, and I find myself trying to push Deacon away. The orgasm peaks and falls, and peaks again. My body can’t take it anymore.

  “Please, please, Deacon!”

  I finally push him away, and he laughs maniacally when he finally stops.

  “There you go,” he says. “You just hit third base. Now you’re ready for a real home run.”

  “I never liked baseball,” I say, barely able to speak. I’m so out of breath, but everything feels like it’s glowing. I’m perfectly relaxed, and still soaking wet.

  I look over at Deacon, who is standing up now. His dick is rock hard again. HIs perfectly sculpted body is covered in ink, and his cock is pressed up against his six-pack abs, covering his belly button. His v-cut is deep and pointing right down to the base of his cock. He looks like a perfectly engineered machine, designed to bring women to orgasm. Designed to bring me to orgasm.

  “You can…” I point at him. “Didn’t you just cum?”

  “That was over twenty minutes ago,” he says. “Luckily women don’t need any recovery time.”

  “I need it,” I say, scrunching my face up at him. “I can barely move.”

  “I’ll do most of the moving,” he says, grabbing my ankles and pulling my legs back.

  “No,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “I mean…” I say, my face burning red. “Not like that.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “That position,” I say.

  “Missionary?”

  I nod.

  “Why not?”

  “Because,” I say. “That’s all Brian ever did.”

  “Oh,” Deacon says, laughing. “From everything I’ve heard about this dude now, I’m guessing it wasn’t very good then. Get on your knees then, and I promise this time will be good.”

  I obey. I flip over and get up on my hands and knees.

  Deacon grabs hold of my waist, and he reaches a hand around and squeezes my ass. My eyes roll back in my head. I don’t look back. I want to suddenly feel him.

  And then I do. His cock slaps against my wet lips, and I feel the head sliding around, searching for my opening.

  I finally understand his order to relax now. After coming so many times from his tongue, and wrapped up in the warm afterglow, I am finally relaxed. I’m relaxed even though the biggest, thickest cock I’ve ever seen is about to plunge inside me.

  I feel his head begin to press against my opening. There’s an intense pressure as he slides into me, but then his head enters me fully, and the pressure reduces. I feel only an intense warmth and tightness.

  “Fuck,” he says. “You may as well be a virgin, Rita, you’re so damn tight.”

  “Don’t let that stop you,” I say.

  I’m impatient. I want him deeper inside me.

  He obliges, shoving further in. It feels as if he’s stretching me impossibly wide, but I’m so wet and hot that he slides right in with little resistance. Soon he pushes so deep—deeper than I thought possible—that I feel his balls pressing against me.

  He holds like that, his hard body pressing up against my ass, and he cups my right breast, tweaking the nipple.

  I moan, and then he begins to pull back out. He starts a slow and steady rhythm, sliding in and out of me. I’m so wet and tight that I can hear each movement in and out—punctuated by a wet pop.

  “Yes,” I moan. “God, yes.”

  “Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain, Rita,” he says, laughing.

  It’s not in vain, I’m literally thanking God. Finally, a man who can satisfy me. He’d been there all along, but only now did God decide to bring us together. Literally together.

  His cock slides in and out of me, and I feel it hitting a sensitive spot within me each time it moves in and out. An intensity builds up more and more within me each time his cock hits against that spot. It must be the g-spot—which I’d thought didn’t really exist. Brian sure as heck couldn’t hit it with his little dick.

  Deacon can, though, and he does, again and again. I collapse my upper body down, so that only my ass remains up in the air. He pounds in and out of me, faster now, and the new angle makes him hit my g-spot even better than before. I start to moan loudly, and drool drips out of my mouth and onto the pillow.

  “Deacon, yes, don’t stop!”

  “Nothing could stop me now,” he says.

  He pounds me hard. Each time he sinks in, his hips slap hard against my ass, and his balls slap against me. It’s loud, and the sound alone nearly brings me over the edge.

  Then I feel my pussy clenching up. It’s different from before. Instead of his tongue on my clit, his cock is massaging my g-spot. It feels as if the g-spot is directly connected to every single nerve in my body. Every part of me lights up—ignites. I moan and scream, and my whole body seizes up, twitches, and shudders.

  Deacon fucks me faster and faster. I become wet as the sea, and my gushing wetness soaks his cock, lubricating it even as he fucks me hard and fast as a jackhammer.

  “Fuck!” I shout out.

  Then I feel his cock twitch and swell, and soon I feel his thick loads blasting up inside me. He fills me up with more and more thick warmth, until it starts to drip out of me and down my thighs.

  “Rita,” he moans. “Fuck, it’s so good. Too good.”

  I feel his dick throb a few more times even though he’s no longer sliding in and out of me. A few more drops of cum release into me, and then we both stop moving.

  I collapse down flat, and he leaves his dick inside me for a few more moments. When he finally pulls out, I realize I’m lying in a puddle of cum, staining the sheets.

  “Home run,” he says.

  17

  Deacon

  Anna and Elsie are waiting for us at the airport.

  Elsie runs up to me and hugs me tight, squeezing me and not letting go.

  I laugh and ruffle her hair. “I thought you didn’t want me to come back.”

  “I’m still happy to see you,” she says. “Maybe it’s good you came back now.”

  Elsie finally lets go and looks up at Rita. “Hi, Rita, do you want a hug, too?”

  “Sure,” Rita says, smiling. “I would love one,” she says, bending down.

  Elsie hugs her, then Anna asks, “Did you guys have fun?”

  I see Rita blushing, and Anna’s eyes widen.

  Elsie looks up. “Aunt Anna, why is Rita blushing? Did she have too much fun?”

  “I don’t know,” Anna says, giving me a look. “We’ll have to find out, won’t we?”

  “Did you go snorkeling?” Elsie asks. “My friend Lisa went snorkeling on a cruise, she said she could see all the fish and stuff.”

  “Yeah,” I say, patting Elsie on the back. “We went snorkeling.”

  We did—eventually—between fucking each other’s’ brains out every few hours.

  Anna pulls me aside while Rita tells Elsie all about the snorkeling.

  “Bad news,” she says. “Or maybe it’s good. Stacy’s parents want you to meet with them.”

  “Aidan told me not to,” I say.

  “I know,” Anna says. “But it sounds almost like they are considering cutting some kind of deal.”

  “Some kind of deal,” I mutter. “It’s my fucking kid, not theirs. Why should I have to—?”

  “Deacon,” Anna says. “Come on, just meet with them. If you can deal with this out of court…”

  “I’ll ask Aidan,” I say.

  I call Aidan once I’m back home.

  “Don’t do it,” he says. “I know it’s tempting to try to cut deals at this stage. Avoid the whole court circus...but if we win now, we win. If you make some verbal agreement with them, there’s every possibility they can just change their minds, turn arou
nd, and sue you again later.”

  “I want to at least hear them out, Aidan.”

  “Fine,” he says. “Hear them out, and if they make any kind of deal you are tempted to agree on, make no verbal agreements. We’ll write it all up and make it airtight.”

  “All right,” I say.

  “What did he say?” Rita asks me.

  “I’m going to meet them,” I say. “I want you there with me, Rita.”

  “Me?” she asks, pointing to herself.

  “Yeah,” I say, nodding. “Maybe if they see us together...they’ll see reason and let this all go. That’s my hope.”

  “No pressure on me or anything,” she says, laughing nervously.

  “Just be yourself.” I smile. “If they see what you’re like, I think they’ll be a lot less worried about me raising Elsie.”

  “What if…” she says, “they sense that the marriage isn’t real?”

  I look around to make sure Anna or Elsie aren’t within earshot. “Well,” I say, “it’s been consummated, so what isn’t real about it?”

  She slaps my arm. “Come on, Deacon, you know what I mean.”

  I shrug. “You don’t have to go with me, but I think it’d be better if you did. I gotta tattoo a client in like ten minutes, but I’ll call Stacy’s parents and let them know I’m coming by with Elsie after I’m done. Let me know what you decide.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Sorry, but I’m just nervous.”

  I tattoo a huge fucking phoenix onto Santiago’s back. It takes over four hours just to do the black and white outline. It will take another several sessions to color the whole thing in.

  “Thanks, man,” Santiago says, looking over his shoulder and admiring the work in the mirror. “This tattoo is gonna be fucking sick.”

  “Hell, yeah,” I say, looking it over. The linework is nearly perfect, it’s seriously some of the best work I’ve ever done. I can already imagine how it’s going to look once it’s fully colored in. Bright orange, some deep purples, just intensely vibrant.

  Santiago gives me a fat stack of cash that includes a generous tip, and I schedule him to come back next week to start the coloring.

  I head into the house once he’s gone, and find Rita and Elsie drawing together.

  “Look,” she says. “I drew you and Rita swimming with snorkels, and I used my markers to color in all the fishies.”

  “Nice,” I say, looking at the drawing. Elsie’s drawings are finally starting to look like the actual thing she’s trying to draw. If she gets much better, I can get her started in the tattooing business. I laugh thinking about it.

  “That’s really nice,” I say, examining the drawing and really looking it over, taking in all the little details. “But now it’s time to go see Grandpa and Grandma,” I say.

  Elsie pouts at me, and Rita looks up with a similar expression.

  “Ah,” I say. “Don’t do that, Elsie, they’re your grandparents.”

  “They’re weird,” she says.

  “I’m weird, too,” I say, smiling.

  “No,” she says. “You’re good weird, they’re bad weird. They made me wear really stupid clothes last time, and makeup, and—”

  “I know,” I say, remembering what set this whole thing off. “I’m going to be there the whole time, you won’t be alone with them.”

  “I don’t wanna,” she says, starting to cry.

  Rita gives her a hug and says, “Hey, come on, Elsie. I’ll go there with you, too. We’ll all go together and it will be fine.”

  She stops crying and looks up at us. “Can I get some ice cream on the way home?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Fine. I’ll bribe you with ice cream. Just try to be nice to Grandpa and Grandma, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  We take Rita’s car—which is fixed and running now—since there are three of us. I realize also that arriving in a car instead of on a bike will look a bit better for Stacy’s parents.

  We drive up to their house and park on the street instead of pulling into the driveway.

  “They know I’m coming, right?” Rita asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “They might be...difficult. Don’t take it personally if they do.”

  Rita sighs. “Deacon, why didn’t you tell me that before we came here?”

  “I was worried you wouldn’t come if I told you.”

  “Does difficult mean annoying?” Elsie asks, sticking her head in between us.

  “Yes, kind of,” I say. “But don’t tell Grandma and Grandpa I said that, okay?”

  “Okay,” she says.

  We all walk up to the front door together, and I let Elsie ring the bell. She loves ringing doorbells.

  The door opens, and I see Michael, Stacy’s dad.

  “Sheryl,” he shouts. “They’re here!”

  “Come in!” he says, gesturing us inside.

  Sheryl hurries over and looks down at Elsie. “She’s dressed like a boy.”

  I try not to roll my eyes. Elsie is wearing shorts and a t-shirt. Girls wear t-shirts, too; it’s not the 1950s.

  “I don’t look like a boy,” Elsie says.

  “Of course you don’t!” Sheryl says. “Your father just dresses you like one, that’s not your fault.”

  “I like these clothes,” Elsie says.

  I look over toward Rita, hoping to escape this conversation. “Michael, Sheryl, this is Rita. My wife.”

  “Ah,” Michael says. “Stacy’s replacement.”

  Rita laughs nervously and extends her hand.

  “Just kidding,” Michael says, shaking her hand. “Sorry we missed the wedding. It was such short notice, and—”

  “It’s fine,” I say, already feeling annoyed.

  Sheryl barely touches Rita’s hand, as if she’s diseased or something.

  Stacy’s replacement? What an asshole thing to say, especially in front of Elsie, and he was “just joking?” My ass. It was a nasty thing to say, and he wouldn’t have said it if making Rita feel like shit wasn’t his intention.

  “No one can replace anyone else,” I say, “but I’m married to Rita now, and you have to respect that.”

  “Relax, Deacon,” Michael says. “I said I was just joking.”

  “Right,” I say. I look over into the living room and see a huge oil painting in a golden frame hanging over the couch. It shows a large woman—the Renaissance ideal—clutching a white cloth to her body. She’s surrounding by ugly little cherubs, and a man is feeding her grapes.

  “New painting?” I ask, pointing toward it.

  “Yes,” Michael says, smiling. “Isn’t it delightful?”

  I shrug. “It looks like shit, if you ask me.”

  Rita elbows me, and Michael and Sheryl gasp.

  Elsie looks up at me with wide eyes, knowing I said a word she’s not allowed to say.

  I wait a few moments, allowing enough time for their full outrage to bubble up, then I laugh and say, “Just joking.”

  Sheryl rolls her eyes, and Michael glares at me.

  “Relax,” I say, smiling. “I said I was just joking. It looks great! Who doesn’t want a knockoff painting with a golden frame that’s worth more than the painting itself taking up the whole living room wall?”

  Michael lets out a nervous laugh and says, “I guess being a tattoo artist makes him an art expert.”

  I can see Rita frowning at the painting. She knows it looks like shit, too. She probably doesn't want to mention her art history degree right now.

  “You’re a used car salesman, Michael,” I say. “If our careers determine how much we know about art, I think I’m slightly in the lead here.”

  “Let’s all relax,” Sheryl says, plastering a big fake smile on her face. “Do you want some lemon cakes, Elsie?”

  Elsie looks up at me, not knowing what a lemon cake is or if she should have one.

  “Sure,” I say. “That sounds good.”

  Sheryl holds up a plate for Elsie, and Elsie looks suspiciously down at the lemon cakes.r />
  “Go on,” I say.

  She takes one and sniffs at it, then takes a bite.

  Sheryl and Michael both watch her intently as she chews. She swallows it down and doesn’t take another bite.

  “Don’t you like it?” Sheryl asks.

  “Umm,” Elsie says, looking down at it. “It’s okay.”

  “Well, don’t be shy,” Sheryl says. “Eat all you’d like.”

  Elsie looks at me, and I whisper to her to finish the cake. She takes another bite and forces it down.

  I grab one and hand it to Rita, and then I eat one myself.

  “So, Rita,” Sheryl says. “What do you do?”

  Rita nearly chokes on her lemon cake. “I’m, uh, between jobs.”

  “Unemployed,” Michael says. “I’d offer you a job at the dealership, but all the secretary positions are filled.”

  “What about as a salesman?” I ask.

  Michael laughs. “Salesman is the proper term, and it’s called that for a reason. In my experience, women can’t sell cars.”

  “I bet Rita could,” I say.

  Rita leans into me and hisses into my ear. “I don’t want to sell cars, Deacon.”

  “I know,” I whisper back.

  Sheryl coughs. “Elsie, what are you learning in school now?”

  “How to carry numbers,” she says.

  “What?” Sheryl asks. “What is that?”

  “Like when you are adding numbers,” I say. “And you have to carry the numbers over from the hundreds column to the tens column, you know?”

  “Oh,” Michael says, snapping. “Just addition, then.”

  “Yeah,” I say, laughing. “I almost had to relearn it to help Elsie with her homework, it’d been so long since I’d done it without a calculator.”

  “Is it really a man’s place to help a daughter with her homework?” Michael asks, crossing his arms across his chest.

  “Why the heck not?” Rita asks indignantly.

  I grin. She probably shouldn’t have antagonized them, but I’m glad to see her go for the throat.

  Michael scoffs. “Sheryl did that for Stacy. It worked.”

  “Deacon does both,” Rita says. “That’s far more manly to me.”