by Jamie Knight
Swooping me up into his strong arms, Leif carried me over to the bed, kissing me passionately as we went. Having been set down on my feet, I stood still as he gently undressed me until I was naked and vulnerable before him.
He started with my cheeks. His hands ran over my entire body, getting to know every inch of me, his tongue following close behind. Eventually, his erotic sojourn ended when he came to my pussy, already damp and pink with excitement at the very thought of his touch.
Tenderly spreading my silken lips with gentle fingers, Leif caressed my aching little pussy with his tongue. I moaned, long and loud, not having to worry about being heard anymore. Taking this as encouragement, Leif slipped a finger in next, lovingly working me as he licked me.
I thought I might pass out, my knees actually buckling from under me, but Leif was there. Catching me with ease, he elevated me from the ground, transporting me onto the bed. Keeping one hand stroking my belly to maintain contact, Leif took off his suit with the other, making things even between us.
Kneeling down beside me so I wouldn’t have to get up, he fed me his cock, getting it most of the way into my mouth, and a good bit of it going down my throat. Finding a comfortable depth, he stroked my hair as he carefully face-fucked me, stimulating my clit with his free hand while he was at it. We came in tandem. Leif finally filled my mouth with his thick, sweet cum as he worked me to a deep orgasm, making me shake like a paint mixer.
When I recovered, Leif pulled me down to the edge of the bed, getting me into a similar position to the one I got into on the chair. He was going to fuck me. I tried to relax and make things as easy as possible. I worried a little about the lack of lube, but my pussy was already so prepped I didn’t think it would be a problem.
Leif reached over to the night table, stroking my clit with his thumb. To my relief he grabbed a bottle of lube from the drawer. Getting both us nice and slick, he capped the lube again and began to stroke the warm head of his beautiful cock against my open and ready pussy.
Easing himself in, making me feel every inch, Leif got his cock inside all the way to the hilt. Backing off a bit to make room, he lubed up something that I didn’t recognize but that kind of reminded me of a dildo and then reached behind me. I yelped with surprise as the chilly wet tip touched my asshole. Leif stroked my belly again, relaxing me enough to to slip it in.
“How does that feel, jellybean?”
“Really good, sir.”
With the buttplug deep in my ass, stretching me out, Leif stared to fuck my pussy, working his massive manhood inside until I thought I might scream. And then I did, loudly, letting all the pleasure I was feeling out at once. There was no other way to accurately express it.
The world started to spin. I had to close my eyes and focus to remain conscious. I didn’t want to miss a thing.
“Marry me,” Leif said, embracing me in the afterglow.
“What?” I asked, not sure I had heard him correctly.
“You are the one for me. I want to marry you, to be Polly’s stepdad, maybe even adopt her if you agree. I also want to have more babies with you. Now that we can actually be together, I never want to let you go again.”
I couldn’t speak. I was so happy I could scream. Or cry. Probably both at once. In the end I went with a response that was a touch less melodramatic.
“Yes. Yes, of course, I’ll marry you!”
Epilogue
Leif
I always cried at weddings. Not just because most of them happened in the spring and I had a tendency toward hay fever. I never thought I would cry at my own, though. I could only hope that my cheeks were pale enough that no one would notice.
There had been a minor disagreement in terms of who would officiate. Brigid’s family wanted a Wiccan priestess and my side argued strongly for an ancient Norse priest. I was fairly neutral on the subject, mostly just wanting Brigid to be happy, and we compromised with a combination of a Justice of the Peace and a Druid elder.
Brigid looked beautiful, dressed in a flowing gown of the style generally referred to as Pre-Raphaelite, jelly-bean-red hair done up in an elaborate braid, the whole thing topped with a daisy crown. Her baby bump showed subtly through the blue velvet.
Polly followed close behind, flinging seasonal flowers about the place, in a baby version of her mother’s dress. She had turned three by the wedding day, and was walking a lot better, in addition to having added a few hundred more words to her vocabulary.
Both the wedding and the reception were held in the woods. Our families agreed that it was lovely. Even Brigid’s dreaded sister perked up a bit despite her obvious bitter envy.
“Come with me, honey,” I said, touching Brigid gently on the arm.
“What’s up?”
“I think it’s time we gave your sister her present.”
Meegan was by the punch bowl. The one with vodka in the mix that only the guests were supposed to drink from. Rooms had been made up in the house for anyone too drunk to drive.
Her dress, a slightly simpler version of the one Brigid was wearing, looked perfect on her. Natural. She had already asked if she would be able to keep it.
“Meegan?”
“Oh, hello,” she said, at least trying to be civil.
“We have something for you. Kind of a combination maid-of-honor gift and a thanks for letting me stay with you so long.”
“Thank you,” Meegan said, her face stony.
The paper dropped away and Meegan suddenly looked like she might cry. The book was large and leather-bound. The title was etched into the aged brown leather in Gaelic.
“It can’t be - I mean, not the original.”
“No, it’s a copy, but a damn good one. 11th century, according to my research. The illuminations are quite beautiful.”
“Thank you,” Meegan said, humbleness emanating from her very core.
I had another present to give her, though.
“I would like you to meet my brother, Sven,” I said.
“Does he look like you?” Meegan asked, as though she was dreaming.
“He’s my twin, so, yes. Though our mother says I’m the handsome one. To be fair to him, he made his money as a lawyer, which is something I could have never done. You might have heard of them. Olafssen and associates?”
“Your brother is Sven Olafssen?” Meegan asked, a certain gleam in her eye.
“According to our mother.”
“Wow. That’s great. Thank you!”
Brigid
I had never seen Meegan so happy. We hadn’t had the best upbringing, which at least partly explained her adult personality. She couldn’t protect me from our abusive father when we were kids, so she started protecting me ever since.
The only problem was, she saw every man as a potential threat. Wanting to help and save people was also what drove her to go into nursing. She told me as much at her graduation party. She was several sheets to the wind at the time, but that tended to make her even more truthful.
I was glad we had been able to make up, with Leif’s help. I was ready to let bygones be bygones.
She danced with Sven like a teenager at the prom, finally living out a fraction of the adolescence she never was allowed to have. The Book of Kells had been my idea, as I knew how much Meegan was into history, though Leif was the one who really made it happen.
The party wound down, most of the guests going to find their rooms in the big beautiful house. The kitchen staff were already working on food for those who might still be a bit peckish, even after demolishing the spread on the center table.
“Bye, Mommy,” my favorite little voice said.
“See you soon, baby,” I said, giving Polly a last hug, after having turned her over to the nanny we had hired.
From the house we went to the nearby airport where Leif kept his plane. I wasn't sure why I was initially surprised he had a private plane. To save the trouble of having to wait for someone to come in and fly it, Leif had long ago added a pilot’s license to his li
st of skills and achievements.
Double-checking the fuel supply, he helped me up into the two-seater and prepared for takeoff. The charted destination: the coastal Norwegian town of Sunnfjord where Leif had bought us a cabin as a getaway. Our honeymoon seemed to be the perfect time for a first visit.
There was no airport in Sunnfjord. The closest one was in the city of Bergen, which was, according to him, known as one of the main homes of Norwegian black metal.
That didn’t matter, though. The grounds around the cabin were considerable, and while it was unlikely that we would technically be allowed to land there, there would be no patrols standing by to write us up.
Catching me in his waiting arms as I hopped out of the plane, Leif carried me to the cabin, not putting me down until we were well across the threshold, closing the door behind us with his foot. It was like we had stepped back in time. The cabin had been lovingly preserved over the hundreds of years it had stood.
The dress wasn’t too hard to get out of. Leif had had it designed with hooks up the back that held it together, without which it would literally fall off. I hadn’t worn any underwear that evening, knowing what was coming next.
“Good girl,” Leif purred, seeing the buttplug firmly in place.
I felt proud of myself for being able to keep it in me so long. I wasn’t sure that I would be able to, but I was willing to try. He had been putting me through anal training the last week or so and it had been the final test.
Preparing me with his tongue, his cock already quite hard, Leif put me in our favorite position, my legs over the edge of the bed, and slid his beautiful cock inside me, making me feel it as he entered me. His hot cock throbbed deep inside my pussy, our heartbeats falling into sync.
We came together, Leif pulling the plug out in time to get his head in instead, unloading inside me. Leaving his cock inside me, his giant load warming me to the core, he started pushing in further.
I moaned but didn’t stop him, wanting it as much as he did. We were on our honeymoon and I wanted to give him my anal virginity.
Leaning down to kiss me, he started moving gradually faster. My moan sounded like it was coming from somewhere else.
I knew what was happening, but it didn’t seem real. I felt like I was standing beside the bed, watching as Leif lovingly took my asshole for the first time. I wrapped myself around him as he pumped.
My legs around his waist and my arms around his neck, grounding myself, bringing us close together. As he came inside me again, I let out a sigh of joy. I was his, he was mine, and we would never be parted again.
THE END
Locked Down with Mr. Right
A Billionaire and Single Mom Romance
Love Under Lockdown, Book 12
A series of standalone quarantine romance books.
Copyright © 2020 Jamie Knight Romance.
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
All rights reserved.
Chapter One - Addie
The machines made their music. The industrial cacophony echoed over the dark water. Long Island wasn't Manhattan, though it could be like herding cats to convince people of that.
I focused on the crank and grind, trying to make a song out of it. I had been a fan of Industrial back when it was first popular. But I hadn’t been old enough to actually go to the shows. Taking the aching thrum as a base, I added the guitars and vocals in my head. It was difficult not to hum along.
I already wasn't super popular at work, even though I had been there a good decade longer than most of my co-workers. I tried not to think about it. Easier thought than done, though. No matter how hard I tried to push the thoughts out of my head, the more they came rushing back. I guess it only made sense that it would be hard not to think about him. He was my son, after all.
I hadn't seen him in nearly two weeks. He was 12 and able to make his own decision about such things, even if his dad did just appear out of the aether after letting me do all the parenting for just over a decade. He always was a selfish prick.
Even so, he was also a determined prick. If I fought him, we would end up in court and, since the lawyer I had consulted with said I wasn’t likely to win when the courts allowed children 12 and over to weigh in on what they wanted to do, it wasn't worth the upset. Especially not to Duncan.
I did my best to let it go and convince myself that a boy needed his father, but I didn't believe it was true in every case. A father figure, perhaps, but not necessarily their biological father. Especially one like Dave.
The whistle added its contribution to the tune, bringing the movement to a definitive end. The dull few dozen marched in conditioned unison toward the punch-clock. The lockers had a rhythm all their own. Clunks and clicks accompanied by high squeaks.
The drawing that was hung above the clock was surprisingly good. I had never suspected that there might be budding artists among my colleagues. The spurt of cum was a bit much, but the cock had been rendered in vivid detail, the black sharpie standing out against the industrial orange of the locker. Ignoring the leers and jeers of the men around me, some of them young enough to be my children, I started on the lock.
I was only forty, but the management didn't seem to have any qualms about hiring high schoolers, particularly if they were related by blood. Nepotism was alive and well in the 21st century.
Technically, I should have had my own locker room, but the factory was built in the days before women in the workforce were commonplace. Because the work overalls didn't require me to actually get undressed, just get in and out of coveralls, and the because the owners were fucking cheapskates, I was put in with the men.
The pain of the hand swatting my ass wasn't too bad. I hadn't really seen it coming. I’d been a bit too occupied with making sure no more notes asking for lurid sexual favors had been dropped through the slots in the door.
He had also already taken off his boots, so I hadn't heard him coming. I sure felt it when he passed, though. I consoled myself with the fact that they had gone from pinching, which really hurt, to spanks.
The thick material of my overalls absorbed most of the impact. I couldn't quit because I needed the money. They knew I couldn't complain because I was hanging on by the skin of my teeth as it was. The threat of a discrimination lawsuit was the main reason I wasn't turned down out of hand.
It wasn't like it was my dream job. I actually wanted to be a painter. I’d gone to art school and everything. I even got some of the highest marks in my class. A teacher who was notoriously difficult to please, part of his first day speech including a bit about how it was against his religion to give out As because such perfection was reserved for the Lord, took me aside and commended me on my work.
I got a B+ in the class, which I considered to be high praise. Then I met Dave. Tall, handsome, charming Dave. Master of his own universe and King in his own mind, who came walking into the art supply store where I was working, just waiting for the galley show that I knew was just over the horizon and told me he was there to rescue me.
Sadly, the guy I thought was a prince turned out to be a villain who, as soon as we were wed, took over every aspect of my existence until he discovered our six-times-a-day sex sessions, always without protection, led to me getting pregnant.
Then he turned into a wizard, vanishing from the world without a trace, only to reappear at the worst possible moment. It was almost like a superpower.
Ignoring the barrage of insults and come-ons, as if I was walking past a factory as opposed to out of one, I got in my truck and drove away from it all, refusing to give my tears the satisfaction of falling.
The mass of metal and glass refused to move. I had known full well what I was getting into, but at the time it had seemed like a sweet relief. Sliding in the CD, I let the sweet tones of Nine Inch Nails lull me as the traffic stood silent in the August sun. The pack of people were all leaving at the same time, in the same general direction. Whoever came up with the idea of New Yor
k rush hour was one of history's greatest monsters.
I was headed home like most of the rest of the millions when my phone let out its happy jangle. I wasn't actually driving at the time, so I answered, still leaving it in the hands-free mount. Just in case, by some holy miracle, the traffic cleared before the call was over.
“Whato-ho?” I inquired.
“You're only a ho if someone's payin’. I am a bit of a slut, though.”
“Mercy.”
“More like charity, but close enough,” Mercy said, smiling down the line.
I had a psychic image of the entire thing.
“Charity how?”
“I'm taking you out.”
“Thanks, but -”
“But nothing. How long has it been since you've had a frivolous night out?”
“I-I can't quite recall,” I said, searching the files of my memory.
“Three years, four months and thirty-two days.”
“Good memory,” I marveled.
“Only for the important things.”
“I don't suppose there is any point in trying to resist?” I asked rhetorically.
“Nope, resistance is futile.”
“I know,” I confessed, “I just wanted to hear you say it.”
“Cheeky vixen. Meet me at McGinty’s as soon as you can.”
“As you wish.”
Despite the name, neon shamrock and sign declaring it an “authentic Irish pub,” McGinty’s was founded by a Russian immigrant by the name of Morolov. However, given the anti-Russian sentiment after the war and New York’s very large and rather old Irish population, Sergei decided to hedge his bets and deceptively bill it as 100% authentic Irish.
If you ask me, it turned out to be a good decision. Most people who weren’t local couldn’t tell the difference, and those of us who were local didn’t care.
It was surprisingly quiet for a Friday evening. All but five of the freshly painted spots in the parking lot were utterly vacant. Pulling up near the door, I slung myself down out of the truck cab, landing like a cat, owing to years of practice.