Chapter 1: The Morning After the Tickle War
Ashlee woke to the dry-mouthed, dizzying throb of a hangover. The room was wrong. The ceiling was wrong. The light, a dim ochre from a lamp she didn’t own, bled across a unfamiliar texture of white plaster. A deep, rhythmic breathing came from beside her, not her own. She was cold. The cool, crisp sheets were directly against her skin—her back, her shoulders, the swell of her breasts.
She moved an inch. No shirt.
Her breath hitched. She turned her head, a slow, aching pivot on the pillow.Kevin. On the other side of the vast king-size bed, sleeping on his back. The white sheet was tangled at his waist, leaving his chest bare. Solid. A dusting of dark hair trailed down his stomach, disappearing beneath the linen. And there, resting against his thigh, was his cock. Even soft, it was substantial. Long. It lay thick and heavy against his skin, the head a darker shade, already half-swollen from sleep or dream. A vein traced its length.
Oh, god.
Memory returned in a nauseating flood. The moving boxes. The pizza. The tequila. Her fleeing a bad roommate, him offering his spare room but it wasn’t ready, “just crash in here tonight, it’s huge.” The laughter. The stupid, playful argument about who could hold a plank longer that dissolved into a wrestling match right here on this mattress. His hands, grabbing her wrists. Her shrieking, bucking. His fingers digging into her ribs, her hips, tickling her mercilessly.
His fingers digging into her ribs, her hips, tickling her mercilessly. Her laughter had been frantic, real, the kind that stole breath and made her bladder feel weak. She’d writhed beneath him, her own hands slapping at his shoulders, his arms, finding only hard, unyielding muscle. He was so much stronger. He’d pinned her wrists above her head with one broad hand, the other spider-walking over her stomach, making her shriek and arch.
“Say it,” he’d grinned down at her, his model’s face boyish with mischief, those dark blue eyes glinting in the lamplight. “Say ‘uncle,’ Ash. I won.”
“Fuck you!” she’d gasped, bucking, feeling the rough cotton of her t-shirt ride up, his denim-clad thigh slotting between hers. A dangerous, thrilling friction.
“Wrong answer.”
His fingers had found the sensitive crest of her hip bone, and she’d shrieked again, a tear of pure, helpless mirth leaking from the corner of her eye. Her head thrashed side to side on the pillow that smelled like him, like Hope’s shampoo, like stale tequila and their shared, breathless laughter. In the chaos, her shirt had rucked up, the neckline stretching. She felt a cool draft on her stomach, her breasts.
And then, a shift. Not in the room, but in him. The play-fight stuttered. His laughter faded into a low, shaky exhale. His fingers, which had been skittering, stilled. They rested, heavy and hot, on the bare skin of her waist where her shirt had ridden up. His thumb stroked, once, a slow, deliberate pass over the subtle ridge of a rib. The touch wasn’t tickling anymore. It was something else. She stopped struggling. The only sound was their ragged breathing, the distant hum of the house at night.
His hand is on my skin. Actually on me. Not through fabric. Skin. The thought cut through the vodka haze, sharp and sobering. She looked up at him. The boyish mischief was gone, replaced by a raw, hungry focus that made her stomach clench. He was looking at her mouth, at the small gap between her two front teeth she always tried to hide.
“Kevin,” she whispered, a question, a warning she didn’t mean.
He didn’t answer with words. He released her wrists. Instead of pulling away, he moved. He swung his leg over her, his body rising above her in the dim light. He wasn’t pinning her down now. He was positioning her. He shuffled forward on his knees, his own pants gone at some point she couldn’t remember, until he was straddling her chest, his knees framing her shoulders. The solid, warm weight of him pressed her deeper into the mattress. He loomed over her, a massive, naked silhouette against the lamp.
And there it was. Inches from her face. His cock. Fully hard now, thick and long and uncut, jutting up from a thatch of dark hair. The tip was flushed a deep, ruddy purple, a bead of clear fluid glistening at the slit. It looked utterly obscene. Terrifying. Beautiful. Her heart hammered against her sternum, a frantic bird trying to escape. She could smell him, a musky, clean, utterly masculine scent that mixed with the lingering cologne on the sheets.
He reached down, wrapped his hand around the base. He gave it a slow, possessive stroke, his eyes locked on hers. Then he swung it, gently, tapping the heavy, hot shaft against her cheek.
Tap.
It was warm, like living suede over steel.
Tap.
Against her other cheek. A claim. A taunt.
He smirked, but it was tight, strained. “Last chance, Ashlee. Say ‘uncle.’ Admit I won.”
A wild, reckless defiance surged up through the panic, through the years of secret want. She laughed, a short, breathy sound. “Or what?”
His dark blue eyes flashed. “Or this.”
He guided the head of his cock to her lips. It rested there, a blunt, insistent pressure. Her lips parted on a shaky exhale, and he pushed forward, just an inch, past the seam of her mouth. The taste bloomed on her tongue—salty, clean, uniquely him. Her eyes fluttered shut for a second. This is happening. This is really happening.
When she opened them, she was looking up the long, veined line of his stomach to his face. He looked down at her with awe, with a kind of dazed horror. “Holy shit,” he breathed, his voice gravelly. “You’re really…”
She opened wider, took him in another inch, her tongue flattening against the sensitive underside. A guttural groan ripped from his chest. His hips gave a tiny, involuntary thrust, sinking him deeper into the wet heat of her mouth. She gagged lightly, tears springing to her eyes, but she pushed through it, relaxing her throat. The sensation of him filling her, stretching her lips wide around his girth, was overwhelming. All she could do was feel.
“Fuck, Ashlee,” he moaned, his hands coming to cradle her head, his thumbs stroking her temples. His touch was weirdly tender amidst the vulgarity. “My best friend. I can’t… I can’t believe my cock is in my best friend’s mouth.”
He began to move, shallow, tentative thrusts. Each one bumped the head against the back of her throat. She focused on breathing through her nose, on the weight of him on her chest, the coarse hair of his thighs against her neck. She brought a hand up, wrapped her fingers around the base of him where her mouth couldn’t reach, and stroked in time with his movements.
“Yeah,” he hissed. “Just like that. You’re a natural, best friend. A fucking natural.” His words were laced with a dizzy, perverse whimsy. “Who knew my goofy, gap-toothed best friend had a throat made for this? For me.”
The taboo of it electrified the air. Best friend’s cock. Best friend’s throat. The phrases looped in her head, in his muttered praises, each one a bolt of lightning down her spine. This was wrong. This was the most right thing she’d ever felt. His rhythm lost its tentativeness. He started to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hips pumping, the wet, filthy sounds filling the quiet room. Her jaw ached beautifully. Drool leaked from the corners of her mouth where she was stretched too wide to contain it.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice thick.
She forced her tear-blurred eyes up to his. He was sweating, his jaw clenched, his beautiful face a mask of straining pleasure. “This changes nothing, you hear me?” he grunted, pushing deeper, making her gag again. “We’re friends. Always. This is just… this is just a thing. A weird, fucking amazing thing.”
She managed a garbled sound around him, a form of agreement. It was all she could give.
“I’m close,” he warned, his thrusts becoming ragged, brutal. “I’m gonna come. In my best friend’s throat.”
His hands, which had been cradling, became commanding. He held her head still, his fingers tangling in her red hair. He pulled her forward onto him at the same time he drove his hips down, burying himself to the hilt. Her nose pressed into the crisp hair at the base of his cock. She was fully impaled, every inch of his nine inches filling her, blocking her airway completely.
She was fully impaled, every inch of his nine inches filling her, blocking her airway completely. Her vision began to spark at the edges, a gray static closing in. Her lungs screamed. He held her there, his body trembling, a low growl vibrating through his core and into hers. Then, with a wet, ragged gasp, he pulled out, the sudden rush of cold air into her lungs making her cough violently, strings of saliva and pre-cum connecting her lips to his glistening tip.
He stood up on the bed, looking down at her as she gasped, the air like knives in her raw throat. His cock bobbed, angry and purple, inches from her face.
His eyes flickered past her, to the nightstand. Ashlee followed his gaze.Hope. Her best friend's face beamed from a digital picture frame in a slideshow of vacation photos. There she was on a beach, smiling, holding a cocktail. The image cycled. Now it was a photo of the three of them at a barbecue last summer, Kevin’s arm slung around Hope, Ashlee leaning into the shot, making a funny face.
“She’s watching,” Kevin said, his voice weirdly detached.
Ashlee stared at the frame. In the current photo, Hope’s eyes seemed locked on them.
“Fuck,” Ashlee croaked, the taste of him thick on her tongue. She should feel guilt. All she felt was a hotter, sharper thrill.
“I’m gonna ruin her best friend,” Kevin murmured, more to himself than to her.
Then his expression hardened, a switch flipping. The detached awe was gone, replaced by a raw, commanding focus.
He grabbed his cock at the base, his fist a tight collar. He swung it back and whipped it forward.
Smack.
The dense, hot weight of it cracked against her cheekbone, the sound sharp in the quiet room. Her head jerked to the side. The sting was immediate, bright.
“Look at me,” he commanded.
She turned her head back, her cheek already burning. His eyes were dark, unreadable pools. He swung again.
Smack.Smack. Smack.
Three rapid, brutal strikes. One on her other cheek, one across the bridge of her nose, one back to her lips, which throbbed and tingled. Her eyes watered.
“Getting distracted?” he asked, his tone low and dangerous. “My stepsister needs to get her head back in the game.”
Smack. Smack.Two more. His balls slapped wetly against her chin. Each impact jolted her skull. She felt something unlock inside her, a submissive, humming thing that spread from the points of contact.
He delivered a final, thunderous crack directly across her mouth, splitting her lower lip. She tasted copper mixed with his salt. She moaned, the sound guttural and surprising.
“Did you like that?” he asked, his breathing ragged.
She licked her swelling lip.“Yeah. Helped. Helped me focus.” The truth of it shocked her even as she said it. The pain had cut through the panic, the guilt, the too-much-ness of it all. It had centered her on him, on the thick weapon in his hand.
A grim, approving smile touched his lips. “Good girl.”
He moved with a new purpose, a relentless energy. He grabbed a handful of her red hair, fisting it painfully at the roots, and guided his cock back between her swollen, parted lips. This wasn’t the exploratory, awestruck fucking from before. This was punishment. Consumption.
He set a brutal, piston-like rhythm, fucking her face with deep, throat-seeking strokes. She gagged and choked on every fourth thrust, her body convulsing, tears and snot mixing on her face. He didn’t slow.
“Unbelievable,” he grunted, staring down the line of his body at her. “I can’t believe my goddamn housekeeper is taking my cock so deep. Look at you. You’re a fucking mess. A perfect mess.”
He paused, buried to the hilt. With his free hand, he pinched her nose shut, his thumb and forefinger sealing off her nostrils completely.
No air. Front or back.
Her eyes blew wide. She stared up at him, helpless, her body beginning to jerk with primal panic. He held her there, impaled and plugged, watching the desperation flood her face.
“My nanny looks so pretty like this,” he whispered, his voice a chilling mixture of whimsy and cruelty. “Lips stretched, eyes watering. Just a perfect little cocksucker.”
He released her nose and hauled back, letting her drag in a single, whistling gasp before plunging back in, reclaiming her throat. He repeated the cycle. Three minutes of relentless thrusts, then pinching her nose, cutting off everything, holding her on the screaming edge of blackout for ten seconds, fifteen, before granting a one-second reprieve only to slam home again. The world narrowed to the ache in her jaw, the burn in her lungs, the obscene fullness in her throat, and his voice.
“You’re a special cocksucker. A once-in-a-lifetime find. This changes nothing, Ashlee. We are friends. Always.” He punctuated the word “always” with a particularly vicious thrust that made her sob around him. “I’m gonna shoot the biggest, hottest load straight down my nanny’s throat. And as my employee, you’re gonna swallow every drop. My nanny is going to drain my balls. You’re gonna milk me dry. This is our little secret. This changes absolutely nothing.”
He was babbling, the words tumbling out in a torrent of filth and contradiction—housekeeper, nanny, stepsister, best friend—each new role a layer of taboo that pushed them both further.
She lost count of time. Her body was no longer hers. It was a vessel for his use, a warm, wet sheathe for his rage and need. Her own arousal was a distant, throbbing hum, drowned out by the overwhelming reality of him.
He felt himself swelling, the rhythm breaking apart. “Here it comes. Gonna fill you up, best friend. Gonna mark you from the inside.”
With a final, guttural roar, he buried himself one last time, his hand clamping her nose shut again. He pulsed, deep in her esophagus. She felt it, a series of thick, hot jets directly into her core, a feeling of being claimed in the most fundamental way. He held her there, pumping, until the last tremor subsided.
Slowly, he released her nose and slid out. She collapsed onto the mattress, a wrecked, gasping thing. She swallowed convulsively, the taste of his cum a final, bitter seal.
He looked down at her, his expression empty, spent. He reached out a hand that wasn’t quite steady and brushed a strand of wet hair from her forehead.
“You okay?” he asked, his voice back to the one she knew, the one that belonged to Hope’s husband.
She nodded, unable to speak. Her throat was ruined.
He looked back at the picture frame. Hope was laughing in a Christmas photo, wearing reindeer antlers.
“Fuck,” he said softly. He laid down beside her, not touching her, staring at the ceiling. The silence was vast, broken only by their slowing breaths.
She turned her head on the pillow. His profile was sharp against the lamplight. The man who had just brutalized her mouth. The man who was her best friend’s husband. A tremor started deep inside her, a shudder that began in her core and worked its way out until her teeth chattered.
He reached over, blindly, and pulled the crumpled sheet up to cover her shoulders. His hand lingered for a second on the fabric, over the sea turtle tattoo on her shoulder blade, a nervous tap of his fingers. Then he withdrew, turning onto his side, facing away from her, facing away from Hope’s smiling face. The digital glow cycled silently, a loop of a happier past, illuminating the present wreckage.