Chapter 9: Breakfast of Champions
The dew was cold on her knees, the grass blades imprinting tiny, sharp patterns into her skin. A ring of shuffling feet and low laughter surrounded her, a living fence of lean bodies and hungry eyes. Jason stood before her, his hand working his cock with a rough, practiced rhythm. “Open wide, grandma,” he grunted, his hips jerking forward. The first hot splash hit her cheek, salty and thick, trickling toward the corner of her mouth.
She caught it with her tongue, swallowing with a theatrical moan. “Breakfast of champions, sweetheart,” she crooned, licking her lips clean. Derek was next, aiming lower, painting white streaks across the fresh, stinging ΣΕΧ carved into her thigh. She laughed, a throaty, unhinged sound that echoed in the quiet morning. “Someone’s an artist.” Chad stepped up, his release landing in her silver hair, matting it to her scalp. She tilted her head back, letting it drip. “Hope you boys are taking your vitamins,” she remarked, “the stuff’s a little thin.” Each brother took his turn, marking her shoulders, her breasts, the wrinkled plane of her stomach, a warm, sticky baptism.
Bosley wandered over, sniffing curiously at the mess, and she scratched his ears. Jason watched, his earlier triumph simmering into something more complicated. When the last brother finished, Nel knelt at the center, glistening in the weak sun, a canvas of their combined release. “I’m a fucking masterpiece,” she declared, her voice raw but clear. She scooped a glob from her collarbone and tasted it, holding Jason’s gaze. “A little salty, Chad,” she called out, “lay off the fries.” A few startled chuckles broke the tense silence.