Chapter 1: The Birthday Wine
The fire popped, sending a shower of orange sparks up the chimney. Marty watched them die out against the soot-black brick, his fingers tight around the stem of his empty wine glass. The room felt too warm, the cinnamon-and-whiskey smell of the rug thick in the air.
“You’re staring into space like you’ve never seen a fireplace before.” Jenna’s voice was a low, amused purr. She reached over and refilled his glass from the last of the bottle, her movements fluid. The sleeve of her silky top brushed his wrist.
“Just thinking,” he mumbled, taking a too-big gulp. The wine was dry and cheap, but it was doing its job, unknotting the usual tension in his shoulders and replacing it with a fuzzy, warm weight.
“About what? Turning eighteen? Big deal.” She settled back into the overstuffed chair opposite him, curling her legs beneath her. The firelight danced over the curves of her body, outlined by the thin fabric. “Legally, you can buy lottery tickets now. And get into even more trouble.”
He shrugged, a nervous, jerky motion. “I guess.”
“You guess.” She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Christ, Marty. Live a little. You should be out with friends. Not stuck here with your old stepmom doing crossword puzzles.” She nudged the cluttered coffee table with her bare foot, sending a pencil rolling.
“I like it here,” he said, and he meant it. It was quiet. Safe. His dad was on a business trip. The house was theirs.
“You’re sweet.” Her green eyes fixed on him, gleaming. “Too sweet. It’s a problem. Has any girl even touched you? Properly?”
The question hit him like a physical blow. His face went hot. “What? I mean… yeah. Sure.”
“Bullshit.” She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, the neckline of her top gaping slightly. He forced his eyes to stay on her face. “Tell me the truth. Has any girl ever let you cum in her mouth?”
The vulgarity, the sudden, graphic shift, left him breathless. He couldn’t speak. He just shook his head, a tiny, mortified movement.
“See? A problem.” She uncurled herself and stood up in one smooth motion. She didn’t go to the kitchen or the hallway. She walked the two steps to his chair and perched on the wide arm, her thigh pressing firmly against his shoulder. He could feel the heat of her through his shirt. The scent of her perfume—something dark and vanilla—mixed with the wine on her breath.
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she murmured, her hand coming to rest on his thigh. Her fingers pressed in, just above his knee. “All that fumbling in the back of a car. The desperate, clumsy handjobs. It’s pathetic.”
“Jenna, I don’t—”
“Shhh.” Her fingers began a slow, deliberate journey up his inner thigh. “You’re a good-looking kid. You shouldn’t be wasting it. You should have someone show you how it’s done. How to really feel it.”
He was frozen. Every nerve in his body was screaming, a confusing riot of panic and a fierce, sharp longing. Her touch was so direct, so utterly confident. It bypassed all his awkwardness.
“I could teach you,” she whispered, her lips now right against his ear. Her breath was hot, damp. “Right now. I could show you what a woman’s mouth can really do. Would you like that?”
He managed a shaky nod. A yes.
“Use your words, baby.”
“Yes.” The word scraped out of his dry throat.
“Good boy.” Her hand slid the final, impossible distance and cupped him through his jeans. He was already hard, achingly so. She squeezed, not gently. “Fuck, you’re ready. Pent up. This is gonna be a treat.”
She slid off the arm of the chair and knelt on the plush rug between his legs. The fire painted her face in gold and shadow. Her wicked smile was back. She made quick work of his belt buckle, the clink of it loud in the quiet room. His zipper sounded like a roar.
“Just relax,” she said, her tone shifting to one of casual command, like she was instructing him on how to load the dishwasher. “Watch. Or don’t. But feel everything.”
She pulled his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. He gasped at the cool air, at the unbearable exposure. He’d never been so naked in his life.
“Not bad,” she appraised, wrapping her fingers around the base. “Now let’s see what you taste like.”
She didn’t tease. There was no slow, tentative lick. She opened her mouth, took him in, and sank down until his hips jerked off the chair and the head hit the back of her throat. He cried out, a strangled, broken sound. His hands flew to the chair’s arms, gripping the fabric until his knuckles bleached white.
“Fuck! Jenna—!”
She pulled back, a slick, obscene sound, her lips stretched wide. “That’s the idea,” she said hoarsely, then went down again, faster this time, setting a brutal, deep rhythm.
It was nothing like the hesitant, shy fantasies he’d had. This was wet and noisy and raw. Her head bobbed, her hand working in tandem with her mouth, twisting on the upstroke. She moaned around him, the vibration shooting straight to his core. He could only watch, mesmerized and terrified, as his cock disappeared again and again between her painted lips, her eyes locked on his, sharp and knowing.
“You like that?” she panted, pulling off for a second. A string of saliva connected her lips to his shining, throbbing length. “You like my fucking mouth?”
“Yes—God, yes—”
“Then act like it.” Her voice was a guttural command. “Grab my hair. Don’t be gentle.”
Tentatively, he threaded his fingers into her dark hair. She made an approving sound and pushed her head down, forcing him deeper. He tightened his grip, his hips beginning to stutter upward to meet her plunging rhythm.
It was building too fast, a pressure coiling low in his gut, burning, inevitable. He was babbling, pleading, words he didn’t even recognize. “I’m gonna—Jenna, I’m gonna—"
She pinned him with her eyes and increased her pace, her throat working, taking him deeper with every plunge. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room, louder than the crackling fire.
When it hit, it wasn’t a wave. It was a detonation. His back arched violently, a raw, animal shout tearing from his throat as he came, pulsing into the hot, sucking seal of her mouth. She held him there, swallowing relentlessly, until he was spent, shuddering, collapsing back into the chair like a puppet with cut strings.
She released him with a final, soft pop and sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She was breathing heavily, her cheeks flushed. She looked at him, at the stunned, ruined expression on his face, and her wicked smile returned, fuller than ever.
“See?” she said, her voice raspy. “That’s how it’s done. Lesson one.”
Marty could only stare, his heart hammering against his ribs, the taste of copper and cheap wine still in his mouth, the phantom, devastating heat of her still on his skin. The unlit cat candle on the table seemed to watch, a silent, judging witness. He knew, with a cold, clear certainty that cut through the blissful haze, that nothing would ever be simple or safe again.
He knew, with a cold, clear certainty that cut through the blissful haze, that nothing would ever be simple or safe again.
The silence was broken only by the fire and his own ragged breathing. Jenna watched him, that same assessing look in her green eyes, like she’d just finished a satisfactory meal. She licked her lips slowly, deliberately.
“You’re still hard,” she observed, her gaze dropping to his lap.
He was. Shockingly, devastatingly so. The sensitivity was a bright, almost painful wire, but the need hadn’t faded. It had just reshaped itself, hungrier.
“I… I don’t know why,” he stammered, making a feeble attempt to pull his clothes up. She slapped his hand away.
“Biology, baby. You’re young. And I’m not done with you.” She placed her hands on his bare knees, pushing his legs wider apart. The movement was possessive. “That was just the warm-up. The aperitif. You don’t get the full tasting menu until you learn how to return the favor.”
Marty’s mind swam. Return the favor. The implication slammed into him. His mouth went dry.
“But first,” she said, her voice dropping back into that low, thrilling purr. “First, I want to see if you can get even harder for me. I want you to forget the name of every stupid little girl you’ve ever dreamed about.”
She leaned forward, her hands sliding up his thighs. Her hair tickled his skin. She didn’t kiss him. She didn’t look at him. She just focused on him, on the part of him that was still glistening from her mouth, twitching against the cool air.
“Watch,” she commanded.
SHE GOES DOWN ON HIM.
This time, it wasn’t about ruthless efficiency. It was a display. A vile, beautiful corruption. She started with the head, lapping at it slowly with the flat of her tongue, like it was a melting ice cream cone. Her eyes were closed. A soft, hummed sigh vibrated against his skin.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his head falling back against the chair.
She took him into her mouth, just the tip, sucking gently. Then, with agonizing slowness, she began to descend. Her mouth was impossibly hot, wet, tight. She used her tongue in swirling, pressing circles as she moved down, then back up. Every nerve ending was on fire. He could feel every ridge of her palate, the soft give of her throat.
His fingers clenched back into her hair. He didn’t guide her. He just held on.
She picked up the pace, finding a rhythm that was deep and rhythmic and filthy. The sounds were obscene. Wet, sucking pulls, guttural breaths from her nose, the soft slap of her lips against his skin. She’d pull off completely, blow a cool stream of air on the slick shaft, watch him jump, then swallow him whole again with a hungry moan.
“Your fucking cock tastes good,” she gasped, pausing to nip at his inner thigh with her teeth. “Young. Eager. All for me.”
She was talking to him, to it, her words slurred and dirty. “You like how my throat feels? Huh? You wanna fuck my face? Go on. Do it. Use me.”
The permission, the sheer debasement of it, shattered his last shred of control. A groan tore from his chest, raw and broken. He tightened his grip in her hair and tentatively pushed his hips up. She moaned in encouragement, deep in her throat, the vibration making him see stars.
Emboldened, desperate, he began to move. He fucked her mouth. Shallow at first, then deeper, losing himself in the wet, rhythmic heat. Her hands gripped his ass, pulling him deeper, taking every inch he gave her. She gagged once, a choked, wet sound, and pulled back, saliva trailing. She grinned up at him, her eyes watering, and dove right back down.
He was a animal. All thought was gone, replaced by a single, pounding imperative. The pressure built again, faster, hotter, a volcano in his gut. He was babbling, a stream of “oh god” and “Jenna” and “please.”
She felt it. She redoubled her efforts, her hand working his base in a twisting fist, her mouth a suctioning, relentless paradise. The world narrowed to the point where their bodies connected.
With a cry that was half-sob, half-triumphant shout, he came again, harder than before, his whole body seizing as he spilled into the eager, accepting heat of her mouth. She took it all, swallowing compulsively, until he was completely drained, trembling with aftershocks.
She finally released him, sitting back on her heels. She looked utterly debauched. Her lipstick was smeared, her chin glistening. She wiped it with the back of her hand, never breaking eye contact.
“Lesson two,” she panted, a triumphant smile on her ruined lips. “Always leave them wanting more. Now… my turn.”
She stood up, her movements liquid with power. She looked down at him, a spent, beautiful wreck in the chair. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of her silk pants and slowly, with exaggerated grace, began to pull them down.