The sticky juices of Georgia’s wet pussy made the black, glass dildo moving in and out of her wet folds sparkle in the blue light of her laptop. The screen showed a goth guy squatting against a brick building, his black hair and pale skin making her mouth water. His fingers, draped in silver jewelry with black painted nails, gripped his not inconsiderable erection. He wore nothing other than those rings on his fingers and black combat boots. Her own hands, still dripping with heavy silver and adorned with black nail polish, were the female equivalent of his, even though hers clenched tight around the ring on the end of her toy.
“Your dick’s so hard.” A moan escaped her throat as she spoke to the picture on her laptop, imagining his dick as her dildo, but she was also talking, hands-free, to her cell phone sitting beside her and the guy she’d met in her college lit class who thought having phone sex would be “sick.” He meant that in a good way, of course.
Nothing about him mattered other than he played a willing audience, an able participant, the masculine voice she needed to get off. He’d been willing enough when she’d offered this little date to him after class today. She snuck in the house late this afternoon still dressed in her goth attire, covered up with a jacket and hoodie. Living a double life had its positives and negatives. She loved the thrill of getting away with something, her backpack stuffed with black clothes, black spray-on hair dye, and black makeup along with all her jewelry—she changed at school each day in the library bathroom.
At home, she wore basic slacks and turtlenecks, her shoulder length hair dark, but not dark enough. The spray-on stuff made it shine a coal black. She usually returned home with her goth washed away, using the sink in that same bathroom. No one ever used it—the basement housed archives barely anyone had a need for. Yet, today, for this call, she’d pulled her hood tight and crept to her room, knowing her mother, Dorie, would be in her room nursing a migraine or nervous fit, whichever the day had brought, and her stepfather, Edward Manor—the third—would still be working at this hour.
Looking down, she admired her pussy, a pink bordering on red, glistening inside, framed by a closely cropped patch of dark curls over skin that had never seen the sun. It all struck a sharp contrast to her full, creamy thighs and the black glass toy, complete with carved head and veins. She liked it hard, and had built up a sheen of sweat pumping the thing in and out, her inner walls gripping at the thick, well-built appendage.
“Shit, I’m so hard,” a male voice came from her phone, shocking her out of the fantasy brewing in her head. His voice was small, crackly, and kind of girly.
She frowned at her phone. If that continued, she knew she would have been better off just masturbating to her favorite image on the internet, making him talk dirty in her head. Seemed once this guy had his dick in his hands, his voice lost the deep timbre he’d tried to seduce her with this morning. It was his voice that had attracted her. It reminded her of someone. So did the picture on her screen—the man on her laptop looked a darker, sinister version of dominating, richly attired stepfather.
“You know, my father, he comes into my room at night, scotch on his breath, tie loosened, but still in his three-piece suit,” she told the boy on the phone, letting the images in her head slip from her tongue. It was the only thing that got her really wet. “He rips back the covers, pulls up my ass, and forces his big cock into my tight hole. I tell him no. Daddy no! But it only makes him pound me harder. He gets what he wants, when he wants, at work or at home. He’s fucked my mother into some psychotic state. Since she’s close to a nervous breakdown now, he’s moved onto me. At night, he finds me in these sheer, frilly nightgowns he buys me. He wants me all innocent and sweet. I
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