Chapter 886: Little Scared Pussy (r-18)

He rose from between her thighs in one fluid motion, body still slick and gleaming with her release, the musky scent of her arousal thick in the air around them. Without pause or flourish, he undressed—clothes stripped away and forgotten in the dim corners of the room until nothing remained between them but skin and heat.

Sarah’s lungs seized.

The sight hit her like a physical blow.

It was bigger now that the last time she served him.

His

cock stood rigid

and obscene before her—thick as her wrist, veined and flushed a deep, angry crimson, the broad head swollen and glossy with a fat pearl of precum that slowly oozed down the underside in a slow, glistening trail.

The shaft throbbed visibly with each heartbeat—slow, deliberate throbs that made the whole length twitch upward like it was already seeking her heat.

The scent of him reached her then—raw,

masculine

musk mixed with the faint salt of precum, heavy and intoxicating, curling into her nostrils and making her mouth water involuntarily.

A soft, broken whimper escaped her parted lips. Her eyes were locked on it—wide, glassy, pupils blown black with hunger.

But beneath the hunger was something smaller, more fragile: fear.

Real, rabbit-heart fear.

It made her chest flutter in shallow, panicked breaths; made her thighs quiver and try to close on instinct before he nudged them apart again with casual, unhurried strength.

Fresh heat surged through her core anyway; her pussy clenched hard around empty air, a slow, syrupy trickle of slick sliding out to coat her inner thighs anew.

The sheets beneath her ass were already

sodden,

clinging wetly to her skin with every tiny shift, the cool dampness contrasting sharply with the furnace between her legs.

She wanted it. Needed it.

The ache was visceral—deep inside her belly, a hollow throb that made her hips twitch upward without permission.

But the wanting felt dangerous, like inviting something too big into a space too small.

Her

little scared pussy

fluttered again—tight, nervous, almost trying to hide even as it wept for him.

Her hands lifted—trembling so violently her fingers shook like leaves in wind. She pressed her palms together for a heartbeat, trying to steady them, but it was useless. A tiny, frightened sound slipped out—half sob, half plea—before she reached.

Peter stood motionless.

Let her.

Her fingertips brushed him first—light, tentative—feeling the scorching heat radiating off his skin before she even made full contact. Then both hands wrapped around the thick shaft. Her fingers couldn’t meet; she had to stack one hand over the other just to encircle him properly.

The sheer

impossibility

of it made her breath hitch again.

He was so much

thicker

than her wrist that her small hands looked childish, fragile, almost comical against him.

The skin was velvet-smooth over iron-hard flesh, burning hot against her cooler palms. She felt every ridge, every pulsing vein jump under her touch—like he was alive in a way nothing else had ever been.

A low, involuntary moan slipped from her throat as she stroked upward—slow, reverent—watching the head flare wider, the slit weeping another thick bead of precum that dripped onto her thumb in a warm, sticky rope.

She smeared it instinctively—circling the swollen crown with her thumb, spreading the slick over the sensitive ridge until the entire head shone wet and obscene.

Her thumb hesitated for half a second right at the slit — like she was afraid it might bite, or maybe afraid she’d like it too much if it did. Then she kept going anyway,

tiny circles

, mesmerized by how the skin moved under her touch, how it jumped like it had its own heartbeat just for her.

The scent intensified—salty, primal—filling her lungs with every shaky breath. Her mouth watered harder; she swallowed audibly, lips parting on a soft, needy gasp.

She made a tiny, embarrassed sound — half-whimper, half-laugh — when she realized how much spit had pooled under her tongue.

"I—When did it started to smell like... like this,"

she breathed, cheeks flaming so hot she could feel the heat in her ears. Her nose wrinkled once, cute and confused, then flared again as she inhaled deeper on purpose.

Like she was trying to memorize it. Like she was already addicted and ashamed of how fast.

"God... it’s still so... heavy..." she whispered, voice cracked and thin, barely above a frightened murmur.

Her eyes were huge — pupils eating up the iris — flicking between his face and the thick length in her hands like she couldn’t decide which one scared her more.

"It’s... it’s actually more heavy,"

she repeated, softer, almost to herself, as if saying it again would make it less real. Her bottom lip caught between her teeth; she bit down hard enough to leave a white mark, then let go with a tiny, wet pop.

Her hands pumped him once—tighter—feeling the shaft swell thicker in her grip, the head darkening further, veins standing out like cords.

She squeaked —

high and startled

— when it

pulsed

harder in answer. "Oh—oh god, did I do that?" Her voice cracked on the question, equal parts pride and panic.

Her fingers flexed experimentally, testing, then froze when another bead of precum welled up and rolled slowly down the underside.

She watched it like it was magic. Or poison. Or both.

Another thick drop of precum welled up and slid down to coat her knuckles. She could feel his heartbeat through the length—strong, steady, matching the frantic thud of her own pulse between her legs.

Her own

clit throbbed

once — sharp, needy — in perfect time with that deep throb in her palm. She gasped, thighs squeezing together so hard her knees knocked.

"It’s... it’s beating," she whispered, wonder and terror braiding together in her voice.

"Like a heart. Like it’s alive just for—

for me

." The thought made her blush climb down her neck, made her pussy flutter again, empty and scared and so embarrassingly wet she could feel it soaking the cotton between her folds.

Each throb made her own little pussy

jump

in answer, a scared, eager flutter that left her feeling even smaller.

Peter groaned—low, guttural, the sound vibrating through her palms straight to her core. But he didn’t thrust.

Didn’t take control.

He let her worship—let her explore the impossible girth that would soon stretch her open, the weight that would pin her down, the heat that would fill every empty inch inside her.

Her cunt responded with a fresh, aching clench—walls fluttering desperately, more slick pouring out in slow, warm pulses that trickled down her perineum and soaked the cleft of her ass.

The wet sounds of her own arousal were obscene—soft, sticky clicks every time her hips shifted. She felt exposed, ridiculous, like her body was betraying her with every helpless drip.

He reached down—slow, deliberate. One broad palm cupped her entire mound—possessive, heavy—heat searing through her oversensitive skin.

His thumb brushed once over her clit—barely a graze—and her whole body jolted, a sharp, humiliated cry escaping as fresh wetness gushed against his hand.

Then two fingers slid lower—parting her swollen outer lips with a wet, sucking sound. He spread her wide again—cool air kissing her dripping entrance—before tracing the rim in slow, slippery circles.

His fingertips gathered her slick—coating themselves until they glistened—then pressed just inside her opening. Not deep. Just the tips—stretching the tight ring of muscle with gentle, insistent pressure.

She moaned—long, shattered, hips rolling up to chase the shallow intrusion even as her voice cracked on a tiny, scared "

please...

"

Her walls fluttered greedily around his fingertips, trying to draw him deeper, more slick leaking out to coat his knuckles and drip down his wrist.

The stretch was nothing compared to what was coming, but it made her whimper anyway—anticipation twisting low in her belly like a live wire. Her little scared pussy felt so

small

suddenly, so unprepared, even as it opened and wept for more.

"So, fucking wet...

so ready,

" he rasped, voice thick and dark. "This greedy little cunt’s already dripping for me. Already opening up."

He withdrew his fingers—agonizingly slow—dragging them along her front wall, making her gasp and clench. Then he positioned himself higher—knees spreading her thighs impossibly wider—cock hovering just above her mound.

The heavy

length

brushed her lower belly—hot, velvety, leaving a thick, warm smear of precum across her flushed skin.

She stared down—breathless, trembling—watching the blunt head nudge her entrance. The broad crown kissed her opening—parting her slick folds with the slightest pressure—stretching her outer lips around its girth.

She could feel every detail

: the flared ridge catching on her entrance, the heat pouring off him, the slow drip of his precum mixing with her own slick, making everything slippery and obscene.

It looked impossible.

It

felt

impossible.

Her pussy clenched again—reflexive, frightened—trying to shrink away even as more slick welled up to welcome him.

Her hands reached again—wrapping around his shaft—guiding him, steadying him—feeling him throb harder against her palms as the tip settled right at her core. Her fingers shook so badly she almost lost her grip.

She whimpered—high, needy, desperate—hips tilting upward in silent, trembling plea even as fresh tears of overwhelmed arousal pricked the corners of her eyes.

He didn’t push in. Not yet. Just held there—letting her feel the blunt promise of him, the inevitable stretch, the slow burn that would soon consume her completely.

Her

pussy clenched

hard—leaking steadily onto his cockhead—walls fluttering in hungry, terrified anticipation of the deep, devastating penetration that waited in the next breath.

And she was already shaking for it—body, breath, soul—

little scared pussy

quivering, dripping, opening despite itself, ready to be split open and filled.