Hooked by K. C. Falls Read Free Book Online

inside her and feel the wet heat of her pussy. Sensing the time was right, she pulled herself further up my body and impaled herself on my shaft. There was no preamble. She bucked against me, riding me hard and fast, grinding her clit into the bone when she had me as deep as he could go.
    Time left the room. My eyes clamped shut and I listened to the sound of her cries as she approached her climax. When her body began to pull at my cock from deep inside and her thrusts became short and sharp, I knew release. I felt her swallow the great jets of my explosion with each wave of her orgasm. I growled my pleasure as she drank me in.
     
    I pulled hard on myself and milked my cock until jets of hot, sticky semen shot up and splattered back against my belly. I couldn't remember the last time I'd jerked off. There were so many willing recipients for my come that it was rarely necessary.
    I got up and sponged the sticky cream from my body and couldn't help but feel a little sheepish. It was the same adolescent feeling of having done something forbidden. It actually felt better than the last few encounters I'd had with a flesh and blood woman. There was no one in my bed requiring small talk. There would be no awkward moment of departure.
    There was only a lovely fantasy. I relaxed and drifted off peacefully with a picture perfect image in my head. Softness surrounded me, misty and warm.
    It seemed I'd been asleep just minutes when I woke in a drenching, cold sweat.
    I sucked in great gulps of air as my consciousness struggled to right itself. The dream was as vivid as they always were. Over the years, the variations became less and less predictable as my subconscious added more and more experiences to the material it had to work with.
    As a child, the dream was almost always the same but just as terrifying. The kind hands, the soft brown eyes, the hair, always trundled into a tidy bun. The white uniform. The silent protest and the helpless submission.
    Only this time, the sweet face tending my fabricated illness was Lara's. It angered me that the angel of my waking fantasy dissolved into a life-sucking countenance of pity.
    Dreams can seem amazingly real; at least mine have always been so. As a kid, my dreams weren't always awful. Sometimes they'd take me far away to homes with wide green lawns where bikes and balls were strewn in every corner. Those were the times I'd hated waking up. I'd conjure golden retrievers begging at the table and tuxedo cats lounging on sunny windowsills. My sister was always there, only she was never the sickly, pale Clari. In boyish flights of fancy my sister was as sturdy as the big imaginary oak where she would swing and yelp with delight as I spun her around on an old truck tire. In the dark world of my nights, she ran through summer sun and winter snow, golden and glowing with the God-given energy of a healthy kid.
    Endless hours of television and an enviable library of books helped me populate my subconscious with families fighting over drumsticks at Sunday tables, playing board games together on pizza night and, most bizarrely of all, camping in great mountain forests. Funny, when I finally got the chance to sleep under the stars, the reality didn't even come close to the fantasy.
    The violet blue of first light meant I thankfully didn't have to fight for sleep anymore. I threw on a pair of shorts, brushed my teeth and splashed some water on my face. I studied the stubble on my chin and wondered if I should clean myself up for Phoebe and 'the girls'. When I decided that those chicks would probably be into fashionable scruff, I picked up my razor and returned my face to baby-bottom smoothness.
    Women have always told me I'm handsome. Some have called me beautiful. Funny, but when I looked at myself --past the exterior--I never saw a good looking man. I always saw a weak little boy. My skin is tan and my muscles are strong, but there's a pale kid underneath with skinny arms. The kid's never far from the