The Itchen Counter

All characters are over 18. This is my first submission - feedback welcome!

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She woke up in the middle of the night with a burning thirst. A quick glance at her phone: 3:07 AM. She wasn't used to going to sleep so early at a sleepover, but her best friend never could stay up past 2 in the morning. Bleary-eyed, she rolled out of bed, the mattress springs squeaking slightly, and crept downstairs for a glass of water. The stairs groaned softly as she walked, bathed in pale moonlight from the plate glass window. She saw a soft light coming from the kitchen.

Turning the corner, she saw a man leaning against the black granite counter, a glass of scotch in his hand.

"Mr. Richards," she said, surprised, "I didn't think that you'd be up this late." Flustered, she tried to surreptitiously pull down her loose tanktop to cover her panties.

He was wearing his business clothes: a still-crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a loosened navy tie and dark gray slacks, the jacket thrown haphazardly on a barstool. The kitchen lamps overhead threw highlights into his chocolate brown hair. He gazed at her coolly as she wavered by the door.

"Please," he said curtly, "I always tell you -- you can call me Daniel." He paused to take a drink, his eyes still on hers. "Want some?" he asked, raising his glass to her.

Laughing awkwardly, she crossed her arms loosely over her chest. "I can't drink yet; you know that."

"Suit yourself," he shrugged, downing the amber liquid.

She lifted her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear, a nervous tic that, in her present state of relative undress, she suddenly realized could be taken as flirtation. Clearing her throat, she glanced toward the sink that lay behind the counter where he stood, his free hand grasping the edge of the countertop, the taut muscles of his arms and chest vaguely visible through his shirt. She hesitated a moment longer, then, feigning casualness, she looked down at the floor and brushed past him.

Suddenly, his hand shot out to seize her arm, holding it in an iron grip. She heard a sharp intake of breath -- her own -- and her eyes darted up to meet his.

"Tell me, Emilia," he said softly, "what's the dirtiest thought you've ever had?" The words escaped like a purr as his eyes glinted with harsh amusement.

She stared up, eyes wide. "I don't --"

"Well, I'll tell you mine," he cut in. He leaned in close, his face almost touching hers. She could smell the biting scent of alcohol on his breath.

"I think about bending your tight little ass over this counter and fucking you until you scream." The last word came out as a snarl. He tightened his grasp on her arm, ignoring the cry of pain she released. "I think about it all the time." He took a moment to study her face, searing the sight of her pain, fear, and confusion into his memory. "And that's exactly what I'm going to do."

He pressed his lips savagely against hers, forcing his tongue through her lips, invading her mouth as he pushed her to the wall. Using his forearm to pin her wrists above her head, he pressed against her with his hardening erection. He moved his hips in slow, long strokes between her legs while he kissed her, ending with a final hard thrust against her clit. As he ground his cock against her with growing ferocity, she felt the jolts run through her. Her mind buzzed, overcome by the sheer sexual force of his body and the undeniable wrongness and danger of her position.

After several agonizing moments, he broke away, replacing his lips with a hand over her mouth.

"You even try to make a sound, and I'll make sure you regret it. Understand?" His voice was surprisingly even.

She nodded. The scent of him was heavy around her, mixing with the smell of scotch. She could just see the bottle on the cool stone counter behind him -- a jarringly normal sight in contrast with the fire burning inside her and the strangeness of the whole situation. She could feel a staticky pressure building up inside her as her fear mixed with taboo arousal.

He lifted his hand slightly, testing her. "Good girl," he purred when she didn't scream. He ran his free hand under her top along the edge of her body, feeling the curve of her breast and hips. He traced his thumb around her nipple in light, lazy circles before moving down to her panties, pulling them down in a single motion. Grunting approvingly, he ran his index finger along her slit and smirked.

"You're wet," he observed, his eyes boring into hers. "You're enjoying this aren't you, you little slut?" He leaned in close, murmuring into her ear, continuing to tease her with his fingers below. "Fucking your best friend's dad in the kitchen in the middle of the night?" He leaned back, watching the shame blush across her face as she stared at her feet.

He grabbed her chin roughly, forcing her gaze back to him. "You look at me when I'm talking to you. Got it?" He forced her to nod, obeying his powerful grip like a marionette. He laughed, a low, gravelly noise, and returned his attention to her pussy. He ran his finger back and forth across her slit, spreading her juices around. Occasionally, he dipped in a finger up to the knuckle, then grazed her clit, circling it, agonizing her with his feathery strokes. He continued this, watching her closely. Her gaze roved about the room, until finally she looked at him, her eyes defiant.

His face hardened. "You're in no position to have an attitude like that." He thrust three fingers suddenly inside her and felt her tight resistance.

She let out a moan, and he spanked her once, hard, sending a shock of pain through her. "What did I say about not making noise?" he asked threateningly. She shook her head urgently, breathing heavily. He returned his hand to her clit, grinding the heel of his palm against it and curling two fingers inside of her. She squirmed under his touch, overwhelmed by the pressure, skirting up against the wall on her tiptoes.

"That's it, sweetheart," he laughed darkly. "Dance for me." He massaged her clit with increased urgency, using his other hand to pull on her hardened nipples. He felt her body tense and the climax roll through her like a wave.

He kissed her then, more gently this time, guiding her lips to his with a finger under her chin. When he pulled back, his eyes were cold. "Time for round two."

He lifted her tanktop roughly over her head, grabbed her by the hips, and tossed her face-up on the counter. He threw his tie aside and unbuttoned his shirt efficiently, methodically, removing his slacks with equal speed. "Turn over," he ordered, and she followed. "Stand on your tiptoes and arch your back." She obeyed, pointing her ass up to him. The granite countertop was like ice against her bare skin, and she felt goosebumps prickle across her body.

He reached around her to feel her breasts, grasping them roughly before running his hands down to the smooth skin on her behind. He reached down to stroke himself, running his hands across the length of his shaft, then positioned the head at her slit.

"Ready?" he growled, taking her hips in his hands. He thrust forward, burying himself deep within her in one smooth motion. He let out a soft groan, feeling her warm body envelop him. He pulled out slowly, then pushed back into her sharply, ramming her against the countertop.

"Say my name," he commanded, wrapping her hair around his wrist.

"What, so I can make noise now?" she responded with mock bitterness, her voice breathy.

He pulled her hair sharply, forcing her to arch her back uncomfortably to meet his gaze. "Don't be a smartass," he snapped. He felt himself become more turned on by her banter and fought to keep the enjoyment out of his voice. "Say my name."

"Daniel," she grunted as he thrust into her.

He spanked her, leaving an angry red mark on her skin. "You think that's going to fucking cut it?"

"Daniel," she cried out, moaning urgently.

"That's better," he purred, thrusting into her faster.

He alternated fast, hard thrusts with drawn-out strokes, letting her feel the full length of him inside her. She felt her hips becoming bruised as he forced her against the counter, the bite of his fingertips against her scalp, and the pressure growing inside her again.

"God, Emilia, you feel fucking incredible," he growled. He began to lose his rhythm, his regular pattern becoming frantic and primal as he approached the point of climax.

Hot streams of cum shot inside her and she fell into another orgasm, tightening her muscles around him and sending shock waves through their bodies. They stood there, panting, for several moments before he pulled out, his deflating cock sticky with mutual arousal. She lay still against the counter, uncertain, and watched as he walked calmly back to his empty glass and poured another drink, sipping it slowly as he looked out the kitchen window.

She gazed incredulously at him as he stood there, barely seeming to notice her presence. She cleared her throat, and his head turned, taking in the sight of her: naked, hair tousled, skin glistening with sweat, smelling of sex, red marks appearing along her torso and backside.

"Well?" he asked calmly. She opened her mouth and closed it again, at a loss for what to say. He stared back, one eyebrow raised, then waved his hand dismissively. He downed the rest of his drink and turned around to wash his glass the sink. "Go back to bed."