The Safe House
Copyright© 2025 by Kacey Loveington
Chapter 2
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 2 - She Vowed To Protect. She Chose To Serve Something Bigger. Married detectives Alina and Mark Carver are assigned to guard a high-risk witness in a remote safe house — twelve-hour shifts, no contact, strict protocol. But when Alina takes the night watch, she discovers the man she’s guarding is dangerous… in all the most tempting ways!
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Cuckold Slut Wife Interracial White Male White Female Anal Sex Cream Pie Facial Oral Sex Pregnancy Size
The hallway hadn’t changed.
Same weak, flickering light overhead, casting yellow halos along peeling paint. Same faint scent of mould and industrial carpet glue soaked into the walls — a tired signature of a building that had given up pretending to be anything else. Same groaning floorboards beneath her boots, each creak and subtle dip long since memorised.
But for Alina Carver, something was different tonight.
Not the building.
Her.
Every step toward that door throbbed with something heavy — something warm and low and undeniable. Not nerves. Not apprehension. This wasn’t fear. It was friction. A growing heat between the woman she used to be and the one she hadn’t admitted she was becoming. Something slow and dangerous and exquisitely alive smouldered just beneath the surface — a craving without a name. Her body already knew it. Her skin already answered to it.
She raised her hand to knock.
And hesitated.
Not out of uncertainty — but because some part of her already felt seen. Already felt watched. Her breath hitched, barely.
Then the door opened before her knuckles could fall.
Mark stood there.
And for a split second, it all crashed into place — the collision of two timelines that didn’t quite fit anymore. Her husband smiled, warm and worn, his eyes soft with affection and exhaustion. His shirt clung slightly across his chest, collar skewed just enough to show the edge of a long day, stubble shadowing his jaw like he’d stopped trying after coffee number five. His smile deepened when he saw her, and his hand, instinctive and familiar, found the small of her back like it always did — the kind of touch that once meant safety. Certainty. Love.
“You made good time,” he murmured, leaning in.
She let him kiss her.
Soft. Closed-lipped. Dutiful.
She didn’t pull away — but her body didn’t lean into it either. Her mouth lingered half a second longer than it wanted, enough to disguise the truth as affection. Enough to lie gently. It wasn’t guilt that flinched inside her. It was hunger. The wrong kind. The kind that didn’t belong to this kiss ... or this man.
“I missed you,” Mark said, his nose brushing hers in that boyish, practiced way that used to make her knees soften. “These last few nights ... I keep thinking how good it’ll be when this is over. When it’s just us again.”
Alina gave him a smile — faint, tight, almost apologetic. “Soon.”
His fingers stroked a lazy arc along her waist, thumb brushing the hem of her jacket. “We’ll get back to the plan. The schedule. Start trying again.” He smiled, leaning in, voice soft. “You’ll look so goddamn sexy carrying my baby. You know that?”
Her mouth parted.
But the answer didn’t come.
Because she wasn’t thinking about Mark’s baby. Or Mark’s hands. Or Mark’s plan.
She was thinking about how her panties were still damp from the memory of a cock she hadn’t even taken yet. About the raw stretch of her jaw from the night before. About the taste that still haunted her tongue. About the ache that had never truly left her since the first time she knelt and stroked something she shouldn’t have touched.
And then—
“Hey now,” came a voice from across the room. Deep. Rich. Lazy and lethal.
“Don’t let me stop y’all,” Trey drawled. “Bed’s right there. If you need a few minutes, I’ll look the other way.”
Alina’s spine stiffened — just slightly. The sound of him was too casual, too confident, and so utterly male it made her nipples tighten beneath her bra before her mind could catch up. She didn’t turn to look. She didn’t have to. She could feel him. The heat of his presence filled the room like smoke.
Mark laughed — that dismissive, harmless chuckle men used when someone said something they didn’t quite know how to respond to. “Appreciate the offer,” he said, voice light. “But I think we’ll keep it G-rated for now.”
Trey didn’t argue. Didn’t rise.
He just smirked — visible now in the periphery. Shirtless again, of course. Skin gleaming like polished bronze under that low, amber lamp. Legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of the couch, the other holding a bottle of water he hadn’t touched. His shorts rode low. Too low. Muscles coiled and relaxed like he didn’t even know what tension was.
He looked like he owned the place.
Like the apartment bent around his gravity.
Like her body already had.
Mark turned back to her, kissed her forehead. “I’ll call you when I’m home.”
She nodded.
He squeezed her hip — fingers resting for just a moment too long. Familiar. Comforting. Irrelevant.
Then he was gone.
The door latched shut behind Mark with a soft, deliberate click — not loud, not sharp, but final. The kind of sound that didn’t just close off the outside world, but sealed her in with something too real to keep denying. Alina stood frozen, back still to the apartment, one hand resting against the cool metal of the knob like it might steady her, might rewind time, might remind her what the fuck she was doing. Her other hand hung limp at her side, fingers twitching slightly as if unsure whether to reach for a weapon or a confession. But it wasn’t silence that held her still. It was something heavier. Something warm and humid and alive — a tension that pulsed invisibly in the air, charged with every word left unsaid, every breath caught halfway between guilt and longing. The apartment wasn’t quiet. It was brimming. With intent. With heat.
When she finally turned, he wasn’t there.
The couch sat empty, cushions indented with the memory of his weight, but his body was gone. No dark eyes watching her. No smirk curling at the corners of that arrogant, beautiful mouth. No cocky comment from across the room meant to make her squirm while pretending not to. Only the sound of water — a steady, low rush, soft but unmistakable — sliding beneath the crack of the closed bathroom door. A sound that didn’t just fill the space. It filled her. Steam was already curling out from beneath it, fragrant with soap and skin and heat. Her stomach clenched.
He was in the shower.
Naked.
The word lodged somewhere between her breasts and her thighs — not sharp, not sudden, but slow, coiling, thick with implication. Her mind didn’t flood with images. Her body did. The memory of what he looked like under her hands. The taste of his cum on her tongue. The weight of his cock, hot and twitching against her face. The smell of him — primal, male, impossible to scrub away. And now, he was standing under hot water just a few feet away, those massive arms glistening, that thick, beautiful cock swaying wet and free, soap sliding down the muscle and ink of a body made for sin. Her thighs squeezed together before she could stop them. Her breath shallowed. Her nipples peaked against the fabric of her bra like they’d been waiting for this cue all night.
She didn’t move.
Not because she was scared.
Because she was vibrating. Waiting. Bracing.
For what, she didn’t know. A reason? A sign? A line she could pretend was still in place?
And then the bathroom door creaked open.
Steam rolled out in a thick cloud, curling into the room like smoke, dragging with it a wall of heat and scent that clung instantly to her skin. Her breath caught in her throat as the fog parted — and there he was.
Trey.
Nude.
Unapologetically, breathtakingly nude.
Water still clung to him in rivulets, trickling from his shoulders down the vast terrain of his chest, catching at the edges of thick tattoos and hard-cut muscle before trailing lower — down the chiseled slope of his abs, over the deep cut of his hips. His skin looked darker wet, impossibly smooth, like polished obsidian kissed by light. His body was mythic. His shoulders were carved, arms relaxed but ready, every inch of him radiating that silent, terrifying confidence that didn’t ask if he was wanted. It simply knew.
And between his legs...
Her breath failed her.
Even soft, his cock was obscene. It hung thick and long between his thighs, weighty, veined, beautiful — a promise and a threat and a memory all at once. It swayed slightly as he walked, swinging low, the heavy head dark and flushed, already starting to swell again as if it remembered her mouth. Her cunt pulsed behind her jeans. A slow, traitorous ache. Her gaze dropped — helpless — watching a drop of water trail from the base of his shaft down over his balls, which hung low and full, heavy with unspent promise. Her fingers itched.
He didn’t speak. Just crossed the room like it belonged to him. Like she belonged to him. Each step was deliberate, unhurried, cock swinging, chest glistening. He stopped in front of her, close — close enough for her to smell him, to feel the heat rising off his body through the cotton of her clothes. The scent of soap and sweat and steam wrapped around her like a second skin. Her nipples throbbed. Her mouth went dry. Her thighs clenched again.
His voice was low, smooth, casual — but edged with something sharper. “So ... your husband wants to put a baby in you.”
Her eyes flicked up to his, wide, startled, already breathless. Her voice, thin and barely formed: “Trey...”
He didn’t blink. “You gonna let him?” he asked, eyes locked on hers. “You gonna let that little white cock try and knock you up?”
“Trey—don’t—”
He leaned in, close enough for his chest to brush the peaks of her breasts through her shirt, his breath curling hot against the shell of her ear — not rushed, not demanding, but slow and coiled like a promise. And then his voice spilled into her, thick and low and terrifyingly calm, each word dragging across her skin like a tongue over open flame. “He’s at home right now ... probably thinking about you. Sitting there like a good little husband. Waiting for another chance to fuck you. Waiting to put a baby in you.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her heart stuttered.
Trey’s voice dropped further, weighted now with intent — more than seduction. It was prophecy. “But it’s gonna be too late for him. Too late for that little white dick to matter. Because I’m going to stretch that pussy of yours the way it needs to be stretched. I’m going to open you up so deep you won’t remember how it felt to be empty. And then I’m going to fill your womb with load after load of my thick, potent seed.”
Alina’s throat tightened.
His breath thickened against her cheek. “Night after night, you’re gonna walk out of here with my genes running from your womb ... dripping down your thighs, soaking your panties, staining his fucking sheets. And when our time is over—” he paused, letting the words hang like a blade in the air, “—it’s going to be my baby growing inside your belly.”
The sound she made wasn’t a gasp — it was a shudder. A full-body tremble that rippled from her scalp to the soles of her feet. Her clit pulsed, sharp and sudden, behind the damp cotton of her underwear. The image was too much. His voice painted it so vividly — her cunt stretched around his cock, her body trembling under the weight of him, her belly swelling with the proof. His seed marking her, owning her, replacing everything Mark had ever tried to give her.
Her knees buckled.
Just slightly.
But enough.
She caught herself — barely — but her breath came shallow and desperate, her pupils blown wide, her skin humming with fever. “Trey...” she gasped, her voice wrecked. “I can’t do that...”
He pulled back slowly, not with cruelty, not with force — but with the calm of a man who already knew the answer. His eyes, molten and unwavering, drank her in. Not just her body, but her fracture. The fault line inside her that was splitting wider with every second he stood in front of her, wet and naked and hardening again like her want had summoned it.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
Something in her gave way.
Not all at once. But enough.
Her gaze dropped — not with shame, but surrender — sliding down his chest, over the slope of his abdomen, to the dripping, glistening cock swaying between his legs like it was already claiming her. Thick. Veined. Gorgeous. Her mouth watered. Her thighs clenched again. And her hands rose — slow, trembling, worshipful — until her fingertips brushed the slick heat of his skin. She trailed lower, down the ridge of his abs, until her palms came to rest at the base of his cock. It twitched beneath her touch. Thickened.
That was all it took.
Her body folded.
She sank to her knees like a woman praying — not to a god, but to a sin. Her palms flattened against his thighs, skin to skin, the heat of him blazing through her like a fever. Her mouth opened on a breathless moan, her cheeks flushed with the weight of her own surrender. She didn’t hesitate. Didn’t bargain.
She looked up.
Eyes wide. Lashes wet. Lips parted. And in her voice was everything she couldn’t say — not to her husband, not to herself, not to the life she thought she wanted. “But I can do this,” she whispered.
And her hands wrapped around him — one at the base, struggling to contain the girth, the other stacked above it like a worshipper trying to hold the impossible. The weight of him settled into her grip like a brand. Like purpose. She stroked him once, slow and full, feeling the heat, the texture, the slow rise of hardness, and the sheer impossibility of his size. Her pussy clenched around nothing — desperate to be full. Her mouth ached to taste.
She smiled.
Not with innocence.
Not with guilt.
But with hunger.
“Let me worship you.”
And then she did.
She held him like he was more than just flesh — like the cock in her hands wasn’t simply a part of his body, but an object of gravity, of meaning, of fate. Her palms strained to encompass him, her fingers unable to meet even near the base. He was too thick. Too massive. His shaft throbbed with that slow, pulsing heat of restrained power — not rushed, not impatient, just humming with inevitability. Thick veins coiled beneath the slick skin, twitching each time her fingers flexed, her touch soaking in spit and pre-cum as she worshipped him like a woman already claimed. Already changed. She wasn’t doing this for show. She wasn’t proving anything. She was remembering. Anchoring herself to the only truth that had felt real in weeks — that this cock had already started to own her. And she hadn’t fought it.
Alina didn’t begin with frenzy. There was no greed in her movements, no frantic eagerness. This wasn’t hunger. This was devotion. She leaned in slowly, letting her breath wash over the shaft in long, humid strokes, her lips parted as her tongue eased out and flicked — a delicate first taste at the base, a soft welcome, like a whispered prayer offered before entering sacred ground. She inhaled through her nose as she did, letting the scent of him fill her senses. That rich, intoxicating blend of soap and heat and sex — that unmistakable male funk that clung beneath the clean, a scent that said mine. It struck her like lightning. Her clit throbbed. Her mouth watered. Her belly tightened.
She dragged her tongue again — firmer now, bolder — tracing that thick, throbbing vein that ran up the underside like a road to heaven. He twitched in her grip, and the motion reverberated through her jaw. She moaned softly, helplessly, the sound muffled against his length. Her hands began to stroke, long and slow, slippery with spit and pre-cum, her wrists rolling as she climbed from base to crown, letting the rhythm build like a lullaby for a beast.
But it was his balls that called to her.
She felt them sway gently beneath the weight of her strokes — heavy, full, perfect. Darker than the rest of his skin, low-hanging and impossibly full, they swung with lazy menace beneath that towering shaft like the counterweight to some brutal, beautiful pendulum. She paused there — not to tease, but to honour. Her eyes dropped to them, wide and devout, her breath hitching softly as she let her fingertips ghost along the tender flesh, cupping them with both hands like she was holding something precious.
And she was.
Her future was inside them.
Everything she shouldn’t want — but did. Everything her husband thought he could give her, Trey already carried in those perfect, swollen sacks. Her betrayal. Her awakening. Her baby. She could almost feel it — the load he would unleash inside her, again and again, until her body bloomed with it. Until her belly stretched with it. Until Mark would never look at her the same and she wouldn’t care — because Trey’s seed had made her his.
She leaned in.
And worshipped.
Her lips met one ball first, a soft, worshipful kiss pressed to the side like she was sorry for making it wait. Then she opened her mouth and took it in — slowly, carefully, her tongue swirling around the soft weight, savouring the warmth, the taste, the fullness. Her cheeks hollowed just enough to pull a low, wet suction from him, and the groan he gave above her was pure filth, pure praise. Her moan answered it, a deep, helpless vibration that reverberated through his sack and made her cunt clench with the force of it.
She pulled off with a wet pop and turned to the other, licking long and slow across the seam, then sucking it deep into her mouth with the same care, the same awe. Her hands kept moving on his cock, wet and slick and eager, pumping from base to tip in rhythm with the way her mouth moved on his balls. Her tongue curled under them, lifted them, massaged them. She wanted him to feel it — not just in his groin, but in his chest. In his soul. She wanted him to know what she was doing wasn’t a blowjob.
It was a ritual.
He was the altar.
And she was offering herself.
Above her, Trey’s breath caught, then broke, ragged. His voice came out wrecked — low, hoarse, commanding. “Fuck ... just like that.” His hand curled tighter in her hair, not forcing, not guiding — just claiming. Just anchoring himself to the woman now on her knees before him, her wedding ring flashing in the dim light as her fists slid up and down the length of the cock she worshipped more devoutly than any vow she’d ever made.
She looked up then, face flushed, lips glossy and wet, spit clinging in strands between the base of his shaft and her chin. Her pupils were blown wide, eyes soft and crazed, and she didn’t need to speak. Her mouth said enough. Her moans said everything. But he spoke anyway.
“Look at you, ” he growled, breath catching again as she ran her tongue across the thick head of his cock. “Barely twenty minutes after kissing your husband goodbye ... and here you are, on your fucking knees, worshipping this cock and sucking my balls like they matter more than anything he’s ever given you.”
She moaned around the crown — a deep, messy sound that sent vibrations shooting up the shaft — and he twitched hard in her hand, precum spilling thick and slick across her lips. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t falter. She sucked deeper. Sloppier. Her tongue swirled again, throat tightening as she pushed her mouth down over the head, then farther, letting him press past the resistance, letting him own her jaw. Her eyes welled. Her nose brushed his pelvis. Her hand cupped his balls again — wet now, slick and familiar — and her spit poured down the base of his cock like oil over marble.
She was wrecked.
She was radiant.
And she was his.
Trey’s hand tightened in her hair — not harsh, not cruel, but firm in a way that spoke of possession, not control. His fingers spread wide across her scalp, thick and warm, a grounding weight that felt less like restraint and more like a coronation — like he was claiming the crown of her obedience, her need, her transformation. And when he spoke again, his voice was no longer smooth. It was breaking. Rough around the edges, like something raw and primal was clawing its way up through his chest, dragging the words with it, coated in heat and tension and hunger. “Stroke me slower,” he growled, his hips twitching forward with a restraint that barely held. “Yeah. Just like that. Keep it messy ... That’s it.”
She didn’t hesitate. Her body obeyed like it needed to. Her hands — slick, trembling, devoted — adjusted without thought. One stayed at the base, sliding slow and steady, pumping that thick, pulsing shaft in long, sensual strokes. The other moved higher, just beneath the swollen crown, twisting delicately as it drew a shimmering spiral of spit and precum that caught the lamplight like wet silk. Her knuckles were drenched, her fingers glossed, her wedding ring slick with another man’s arousal. And still her mouth hovered open, lips parted, tongue moving in soft, slow licks along the underside of his cock — every flick another unspoken yes. Another vow.
Trey looked down and saw everything. Her flushed cheeks. Her damp lashes. Her mouth, pink and glossy, her jaw slack with hunger. And that fucking ring flashing each time her hand rose and twisted, gliding over the massive length like it belonged there — like her marriage had simply led her to this. His voice dropped, low and rough with need. “Touch yourself.”
She moaned like he’d freed her.
It wasn’t surprise. It wasn’t protest. It was permission she’d been silently begging for.
Her right hand slid from his shaft like a benediction — slow, trailing spit — and moved down her body with aching intent. She didn’t rush. This was indulgence. Her palm pressed against her stomach first, grounding herself, feeling the low heat rising inside her like lava. Then she slipped lower, past the waistband of her jeans, her breath hitching as she fumbled the button open with one hand, her desperation turning clumsy. The zipper came down with a soft rasp. And then her fingers disappeared beneath the fabric, diving into heat, into soaked cotton, into her own need.
She groaned — guttural and broken — and the sound hit his cock like praise. Like a spell.
She was soaked.
One finger brushed over her clit and her knees trembled. A second joined, swirling slow, matching the rhythm of her strokes on his cock. And her mouth — fuck, her mouth — was working him now in slow, worshipful pulls. Her lips stretched wide as she took the head between them, her cheeks hollowing as her throat flexed to take more, gagging slightly on the sheer size, but never stopping. Her spit coated him. Her tears threatened again. Her nose brushed his pelvis. And all the while, her fingers were moving in her jeans — frantic, wet, shaking — as if she couldn’t not touch herself while serving him. As if her pussy had to mirror the surrender of her mouth.
Trey groaned. It was helpless. Raw. His hands clenched, his jaw tensed, and he looked down at the woman kneeling before him — ruined and radiant, soaked and shining, her mouth full of his cock while she fingered herself like it was the only way to breathe.
“Fucking hell... ” he muttered, his voice cracking with disbelief and dark reverence. “You’re gonna make me cum just from this.”
She moaned around him — a deep, messy vibration that shot through his shaft — and then gagged, hard. She had tried to take more. Too much. Her throat clenched violently, her shoulders jerked, and for a second her body betrayed the stretch.
But she didn’t pull away.
Didn’t recoil.
She held herself there, mouth stretched, eyes watering, throat clenching, because she wanted it — not to impress, not to perform, but to please. Because her body no longer recognised any other god than the one in her mouth.
Trey eased back slightly — not in retreat, but in awareness — just enough to give her air, to let her gasp. A string of spit and slick clung between her lips and the crown of his cock, stretching in a perfect, obscene thread before snapping. Her voice came through the gasp, thin and cracked, like it had been wrung from the core of her.
“Use my mouth...”
His entire body stilled.
“What?” he rasped, but he already knew.
Her eyes lifted to his — glassy and wide, trembling and wrecked, so full of want it hurt.
“Use it,” she whispered again, her voice ragged, soaked in need. “Fuck my mouth like it’s my pussy. Like it belongs to you.”
Trey groaned — no, snarled — and his hips surged forward.
And he did.
His hands gripped either side of her head — firm, steady, claiming. Still measured, still careful, but the restraint was unraveling now. The command she’d whispered had burned something loose inside him, and now there was no pretending. No gentleness. His hips rolled forward, slow at first, testing the give of her jaw, the stretch of her throat, the readiness of the woman who had begged to be used. Her mouth yielded, her body gave, and he pushed deeper — inch after inch of thick, slick cock vanishing between her parted lips, down her throat, until the wet sound of it echoed through the room with every thrust. Sloppy. Deep. Shocking. Her face took it like a vessel — built to take him. Spit flew. Her lips stretched raw. Her throat worked around the invasion like it was learning how to be broken just for him.
And still she gave it to him.
Willing. Starved. Submitting like she’d been waiting to be wrecked.
Her hands braced against his thighs now, trying to steady herself, trying to ground against the force of it — not to stop him, but to hold herself together as he fucked her face with brutal, possessive rhythm. Her gag reflex flared again and again, wet and loud, each time he bottomed out, spit bubbling at the corners of her mouth and pouring down her chin in hot, glossy streams that splattered her collarbone. Her eyes streamed. Her jaw burned. But she didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Her left hand was buried deep inside her jeans, fingers pumping her soaked cunt like her life depended on it — like she had to touch herself while he used her mouth like a goddamn cum sleeve.
“Jesus fuck... ” Trey growled, sweat beading at his temples, muscles flexed with strain, his voice cracked wide open with disbelief. “You love this, don’t you? You love being my little cockslut ... You love me fucking your throat while you finger that sloppy little pussy for me.”
She moaned — or tried to — a broken, garbled noise that vibrated through his shaft and shot straight to his spine. A strangled sob of lust and surrender. It tore out of her. Her whole body shook with it.
His thrusts deepened. Hardened.
Wet, slick slaps of his cock against her face filled the room, and still she took it — mouth stretched wide, lips raw, spit flying with each plunge. Her eyes fluttered but never closed. She looked up at him, wrecked and gleaming, every inch of her face glistening with tears and drool and filth and need.
“You’re such a slut, Alina, ” he growled, voice thick with ownership. “On your knees for another man’s cock ... dripping wet while I fuck your mouth like it’s nothing. Like it’s mine. You want me to choke you with it? Huh? Want me to shoot it down your throat and make you drink it?”
She blinked up at him, her gaze glassy and full of ruin, lips stretched around his girth, spit and cum and tears streaming down her face in beautiful surrender.
And she nodded.
That was all it took.
Trey’s rhythm shattered. His breath caught. His hips bucked.
And then he roared — a raw, feral sound that ripped from his throat as his cock pulsed, hard and furious, deep in her throat. The first shot hit the back of her mouth like a jolt — thick, scalding, coating her instantly in the taste of him. Salt. Heat. Ownership. Her gag returned, sharp and real, but she swallowed, moaning low and long as rope after rope of cum erupted from him. It poured out in violent bursts, flooding her mouth, spilling across her tongue, filling her cheeks before she could catch up. He held her there — deep, buried, twitching — his head thrown back, body taut, muscles jerking as he emptied himself into her like it was her purpose.
And she drank.
God, she drank him.
Eyes shut, lashes wet, throat working in rhythm with his release as she swallowed everything he gave her — every molten, pulsing strand. She didn’t pull back. Didn’t spill. She milked him. One hand gently stroking the slick, spasming shaft as her mouth sealed tight around the head, coaxing the last drops, her tongue swirling slowly like she was savouring it. Her fingers caressed his balls softly now, in silent praise, in gratitude.
Even as he softened — even as the spasms faded — she didn’t let go.
She suckled.
Slow. Loving. Obscene.
And only when the last pulse shuddered through him, only when the final drop had been claimed — only then did she release him with a long, wet pop. A strand of thick cum still clung between her tongue and the head of his cock, stretching, quivering ... before it snapped.
She wiped nothing.