Chapter 8: First Oral

The kitchen smelled like warm apples and cinnamon the moment I stepped through the back door. Rachel had the pie cooling on a wire rack beside the sink, crust golden and flaky, the kind she brought to every church potluck. But today the ordinary suburban kitchen felt charged, dangerous—blinds half-drawn over the window above the sink, late-afternoon light slanting across the tile floor in narrow bars. Jake’s shift was supposed to run until nine, but the possibility he could walk in early hung in the air like smoke.

She waited for me exactly as I’d ordered. Black thigh-high stockings clung to her legs like a sinful secret, the lacy bands digging softly into the plush flesh just below where her ass curved out. The same sensible black church heels she wore every Sunday lifted her calves into tight, elegant lines. A tiny white apron—the one she used for baking—was tied around her waist and nothing else. Her full breasts rested heavy against the thin fabric, nipples already stiff and visible through the cotton. Between her legs, nothing but smooth skin and that narrow landing strip, the lips beneath already glistening with the first slick evidence of her shame.

Her eyes flicked to the floor when I closed the door. “He could come home any minute,” she whispered, voice tight with nerves. “The garage door is loud, but still...”

I crossed the room slowly, letting my gaze rake over her. My cock was already thick and heavy inside my jeans, pressing against the denim with every heartbeat. “Then you’d better stay quiet, Mrs. Thompson. On your knees.”

She sank down right there on the cool tile, stockings whispering against the floor, heels clicking once before she settled. The apron rode up, baring the soft underside of her belly and the tops of her thighs. I stood in front of her, unzipped, and freed my cock. It sprang out, flushed and veined, the head already slick.

“First lesson,” I said, voice low. “Worship my cock with your feet. Those church heels stay on until I say otherwise.”

Her cheeks burned crimson. She lifted one stockinged foot, the black nylon gleaming under the light, and pressed the sole against the underside of my shaft. The silky fabric dragged over sensitive skin, warm from her body heat. I groaned softly as she rubbed up and down, tentative at first, then bolder when I nodded. The heel pressed into my thigh, the arch cradling my balls while her toes curled around the head, stroking in small, experimental circles.