adult fiction story


adult fiction story 2022-11-27 22:33 source:network
Everything that had happened with Catcher was in the past. When I promised to bring a loaf of pumpkin bread for Thanksgiving, I figured we\'d be amicable. I figured we\'d leave our awkward, unrealized

Everything that had happened with Catcher was in the past. When I promised to bring a loaf of pumpkin bread for Thanksgiving, I figured we'd be amicable. I figured we'd leave our awkward, unrealized more-than-friendship behind in the fog of our memory. We'd never done anything physical, but our whole relationship was a gigantic scar of guilt on my life and my marriage.

It started that way: friendly. He gave me a side hug, told me how his family was doing since I'd moved away and come back to visit. But as I was leaving, he stood in the doorway. The kitchen darkened as his tall frame fell over the window. I'd never cared much about height, but when I'd been attracted to him I remember latching onto the idea of his silhouette, well over six feet, draping over my body. But now, it was menacing, how easily his long body kept the light from coming through.

"I have to go," I said. I stepped closer. His smell was overwhelming--cologne and cider and clove, all too sweet.

"I'm not letting you walk out of my life for the second time."

Catcher's eyes were darker than normal, his stare glossy and soft. I looked away and reached for the doorknob as fast I could.

He took a step and forced his body against mine, my head just below his shoulder. I froze. My heart weakened with the inevitability of the situation. Catcher was going to ruin me, for real this time. I wasn't going to be able to say we hadn't fucked, now. My husband wasn't going to believe me if I told him what was happening.

Catcher put his hands underneath my coat and slid them along my hips, rumpling the fabric of my skirt. Then his hands skimmed the hem of my thick sweater and trailed upwards. His hands felt so cold against my skin, I wanted to cry out. Instead, I choked out a high-pitched noise that made Catcher seize my breast in his hand.

"I know you need this as bad as I do," he said.

Despite the chill of his hands, my body was on fire with shame and fear. My cheeks felt hot and warmth was roiling in my stomach.

I looked at the doorknob and then at Catcher's forearm sticking out from underneath my sweater.

"Catcher, I can't. You know that. I just can't give this to you."

"But you want to."

His hand ignored the fabric of my skirt and found the front of my panties, where he started to rub with his thumb in firm strokes.

"No, I--" I shut my eyes, feeling tears come. "It doesn't matter if I want you. I can't. Let me go home. Please."

"I'll make that choice for you." Catcher said.

He kissed me then. He was clean shaven, and his face didn't feel like I thought it would. I imagined his jaw harder against my cheek, but it was soft, a solid pressure on my skin. I didn't open my mouth to accept the kiss. His tongue was wet on my lips and I shuddered.


I put my hands on his forearms and squeezed. His chest pushed harder against mine, crushing my breasts against his shirt. Catcher hadn't stopped petting my clit through my underwear and he was breathing heavy against my face.

He tugged my coat off and it was heavy enough to knock the pumpkin loaf I had made off the dining table, clattering to the ground in a sweet, ugly mess. Catcher ignored it. He grabbed onto my hips and turned me around until my waist met the hard wood of the table his family had eaten on just a few hours before. I was shocked by his strength. I didn't really think of Catcher as a man before, as someone who'd ever be overtaken by something like sex. He made himself out to be so smart, so above it all. But now, he was an animal, cruel and desperate. He unzipped my skirt and it fell to the ground.

"You have no idea the impact you've had on my life. You're everything. Everything I write is about you."

"Catcher, don't do this. I don't want to be a cheater."

"But you are. You're not meant for relationships. You're not meant for him."

"I am, I'm--"

His fingers dipped into my hole where slick had started to pool. I was ashamed. I wanted it to be easy; I wanted it to be rape. What was this? Who was a victim? Catcher unbuckled his slacks and his belt clanged on the tile. He massaged my ass with his hand as he pulled my underwear aside and prodded at my opening with the head of his cock. I was grateful I couldn't see it.

It was big. At least, it felt big inside me as it slid inside, his movements now gentle and slow. Catcher was warming me up. I banged my fist against the table in frustration--it felt so good, how thick he was, with his wet fingers still wrapped around my front, attacking my clit. I squeezed tight around his length in protest, but it only made my pussy like the feeling more, and it made Catcher thrust deeper.

"It's funny, I used to think we'd never work anyway because I didn't want kids. But I do. I want kids and I want you to carry them."

I thrashed in his grip, making the attention on my clit stop. I tried to stand up straight, but then Catcher shoved my head down and my face met the cool surface of the table. His hands tangled into my scalp, not pulling, just keeping me still, keeping me in place, keeping me his. Catcher was stable. He had me at home base.

"God, I love you," he said. I was crying, feeling the shame and the attraction and the arousal all bubbling up in equal but conflicting parts, about to leave my body with the orgasm that was building.

"Catcher," I said, and then I was coming against my will, muscles seizing around his cock in panicked pleasure. I felt warmth and wetness drip down my inner thighs as I came, felt Catcher bend over my back and whisper into my hair. His body grew tense and he sped up, pounding into me with fury I'd never thought him capable of. He shouted and stilled and I knew he'd come inside me.

Once he pulled out, Catcher didn't try to stop me from leaving anymore. He got a broom and dustpan and started sweeping up the pumpkin loaf that had crumbled on the ground while I cleaned up, dabbing between my legs with paper towels and throwing them in his kitchen trash can. He was quiet. He looked embarrassed. I was hoping I might see him cry, but he didn't. The ground was immaculate once he was finished sweeping and the dirty, empty pan that had once held my pumpkin loaf lay right side up on the kitchen table.