As much as this series might make it sound like I was always the one doing the work, let me set the record straight-Emma could give  just as well as she took.

This girl could suck the cum out of me faster than my balls could make it. No joke. There were nights where the first blast was just the warning shot. My cock would keep twitching, keep spurting, jerking like it couldn't decide whether it wanted to collapse or go again. And Emma? She could go all night. The more I came, the longer it took the next time-which, I think, she saw as a challenge. We'd spend entire days recovering, only for her to casually reach over, wrap her hand around my flaccid cock, and stroke me back to life like she owned it. Because, honestly, she kind of did.

My cock adored her-stood to attention like a soldier under inspection whenever she so much as hinted. We had these chats about how sore she was, how stretched and swollen she felt between her legs. I'd smile and tell her my cockhead felt like it had been sandpapered. We were both raw in the best possible way.

Emma liked pain with her pleasure-and when the mood called for it, she could take it hard. She wanted it hard. I'd slap her ass till it glowed like a tail lamp, bite her neck and tits till they bloomed red beneath my teeth. I'd squeeze her nipples just the way she liked-right at that edge between too much and just enough. And when I fucked her ass like a piston at redline, that tiny little body never quit. She wanted to be pushed. And I enjoying pushing her.

This time... this time she wanted to return the favour.

There was a party one weekend, so we stayed the night at my parents' place. They're pretty conservative, so Emma was given her own room. As I walked her there to say goodnight, she gave me one of her looks-playful, dangerous.

Without a word, she turned, pulled down her flannel pajama bottoms, and fell back onto the bed. Her legs lifted in the air, pants and panties bunched around her ankles like some sexy little victory flag. Her pussy was smooth, freshly waxed, and glistening-already wet.

"Goodnight, huh?" I muttered, stepping closer, mesmerized.

"Come on," she whispered, "just a quick one."

The door to the room was wide open, but I was already hard. My boxers hit the floor, and I lined myself up, sliding into her heat with a soft groan.

Then-footsteps. Soft, shuffling. Shit.

I moved faster than I ever had in my life-lunging for the door, slamming it shut, and yanking my boxers back up in one smooth motion. When I turned, there she was: sitting primly on the edge of the bed, pajamas back in place, all innocence and wide eyes.

"Goodnight," I said, barely managing to keep a straight face as I opened the door for my mom.

"Night, babe," she replied.

Later-around 2 a.m.-I heard a soft steps and the faint whisper of bare feet on tiles. Emma slipped into my room like a ghost, slid under the covers, and without a word, we picked up where we left off. Only slower. Longer. More deliberate.

The Next Day

I was back in my room the next afternoon, messing around on my gaming rig. Emma wanted to try, so I handed her the controller and flopped back on the bed to watch.

Not bad for a first timer. She crashed a lot, but it was cute to watch.

The sound was a little loud, so I got up, shut the door, and on the way back to the bed, decided the game needed a new challenge.

I dropped my jeans to my ankles and gave myself a few strokes-just enough to get fully hard-then stepped into her peripheral vision.

She paused the game, turned to look... and smirked. "Seriously?"

"Think of it as... a bonus level."

Without hesitation, she set the controller down and opened her mouth, tongue already out like she couldn't wait. Seated on the chair, she was at the perfect height.

She started slow, working her lips around my shaft, swirling her tongue under the head. Her strokes were gentle but focused-like she was studying the contours of my cock, mapping out every nerve.

"Fuck... you're good at that," I muttered, brushing her curls back from her face.

She winked, then teased the tip with her tongue, fluttering just around the ridge where head met shaft. Then a line of spit slid down, coating me as she let her mouth fall open to spit again, messier this time. She licked it all up, swallowing with a little hum of satisfaction.

Then she went dry-just her mouth, her heat, her rhythm. Every movement was deliberate. Calculated. Seductive.

She moved down to my balls, licking and teasing, then cupped them in her hand, gently tugging the loose skin just the way I liked.

I groaned, fingers tightening in her hair. "Fuck, babe... don't stop."

She looked up at me, eyes sparkling. "Wasn't planning to."

That was it. I grabbed her head and started moving, fucking her mouth with a slow, steady rhythm. She moaned around me, encouraging me to go deeper. Her hands gripped my thighs, anchoring herself.

"God, you're filthy," I said through clenched teeth.

She pulled back just enough to say, "And you like that."

I did. And when I finally came, it was with a growl, my cock jerking in her mouth as she swallowed every drop, not spilling a single thing. When she pulled away, she wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb and smirked.

"High score?" she asked.

I laughed, breathless. "You just broke my propshaft."

She left that afternoon with a long kiss and a promise to call when she got home. She did, and we spoke for a while.

Work consumed me completely for the next few days, and when I finally called her, she was extremely upset... something had shifted. I couldn't put my finger on it, but I felt it.

 A few days later, the fight came-sharp, sudden, and final. Or so I thought.