The storm clouds had gathered early.
Thunder rumbled low over the trees as Jack stepped out onto his porch, wiping his hands on a shop rag. The scent of fresh rain was already in the air. Vivienne and Arielle were inside—napping after their morning obedience session. Peaceful. Sprawled out together under a thin linen sheet. Possessed.
Jack lit a cigarette, took one drag, and just watched the horizon.
That’s when he heard the hum of the engine.
It wasn’t local.
Too smooth. Too polished.
A black Mercedes SUV appeared at the crest of the long gravel road. Glossy. Imposing. City plates. Jack didn’t move—he already knew who it was. He’d gotten the call two days ago, late at night, from someone who spoke slowly, carefully. Someone used to being listened to.
She said her name was Sloane Marquette.
A name he knew. CEO. Heiress. A sharp-tongued executive who ran a coastal real estate empire like it was her personal kingdom. Gorgeous. Feared. Rumored to have lovers that never lasted more than a weekend.
But now she was pulling into his drive.
Seeking him.
The SUV stopped. The engine cut. The door opened.
And she stepped out.
Sloane Marquette was tall, powerful, blazing with presence. Skin the color of polished honey, long legs that didn’t quit, wrapped in tailored cream slacks. Her silk blouse was open just enough to tease the full, commanding curves of her breasts. Diamond studs. Glossed lips. Dark sunglasses. And a black umbrella she didn’t bother to open.
Jack met her halfway down the porch steps.
“You must be Jack,” she said, removing her glasses. Her eyes were a storm—gray-blue and heavy-lidded. Sharp.
“You must be Sloane.”
Her gaze flicked down his body—shirtless, jeans slung low on his hips, bare feet planted in the gravel.
“I heard rumors,” she said. “Figured I’d confirm them myself.”
Jack didn’t smirk. Didn’t move. “This isn’t a spa.”
Sloane stepped closer. “I didn’t come for pampering.”
“No press. No handlers. No control,” Jack said. “You come here, you give that up. All of it.”
She tilted her head slightly. “You think I’m used to control?”
Jack didn’t blink. “I know you are. That’s why you’re here.”
Silence stretched.
Then she smiled. Slow. Knowing. Wanting.
“I have three hours,” she said.
Jack turned.
“Then follow me.”
He didn’t offer her wine.
Didn’t ask if she wanted to sit.
He led her to the large, window-lined sitting room. Rain had started to fall—fat, cold drops sliding down the glass, thunder grumbling in the distance.
Sloane moved slowly, her heels clicking on the old wood floor. She circled the room like she was sizing up a boardroom—until Jack stopped her with one word:
“Strip.”
She froze. Not because she wasn’t expecting it.
But because he said it like a command.
Not a request. Not a question.
She met his eyes. Slowly unbuttoned her blouse. One button at a time.
“No rush,” Jack said. “Make me enjoy it.”
Her eyes flared.
Then Sloane gave him a show.
She peeled the blouse open, baring her black lace bra. Her fingers toyed with the straps as she swayed slowly, hips rolling, watching his eyes follow every movement.
She unfastened her slacks next, letting them slide over long, muscled legs. Black lace panties. Bare feet now. Bare power.
Jack stepped in, circled behind her. No touching yet.
He leaned in.
“Bra off. Keep the heels.”
She obeyed.
Her breasts spilled free—full, perfect, heavy with anticipation.
Jack didn’t touch them. Not yet.
He circled again, now in front of her.
Then—without a word—he placed a thick, hand-carved wooden chair in the center of the room.
Sat down.
Legs spread.
“Come ride.”
Sloane straddled him slowly—knees on either side of his thighs. His cock already strained in his jeans. She ground her hips down against it, teasing, eyes burning.
But Jack didn’t kiss her.
He just watched her.
“You want it,” he said. “Say it.”
“I need it,” she murmured, her voice a cracked whip.
Jack undid his jeans, freed himself.
She gasped when he slapped the head of his cock against her soaked panties.
Then—finally—he pulled them aside.
And guided her down.
Slow. Deep. Stretching.
Sloane’s head rolled back. Her mouth parted.
Jack gripped her hips tight and held her there—buried deep, unmoving.
“Feel that?” he growled.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“You don’t get to move until I say.”
She whimpered.
And Jack didn’t let her ride. Not yet.
Instead, he kissed her neck—slow, devastating kisses—and whispered all the things he was going to do to her.
She started to shake just from the words.
Then—permission.
“Now.”
And she rode.
Hard. Hungry. Like a woman starved.
Her nails raked his shoulders. Her breasts bounced as she slammed down onto him, again and again.
Jack grunted, holding her in place, letting her fuck herself on his cock until her entire body tensed—and she came hard, gasping into his mouth.
But he wasn’t done.
Jack stood—lifting her off his lap, cock still buried inside her.
He carried her to the wooden table. Bent her over it.
No soft words now.
Just rough, full thrusts.
Sloane screamed.
Jack fucked her like she was his. Not a CEO. Not a brand. Not a woman with staff and money and power.
Just a woman begging to be taken.
His hand gripped her throat lightly, his other hand squeezing her ass as he drove into her harder, deeper.
“I could break you in two,” he growled in her ear.
“Then do it,” she panted.
And she came again—sobbing this time.
Jack kept going.
Until he finished deep inside her.
They lay on the rug now, her head on his chest, legs tangled, sweat cooling on their skin.
Thunder cracked above them.
Sloane exhaled. “I’ve never been out of control like that.”
Jack stroked her hip.
“You weren’t out of control. You just gave it to someone who knew what to do with it.”
She looked up at him. Eyes glassy. Smiling. “You do this for everyone?”
“No.”
“Why me?”
Jack shrugged. “You were smart enough to ask.”
She laughed. A real laugh.
And then she kissed him—slow, grateful, almost reverent.
When she left two hours later, the town folks watched from under their awnings, nodding quietly.
They knew.
The cabin had worked its magic again.
🍆 Cum for Jack