Oh Jessi

Jessi is a cock tease Latina brat. One afternoon, her father and his friends are having a BBQ in the back yard. They're drinking, smoking, snorting. .

The afternoon sun beat down on the backyard, casting long shadows across the pool deck where Joe and the boys had set up camp. Empty bottles of Modelo littered the patio table, and the sharp, acrid smell of weed mixed with cigarette smoke hung thick in the air. Joe leaned back in his lounger, a half-smoked joint pinched between his thick fingers, watching Martin's face as he scrolled through the photos on his phone.

"Wait, wait—this one," Joe said, swiping to a shot of Jessi bent over the side of the pool last summer, her neon green bikini bottom riding up the curve of her ass. "Tell me that's not the finest piece of ass you've seen outside of a magazine."

Martin let out a low whistle, his bloodshot eyes widening. "Jesus Christ, Joe. She's... that's your daughter, man."

"So?" Joe grinned, taking a long drag. "I made that. I get to show her off."

Dennis, the birthday boy, leaned in from the other side, a beer dangling from his hand. He was fifty-three, though he looked older—gangly and malnourished, all sharp angles and ropy muscle stretched thin over a wiry frame. His limbs were long and slightly disjointed, like a scarecrow that had been assembled in a hurry, and there was a mischievous, hungry cast to his face that never quite left. His eyes, bloodshot and glittering, stayed fixed on the screen. "She got a boyfriend?"

"She does, actually," Joe said, and there was something complicated in his voice—half dismissive, half proud. "Kid named Miguel. Decent enough. Protective. But she's a flirt. Always has been. Says most guys her age are too serious." He took a drag of the joint, holding the smoke in his lungs. "She likes older men, I think. Always flirts with my friends when they come over."

"Fuckin' A," Dennis muttered, shaking his head.

They passed the joint around again. The coke was still laid out on the glass coffee table in the living room, a few fat lines waiting for round two. Joe had been smart about it—kept the party outside, kept it chill. Neighbors were far enough away not to care, and his wife was visiting her sister for the weekend. It was just the boys, the pool, and the promise of a long, lazy afternoon.

The sliding glass door to the garage scraped open.

All three men turned.

Jessi stepped into the backyard and every single thought in their heads evaporated.

She was drenched in sweat, her dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail that swung against her neck as she walked. Her sports bra was black, soaked through at the chest and under her arms, clinging to the shape of her tits like a second skin. Her nipples were visible—hard from the air conditioning, or maybe from something else—poking sharp against the thin fabric.

But it was the shorts that made Dennis's mouth go dry.

Black spandex. Compression tight. The kind of shorts that left nothing to the imagination because there was nothing left to hide. They cut high on her hips, digging into the thick meat of her thighs, and they were pulled so taut across her ass that every contour, every dimple, every flex of muscle was on display. Her ass was round and full—that thick Latina bubble that seemed to defy gravity, spilling out from under the leg bands in soft, heavy handfuls.

And between her legs—

Dennis felt his cock twitch in his shorts.

The fabric was stretched so tight across her cunt that he could see the full shape of her pussy lips, plush and pronounced, pressed together in a visible cameltoe that ran from the top of her thighs to where the fabric disappeared between her legs. Above it, the outline of her clit was a distinct bump against the material—swollen, prominent, like she was already half-aroused. And just above that, a small, dark triangle of pubic hair was visible through the thin black fabric, a soft little tuft that the spandex couldn't quite flatten.

She was a walking wet dream, and she knew it.

"Hey, Daddy," she said, her voice bright and casual, like she hadn't just walked into a den of hungry wolves. She dropped her duffel bag by the patio door and stretched—actually fucking stretched—her arms going over her head, her tits lifting, her sweaty stomach exposed, the waistband of her shorts dipping low enough to show the sharp cut of her hip bones.

Every man's eyes tracked the movement. The way the spandex pulled tighter across her pussy when she arched her back. The way a single bead of sweat rolled down her stomach and disappeared into her navel.

Joe grinned, lazy and proud. "Hey, baby girl. You remember my friend Martin, right? And this is Dennis—it's his birthday."

Jessi's eyes slid to Dennis, and she smiled. Slow. Deliberate. Her gaze dropped down his body and back up again, taking her time.

"Happy birthday," she said, and her voice was honey and heat. "I hope my daddy's been treating you right."

Dennis opened his mouth. Closed it. Cleared his throat. "Uh. Yeah. Yeah, he has. Thanks."

She laughed—a soft, musical sound—and turned toward the house. "I'm gonna go shower. You boys have fun." She paused at the door, looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes found Dennis again. "Don't let them drink all the good stuff before I'm done."

And then she was gone, the sliding glass door clicking shut behind her.

The silence stretched for exactly three seconds before Martin let out a breath he'd been holding.

"Holy shit, Joe."

Dennis didn't say anything. He just stared at the door she'd disappeared through, his hand tightening around his beer bottle, his cock pressing hard against his zipper.

Joe laughed, reaching for the coke tray. "Told you boys. Let's do another line and hop in the pool. She'll be out again in about twenty minutes, and I promise you—you haven't seen nothing yet." He chopped the powder with a razor blade, humming. "She's been asking about getting a bikini wax. Says the Brazilian makes her feel sexy. I told her she should show off her new look this weekend."

Dennis's mouth went dry again. "She's gonna... she's gonna come back out?"

"She always does," Joe said, and he didn't look up from the coke. "Likes to sunbathe by the pool. Says the tan lines are cute." He snorted, then looked up with a glint in his eye. "Don't worry, birthday boy. You'll get an eyeful before the day's done."

Joe chopped the powder into neat, thick lines on the glass table. Three of them, each one fat enough to make a lesser man's heart stutter. He rolled a twenty-dollar bill tight, handed it to Dennis first. "Birthday boy gets first hit."

Dennis didn't hesitate. He leaned forward, pressed the bill to his nostril, and dragged the line up in one smooth, practiced motion. The burn hit his sinuses like fire and he sat back, eyes watering, tongue running across his lower lip. The rush was immediate—that sharp, electric clarity that made his skin tingle and his cock throb. He could feel his heart kicking in his chest, feel the heat spreading through his groin.

Martin went next, snorting with a soft grunt, wiping his nose on the back of his hand. Joe took his own hit last, then leaned back in his lounger, letting the high settle into his bones.

"She's got a boyfriend, you know," Joe said, almost offhand, staring up at the sky. "Some kid named Miguel. He's alright. Protective. Hates when she goes out drinking."

"She drinking tonight?" Dennis asked, his voice tight.

"Maybe." Joe turned his head, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face. "If I tell her it's a party, she'll want to join. She likes to feel included. Likes the attention."

Dennis's mind was already racing ahead, fueled by the meth and the memory of that cameltoe, those thick thighs, the way her nipples had pressed against the sports bra. He imagined her in a bikini. Imagined her wet from the pool, water dripping down her stomach, running between her legs. His hand drifted to his lap, adjusting himself through his shorts—and even through the fabric, the sheer size of his cock was unmistakable, thick and heavy, pressing against the zipper like it was straining to be free. Martin had seen it before, in locker rooms, and never let him forget it.

"You alright there, Den?" Martin snickered.

"Fuck off."

Joe just laughed, low and knowing.

The sliding door opened.

Jessi stepped out, and the meth hit Dennis like a second rush.

She'd changed into a white bikini that was practically see-through when wet. The top was triangle-cut, barely containing her tits—full, heavy breasts that spilled over the edges of the fabric, her nipples dark and visible through the pale material. Her hair was still damp, slicked back, and water droplets clung to her shoulders, her collarbone, the tops of her tits.

The bottoms were even worse.

High-cut on the hips, the kind that made her legs look endless, with thin strings tied in bows on each side. The fabric between her legs was a narrow strip—just a tiny triangle of white cloth that covered absolutely nothing. Her pussy lips were visible through the wet material, the seam of her cunt clearly defined, the slight swell of her clit pressing against the front. A few dark curls of pubic hair escaped at the edges, curling against her thighs.

She carried a towel in one hand, a bottle of tanning oil in the other.

"Mind if I join you guys?" She was already walking toward the pool, not waiting for an answer. She spread her towel on the lounger next to her father's—the one directly across from Dennis—and set the oil down.

Joe waved a hand. "Go ahead, baby girl. It's your house too."

She sat down on the edge of the lounger, facing them, and uncapped the tanning oil. She poured a generous amount into her palm, set the bottle aside, and then—slowly, deliberately—began to rub it into her legs.

Dennis couldn't look away.

Her hands moved up her shins, over her knees, along the soft skin of her inner thighs. She spread her legs slightly to reach the backs of her knees, and the white fabric pulled tight across her cunt, showing the full curve of her pussy lips, the dark shadow of her slit. She held eye contact with Dennis while her fingers trailed up her thigh, stopping just inches from where the fabric disappeared between her legs.

"You guys want to swim?" she asked, her voice innocent. "The water's perfect."

Martin cleared his throat. "Maybe in a bit. We're still... settling in."

She smiled. Sweet. Knowing. Her hand moved up to her stomach, spreading oil across her flat belly, then higher, over her ribs. Her fingers grazed the underside of her tits, and Dennis saw her nipples harden further through the wet fabric.

"Suit yourself," she said, and leaned back on the lounger, closing her eyes.

The sun hit her body like a spotlight. The white bikini glowed. Every curve, every dip, every shadow was laid out for them like a buffet.

Dennis's cock was painfully hard now, straining against his shorts with that familiar, punishing weight. He adjusted himself again, letting his hand linger, not caring if she saw. Not caring if anyone saw. The outline of it was obscene through the thin fabric—long, thick, unmistakable.

Jessi's eyes were still closed, but her smile had widened. Her tongue touched her lower lip, just briefly, before she settled deeper into the lounger, letting the sun paint her body gold.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The minutes stretched, thick and syrupy, the only sounds the gentle lap of pool water against the tile and the quiet hum of the filter. Dennis's heart was pounding in his ears, the meth making every sensation razor-sharp—the grit of the concrete under his bare feet, the weight of the beer bottle in his hand, the way the sunlight caught the droplets of water on Jessi's skin.

She shifted on the lounger, rolling onto her stomach. The movement was slow, deliberate, a lazy cat stretching in the sun. Her tits pressed against the towel beneath her, the white fabric of the bikini top bunching at the sides, and the straps of the bottoms dug into the thick meat of her ass cheeks as she settled. The curve of her hips flared wide, her waist dipping in before swelling out into that round, heavy bubble of an ass. The white fabric disappeared between her cheeks, leaving nothing to the imagination—just the shadow of her crack, the slight glisten of moisture where the wet suit clung to her skin.

"Someone's gonna get a sunburn," Martin muttered, his voice strained.

Joe snorted. "She's got oil on. She'll be fine."

Dennis couldn't stop staring at the way her ass cheeks spread just slightly as she bent her knees, propping herself up on her elbows. She reached back and untied the string on the back of her bikini top, letting the fabric fall loose. The edges of her tits were visible from the side—the soft swell of breast tissue, the dark circle of her areola peeking out.

"Gotta even out the tan lines," she said, not looking back at them. Her voice was casual, almost bored. Like she hadn't just bared herself to three men high on meth.

Joe took a long drag of his beer, watching his daughter with an expression that was equal parts pride and hunger. "She's always been comfortable in her own skin."

"No shit," Dennis breathed.

Jessi laughed, soft and low, and rolled the knot of the bikini top between her fingers before setting it aside on the towel. She was completely bare-backed now, the delicate ridge of her spine visible, the curve of her waist dipping into her hips. Her shoulder blades moved as she propped her chin on her folded arms, looking out at the pool.

"You boys should really get in the water," she said. "It's hot as fuck out here."

"Maybe we should," Joe said, and there was an edge to his voice now, something testing. He looked at Dennis. "What do you say, birthday boy? Want to take a dip?"

Dennis's cock was a solid weight against his thigh, thick and aching. He shifted, adjusting himself openly this time, not caring who saw. "I didn't bring trunks."

Jessi turned her head, looking at him over her bare shoulder. Her eyes dropped to his lap, to the prominent bulge straining against his shorts, and she held his gaze for a long, loaded moment.

"Daddy's got extras," she said, her voice dropping just slightly. "I could grab you a pair."

The offer hung in the air, weighted with something none of them would name.

"That'd be... that'd be nice," Dennis managed, his voice rougher than he intended.

She smiled—that slow, knowing smile—and pushed herself up. The bikini top dangled from her hand as she stood, her tits fully exposed for a brief, electric second before she held the fabric to her chest. Her nipples were dark and hard, her tits full and heavy, swaying as she walked past them toward the house.

"I'll be right back," she said, and the door slid shut behind her.

The silence that followed was broken by Martin's shaky exhale. "Joe, I swear to God—"

"I know," Joe said, and there was a tremor in his voice too. "I know."

Dennis didn't say anything. He just stared at the door, his hand wrapped around his cock through his shorts, squeezing the hard length of it, waiting for her to come back.

The afternoon bled into evening, the shadows stretching long across the pool deck. Another round of lines had been cut and snorted, and Jessi had reappeared in a different bikini—this one neon green, tied at the hips, the fabric so thin and wet that her pussy looked painted on. She'd swum laps, floated on her back with her tits breaking the surface, and then stretched out on the lounger again, letting the men watch. She'd made eye contact with Dennis every time she touched herself—adjusting her top, running her fingers through her wet hair, spreading her legs just wide enough to see the fabric pull tight across her cunt.

Dennis had been nursing the same beer for an hour, his cock a constant, agonizing pressure against his shorts. The meth had his jaw tight and his thoughts racing, but they all circled back to one thing: her. The way she moved. The way she looked at him. The way she fucking knew what she was doing to him.

She'd walked past him to grab another drink, her hip brushing his shoulder, and she'd paused. Leaned down. Let her damp hair fall against his arm.

"You doing okay over here, birthday boy?" Her voice was honey, warm and teasing, her mouth close enough to his ear that he could feel her breath.

He'd grabbed her wrist. Not hard—but firm enough to make her stop.

"You know exactly what you're doing," he said, his voice low, rough, scraped raw by the meth and the want.

She'd smiled. Slow. Her eyes dropped to his mouth, then lower. "Maybe I do."

That was the moment something snapped.

---

Dennis's hand closed around her wrist and he pulled, hard enough to make her stumble off balance. She let out a surprised gasp, her drink sloshing over the rim of the bottle, and then he was on his feet, his other hand finding her hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh above the bikini bottoms.

"Hey—" Martin started, half-rising from his chair.

Joe held up a hand, his eyes fixed on his daughter, something dark and hungry flickering in their depths. "Let 'em."

Dennis didn't wait for permission. He dragged Jessi toward the sliding glass door, his grip bruising on her wrist, and she went—not fighting, not struggling, her bare feet stumbling across the concrete, her breath coming in quick, excited little gasps.

"Dennis," she said, and there was a tremor in her voice, half warning, half thrill. "Dennis, what are you—"

He shoved the door open with his shoulder, pulling her through the living room, past the coffee table with the remnants of coke still dusting the glass, down the hallway toward the bedrooms. He didn't know which one was hers. Didn't care.

"Which room?" His voice was a growl.

"What?"

"Your dad's room. Which one is it?"

She pointed, her hand shaking, toward the door at the end of the hall. "That one. But Dennis—"

He kicked the door open.

Joe's bedroom was large, dark, the blinds half-drawn. A king-sized bed dominated the room, covered in a dark gray comforter. The air smelled like cologne and stale sheets. Dennis pulled her inside and slammed the door shut behind them.

Jessi stumbled, catching herself on the edge of the bed. She looked up at him, her chest heaving, her eyes wide and dark. The neon green bikini was still damp, clinging to every curve. Her nipples were hard points against the thin fabric. The triangle between her legs was dark with moisture—pool water, or something else.

"You've been asking for it all day," Dennis said, his voice low and ragged. He stepped toward her, his cock straining against his shorts, the outline of it obscene and unmistakable. "All those looks. All those fucking poses. You think I wouldn't take what you've been offering?"

Jessi's breath hitched. Her hand slid back on the comforter, steadying herself. "I was just—"

"You were just what?" He was in front of her now, looming, his body casting a shadow over hers. "Teasing? Flirting? Seeing how far you could push three grown men before one of them snapped?" He reached down and grabbed the string at her hip. "Congratulations, sweetheart. I snapped."

He yanked.

The knot came loose instantly, the green fabric falling away from her hip. She gasped, her hand flying down to catch it, but he was faster—he grabbed the other tie and pulled that one loose too, and the bikini bottoms slid down her thighs, pooling at her feet.

She was bare underneath. Completely bare.

Her pussy was smooth and glistening, her lips plump and parted, the hood of her clit visible just above the seam of her cunt. A thin thread of moisture connected her thighs, glistening in the dim light.

"Fuck," Dennis breathed, his eyes fixed between her legs. "You've been walking around like this all day? No fucking underwear? Just waiting for someone to see?"

Jessi's face flushed, but she didn't look away. Her voice came out smaller than she intended. "I like the way it feels. The fabric against my skin. The way it shows everything."

"You're a fucking slut," he said, but there was no venom in it—just awe, just hunger. "You know that? A pretty little slut who likes to shothe way her whole body shuddered. "Oh, you like that, don't you? You like knowing they can hear you?" He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back, forcing her to arch her spine. "You want them to hear you come? You want your daddy to hear what a slutty little whore his daughter is?"

"Y-yes—" The word tore out of her before she could stop it. "Yes, yes, yes—"

He fucked her harder.

The rhythm became punishing, his hips slamming against her ass, the sound of skin on skin filling the room. Her tits bounced with each thrust, her nipples dragging against the comforter, and she could feel sweat beading on her skin, rolling down her spine, mixing with the slickness between her thighs.

She was close. So close she could taste it. The coil in her belly was wound so tight it was almost painful, and every thrust pushed it tighter, tighter, until—

"I'm gonna come," she sobbed, her voice breaking. "Dennis, I'm gonna—"

"Come," he commanded, his grip on her hair tightening. "Come on my cock. Let them hear you."

And she did.

The orgasm ripped through her like a wave, violent and overwhelming. Her back arched, her mouth opened in a silent scream, and then the sound came—a high, keening moan that built and built until it broke into a ragged cry. Her pussy clamped down on his cock, pulsing and clenching, and she heard herself as if from far away, her voice carrying through the walls, through the house, out into the backyard where three men sat in stunned silence.

But Dennis didn't stop.

He kept fucking her through it, his thrusts relentless, his cock driving into her oversensitive cunt and making her gasp and whimper with each stroke. The pleasure was too much—sharp-edged, almost unbearable—and the humiliation of knowing everyone could hear her only made it worse. Only made it better.

"That's one," he growled, pulling out and spinning her around. "I'm not done with you yet."

He pushed her back onto the bed, and she landed on the comforter, her legs splayed, her pussy wet and swollen and dripping with his pre-cum and her own slickness. He climbed on top of her, his body covering hers, and she could feel his cock pressing against her thigh, still rock hard.

"Roll over," he said. "On your stomach."

She obeyed without thinking, rolling onto her belly, and he grabbed her hips, pulling her up onto her knees. Her tits hung beneath her, heavy and full, her nipples dragging against the sheets. He positioned himself behind her and thrust into her again, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth motion.

The angle was different. Deeper. His cock hit a spot inside her that made her see stars, and she cried out, her fingers clawing at the sheets.

"Look at you," he said, his voice low and ragged. "Look at this perfect fucking ass." His hand came down on her cheek with a sharp slap, and she yelped, her pussy clenching around him. "You're gonna take every fucking drop I give you. And you're gonna thank me for it."

He fucked her like he owned her—hard, deep, punishing. Each thrust drove her forward, her tits sliding against the sheets, her breath coming in desperate, broken sobs. The sound of their bodies slapping together was wet and rhythmic, punctuated by her moans and his grunts.

And all she could think about was who could hear her.

Her dad. Martin. The neighbors, maybe. Everyone in that backyard, sitting around the pool, listening to her get fucked into the mattress by a man twice her age. The shame burned in her chest, hot and sharp—and it mixed with the pleasure, twisted with it, until she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"I'm gonna come again," she gasped, her voice muffled by the sheets. "Oh God, Dennis, I—"

"Yeah? Do it." He leaned forward, his chest pressing against her back, his mouth against her ear. "Come for me. Let them hear how good I make you feel."

His hand slid around her hip, down her stomach, between her legs. His fingers found her clit—swollen, slick, pulsing—and he pressed down, circling it in time with his thrusts.

The combination was too much. His cock filling her, his fingers on her clit, his voice in her ear, the knowledge of who was listening—it all converged into a single, blinding point of pleasure that exploded behind her eyes.

She screamed.

There was no other word for it. A raw, broken scream that tore out of her throat as her orgasm crashed through her, wave after wave, her pussy clenching and fluttering around his cock, her whole body shuddering and convulsing beneath him. She was aware of herself making sounds—garbled words, half-formed pleas, his name repeated like a prayer—but she couldn't stop them. Couldn't control anything.

Dennis groaned, his hips stuttering, his grip on her waist tightening. "Fuck—I'm gonna—where do you want it?"

"Inside," she gasped, and the word came from somewhere primal, somewhere deep. "Cum inside me. Please. I want to feel it."

He cursed, a long, drawn-out "fuck," and then he was coming, his cock pulsing inside her, hot and thick, filling her in deep, rhythmic spurts. She felt every single one—felt his body tense, felt his breath catch, felt the warmth spreading inside her.

He collapsed on top of her, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his breath hot and ragged against her shoulder. For a long moment, neither of them moved. The only sounds were their breathing, the distant hum of the pool filter, and the faint murmur of voices from the backyard.

And then, from somewhere outside, a low, slow whistle.

Jessi's face burned. Her pussy clenched involuntarily around his softening cock, and a fresh wave of heat rolled through her.

"Holy shit," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "They definitely heard that."

Dennis laughed, a low, exhausted sound, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Good."