Read Imprinted Online

Authors: Darcy Sweet


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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.


All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.


Cover Design: Darcy Sweet

Imprinted © January 2010 Darcy Sweet

cessica publishing

All rights reserved









By Darcy Sweet




My wife has no idea why the smell of cut grass sets me off. Mara’s just always accepted that after I’d done the lawn I’d be ready to jump her. She worked it out herself—as she did all my kinks—observing, testing and teasing me, slowly over the years. As soon as I’d finished with the yard she’d meet me in the bathroom, flick the lock and strip me down. She’d be there, waiting for me, naked except for a loose robe. Knowing how much I loved the robe, all the while never knowing the reason why—just giving me what I wanted.

Not everything I wanted.

She’d yet to uncover everything.

I’d never divulged what happened that summer—to anyone—even though I thought about it all the time. I knew I could’ve told Mara, she loved a dirty story—the kinkier the better. I wasn’t afraid that it would shock her, that wasn’t the reason I hadn’t shared. She’d worked out most of my kinks anyway, no matter how hard I tried to hide them. Mara had a way about her, she loved to play and I knew she’d never turn away from me.

I hadn’t told her because I couldn’t.

I didn’t have the words. It was too important. Sacred. I felt as if I shared, then somehow I would lose it—lose the hold it had over me. And I didn’t want to lose it. That summer made me. It molded my sexuality. Fifteen years later it still fuelled my every fantasy. Each time I took my cock in hand it was my first thought.
were my first thought—Mr. and Mrs. D and the summer that changed everything. Forever imprinting me sexually, as defined and definite as a palm print in wet concrete.

* * * *

It was my second year of college. I’d been pissed when Harry, my step-dad insisted I return home to work as I had the year before. My grades were good and I’d worked my ass off for him last break—I thought I’d finally earned a reprieve. I had plans of joining my friends in Miami for an alcohol, sun and sex-filled couple of weeks. Instead I was stuck in rural Georgia, clipping lawns and pulling weeds for minimum wage. It blew—but as Harry was paying my tuition it wasn’t as if I could complain. So there I was up before dawn, out all day in the sun—working my butt off. Again.

I didn’t mind the work itself so much. I liked yard work, and it was better than the Gym at college for a good work-out. I was twenty and had started to fill out. Finally more lean than skinny. The heavy lifting and landscaping work had created definite muscles on my tall frame.

An added bonus to all that work was the attention my new look was getting. To my surprise some of the hometown girls who’d barely looked at me in high school started to do more than look. Mary-Jane Hauter, the object of many a wet dream, asked me out and even ended our date with a sweet, fumbled blow job in the front seat of my step-dad’s truck—something I hadn’t asked for and never expected. Of course I’d hoped to at least get to second base when I’d parked by Jensen’s Lake, but when her mouth trailed down my chest and her hands fumbled at the buttons of my jeans, I’d thought all my high school fantasies had come true.

Those fantasies dissolved fairly quickly when she’d left me aching and hard, unable to finish what she’d started. Such a sweet girl, she apologized over and over. All her tearful apologies made me feel like an ass, especially since I knew my reassurances had more to do with the hope of getting her to do it again than of making her feel better. I was achingly hard when I dropped her home with a chaste kiss on the cheek. Even after jerking off three times I was still unsatisfied. I wanted something more.

It was in that frame of mind I arrived at the Dean’s house the next day to do their garden—angry, unsatisfied and as horny as hell. I’d worked the Dean’s house for years, I called them Mr. and Mrs. D. Their garden was one of the first jobs assigned to me by Harry, because their house was just down the block, I was able to work it even before I could drive.

They were a regular kind of family. Two parents, two kids—nothing special. Richer than us, their house was one of those fancy architect designed places. I loved to look at the lines and angles. I’d always wanted to be an architect, so I was more interested in their house than the owners. I knew the Mom was some kind of writer and she worked from home. She was short and had curly red hair. Mr. D was tall, I was pretty sure he was a lawyer. If I worked their house late I’d see him come home in an expensive looking suit. If he saw me he’d always stop and chat awhile, ask me about college. They were a nice couple.

I usually did their place late as it was close to home. They had a big garden all professionally landscaped. Me, I thought, why plant all that shit if you couldn’t look after it yourself? It was like a jungle. Mrs. D told me that she liked it that way as it gave them lots of privacy. You could barely see the front of their house from the street. They only had a strip of lawn out front and out the back most of the yard was taken up by the pool. It was the one place I didn’t have to mow much, but there was a lot of edging and garden work. It needed heaps of maintenance. They had a contract with my step-dad’s company for a couple of hours a week.

On the day that it all started I turned up at their place around lunchtime. It was out of routine for me, but I wanted to try and finish up early. I planned to use the extra time to see if I could convince Mary-Jane to actually finish that blow job. I was working my way through the foliage, pulling weeds and trimming back the palms on the side of the house where the bedrooms were, when I heard the music. It was soft, but still, curiosity made me down my tools and look in the window.

It was the master bedroom. The design scheme was white on white, the only color a huge bright red canvas of a flower on the wall. The room was spacious, open and very classy. So different to the clutter of my family home. The simple elegance of it fascinated me so I took my time noting the features. In the centre of the room was a huge timber bed with a high slatted bedhead and footer. I was so in awe of the room itself I didn’t notice her at first. And then when I did I had to bite back a gasp.

There on the bed was Mrs. D—naked.

Propped up on a mound of pillows, she had her feet flat and her knees bent, splayed open. She was playing with herself. I’d never seen any woman do that before—not out of a porn movie. She had one hand on her breast, pinching a nipple while the other was dipping into the pink lips of her pussy. As I stood frozen, my balls tightened and blood rushed to throb in my cock.

I couldn’t say I’d ever really looked at Mrs. D before, not properly, she was too Mom looking. Usually she was dressed in some kind of skirt and sweater set. She never dressed for attention, so I didn’t look. I had no idea of what was underneath.

Nude she was fucking unbelievable.

She was curvier than any girl I’d seen naked; her breasts were full and soft. They sort of slid to the side, tipped with big berry sized nipples. Her pussy matched her red hair—she was mostly bare except for a trim patch of curls at the top. A natural red head. She shifted her feet wider and pushed up her hips. The movement spread her open to me, I could see everything. How wet she was, glistening—all pink and dusky red. Puffy slick lips. Without a doubt, the hottest thing I’d ever seen.

I couldn’t believe it. It took a while for it to sink in—Mrs. D was masturbating. Playing with herself. Right in the middle of the day. In front of me. It was mind blowing. She was really getting into it, pinching her nipples and slipping a finger down to her clit, stroking the side of it in long and deliberate movements. Much more gentle than I’d seen in any porn movie. Those women had really slapped at themselves. She was taking it slow. My balls were strangling in my briefs. I had to adjust my cock. I wanted to pull it out but that was a line I wasn’t sure I could cross. I figured it was one thing to stumble across a naked Mrs. D diddling herself, but it was a whole other ball game to stroke off like some sort of peeping Tom. My dick was aching; it didn’t care about the line. It just wanted to come. To ease the ache I rocked on my balls of my feet and pressed the heel of my hand hard against my cock.

I was pretty sure she couldn’t see me. I wanted to move further back just to make sure I was hidden but I was worried about making too much noise. There was no way I was going to risk the racket I might make by leaving. I did not want to get caught. I couldn’t get caught. Harry would tear me a new one if I lost this account. Apart from the fear of my step-dad finding out, I really liked Mrs. D and I didn’t want to embarrass her. I couldn’t let her know she’d been seen playing with herself. So I was trapped. My plan was to wait until she finished and then go home, get straight in the shower and bat off until my hand seized up.

It was a solid plan until she curled two fingers into her pussy. Right into the hole, she pushed them deep and started strumming her clit with her thumb. I could see it all. The slick wet of her fingers, the urgent movement of her thumb. Round and round she played her clit.

Splayed out all wet and lush in front of me she was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. I wasn’t going to give in, really I wasn’t—I was completely resolved to sticking to the plan—until over the soft thump of the music I heard her. Through the open window it came, the sound—the wet slap of her thrusting fingers and the hitch in her breath. When she moaned I couldn’t take it anymore.

I gave in.

Unbuttoning my fly I released my cock. It sprang out like a freakin’ jack in the box. So ready to play. It was already wet with pre-cum. I stroked my thumb across the head, opening up the slit a little a shiver of pleasure shot up my spine. Around and around I teased the sticky head, matching time with Mrs. D’s thumb on her clit.

When I heard the bang of the car door I had my hand wrapped around my shaft tugging hard.

! Mr. D was home.

If I heard it, then she must’ve too, but she didn’t stop, instead she picked up the pace. Shoving those fingers in her wet pussy even faster. I froze. My hand clutched at my dick, my heart pounding. The front door slammed and still she didn’t stop. Through the window, over the soft beat of the music I heard his footsteps on the wooden floorboards. Coming down the hall.

But still she didn’t stop.

I gripped the root of my cock hard as the bedroom door flung open—holding my breath as I waited. What would he do?

Mr. D was tall. Broad shouldered with thick wavy blond hair that he wore longer than the average business man. After he came through the door he was in profile to me. His shoulders stiff, his chest out and the hand I could see was balled up in a fist at his side. I wasn’t sure what to do. My erection deflated as I worried he might hurt her. He looked angry enough to do just that. I turned my head to look at Mrs. D—she didn’t look worried. She looked…naughty. Like a kid caught with her fingers in the cookie jar.

She spread her legs even further and kept pushing those fingers into her pussy. Being caught must have turned her on because now she was sopping wet—the inside of her thighs damp. I watched as she pushed herself up on her feet, lifting her ass up off the bed and cried out loud.

And then I saw it.

I saw the mouth of her pussy clench over and over, the ripple of muscles and the stream of liquid seep between her fingers and I knew she’d just come.

Right in front of me Mrs. D had just come.

“Filthy slut! This is what you called me home for?” Mr. D’s voice was rough. Grating and mean. He didn’t yell, but you could hear the menace. It should’ve worried me, but for some reason it didn’t—it turned me on. I felt a thrill snake up my thighs and grip around my balls, the sack tightening as my dick rose hard and high. I liked it. I liked that rough, commanding, male voice.

He threw off his jacket and loosened his tie. The front of his pants tented out and it gave me a kick to know underneath that conservative suit he was hard just like me. I wanted to see it. His hard cock. After the initial rush of desire confusion hit—did I really want to see his cock? Why? Why did I want it so bad? The want was edged with taboo. I knew I shouldn’t want to see it. I liked women. I fucked women. I shouldn’t want to see his hard cock.

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