Home > Mother Fluffer (Billionaire Bad Boys #3.6)

Mother Fluffer (Billionaire Bad Boys #3.6)
Author: Max Monroe


Disclaimer

Max and Monroe do not condone the use of this type of prank in real life.

Seriously, don’t try this prank at home.

Oh, and did we mention not to attempt this prank, or any prank like this one for that matter?

Don’t do it.

Like, not ever.

Not once in your whole life.

 

 

Disclaimer for the disclaimer

 

While Max and Monroe do not condone the use of this prank in real life, they strongly urge you to grab some popcorn, maybe a glass of wine, and be prepared to laugh your little ass off.

But, please, use caution while drinking and/or eating while reading the hilarity that is about to take shape before your very eyes.

Enjoy!

 

 

Weren’t Sundays supposed to be a day off, a day of rest, a day of family…a day of motherfluffing fucking?

 

A day of God, actually, you say? Yeah, well, close enough.

 

I thought so. But as I was coming to find out, I was often wrong—even when I was right. It was like an appendix to Murphy’s Law—Murphy’s Law of Marriage. As a man, whenever you could possibly ever, ever be wrong…you were.

“Do you really have to go to work?” I whined. And yes, it was just as obnoxious in real life as it sounded in your head, but it worked because I’m lovable.

Cassie frowned slightly with pity and then reached down and twisted my nipple, and I let out a shriek.

Okay, so it only partially worked because, in addition to being lovable, I’m also a pain in the ass.

According to my wife, and pretty much all of my friends, a big one. But honestly, it was just the size of my personality. You can’t be this charming without an equally balanced vat of faults. Though, I contended that some of the things other people saw as negatives were, in fact, positives.

“Yes,” she said with a sigh and followed it up with my favorite eye roll. My wife could pull off attitude like no one else, and hell if it didn’t drive me crazy.

“Yes, you’re going to stay home and let me hold your tits all day?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

“Yes, I have to go to work. What, do you expect me to just hang out barefoot in the kitchen all day because I’m pregnant?”

I scoffed right into a chortle, but the venomous arch of Cassie’s eyebrow made me regret it nearly immediately. She was seven months along with our second child—another boy according to the ultrasound—and no less of a challenge. Hell on wheels was too soft a description for the woman I’d married, and all the hormones involved with cooking a human only enhanced her natural traits. She wouldn’t be who she was if she didn’t bust my balls and make society at large a little uncomfortable. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t push past the boundaries to poke the already agitated bear, so to speak.

 

Oh, by the way… don’t tell her I compared her to a bear. I’m quite attached to my balls, and I’d really love to live past the age of forty. Thanks.

 

“Come on, Crazy. You spend approximately zero minutes of your day in the kitchen.”

She scoffed. “Like you’re a saint.”

I laughed at her complete non sequitur. My rap sheet had absolutely nothing to do with the amount of time she did or didn’t—didn’t—spend in the kitchen.

“I didn’t say anything about being a saint.”

“That’s right! You’re fluffing not. You’re also a fluffing idiot for bringing up anything other than my tits and my pussy right now. Do you even remember that your dick is inside me?”

I did, in fact, remember, the pseudo-argument between us making the Supercock harder by the minute.

“I’m not the one who forgets she’s having sex and falls asleep.”

“Take that back! It happened one time!”

I shook my head with a laugh, the vibration of it stimulating my dick and shooting pleasure up my spine. I fucking loved when we had battles in the middle of sex. Something about the combination of the two reminded me just how much I loved right where I was—how suited we were for one another.

“Nooo,” I corrected. “It didn’t. It happened at least twice. And after that, I’m not convinced you didn’t just figure out how to fake alertness in a sleep state.”

Chagrined, she did her best impression of an apology.

“Shut up, and fuck me.”

Notoriously, her apologies tended to look a little different in the wild than someone else might be used to in the societal zoo.

“I am,” I reminded her with a laugh. “Can’t you tell?”

“Oh, whoops. I guess I couldn’t feel your tiny dick.”

I guffawed, nearly shouting each bark of laughter. She covered my mouth with her hand. “Shut up! Ace is sleeping.”

“Okay,” I agreed through a hand-muffled mumble. “But come on…a tiny dick? You’re losing your coital-quarrel sharpness.”

I jolted my hips up under hers for emphasis, and she moaned.

“Yeah,” I taunted. She licked her lips with a smile, and her huge, fucking shrine-worthy tits bounced before settling back on top of her pregnant swell.

“Thank God your stomach gets bigger when you’re pregnant,” I cooed, rubbing my hands all over her rounded belly. She looked perfect up there, sitting astride me with my cock nestled deep inside.

“What?” she shrieked and smacked me on the shoulder. “Why would you say that?”

“Because, Crazy. How else would you support these beautiful, big, succulent, motherfluffing perfect titties of yours?”

“Thatch!”

“Your milk jugs need a shelf, honey.” I skimmed my thumbs along the seam where tit met stomach to emphasize my point.

“But right now, I’m about to pour myself a glass.”

“Don’t you fucking dare make my milk come!”

“Ooh,” I teased. “A real curse. You must mean business.”

“I will dick-punch you.”

I smirked. “Gonna be kinda hard while it’s wrapped up nice and safe inside the sweet heat of your pussy.”

She moved immediately to pull up, so I gripped her hips with a flex of my fingertips and slammed her back down.

Leaning up and forward, I flicked her nipple with my tongue. “What’s the matter? You want to play rough?”

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