Dove looked at her knees. She decided it was awkward to be half naked with the object of her passion wincing in pain.
“Let me just go in the bathroom and take a look at it. I’ll be right back.” Johnson stood and headed for the hallway. Before he passed her, he stopped and tried to make eye contact in his peripheral vision. “Understand this: In my head, I’m having a lot of sex with you.”
She beamed at him. With that one sentence, he had righted her world on its axis. Despite his injury and her marauding tits, he still wanted to part her curtains of wonder with his majestic lance. Soon after Johnson had closed the door for privacy, there was a knock on her front door.
Oh, great! It’s probably God, here to suck Johnson out of my life like a giant vacuum.
Dove grabbed the afghan she’d knit last year and covered herself. She peeped through the harbinger of doom hole and got a fish-eye view of Duke. He was wearing just his dick cast, which was complemented gaggingly by what looked like two applesauce cups.
She had a choice to make—ignore Duke and pretend he would go away or answer the goddamned door. If she ignored the knocking, she knew from past experience that Duke would start singing and making ass prints on her door.
Shit! What if Johnson decides to open the door? Would he understand that Duke probably felt like he was appropriately dressed?
Dove made her decision and stepped into the hallway.
“Make it quick, skin tag; Johnson’s in the bathroom.” Dove nodded in his direction, encouraging him to get to a point… just like his dick.
Duke looked quickly to his left, as if he couldn’t stand to see her wrapped in a blanket. He blew out a frustrated breath.
“Please tell me you aren’t bare-assed under there.” He wouldn’t look at her.
“Dude, you’re not actually wearing anything that anyone considers clothes. Plaster and plastic over your nuts don’t count.” Dove put her hand on her doorknob.
“Wait! I’m here for a reason. I forgot to grab Steve’s food but never mind! I’ll just chew up some Slim Jims and regurgitate them into his mouth like a mama bird.” Duke turned from her and headed away. He didn’t even do the ass-cheek dance, which was odd.
“Hey.” Dove didn’t have to say it loud—the hallway was quiet. “Thanks for taking Steve and taking care of me at Olive Garden.”
Duke looked over his shoulder and nodded once. He was so serious; it was almost as if he was actually wearing clothes. “Yeah, anytime, Crappo.”
“Just wait, I’ll get you the food. Steve gets the shits from processed meats.” She couldn’t take her eyes from his blue ones. She could swear she saw regret in them. “Do you have gas or something? Why are you looking at me like that?” Dove shifted and pulled her blanket tighter around her body.
Duke turned around and pointed at her with his cast. “Yeah, I have a shit ton of gas bubbles. For the record…”
There was a pause. Dove was trying to give Duke her attention, but she was listening for the telltale squeak of the bathroom door as well. Duke seemed to stall in his brain, as though he was going to tell her something of dire importance.
“Yes?” She sighed with aggravation. This apartment building was like a cork in her cooter. She would never get any solid man meat with all these nimrods banging on her door.
“The next time you bust out of the house, grab a different blanket because your titties are popping out those huge holes.” Duke pointed at one nipple with his dick and the other with his middle finger.
“Great. Because this happens to me all the damn time.” Dove shuffled her blanket to cover her mam-animals. “Just wait here. I’ll be right back with Steve’s food.”
When her boobs were facing the door, she looked over her shoulder. “But really, thanks. If a meteor busted through this building and ended me right now, I would die a happy lady. Tonight has been the most amazing night of my life. I owe that to you, D.”
She didn’t wait for his reply, just snuck back into the apartment, leaving the door open a crack. Johnson was walking out of the bathroom with two long toilet paper tusks coming out of his nostrils, stemming the flow of blood, no doubt.
“Who’s at the door?” Johnson asked.
Dove closed one eye as she responded with the truth. “Duke needed Steve’s food. He’s a nightmare when he doesn’t get his noms.”
“Noms?” Johnson was smiling behind his toilet paper.
“You know… The internet? NOMNOMNOM. Steve has his noms.” Dove shrugged and went to the kitchen to get the bag.
Johnson took the food from her as she entered the living room. “It’s okay; I’ll bring it out to him.”
Shit.
“Great, thanks. That’s going to be awesome.” Dove bit her lip as Johnson entered the hallway, closing her apartment door soundly behind him.
Oh God. Please come back, Johnson. Please let Duke have put on some miraculous, self-appearing clothes.
Duke stood like a tremendous fuck knob, waiting for Dove to reappear. He didn’t tell her he had plenty of left over kitten and cat food from Debra Anastasia’s crazy catnappings. He was a sadist for coming up here and trying to stop her from screwing the pharmacist.
Then she’d just totally sliced his evil plan down to size with one glance and her goddamn happiness. And now he was naked in the hallway, waiting for cat food he didn’t need. The only thing keeping him planted was the hopes that she would somehow change her mind, take his dick in her hands like a joystick, and run away with him to his apartment—which wasn’t very freaking likely.
Even worse than Dove not running away with him was the appearance of Pretty Boy holding the cat food. Except Pretty Boy had what looked like tissue boogers.
Johnson looked Duke up and down and grimaced. “Seriously, dude. They make pants that can cover that situation.”
“Oh, thanks. Thanks a bunch. I didn’t fucking know that.” Duke stepped up to Johnson and really, really wished he had pants on.
He snatched the bag and wanted to storm away, except he was more covered from the front than he was from the back.
“Just so you know, it’s not cool for you to come up here looking like that in front of my lady.” Johnson leaned against Dove’s door like he was paying rent for it.
Duke was surprised his anger didn’t launch his dick cast at Johnson like a missile. All he wanted to say, though, he had to swallow.
“Where were you when your whore ex-girlfriend cornered your lady in the crapper?” tasted particularly foul.
Instead, Duke nodded. He spun on his heel and cracked out a fart that jiggled his cheeks. He couldn’t put clothes on his ass, but he could add some visual stimulation.
By the time he got back to his place Steve had already finished eating his noms, as Dove called it. “Did you NOMinate yourself, Freak Show?”
Steve stood on his back paws and weaved like a frat guy on Friday night. The cat opened its little cat mouth and let out a burp.
“Wow, Furballs, you’ve got some mad skills.” Duke clicked his tongue while he watched Dove’s less exciting pussy.
Whether it was being in a new place, or the nickname “Furballs”—he was already neutered—Steve became angry. At Duke. And so Duke’s night began. Steve the Cat chased his pet sitter around his abode with the tremendous gusto that can only be achieved from being stone cold crazy.
Nipples. Dove had them. Johnson had them. And Dove truly wanted to know if a fire would start in her coochie if his nips and her nips touched. She was pretty sure it would be just like using jumper cables on a car. Her pussy was ready to turn over and flood for him.
Johnson had taken the time to set up a romantic playlist on YouTube and logged in to let the music saturate the air. As it turned out, Johnson’s idea of sexy was R&B from the eighties. Dove didn’t give a rat’s ass hair about what was playing; she was going to get to see Johnson’s dick. He could’ve set the evening to the soundtrack of a sad clown crying while it drowned and Dove would find it titillating.
God, I hate clowns.
The lazy balloon clown filled her mind with his scary face. She had the chills just thinking of it.
Dove had dropped the blanket as soon as Johnson had walked back into the apartment. She wanted him to remember the sex and maybe, just maybe, wash some of the Duke out of Johnson’s head with her girly beanbags.
Johnson crossed the space with an extra cheesy shuffle-side step, dancing to Barry White. It had worked. At least, he was doing the fifty-five-year-old man dancing that seemed to indicate he was ready for love.
And Dove was going to love the hell out of him. If she had her way, they’d have so much sex they would wear his penis down to a nub. And if his penis was one of those nubbly dicks, she would screw his fingers instead—because they were longer than some actual man salamis. And if for some reason that didn’t work, Dove would hump a vegetable from her fridge while he watched or supplied the ranch dressing. She was going to hump something tonight, no matter what.
God, I’m so selfish. He’s recovering from an injury I gave him. Dear God.
Dove was twirling in her panty- and-tit ensemble in Johnson’s arms, so she gave herself a pass for her horny-morny thoughts. Finally Johnson stopped dancing her around like they were at the 1987 senior prom and pulled his nose plugs out one at a time—stripper slow.
He pointed to his nostril. “Is it bleeding anymore?”
Dove walked closer and let her nipples touch his tempting chest hair. She peered up his nose.
Fuck, even his nose hair is sexy.
“You’re good! Again with the sorry and the ‘Oh my God, I’m an asshole.’” Dove touched his cheeks. He had a bit of five o’clock shadow. Her pussy lips wanted to crawl out of her waistband and take over for her hands.
“There’s a way you could make it up to me.” Johnson leaned down and smiled closer to her face.
Breathe on me. Oh God, I think I could hump his breath and work up a blistering orgasm.
Johnson took her hand and kissed it again. Even with her boobs inches from his mouth, he was treating her like a lady. A pretty, desirable lady.
In Dove’s head, she was a monster. A clubfooted, two ass-cracked thing to be dealt with, to be a nice substitute for one of those more successful girls. Girls who didn’t crap their pants. Girls who didn’t drink soda super fast and try to talk to their cats in burps. And yet, when he opened her bedroom door, he didn’t take off running or throw himself out her window as though he were on fire.
The window was already open, and there was a cool breeze that filled the room with the scent of the clean night and the screaming of the crickets or cicadas or whatever those goddamned bugs were that blew their lungs out at night. Or they rubbed their legs together.
Oh my God, who cares? Johnson is in my bedroom!
Dove wanted to do the nipple touching. It’d be like E.T. and his phone home, except it was sexual and today—and she didn’t look like E.T. Well, maybe her pussy looked a little like E.T. A patchy-haired E.T., who had his head tilted, asking something in his creepy grandma voice. Dove shook herself mentally, physically, and verbally. “My coochie doesn’t have a grandma voice.”
Johnson looked puzzled. “I should hope not because if she starts talking when I’m licking her, I may cry.”
Dove’s brain burst. Popped like potatoes in the microwave. His pie hole smashed up in her lady business made her heart want to hump her liver.
It’s going to be an organ humpfest.
Dove ripped her panties off her body like the Hulk and threw them in the corner.
“Wow. That was the sexiest damn thing.” Johnson advanced on her and kissed her lips while backing her up to the bed. He grabbed her by her armpits and tossed her onto her bed. She narrowly missed bonking the bejesus out of her head on the headboard. She didn’t care if she was dead, her pussy would become a zombie and hump Johnson anyway—such was Dove’s intense, focused desire.
She was still alive, so that was a bonus—a huge, huge bonus—as Johnson was licking his way up her leg, which was thankfully shaved. When he got to her inner thigh, she was screaming his name repeatedly, loudly, and endlessly. As he laughed into her muff, she died. She orgasmed thinking about the orgasm she was going to experience. The second his tongue parted her need, she thrashed so much he had to hold her legs down so she wouldn’t injure him.
She went from screaming his name to saying “nipples” like a prayer. Suddenly he stopped all motion, and Dove felt fear crawl up the side of her bed and slap her in the teeth.
Crap. I sound like a loon. Maybe my pussy smells like a shrimp’s dead cousin.
She let her fighting legs go slack.
“Dove, gorgeous, you need to calm down. I’m having trouble getting in there.” Johnson was delightfully rumpled. The lights in her bedroom were on, and she looked down at her body, splayed out like she was about to have surgery. Heaving, sweaty surgery. She didn’t see anything perfect. Her boobs were sliding into her armpits. Her thighs seemed four times their normal size. Her stomach pooched out a bit where she wished it would concave like all the girls in the magazines. Her feet even looked out of place.
Oh my God, why do I even have feet? They’re so ugly. They are like spiders hacked in half and soldered onto the ends of my legs.
“I’m sorry. I suck. Getting romantic with me must be like trying to mount a werewolf.” She tried to pull her bedspread over her offending parts.
He smiled. “I don’t know where you come up with this stuff, but for the record, dogs have never turned me on. I just need you to try to hang on while I do what I have to do down here.”
Was he going to Lysol it? Take samples for science? Oh shit.
“If you keep screaming like that, I’m going to come in my pants. I haven’t done that since high school, so please, let me try to be a man here.” Johnson put a hand on the stomach that she’d detested seconds ago and traced a finger from her belly button to the top of her entire freaking world.
She did her best, really she did, but the sensations were too intense. He was amazing at what he was doing, which was wonderful, and he looked damn good doing it, too. At one point he hooked her leg over his shoulder and named every single part of her genitalia. Then he highlighted them with his tongue or finger.
“The vagina connects the superficial vulva to the cervix.” He was using a very professorial voice, and Dove wanted to throw her boobs from her body in the fervor he was causing. “During sexual arousal, particularly the stimulation of the clitoris, the walls of the vagina self-lubricate.” Johnson used two deep fingers to illustrate this particular point.
Finally, when she knew more about her own vagina then she ever needed to, Johnson stood on her bed. He was lucky her ceiling fan wasn’t on or he would have been decapitated.
I’d just keep his face in my underwear forever. Silence of the Lambs can suck my ass.
Johnson began undressing while bouncing lightly. He took his shirt off, and soon enough, his sex fingers were at his motherfucking pants. He unzipped, and the noise caused a sexual seizure to overwhelm Dove. She writhed and made noises she didn’t know her throat could make. Porn stars had nothing on Dove. She wanted this man in her body more than air, more than gravity, more than… God, anything. She couldn’t even focus on his old-man boxers because a sizable, pretty dick popped out. Stared her right in the face.
“Well, hello, ginormous friend.” Dove scrambled to her knees, thankful her body wasn’t too noodley to hold herself upright.
She took his Peter Pecker in her mouth. And it was hotter than a burrito fresh from the oven. She glanced up at his beautiful face, determined to enjoy every damn thing about this moment. He had such a passionate look on his face; she would have smiled if her mouth wasn’t full. But it was.
Johnson’s nacho grande was a glorious meal. Dove never wanted to take his dick out of her mouth. She wondered if she could get a replica made and use it like a pacifier. She began to hum. Johnson, when he was intensely aroused, seemed to have a tend
ency to bounce on his toes. Soon enough they were doing a synchronized, hopping, blowjob Bed Capades.
She pulled herself reluctantly from her favorite new suck toy. “Hotness, I’m afraid I’ll bite your dick off if we keep this up. I’m not that coordinated.”
Johnson shook his head and blushed.
Oh my God, he blushed! Fuck me.
“I’m such a jerk. You must think I’m the biggest nerd. Who recites anatomy lessons and jumps on the bed during sex?” He ran his marathon-length fingers through his messy hair.
Dove stood on the bed, finding herself in the unbelievable position of boosting his self-esteem. She grabbed his nipples so he would listen to her. Once she had his green eyes locked on hers, she tried her best.
“You do, Johnson Fitzwell. You drive me crazy with your brain and your bouncing and your gusto. Maybe we can just both let go and have crazy sex. How about that?” Dove kissed his lips.
He nodded and kneeled, pulling her down with him. And now it was on! Like ping pong, Donkey Kong, and everything else that rhymes with dong.
They didn’t try to please each other anymore; they both had needs that had to be met. Kissing, touching, and exploring brought them both to the brink. Johnson stopped the show briefly to get a condom from his pants pocket.
God bless rubber.
When he dived into her patchy haired hole, she shouted his name, God’s name, and embarrassingly, “Big Daddy.”
Johnson seemed to have a playbook memorized. He mumbled things like, “Pleasure, apply pressure, female gratification.” And bent her legs to accomplish some pretty spectacular sexual Twister poses. One in particular had Dove ratcheted up like a street dancer with twenty years’ experience. Her legs were crisscrossed on Johnson’s shoulders. Johnson was bent at the knees, resembling an awkward frog stance.
He looked into her eyes. “This one is supposed to tickle your G-spot.”
Then that sexy man got to hammering. So damn fast, in fact, that at first, Dove tried not to laugh. Because, dear God, he did look like a frog. That turned into squealing because in his haste, he was hitting the wrong hole every third thrust.
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