by Zane
“Lick every drop of cum that comes out of my pussy—I’m going to give you some very easy instructions, and all you need to do is follow them. Okay, Wiley?”
“Okay,” he responded.
“You see that stool over there in the corner? Bring it over here and sit down, right in front of me.”
Wiley wheeled over the spinning stool, and when he sat down, he was exactly eye level with her pussy. He knew he had his “work” cut out for him, because the cushion on the chair was already thoroughly saturated. He began licking first from her ass crack where her cunt juices had dripped, then licked up to where her pussy began. The more he licked, the wetter she got. He began to think this tongue bath would never be complete. For every lashing his tongue gave, there was yet another cascading wave of liquid pleasure. He licked and she came. He sucked and she came. Eventually Wiley realized no amount of licking was going to dry this multi-orgasmic pussy banquet before him, so he plunged his tongue deep into her pussy, exploring her tunnel like his mouth had a cock extension. Her phallic haven made his dick just as hard as the men he fucked in his spare time. In many ways she reminded him of a man. She was beautiful and shapely, but her every other characteristic was like a man’s. She demanded excellence in every facet of her life and accepted nothing less. He admired her, even as one of her “humble servants.”
“No, no,” Susan said. “Lick my clit. Yes…. Like that…with the tip of your tongue. Oh, fuck…yes!”
She grabbed a handful of Wiley’s chestnut-colored hair and urgently pushed his tongue even deeper into her cunt. He gave her exactly what she wanted, a long, slow mouth fuck, and he gobbled up every drop of cum that gushed from her, licking with the flat of his tongue for maximum coverage. His mouth could feel her swollen pussy lips, and he hoped the services she required went beyond her usual request for a tongue bath. She must have been reading his mind, because suddenly she answered his silent question.
“Wiley, can you fuck?”
“Only you can be the judge of that.”
“I think not, Wiley. A man knows if he can fuck or not, even if he doesn’t want to admit it to himself. So, can you or can’t you?”
“I will fuck you so good your pussy will conform to the shape of my dick.”
“Damn, I like a man with confidence. Let’s get to it!”
Susan had Wiley sit in the chair. She mounted his pulsating erection so that her back was facing his chest and wrapped her pussy walls around him, devouring his cock with hard, demanding thrusts, sliding up and down his shaft, as their fucking built in intensity. Each time Susan slid her pussy down to the very end of his dick, she contracted her muscles so tight she thought she could almost feel the lines of his veins protruding through the skin of his now extremely taut member; when she reached the tip, she started all over again. She loved the way this dick filled her pussy up, but more than that she loved the effect of her strokes on him. He looked ready to pay her for her services rather than the other way around. Her techniques in fucking made her feel masterful; and she was. As Susan ground her pelvis into his now quivering form, she could sense that Wiley was about to shoot an impressive load into the Trojan he was wearing. If there was one thing Susan liked even more than having her pussy eaten out, it was getting fucked in the ass, so before Wiley could shoot his load, Susan dismounted his dick, encouraged him to rise from the chair, and told him exactly what she wanted.
“No, lover, we’re not done yet. I want you to give it to me up the ass.”
He bent Susan over the seat of the chair and slowly eased his cock into her anxiously awaiting butt hole. Susan gasped as soon as the head of his cock was inside her. He increased the speed with which he ass-fucked Susan, causing her to counter each of his powerful thrusts. He fucked her ass so good Susan dripped great gobs of pussy juices onto the floor. The room was a combination of pungent odors, her cum, his sweat, the mixture of cock against ass—all of which made Susan hornier than she already was. As Wiley’s breathing became labored, Susan knew her fun was about to come to an end. With one gigantic thrust Wiley exploded, his hand flat on her back. He was so spent, he would probably have fallen over if he hadn’t been holding Susan’s back for leverage. He gripped the condom he was wearing and slowly eased out of Susan’s now satiated asshole.
Any money she paid Wiley for his services tonight would be well worth it. On a scale of one to ten he had been at least a nine. Uhm, Susan thought, I might need to put him on staff.
Susan and Wiley put their clothing back on, did a double check in the mirror, and prepared to exit into the main area of the club. Susan handed Wiley ten crisp $100 bills before caressing his cock through his pants.
“That is a first-class tool you’ve got. If I were you, I would have that pussy-pleaser insured with Lloyd’s of London,” Susan said.
He was a living, breathing jackhammer to satisfy her not-easily-satisfied hungers, free from drama. Thank goodness for Pleasure Principle. It was like shopping for a sweater. You could get whatever you wanted for the right price; all that and no uncomfortable attachments.
Janet had made a good number of client contacts in Hong Kong, and she convinced Susan that it would probably make good business sense to branch out and take their business “on the road.” Susan knew the real reason Janet wanted to “branch out” was because the love of her life, an art specialist at Christie’s New York, had recently been offered a promotion and transfer to Christie’s Hong Kong. Susan agreed to go and check things out, never one to forgo an opportunity to expand her horizons, although it occurred to her that Hong Kong was not the place. Besides, if nothing else, she could see some really great art.
The sixteen-hour flight to Hong Kong left Susan feeling no less horny than usual. She had an insatiable appetite, and being a visitor to a strange place, she suddenly missed Pleasure Principle more than usual. She was reminded of Janet’s insistence that she not fuck her man; and Susan had promised herself she wouldn’t. Even she had some principles.
Kyung, Janet’s art specialist/lover, had suggested she take a taxi to the Christie’s salesroom, since it was right near the Grand Hyatt where she would be staying. But Susan desperately wanted to ride the metro (the Hong Kong subway system or MTR). So per Kyung’s instructions, she rode the Tsuen Wan Line from the airport to Wan Chai Station, not far from the Christie’s salesroom, where Kyung would be waiting to take her to dinner. Boarding the train, Susan was acutely aware of the massive overcrowding and how any crowds on any given day on the New York City subway system paled in comparison to this. However, she boarded the train prepared to fully enjoy her first experience on the MTR. The pushing and shoving was commonplace, and everyone was packed in like sardines. Just as Susan thought the ride was becoming unbearable, she felt the most masculine, powerful hands caress their way up her thighs.
“Uhm,” she gasped, more audibly than she would have liked.
“You are Susan?” the voice attached to those warm hands asked.
The only person who knew she was in Hong Kong was Kyung. But he was Janet’s man and she had promised to keep her hands—and everything else—off. But damn, this felt good!
As his hand traveled to places farther south, Susan spread her legs wide enough to grant him entry, surprised that no one around them seemed to notice. As her juices quickly lubricated his artful explorations, she could feel his hard dick beckoning to her. As though mentally in sync, he turned her toward the door, hoisted her skirt above her hips, and entered her now quivering pussy. The rattling and jerking of the train and the numerous passengers shoved in around them provided all the movement they needed. His dick was guided by force in and out of her pussy, leaving her head spinning with wanting more.
“Do you feel it? This is our qi, our spirit, the electricity that flows between us and all around us.”
“Yes,” Susan whispered, so as not to alert her surrounding passengers to what they were doing, although some seemed to notice anyway.
As the train began to grind to a halt en
tering the next stop, her stop, Wan Chai Station, this beautiful, driving force inside her seemed intent on coming at the exact moment that she arrived at her destination, but not before he introduced himself quietly in her ear.
“Susan, I am Cho. My brother Kyung sent me to welcome you to Hong Kong and all the many riches it has to offer.”
The Big Bang Theory
ZANE
WHEN I ENTERED THE club True Meaning, the DJ was working his ass off and remixing “Tambourine” by Eve. That was a booty-shaking song if I had ever heard one. Women were lined from wall to wall in tight clothes, showing off their assets, whether they were hitting on everything or nothing at all. I had never been one to have all my shit hanging out. If a man was lucky enough to get to the point of finding out what I had underneath my clothes, that was a privilege, not a right.
I worked out five times a week at the twenty-four-hour World Gym in Largo, Maryland. I was cut from head to toe and I knew that I was a sexy bitch. Yes, I said bitch, because I did not take shit off anyone, especially shitty-ass men out there. That was one of the reasons why I worked out so much. From childhood, I had always set out to prove that I could do anything a man could do, only better. I worked out like a man; I played sports like a man. Most important, I raced cars like a man.
I loved cars. When I was a teenager, I would always tell my mother, “Look at that sexy thing there.” She assumed that I was talking about the young men driving the cars, but I meant the cars themselves. By the time I turned twenty, I had six cars in my garage and driveway. I went to mechanics school and learned how to repair them and rebuild them. I had a 1980 Trans Am, a 1993 Mustang, two high-performance trucks, a 1970 GTO, and a 1991 Chevy Nova. I was the shit and I knew it.
I raced at the track, for the most part. But street racing was what really got my adrenaline rushing. The only problem was that all the other women were punks. I was the only bitch who raced the men. They could not stand me because I would whip their asses every weekend. In fact, as I entered True Meaning, I was cheesing because I had won yet another one earlier that night at the track.
Quincy was this brother I had grown up with in Bowie, Maryland. He was cool but determined to get into my drawers, and that shit was not happening. I had done his older brother once, more out of curiosity than anything. Other women claimed he was the ultimate in bed. His ass could not even handle me. It was a true disappointment. So when Quincy started insisting that we hook up, I finally had to tell him that his brother had a pencil dick and I bet that trait ran in their family. His brother, Robert, didn’t really have a pencil dick. I only said that to see if Quincy would try to find out. Men are so strange. They will try to scope out other dudes’ wang-wangs to see if they measure up. After about three months, Quincy told me that his brother was hung like a mule, just like him. I made a scene with him and asked if he found that out when his brother was ramming it up his ass. Everyone laughed; except Quincy. We were at the track and he challenged me to a race. I love challenges. We raced around the track at 140 mph and I won by a frog’s hair, but I won.
Quincy was the first man I spotted as I walked into the club. I could not miss him gritting on me. I gritted right back. Sitting next to him at the bar were Hakaru and Chiyo, two Asians who were cousins. I had to give it to them, they looked good, but they were still assholes. Always primping, always bragging about their rides. Hakaru had once told me that his name meant “one who measures, plans, thinks things through.” That name fitted him perfectly because he was one conniving, deceptive motherfucker. Chiyo’s name meant “thousand lifetimes, thousand years.” That name fit him as well because he had what my grandmother used to call “an old soul.” She used to look at certain kids, even babies, and say that they had been here before.
I walked right up to them at the bar and started bragging. “How’d you all like that shit earlier tonight? How I wiped up the track with all of you?”
“Larissa, you ain’t wipe shit,” Quincy came back at me. “You need to go wipe that ass though. I smell something foul.”
Chiyo and Hakaru chuckled, and all three of them clanked their beer steins together.
“Quincy, you’re just mad because I wouldn’t let you tap this ass,” I said. “Everyone knows you’ve been trying to get me in bed for years.”
Quincy turned his nose up at me. “I was just treating you like the obvious trick that you are. I can get pussy when I can’t get sleep. Good pussy.”
He was getting on my last fucking nerve. “Oh, really, and they don’t mind that pencil dick of yours?”
The other men laughed, and Quincy didn’t like that at all. “Look, I don’t have no damn pencil dick. Neither does my brother. You’re just mad because he fucked you once and kicked you to the curb.”
I sat down and waved the bartender over. “That’s his version. Men are a trip. They have a one-night stand and think it was them, but what about the fact that the women never call their asses again either?”
I ordered a beer with a whiskey chaser and proceeded to get drunk. I talked mad shit to the three of them for the next hour. Then I got so tipsy that I ended up slow-dragging with Chiyo to “Bed” by J. Holiday. I don’t even remember how we got on the dance floor, but there I was, grinding into him. His dick was hard and I was pleasantly surprised. At the end of the song, I pulled away from him in disgust and said, “Don’t ever touch me again, trick!”
Chiyo laughed and went back to the bar. I got angry and started talking even more trash.
“You know what? I’m so sick of all three of you. Let’s settle this, right now.”
Hakaru glanced at me. “What do you mean?”
“I’m challenging all of you to a street race,” I stuttered, struggling to find my tongue.
Quincy said, “Larissa, you’re drunk. Take your ass home.”
Chiyo looked me up and down. “Maybe I should drive her home. She’s drunk.”
I knew what the body-check look meant. “Hell naw, you’re not taking me home. You practically dry-fucked me on the dance floor.”
They all fell out laughing.
“Whatever! I’m going up the point and I’m going to wait,” I said. “Anyone who doesn’t show up is a straight punk. I’ll see you scared motherfuckers when I see you.”
I left the three of them sitting there with silly expressions on their faces. When I got into my GTO and revved it up, I grinned because I knew at least one of them would take me up on the challenge. I loved challenges.
The point was really a long, deserted stretch in Aberdeen, Maryland. People used it for street racing all the time. As for the cops, half of the time they were the main ones watching and cheering people on. Many of them bragged about what they had at home in their garages. Fact of the matter is, a lot of people become cops because they want to be in high-speed chases, and they love to show off their driving skills as much as the next racing enthusiast.
Surprisingly, no one was out there when I arrived. Then again, it was nearly three in the morning and most street racing ended by midnight or one, on a typical Friday or Saturday. I sat in my car, jamming to my iPod until one of those punks showed up. Less than fifteen minutes later, I spotted three sets of headlights coming over the bend, side by side. “This Woman’s Work” by Maxwell was playing, and I was ready to show them what I had. Shit, I was born ready for this race. I closed my eyes and sang the lyrics, taking in deep breaths as I always did before a race. When I opened them again, Chiyo’s Nissan 350Z was on my left, Hakaru’s Porsche 911 was on my right, and Quincy was beside him in his Dodge Viper.
I glared from one side to the other and we all gave each other “that look.” We did not have anyone to wave a flag, as it was usually a hoochie mama who was trying to get laid in one of their backseats. Instead, Hakaru held his left hand up, covered in a leather driving glove, and counted down his fingers from five to one. Then we all hit it. “Come to Me” by Diddy was blasting on my iPod as I floored it. On the track, we went up to 140 mph, but fuck it, I was going
all out and planned to hit 180. In case you’re wondering, we weren’t crazy. All of us had on helmets and racing harnesses.
We took the first hill at about the same time, then I was in the lead. Quincy came up behind me on my bumper but I swerved from side to side to keep him from passing me. Chiyo appeared out of nowhere in his 350Z and almost took off my side-view mirror. That did it! I was not about to lose, not that night. Hakaru was having issues but was catching up fast. I could see him in my rearview mirror. I hit the top gear in my GTO and tried my best to keep all of them off me. There was less than a mile to the end of the point and the “chicken wall.” A few teenagers had hit the wall and totaled their cars; one did not make it, but we were all professionals. At least, that was what we were supposed to be.
“Umbrella” by Rihanna came on, and then it happened: the big bang. Chiyo lost control of his car and slammed into Quincy’s Viper. The Viper flipped over and brushed over my hood; all I saw was red metal as my windshield blew out, along with one of my tires. I hit my brakes and tried to turn to the left. No sooner had I done that then Hakaru’s 911 crashed into my driver’s-side door, crushing it into my side. Then there was silence; dead silence.
I lost consciousness for some time, probably minutes that seemed like hours. I heard Chiyo yelling out my name, then someone yanked open my passenger-side door. I felt myself being pulled from the wreckage, and then I was lying on the ground, next to Quincy’s Viper. I finally regained my bearings as Hakaru removed my helmet.