Cocktales

by K. S. Adkins

  Pulling me to the edge of the bed, he hooks my legs over his forearms and slides in easily.

  Full, so fucking full, I watch Pablo Jones work his hips as he pistons in and out of me.

  “Yes, baby, yes,” I cry out in utter bliss.

  “Am I pleasing you?”

  “Yes!” I pant, scratching at his forearms. “You can please me harder too.”

  “Your wish,” he says thrusting upward. “Is my command.”

  And command me he did. Sideways, from behind, and even while I gripped my ankles.

  (His request not mine)

  Refusing to come, Pablo Jones carries me to the balcony, bending me over a rail and plunges into me so deep, my feet came off the ground. “Pull my hair,” I beg and when he does it, he triggers another orgasm. “Is my Dahlia getting fucked?”

  Sweeping his ankle, we crash together onto the concrete where I pin his hands above his head, position myself right above my target landing perfectly on his bullseye. “Pablo Jones is getting fucked, no?” he grunts absorbing my bounces.

  “Pablo Jones is going to come so hard he won't piss straight for a week.”

  “I piss sitting down anyway,” he says breaking my wrist hold to grip my hips and set the pace.

  “Guys really do that?” I ask clamping down.

  “Dahlia!” he roars in ecstasy. “Do that again!”

  “This?”

  “Your el cono, it is magic!” he exclaims and I didn't correct him because it kinda was.

  “Abracadabra, baby!” I shout giving him the be all end all pussy clamp.

  Bucking his hips, Pablo Jones came so hard he cried.

  And it had to be said that his tears were as beautiful as he was.

  Much much later that night...

  Fuck, Mexico was humid.

  With a silk sheet clinging to my skin, I yank it off and pad over to the open balcony naked as the day I was born. Even out here there was no breeze, nothing. Pouring myself a glass of water, I watch him sleep soundly from my spot on the balcony. The man was truly beautiful, sweet, chivalrous and had a lot of stamina.

  Pablo Jones, leader of Los Poon had this innocence about him that I didn't see too often. An innocence one certainly doesn't expect to find in a drug lord. He was an honest to god romantic.

  And he fucked like a porn star with an expensive cocaine habit.

  Smiling at the crazy turn this trip took, I was about to wake him for round three when the brick by head exploded. Hitting the ground, I crab crawled back inside to Pablo Jones's side of the bed and was reaching to wake him when men flooded the room.

  These men weren't members of Los Poon. These men were covered in black from head to toe, wore masks and were presently pointing guns at me. Big guns. With red lasers.

  And Pablo Jones, the white Mexican, was still in bed sleeping like a baby. Normally, I would pat myself on the back for a job well done, but I really needed some direction right now.

  “Woman,” the big one in front says pointing at me.

  “Naked,” I say stating the obvious. “So could I have some privacy?”

  “No,” he says not moving a muscle. “If you want to live, come with us.”

  “Again, I'm naked and what happens to Pablo Jones?”

  “He dies.”

  “Oh.”

  Well, that doesn't seem fair. When the big one grew tired of waiting on me, he lurched forward quickly grabbing me around the waist. Being sans clothes, I felt what I believed to be grenades touching my ass and kind of freaked. Honestly, I have no idea what came over me but one-second the big one was attempting to hand me off to his men and the next, I yanked one of their guns and, yep, you guessed it, started shooting. With only moonlight to guide me, I swung that sucker around firing like a madwoman.

  With thoughts of survival riding me hard, because who wants to die in a drug lord’s mansion in Mexico? I sprayed the room with my eyes squeezed shut. Ears ringing, it took me a moment to realize the men in black were on the ground and it was Pablo Jones standing before me gloriously naked with his arms reaching for me.

  “Give me the gun, Dahlia.”

  As if just realizing what I had done, I launched it at him and began tap dancing all over the room.

  Oh my god! I just murdered strangers! In Mexico! Naked! I needed to call my mom!

  Further proof I had dove into the deep end was when I went back over to the men on the ground nudging each body with my foot asking, “Are they dead?”

  And then Pablo Jones was on me, reigning kisses all over my skin.

  He was talking but I was too shocked to make out what he said until his men came barreling in.

  In slow motion each soldier looked from the bodies, to me, and then to Pablo Jones.

  Wrapping my body in the silk sheet I had shed moments earlier he announces, “Dahlia saved my life!”

  Okay, it's true, I did but I didn't want to brag about it. From there, the men whispered but looked at me as if I was their queen. Slightly confused, I ask Pablo Jones, “Were they bad men?”

  Smiling so wide I saw three gold teeth he says, “Yes, Dahlia, they were bad men. Now they are dead men who dared to cross Los Poon and paid the price. Let us celebrate!”

  Dressed as if I was attending a toga party, I was hugged, kissed and praised by every single member of Los Poon at four am and pretty much having the time of my life.

  So it was around noon that day, Pablo took me to the grotto, spun me into his arms and kissed me dizzy that’s when I realized I was truly born to be an adventurer.

  “Dahlia,” he breathed against my lips. “How can I ever repay you?”

  “Spending time with you was enough,” I say kissing him tenderly. Honestly, despite all the craziness, he was truly a kick ass drug lord.

  “I cannot let you go,” he says grinding his cock against my ass. “Marry me, Dahlia.”

  Cue in record scratch.

  Think Diva think. You can't marry Pablo Jones. You don't even do recreational drugs! Running my hands up his ridiculously ripped chest, I zero in on his gold chain and inspiration hit me.

  “Pablo Jones,” I whisper softly. “Baby, I can't.”

  “You can,” he insists pulling me closer. “We will rule this empire together.”

  “Pablo Jones, you are the kindest, sexiest, drug lord I have ever met.”

  “This is true, Dahlia. So why are you saying no? Do I dance too much?”

  “No.”

  “Sing too much?”

  “No,” I grin at how sweet he is.

  “Fuck too much?”

  “No,” I groan because the man could fuck.

  “Then what is it? I will fix it, buy it, or kill it.”

  While I couldn't use his drug lording ways as an excuse since only hours ago I blew holes into men I had never even met before, I lifted his chain, taking the gold medallion of St. Teresa between my fingers and blurt, “You're Catholic.”

  “Yes,” he smiles beautifully. I must say I was really a fan of the gold teeth. They god damned glistened.

  “Thing is,” I bite my lip. “I'm not.”

  “You're not?” he gasps in true shock.

  “No, not even a little bit. Sorry.”

  “Oh mierda,” he says crossing himself but recovers quickly enough when he asks, “Will you write about me?”

  “Of course. Shall I use a fake name?”

  “I want the world to know Pablo Jones was blessed with the honor of bedding the beautiful, Diva. My Dahlia.”

  “Consider it done,” I say giving him a farewell hug.

  Sighing he says, “I suppose I'll have to marry Selena Gomez now.”

  “Holy shit! The singer!”

  “No, the Flamenco dancer,” he explains. “She is no Dahlia but she has good hips.”

  Who could argue with that logic? Selena Gomez with the good hips was a lucky lady.

  “Until we meet again,” I whisper kissing just above his heart.

  “Here is my card,” he says sliding it
into my cleavage. “If you call, I will come. For you, I will always come.”

  An hour later, I was tucked safely into his helicopter and headed back to my resort, alone.

  That evening, over a delicious pitcher of sangria, I wrote about my time with Pablo Jones.

  However, I excluded the mass murder because it totally takes away from the romance.

  And what romance it was...

  'I met your mom. I didn't like her much.'

  Tonight was my third date with Ian.

  I met him about a month after returning from Mexico while I was back in Detroit for an old co-worker’s wedding and staying downtown for the weekend.

  I was reluctant to date so soon after my adventure with Pablo Jones. Because I wasn't sure how any man could measure up to the excitement and stamina he had offered. Hell, I was still buzzing from it myself. But then Ian approached me at the bar where I had been writing and his shy smile had me offering him a chair. That night we talked for hours. Ian was just a normal guy with a sharp sense of humor and easy demeanor. He worked in mortgages and lived in the suburbs.

  Was I was attracted to him? Yes.

  Just under six feet, he took care of his body and had gentle eyes. He looked amazing in a suit and was a horrible dancer. But he was so genuine and I loved the fact that he stepped out of his comfort zone for me to try ballroom dancing for our second date.

  Which brings me to tonight’s date.

  Ian asked me to come to dinner at his place and I've been traveling so much that a home cooked meal sounded divine.

  Thanking my driver, I stepped out, straightening my little black dress and pitching the mint I had in my mouth over my shoulder. Before I could knock, Ian was there to take my bag and usher me inside.

  We were sharing a drink when he asked, “What exactly do you write? You've never said.”

  Now, I wasn't sure a conservative man like Ian would think but I went with honesty and said, “I have a blog called Dating Diva, a column called The O Face, and recently I've been on tour for my breakout novel, Cocktales.”

  Clearing his throat, he pauses before saying, “So you write about sex?”

  “I prefer to call it Sex-Fiction. I write about my life and sex is a part of that, yes. But, I won't write about you, Ian. That's not why I'm here.”

  The relief on his face was instant. “Thank you, Diva,” he says taking my hand. “I wouldn't be comfortable with that.”

  “I totally understand.” That you're boring...

  “Are you hungry?” he asks staring at my mouth.

  “I am feeling a bit peckish,” I say doing the same.

  Did I mention we haven't slept together yet? After Pablo Jones, I wanted to switch things up a bit by not falling into bed too quickly. So far so good. Because as it turns out, anticipation is a heady thing. While I appreciated Ian cooking for us, dinner was...bland.

  It had no flavor so I went through the motions of eating, not tasting much of anything.

  So I focused on slamming the wine in my glass and the man tracing my thigh with his fingers.

  “You have a beautiful home,” I say taking in the space and setting my empty glass down. “You really have an eye for decorating too.”

  Ian completely catches me off guard when he tackles me to the couch sealing his mouth over mine.

  “I can't wait anymore,” he groans against my lips.

  “Me either,” I say yanking his shirt up. The problem was, the couch was too small for both of us to make any progress and I was wearing a dress so I asked Ian to, “Show me your bedroom.”

  All but flinging me off the couch, he pulls me down the hall, up the stairs and around the corner so fast, I could barely keep up. When he opened his door, I craned my neck to see the photos on the wall only to be lifted up and into his arms.

  “Someone's in a hurry,” I laugh but it was cut short when I landed on the bed with an oomph.

  Crawling on top of me, Ian clumsily and unsuccessfully tried to undress me, so I undressed myself.

  “Your turn,” I say pointing at his pants. “Go slow, I want to watch.”

  Did he go slow? No. In fact, I'd never seen anyone have this much trouble with their own clothing before.

  Putting the man out of his misery, I did it for him and no sooner did I get his underwear off he actually pinned me to the bed.

  “I need to be in you,” he pants in my ear.

  “Show me,” I say quickly. But Ian didn't reach for his cock. He turned the light off...

  Back in bed, when he lies on top of me I sink my fingers into his bare ass begging him to, “Fuck me.”

  But that's when things got really weird. Because above me, Ian was dry humping me like there was no tomorrow. I mean, hey, whatever got a guy's motor revving but this was awkward as hell. Did he think grown women enjoyed this? Or rather, this much of it?

  Grunting and thrusting, Ian didn't do dirty talk or any extra touching. He hasn't kissed me or even tried to get me off. Going at me like a puppy with a stuffed animal, I was about to push him off when he loses his already sloppy rhythm to call out, “Oh. God. I'm. Coming.”

  Was he fucking serious right now? He must be because seconds later he acted like he'd just been electrocuted.

  Absolutely lost as to what just happened, I was lying there in shock when he says, “Diva, you felt so fucking good.”

  In horror, I look down at my body and then his and realized Ian wasn't dry humping me, he had been inside of me.

  And I didn't feel a thing!

  Do you know why? Because his dick was literally half the size of my pinky finger. Erect.

  Mortified, panicking, and close to kicking his ass, I blurt, “Next time you're interested in a woman you need to be a little more forthcoming,” pointing at his crotch.

  Not following my train of thought because he was still coming down from his orgasm, I was pulling away to run for it when his door burst open to an angry woman filling it.

  “Oh hell,” I groan trying to find my dress. This asshole was married? Poor woman...

  I was bending over to grab my bra when she whacked me over the head with a god damn pillow. “Get out of my house!”

  “Okay!” I yell back. “Knock it off with the fucking pillow, lady!”

  Unfazed by this lunatic molly-whopping my ass with a cotton king size, I growl at him, “Call your wife off, inchworm!”

  “She's not my wife,” he says yawning, having not a care in the world. “That's my Mother.”

  Slack jawed, I stare at this man wondering what fucking universe I stepped into when she caught me good under the chin. Snatching it from her, I whack her a few times for good measure screaming, “How do you like it, mom!” before hauling ass downstairs in case she called the police.

  At nine o'clock in the evening on a weekday, I found myself standing in the middle of a Detroit suburb, with a pillow feather in my mouth, wearing one shoe and waiting for my Metro Car.

  'When I was your age...'

  Groaning, I cover my face with both hands while doing my best to ignore my mom's laughter.

  I told myself I was hiding from the ER's bright lights and not intense mortification.

  I mean, it's not every day you had to call your mom to pick you up from your date’s apartment to take you and said date to the hospital.

  Because you were erm...stuck together.

  Just thinking about it had me wincing in memory.

  First, because he was younger than I was.

  A lot younger.

  Twenty-three years of age to be exact.

  He was hot though. Really hot. And ripped. And hung.

  I'd like to put emphasis on hung.

  Thick, long, and veiny. I love veiny.

  After our first go-round, I found myself walking backwards to the bathroom because I didn't want him to see my ass. An ass I loved most days but still...

  It wasn't a twenty-three year old ass by any stretch.

  Not only was I hiding my back end, I also put on more ma
keup.

  Because again, I wasn't in my twenties and couldn't pull off the freshly fucked look like I used to.

  And as only a twenty something can do, round two came within minutes.

  One minute Jake—that was the manboy—and I were rocking the headboard and then I felt an intense tug inside of me.

  Doing my best to ignore it, I was focusing on coming when I felt it again.

  “Are you growing?” I asked perching myself up so I could watch him fuck me.

  “My mom said I'll grow well into twenties.”

  “Can we leave your mom out of this?” I said because I was over men’s mothers. “Jake, what the fuck is...”

  Still thrusting, he said, “It's my piercing.”

  Fuck! That's right. His twenty-three year old cock is pierced. Now it makes sense. “Okay, this hurts,” I announced putting my hands on his chest to stop him. “I need a minute.”

  Kissing me he said, “Okay, baby,” and when he tried pulling out, he couldn't.

  The more he tried, the more it hurt so this is where my mom came into play.

  Jake handed me my phone and I was relieved when she answered.

  “Baby!” she exclaimed. “How are you?”

  “Uh not good, Diva,” I said in embarrassment. “I need you to pick us up and take us to the emergency room.”

  “Okay,” she agreed quickly. “But why?”

  Still thrusting inside of me and not hating it I whisper to my mom, “The guy I'm with has a piercing.”

  “Those are fun,” she quipped. “For everyone.”

  “Mhmm,” I said fighting an orgasm when I felt the pull again.

  “It's stuck in your IUD, isn't it?”

  “Yep,” I confirmed on a groan.

  “Text me the address, I'm on my way.”

  “Ok.”

  “And baby?” she says on a chuckle.

  “Yeah?”

  “Don't move.”

  So it was mom to the rescue.

  Jake was currently in the triage stall next to mine, out cold from all the valium they had to get him to put his erection to sleep. Honestly, I didn't know the human body could even handle that much valium. But Jake was hit with enough to put a horse down.