Sex Love Repeat

by Alessandra Torre

  I pull off of him, gasping for breath, his arms pulling me to my feet before I even speak, his arm pining me to his body as his other hand wraps around, slides underneath the edge of dress and squeezes my ass. Hard. So hard I gasp, his eyes tight on mine and he releases it, running his fingers down the crack of my ass and fingering the channel of my sex, covered in lace, his fingers running back and forth over the spot, a grin stretching across his face at the dampness there.

  “Is that for me or him?”

  I don’t answer, reaching between our bodies and fist his cock, wrapping my hands tightly around it, every vein in the organ outlined in the rigidity of his arousal.

  “Answer me Madd. Answer me while I fuck you right here. While I make you scream so loud that people walking by will hear.”

  “Make me,” I whisper, a challenge in the tones.

  His hand tightens around my waist at the words, his eyes holding mine with a fierce look as he listens to my words.

  “Make me scream your name while he conducts his business. Make me your slut, right here and now and send me back to him with your cum dripping out of me.”

  He groans, pushing me back against the wall, spreading my legs with his knees. He reaches down with both hands, gripping my panties and pulling, ripping the sheer fabric with one strong jerk. Then his body is back against me, his chest hard to mine, his bare cock rough and bobbing at my entrance, pushing for and then finding the wetness of my sex and pushing inside. “Jesus Christ Madd,” he groans, shoving upward, his hard thighs pinning me to the wall, his hands yanking at my straps, pulling my cashmere cardigan off my shoulders and jerking the top of my dress down. He thrusts again, his thighs relaxing and then flexing, every fuck bouncing me back against the wall, his hands clasping my breasts, squeezing them into his palms.

  “Make me scream,” I grit out, my eyes on his. They are tortured blue, cloudy with arousal, latent with need. “You know that he fucked me? Before we came here. I straddled his cock and rode him. His hands rough on my skin, his cock taking my body. He was inside me Paul, right where you are now.” He roars, his voice raw and primal, pushing me against the wall, losing control as he slams against me, faster and faster, until my body becomes a shaking sea of desire, my core rattled, breath gasping, his thrusts urgent and dominant, his breath ragged, his hands finding my face and bringing my mouth to his.

  “You are mine,” he guts out, pumping into me, the length and level of his arousal brutal. “Mine,” he swears, as he releases my mouth and turns me around, pushing me forward as he yanks my legs back, one hand hard on my back, the other gripping my ass. He doesn’t slow the movement, giving me full, hard thrusts, my breasts bouncing from the top of my dress, the mirror above the sink giving me a full view of my slutdom.

  Paul, in worn jeans, a white t-shirt, light hair mussed, mouth open, intensity over his face. His reflection pulls at my hair, tilting my head back, and I find his eyes on mine in the mirror.

  “You like what you see?” His words are terse, thick. He is conflicted, but – from the level of his erection – fully aroused at the same time, his speed increasing, his breath loud in the small space. “You like being fucked while he’s in the next room?”

  I don’t answer, my climax too close, every muscle in my body tightening in anticipation of the act, throbbing and contracting around him, his eyes closing briefly at the sensation.

  “God, Madd. You are so fucking good...” He pulls out abruptly, leaving me gasping, my chest aching as I turn to him, feeling his hands before I fully move; they shove me back, wrapping around my waist and lifting me, setting me on the low counter of the sink and pulling me to the edge. He jacks himself, looking at my pussy, at the swollen pink lips of sex, then glances up to meet my eyes. He steps forward, pressing himself at my base, pushing my chin up when he sees me glance down. “Look at me. Look at me and tell me what he did to you. Tell me what he did and make me come all fucking up inside of you.”

  I close my eyes at his first thrust, the angle different, better in its brush of my g-spot. “He sat me on his lap, in this same dress. Those panties? The ones you ripped to shreds? I wasn’t wearing those when I first saw him. Because I knew he’d take me as soon as he could.” He pulls out of me, my eyes catching sight and gluing to the image of my wet lips sliding around his cock. His hands tighten on my ass and he pushes deeper, dragging his cock in and out of me in long, deep strokes. My voice catches at the look in his eyes, the intensity of his arousal. All playfulness is gone. This man before me – he is Stewart but with different features, their similarities never more present then right now, and I gasp when he fully buries himself inside.

  “More,” he groans. “Tell me more.”

  “I came from his fingers, my juices all over his hand, I came and I screamed his name when I did it. I told him how fucking perfect he was and how much he turned me on.” His strokes roughened with my words, increasing in speed, his competitiveness lighting a fire in my belly and I was suddenly there again. One the brink of orgasm, need running through my limbs and pumping loud in my heart. “God Paul, you have no idea how good his cock feels in me. How deep he goes when I straddle his cock and fuck him hard. How he whispers my name when I take every inch of him.”

  He roars, pulling me to the far edge of the sink, thrusting deeper and harder than he ever has, his mouth roughly taking my own, his tongue marking, branding, and drinking from my mouth. I push against his chest, my own body breaking in his arms, the orgasm whirling through my body, my words tumbling out as I shudder with pleasure in his arms, his pace never slowly, his cries joining my own, the hot spread of liquid pumped deep with his cock, his name repeated over and over as he finally, with one final shuddering thrust, buries himself inside of me.

  Five minutes later, I slip back into my seat, Stewart barely pausing in a lengthy explanation of market trends and their expected impact. But I feel his eyes on me, see the casual glance at his watch. “Impressive.” He murmurs, tugging my hand to his lips and placing a soft kiss on my knuckle. “I take it you are taken care of?”

  I feel drugged, heady with the release and the knowledge of what I have just done. “Till tonight,” I whisper.

  “Oh have no doubt,” he says, staring into my eyes. “You will need every bit of energy for it.”

  I hide a grin behind a long sip of champagne, turning when I feel a soft hand on my arm.

  “My wife tells me you sell books,” the man says, a polite smile on his face. “Tell me, what authors do you enjoy?”

  I smile politely, responding to the man, and feel the rough heat of Stewart’s hand, sliding up my dress, and hear his intake of breath when he finds my lack of panties.

  We leave the event early, Stewart declining invitations for cigars, blaming my lightheadedness for our early departure. He pulls me by the hand, his steps clipped, my heels skittering to keep up. We push through the lobby doors and into the cool night air, the valet ready with his car, the intense look on his face as he shuts my door sending shivers through my body.

  The engine roars as he accelerates, out of the garage, his hand fumbling for and unbuckling my seatbelt as he turns onto the road, the traffic light. “I need your fucking mouth on me. Now.” He loosely grips my hair and pulls as I climb my torso over the center console, my hands quickly undoing his belt, his erection strong against the expensive fabric.

  He grunts when I have it out, my hand gripping it, my mouth on it before he can speak, precum salty and sweet on my tongue, proof of his arousal. His hand pushes my head, pushing me down on it, and exhales as I take him. “Jesus, Madison.” His voice breaks, almost as if on a cry, the need so strong, his hand shaking as he cups the back of my head. “I couldn’t fucking think in there. Knowing what you were doing, knowing what you had done. My sweet fucking girl, full of another man.” He thrusts upward on the final word, his sentence ending harshly, thick with competition.

  I suck, hard and fast, my hand aiding me, the push and pull of his hand setting the tone, my mou
th doing the rest. And it doesn’t take long. He is so ready, so primed for me, three hours of buildup turning my steel man into a mess of want and desire. It is gorgeous when he comes.

  gasping my name

  thrusting into my mouth

  twitching, spurting, more and more

  draining down my throat, spilling out around my hand

  I gag, I gulp and he says my name

  over and over

  his thighs flexing beneath me

  his grip tight on my hair

  His car flies into the portico of his building and he slams on brakes, shoving the car into park, groaning for air as both hands come down on my head, pushing himself up into my mouth for one last thrust, one last drop. Then he pulls me back, lifting under my arms and dragging me across the center, until my dress rides up and my ass is on his cock, his arms encasing me, as I curl into a ball against his hard chest. A chest that is heaving, his heart pounding beneath his skin, his arms wrapping tightly, strongly, around my body. “God...” he whispers. “You are my fucking kryptonite.” He leans down, pressing soft kisses on my hair and forehead, his hand releasing me and cradling my face, turning it up to his, and kissing me fully and deeply on the lips. “I love you Madison. For everything.”

  And that is how it is. I fuck Stewart, I fuck Paul, and they both know about it. And the more I fuck one, the more turned on the other gets. The more competitive, aggressive, loving, they become. It is a constant, whirling sea of sex. I love it, and they love it. They don’t need to know who the other is. That would take it a step too close, a step too real. It is better that it is a nameless, faceless individual. And I appreciate keeping the worlds separate. I have fantasies, sure. Of having them both at the same time. Their hands on my body, their competing cocks battling over my skin. But that just seems too messy. And I don’t want to do anything to disrupt the perfection that is us. The three of us. Living two separate relationships.

  I get that you don’t understand. That you wonder how someone could possibly be aroused, turned on by the thought of something so forbidden. But often, it is the forbidden that is the hottest, and the depraved that is the most arousing.

  TORRENCE, CA

  DANA

  It is unhealthy, this obsession I have with Stewart’s love life. Why should it matter who he dates? Why do I care if the blushing blonde on his arm is a flavor of the week or a future wife? I should return to my life, return to my empty condo and my stacks of work. I should not care whether he is happy or lonely, a workaholic or a loving boyfriend. But of course I care. I will always care, I will always love him, and I will always watch out for him. He is my Stewart.

  And the blonde from the bookstore—if she is a flavor of the week, she has stretched her flavor into months. Some may call it stalking, some might call it love, but I have continued to watch them from afar. I see her leave his building, her long legs in cutoff shorts and flip flops, her friendly smile to the valet one of familiarity as she catches the keys and slips into her expensive convertible. I’ve followed her onto the freeway, the woman driving recklessly, quickly losing me in traffic as I attempted to use a blinker, maintain a safe speed, and not nose dive beneath the tread of an eighteen-wheeler. She was gone, the white car whipping into the glare of the California sun, headed east, my sleuthing attempt a disaster. Except for her tag number. I wrote it down, with no clear idea of what to do with it.

  Maybe he is happy. I hope he is. I called him this afternoon. But again, as it has been for three years, he did not answer.

  LUNADA BAY, RANCHO PALOS VERDES

  CRUSHER: Someone who surfs hard,

  as if they have nothing to lose

  and no fear inside.

  MADISON

  Lunada Bay is Paul’s favorite place to surf, the waves so high they take your breath away. It is also one of the most contested spots to stick your board in at. It’s located in Rancho Palos Verdes, which is pretty much where all rich white people money goes to die. Colossal mansions sit oceanfront, with manicured lawns and Mercedes that stare out onto waves that kill at least one surfer a year. The local surfers are territorial, running off tourists with sharp voices often backed up by fists, keeping the waves uncluttered and the beach sunbather free. In the ‘90s, a local television crew was attacked, broken bottles and fists causing blood and bruised egos to scamper back up the slippery slope to the road, their broadcasts interrupted by a trip to the ER. But they allow Paul. They are in awe of him, as am I—his effortless conquer of the waves, his ability, no matter how rough or dangerous a spill, to resurface in the froth. But he wasn’t always allowed. I have seen his scar. A long, thick knot of tissue where some spoiled rich kook slashed his side in an attempt to protect this jewel-encrusted strip of beach. Paul returned the next day, and battled waves while bleeding through thirty-four stitches. After that, they accepted him as their own, and, when I came into his life, welcomed me with sunburnt smiles.

  Today the waves are almost twelve feet. Surfers measure from the back, so a twelve foot wave is actually, from the shore, twenty-four feet in height, a huge wall of dark water, rising like a beast before curling and crashing onto whatever surfer is foolish or unlucky enough to be in its’ grasp. I look for Paul, look for his red board, not seeing his head bobbing among the riders. My arms tighten, my eyes scanning slowly, then quickly, my mind trying to recount the last time I saw him.

  Then I see his board, a quick rush of relief replaced by nerves. He is out farther, a few hundred yards behind the main peak, at a spot called Truck Drivers. My heart sinks, a heavy weight of doom pulling it down, dragging it to the bottom until it sits somewhere in my stomach, heavy as lead, my breaths coming short and fast.

  “Whoa, Paul’s taking Truck Drivers?”

  I don’t turn at the voice, knowing its source. Rayne. A dreadlocked Barbie who rarely lifted her head off her boyfriend’s cock or the bong he placed before her. “Yeah.”

  “He is crazy, girl.”

  He is crazy. Truck Drivers is a take-off spot for waves, named by some tourist that had probably died shortly after naming it. It’s for daredevils, or anyone stupid enough to want to risk their life for a wave. And the wave that was coming? It was beautiful. Terrifyingly so.

  “Uh-oh.” Rayne says softly. I don’t know whether to slap her or bury my face in her massive chest and avoid the entire thing.

  But I can’t move. I’m glued to the scene, glued to his form, as he leans forward, lying flat and low on the board, and begins paddling, the wave growing larger and more deadly as it grows.

  The ocean is a beast. A beast that doesn’t care if it chews you up or swallows you whole. A beast you cannot beat, you can only dance with it until the time comes when it kills you. It will never lose, and with moves like this, Paul is living on borrowed time. I watch him paddle and wonder if this is the moment when he will die.

  The wall of water stands, straight up, sunlight glinting off it in a way that hurts my eyes. I stand, my eyes locked on the one small break in its awesome silhouette, the dip that is my heart, the man I love standing to his feet and disappearing into its churn as it breaks, bending down on itself, Paul’s body gone, nothing but white energy before me.

  He is right now in one of two places. In the channel, hidden by the wave of water, or he’s fallen, crushed underwater by the wave.

  A breaking wave can push a surfer down twenty to fifty feet, sending them into a washing-machine style spin that tumbles and breaks them apart. When they finally stop spinning, when their chest is breaking apart and fighting against the urge to inhale, they have to regain equilibrium and figure out which way is up. Some surfers swim the wrong way, traveling ten feet before their bursting lungs and their sense of direction alerts them to the deadly mistake. Lack of air is not the only danger. Water pressure at that depth will rupture an eardrum as easily as crushing a fly. Even worse is not having any depth. If the ocean floor, or a reef is present, the wave will grind you against it like a mortar to a stone. Paul needs to get to the su
rface before the next wave hits. The next wave will be a new downward force, a second round in the spin cycle. A second round that compounds the danger, one that his lungs will probably not survive.

  Red. Breaking. Far left, shooting out of the front of the curl, Paul’s board dipping down and ahead of the break, swinging up, and then down again, his body stepping forward on the nose, arms loose and confident, his movement graceful and relaxed.

  I gasp. For him, it was nothing. For me, I just died a small death. I blink back tears and sink to the sand.

  “Chocka,” Rayne drawls, brushing off her arms and stepping away.

  HOLLYWOOD, CA

  Paul left this afternoon, headed to San Diego, where a tropical storm has created a current he wants to chase. He kissed me quickly, throwing some clothes in a bag and promising to be back tomorrow afternoon, unless the weather changes. I am used to it, his excitement over perfect conditions, the unending quest for the perfect wave. A conquer that no one will see, a personal victory only for himself. I watch him leave before dialing Stewart. He doesn’t answer, and my texts go unanswered. I mill around the house for a bit, then grab my keys and head into town.

  I valet my car and take the elevator up, inserting my key and pressing the button for his suite. Chances are, at eight PM, he’ll still be at work. But I can wait, change into comfortable clothes and grab something from the fridge.

  Entering the suite, I hear his voice, move down the hall to his office, and step in.