The Marriage Mistake_A Billionaire Hangover Romance

by Natalie Knight

  “Hurry up, Kat. You’re gonna give a guy some blue balls!”

  This man knows just how to get me going. I stick my hand into his boxer briefs, grab his cock, and pull it out of his pants.

  I stare at it, marveling at its massive girth and length. Fuck. Let me have some of that.

  I open my mouth wide, take the whole fuckin’ thing into my mouth, and let it slide down my throat. Jason grips my hair tight and gasps. “Holy fuck, Kat,” he exclaims.

  I giggle with him in my throat, sending vibrations against his cock, and I feel him twinge in my throat.

  I start bobbing my head up and down on him. As I suck his huge cock, I take my hand and cup his balls and start massaging them some.

  I love handling his cock. It’s just what I need after the fuckin’ day we had.

  Jason takes a deep breath in. As he inhales, his hips flex up and his cock pushes farther into my mouth than I’m ready for, and I choke on it. I gag a couple of times and feel his cock pulsing as it rests against my tongue.

  I take my hand that’s been on his balls and wrap my fingers around the base of his cock and start stroking him, the edge of my lips meeting where my hand ends. I twist my fist up and down his cock and rotate my head in the same direction.

  That shit makes me feel like a porn star.

  As I’m bobbing and stroking on Jason, his precum hits my tongue. It’s really ShowTime now. I take my tits out of my low hanging blouse and pull my mouth off his cock.

  I push my boobs together and lower them against Jason’s cock.

  “Oh fuck,” he shouts. He’s always loved tit fucking, and today is going to be no exception. I thrust my chest up and down against his cock, and I put my face into position so I can keep sucking at the head of his cock.

  As I force my tits up and down his cock, I swirl my tongue all around the head of it and play with his frenulum. He shudders underneath me. His hand is gripping my hair tight, and he’s guiding my head and my body.

  I love when he’s forceful with me. My cunt is dripping, just dying to have that cock inside me.

  I moan with his cock in my mouth, and he simultaneously starts moaning out loud. He pushes my head down on him hard, and his hips flex up and hold position while he shoots a massive load of cum toward the back of my throat.

  I take some of it onto my tongue and lift my mouth off him, letting my tits get sprayed with the rest. His cum covering me is so hot. When the last of it lands on my nipples and starts dripping down, I take my hands and start rubbing his load onto my skin.

  I even spit the cum out of my mouth and onto my chest, letting him get a sexy view of cum-laced drool fall down my chin and onto my big tits.

  “Fuck, you’re gorgeous, Kat. How the hell did I end up here with you?”

  There this fuckin’ guy goes again, being all sweet. Well, I guess it’s not bad all the time. As I roll my eyes at him, there’s a knock at Jason’s window.

  A large man in a leather jacket is peering into the car, staring at me while I’m dripping with cum.

  I do my best to cover my tits with my hands, but no one can mistake sex hair. Worried, I press my back against my window and fix my clothes. Jason reaches to his side and grabs his handgun.

  He rolls down his window, just slightly enough to get sound out so he can talk to this fucker.

  “What the fuck do you want?” he demands.

  The man, with his own gun pulled up in our view, smiles and looks over at me and smiles. “Her.”

  Bruce

  I lick my lips. I can’t believe my fucking luck.

  When I first see the car, a beat-up old thing, I’m tempted to call for backup. No lonely cop wants to come face-to-face with a bunch of scumbags doing a drug deal or some other dirty shit.

  Something stops me, though.

  I inch a little closer. In the dark shadows of the wall, even my extra-large frame stays hidden, and that’s saying something. Some of the guys who work with me can’t believe I made the cut.

  Fuck the fitness, I tell them, it’s brains you need.

  It’s dark, fucking dark, but with a half moon, I catch a glimpse of what looks like two people in the car.

  My hand finds my gun.

  How dangerous can two people be? What’s more, two people are hardly here to plan a heist.

  I inch forward, comforted in the knowledge of my own protection in the black of the night.

  My black leather jacket was a stroke of genius. It gives me added camouflage. When you weigh in at about two hundred and fifty pounds, you need all the help you can get. I stopped wearing the uniform when I hit the two-hundred-pound mark and someone said they no longer catered for my size.

  Back then, I received a letter. I still recall it word for word. Lose weight or lose out.

  But I have my own connections and ways. Whoever thought they could get rid of Bruce played with the wrong man.

  Fucking dickheads, some of the boys.

  It doesn’t take me long to work out what’s going on in the car.

  This might become my lucky night.

  God knows I deserve to be lucky. Women barely look at me, and when they do, it’s with that sort of sour lemon face. Think they’re so fucking superior. Fucking joke.

  To make sure I get the best vantage point, I creep forward slowly, snail like. A loud crunch makes me flinch.

  I stop dead in my tracks. My eyes are fixed at the car the whole time.

  Shit.

  Nothing happens.

  My dick is getting agitated. It hasn’t seen action since the last time I paid a visit to Contessa Amore’s place. I pretended to be there on official business, nothing like throwing my weight around a little.

  The girls there are mostly young and of some ethnic background. But I don’t give a fuck. A man has his needs, even a man of my size.

  But from what I can see, this fucker in the car has caught himself a goddess.

  I can see the back of her ass, and all I want to do is spank it with my large hand. My fat fingers want to find that pussy of hers.

  If I want to make the most out of this gift sent from the universe, I need to make sure I plan this absolutely to perfection.

  No need to strike too early.

  I can already see the smirks from the other guys when I return to the station at the end of the graveyard shift. And I might share my story with them. Then again, I might not.

  I’m so close now I can hear the dude moaning. And I can see the chick’s tits.

  My dick is threatening to explode. I resist the temptation to use my fingers to help myself along.

  No. Don’t spoil it, big guy.

  This one is for you. In a little while, she’ll be all yours. And you can do with her what you want.

  In my mind, I’m already playing the scene out of how I’m going to fuck this chick. She can pay for all the insults I’ve suffered at the hands of women like her. And the best part will be there ain’t anything she’ll be able to do.

  As the guy looks like he’s about to cum, I’m finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on the plan. I have my hand on the gun already.

  There’s no doubt I’ll need plenty of persuasion for this dickhead to give up his chick. And no doubt the chick will need some…persuasion to participate in what I’ve got planned for the two of us.

  I play with the idea of simply kicking the guy out and driving off with her. We could go somewhere, somewhere more comfortable, somewhere with plenty of mirrors.

  The idea of seeing myself with this fucking hot babe has a certain appeal to it. Wouldn’t it be awesome to see my flesh drown the delicate skin of this floozy?

  All women who hook up with assholes like this one in the car are floozies as far as I’m concerned. Decent women wouldn’t hang around dark deserted parking lots in the dead of night fucking a guy.

  Briefly, I think of my mother. My dick loses some of its hardness. What would my mother think of me now?

  Who gives a fuck? An inner voice pipes up. She lef
t you when you were six years old.

  I turn my attention back to the car. Now is not the time to dwell on my mother, who ditched my father for some fucking asshole who took her away.

  Maybe this chick in the car has a husband and kid somewhere at home. She probably told them some lies about a girls’ night out, when really she was here fucking herself stupid with another man.

  Fucking bitch.

  My cock is back to full attention and ready for action.

  I watch with a little drool coming from my mouth as the chick grabs her tits. Any second now, I’ll make my move.

  The timing is going to be everything. I don’t want them to drive off, and I don’t want to do it too soon. Although my dick is getting impatient, it wants some of the action.

  “Easy, boy,” I purr, and I pull myself up to my full height.

  And then I make my move.

  It’s Bruce time.

  Will

  The term five-o, yeah, I fucking know it well. A lot of my, uh, colleagues...no, that term sounds wrong for who they are—who we are, who I am...no, associates—fuck, that’s fucking better. Associates.

  Those motherfuckers think it’s from hip-hop that it originated there along with po-po and such...wait, where did po-po start?

  I’m getting off track, and there’s a fucking five-o approaching the vehicle—a term those 5-0 motherfuckers use—and it’s not a vehicle that I fuckin’ know. But I digress, so I’m driving the speed limit like a decent fucking citizen down a road that I know is always quiet cause that’s the way I like it these days, and there’s one of those big five-o motherfuckers.

  Damn, either I’m getting old—hell, I know I’m getting old—but either my age is showing its ugly fucking head or my past decisions are catching up with me. Either way, to finish what I was saying about that five-o term, I remember Hawaii 5-0, at least the reruns; I know where that shit comes from.

  Anyway, I’m driving the old Continental, ‘cause what else would a motherfucker like me drive? I’m going as slow as I goddamn want to when I see one of those new-ass squad cars—the kind us honest fucking citizens have to foot the bill for, and with my past, I cannot not take notice of those fucking things wherever I see them.

  And it’s fucking parked. Great.

  But now, I see your stereotypical officer of the law just waddling away from his taxpayer-funded vehicle. Now, allow me to expand on what I mean by stereotypical in this particular fucking instance: this stereotype is the kind born in the heads of hacky-sacking college smoke hounds who think that cops do nothing but sit in donut shops all day.

  This officer of the law likely visits his share of donut shops. But to be fair, in my world of endless white flour-based delicacies with the requisite cannoli—that’s plural, the singular is cannolo—and Italian cookies for dessert, a lot of my associates make this blue uniform-wearing dude look like Christian Bale in the fucking Machinist.

  This poor guy is still bursting out of his blues, which, to be fair, were probably fitted a few dozen Boston creams ago. I slow down even more to watch him wobble to a car that looks too old and rundown for anyone to fucking care about.

  At first, those 5-0 po-po mobiles gave me an instinctual pause. In my line of work, a job of any size can be grounded to a halt, along with your whole motherfucking life, by some nosy beat cop just looking to fill his fucking parking ticket quota.

  The bit of pause, even in this law-abiding section of my life story, is now giving way to amusement with a bit of pity for the poor po-po...fuck, when would I ever feel that for a dude like this?

  Anyway, I’m thinking that this lumbering officer of the law better hope that it’s some scared shitless high schooler with a learner’s permit or a sweet old Sunday-driver grandma who just happens to be out in the middle of the week getting fucking oranges or rolls or whatever.

  Because if there’s any shit of any kind that’s about to go down, there can be no doubt that it’s gonna go down hard on the Stay Puft fucking Marshmallow officer. And when it goes down hard, it might not be too bad to have a front-row seat, maybe while enjoying one or two of those fresh zeppolas riding in the shotgun seat next to me.

  Now, a motherfucker such as myself would generally be wise to avoid such situations, but as a current model citizen, one who enjoys a good fucking show, I don’t see the harm in maybe pulling over and putting the Continental in park.

  As I do just that, I keep a close eye on Mr. 5-0. Some fucking cop. The dude doesn’t even notice me pulling over, or at least he’s pretending not to.

  I’m on the other side of the road, and I can get a good look at his face.

  Damn, that motherfucker looks excited. I could swear that he’s drooling, approaching the vehicle like some sort of determined law-enforcement zombie...or like there are a few boxes of chocolate-glazed donuts waiting for him in the backseat.

  No, fuck it, I can’t judge the 5-0 man for that. He’s drooling, maybe literally, over whatever shit’s about to happen. I may be getting a little drooly myself now.

  I’m glad I stopped and just happened to be making my way this way, because this has got to be good.

  I turn off the loud-as-fuck ignition of the Continental—does that motherfucker really not notice?—and I lean over to roll down the window.

  Sometimes these old-ass manual cars with no power fucking windows come in handy, but whatever that po-po dude is headed toward has him distracted good and proper.

  I may as well just fucking get out and watch.

  I undo my seatbelt, pull up the driver’s side lock, and step out of my own fucking vehicle. I take a quick glance at the glove box first.

  You don’t think I go anywhere without my .38, do you? I know I’m crowing about being law-abiding and all that, but a motherfucker like me, with the life built around me, can’t be that fucking stupid.

  It ain’t registered, not that that matters. I’m leaving it there for now.

  The 5-0 man doesn’t register the Continental door slamming. He doesn’t see me peering over the top of the sedan like a prairie dog either.

  Fuck, what’s that?

  I hear the sound coming from the vehicle that the officer of the law is apprehending.

  It sounds like...yeah, a chick laughing, and then moaning. Now there’s a guy moaning, too.

  The cop doesn’t notice me, and the happy couple is yet to notice Mr. Officer staring at them.

  The thing is, this particular officer of the law doesn’t look ready to cite these lovebirds for indecent exposure or some shit. He looks ready to fucking join in.

  I don’t think I’ve ever used this word in my fucking life, but gross.

  This is some weird shit. What the hell do I do now?

  Kat

  I want to get something out of the way, like, right off the bat. Before we get any further. Before you make any fucking judgments about what comes next (and comes next, and comes next).

  I am not a slut.

  Or, okay, well, I am, but hold your fucking opinions for a hot sec. I’m a slut in the way that all women deserve to be sluts—kinky, confident, in charge of my sexuality, and damn proud of it.

  I know what I like. I know what I want. I know when I want it, and I know how to get it when I do.

  So when the police officer taps his dirty little flashlight against the driver’s side window—just as Jason is getting to the good part—I utilize the full extent of my arguably slutty powers, and I crank the window down.

  “Hunnf?” Jason says.

  Generally, hunnf is not a word. At least, it’s not in the English language. You won’t find it in the Oxford dictionary. Maybe not even on that Urban Dictionary site.

  But when Jason’s mouth is currently busy and buried beneath my dripping wet pussy with the driver’s seat leaned all the way back while I ride his face and my big, bare tits threaten to honk the horn on the steering wheel…

  A bitch can translate.

  He’s not really sure where I’m going with this, and hell. Maybe I
’m not either.

  “What seems to be the—oh! Fuck, baby, yessss. Right there! Mmm.” I lick my lips and stare up at my reflection in the officer’s shiny silver aviators. “Problem, Officer?”

  He’s a big guy, the officer. His uniform, it doesn’t fit him right. But look—and remember, I’m maybe, maybe not really a slut—I’m just so horny right now, all I can think is how much better he would feel out of it.

  I’d feel better too. That’s the thing about police officers, you know? When they’re out of uniform, we all feel more comfortable.

  He can keep the handcuffs and the badge around, though. Maybe even the gun.

  “Ma’am,” the officer says. There was a smile on his face when he came up to the window, but now his throat sounds dry. Totally parched, even.

  “Thirsty, honey?” I ask. Not a slut. Just, y’know, improvising here. “Sounds like you need to…”

  My eyes travel all the way down his uniform, over his dad-bod cop belly where it strains at the buttons of his shirt to a big tent in his slacks where something else is straining.

  Fuck. He’s probably as big as Jason. Bigger even, maybe.

  “Wet your whistle?” I suggest. Admitted, kind of like a slut might.

  “Mmph,” Jason says. Maybe in protest. Maybe he’s into it.

  His tongue is still flicking against my clit like it’s a pleasure button just begging to be pushed, so I’m willing to assume the latter.

  “You’re…you’re offering…” the officer stutters. Slowly, very slowly, he’s piecing it together.

  “We don’t want any trouble,” I reassure him.

  He pulls down his aviators. He’s got pretty eyes—cornflower blue. They’re sweet, if not a little enraptured in disbelief.

  They’re also making love to my tits right now, and who can even blame him?

  “No trouble,” he says.

  “Mmmmmph,” Jason moans.

  I grind my cunt harder against Jason’s gorgeous mouth.

  “Just a little fun,” I tell the officer.

  He licks his lips.

  He offers me a hand.