by Selena Kitt
And arousal.
To be knocked up by her idol?
Nothing could possibly compare to that, and her eyes widened. She wanted it. Everything in her wanted it. It would be the ultimate thrill, the highest reward a groupie like her could ever want for!
“Yes!” she finally said as her mind stopped tumbling with their thoughts, and her legs spread wider.
“That’s more like it,” he said, giving a smack across her smooth, round ass to make her squeal, using that moment of opportunity to sink his fat dick into her slick little cunt. The feeling of that thick, veiny girth plowing into her deep and raw making her knees quake.
He was huge, his dick as big as his ego, making her feel every inch of it as he sank right down to her utmost depths to nudge against her womb.
“Fuck yeah, you’re gonna like being my personal breeding bitch,” he said before he tugged back his hips and gave a lewd groan into the tropical night air.
Perhaps she should have been put off by his rude language, but she sensed the desire running beneath it, and those raunchy words did little more than excite her as much as the sensation of his dick filling her did.
She could barely believe what was happening to her, but she pushed back against him with such eagerness. She truly was his personal little slut, so absolutely soaking wet and wanton for him.
She’d always played it safe before, so careful with sexual intercourse, but there she was, bent over a railing, offering up her raw, fertile pussy to her idol. And he was taking it for all its worth.
His two hands grasped her hips and ass cheeks as he rocked his hips, the warm ocean breeze washing over them both as he pummeled her pussy, sliding that thick, bulging cock into her so deep as he claimed her his.
“This is gonna be your new life, slut,” he groaned out amid his moans. “You’re gonna live here on my island… gonna pop out as many kids as I wanna have,” he insisted, and with each word she felt his dick throb with excitement. He wanted her to be the mother of his children so damn bad.
His enthusiasm was infectious, and for those moments, she wanted nothing more than to do just that. To be whatever he needed, whatever he wanted, and she shuddered violently against his cock.
With every thrust, her pussy clenched him, that thick head pounding so deep into her against her womb, the threat implicit.
“Yes,” she gasped out, her head tilted back and her back arching as that white dress pulled up a bit more.
Flynt arched his back, letting loose such a lewd, depraved moan at that clench of her pussy around his dick. His skin developed a light sheen of perspiration, and all that hard muscle gleamed in the Caribbean moonlight.
“Fuck!” He cursed, his hefty balls tightening against him as that first load began to travel up through his shaft like an intensely burning pleasure. “Gonna knock you up, slut,” he bit out mere moments before his dick exploded, and all that virile cum blasted out, thick rivulets of creamy spunk filling her up.
As big as his dick was, that rich load of semen matched, pumping her so full as she bent over that railing. He moaned so deeply, filling the night air with his pleasured sounds, pumping her fertile womb full of his seed all the while.
And instead of horrified, she felt so... relieved. Her mind went numb and all that was left was her emotions, that sensation of pleasure that twisted its way through her core.
As his heavy balls slapped against her clit those few final times, she could barely hold back any longer, her entire body excited and so very near to that brink. She brought one of her hands from the railing, moving it between her legs and touching her wet clit, rubbing it roughly.
He felt her bring her hand down, and though he pulled back, he didn’t take his dick out entirely. He grasped the long shaft, and pumped it with one hand, squeezing out the last of his seed into her depths, milking it for another spurt. Then another.
“That’s it,” he told her, stroking her lower back with his free hand. “Cum for me, slut… make that pussy purr and lap up my cum.” He knew it’d only enhance the chances of her conceiving his child, and he egged her on excitedly.
She rubbed her clit so hard and fast, and she was so close that it only took a few seconds before that spark ignited in her loins, spreading out so instantly as her pussy drew him in, clenching his cock so tightly.
“Oh Flynt!” she cried out, lust apparent in her tone as she slammed her hips back against him.
He shuddered, feeling that tight clench of her pussy as it reached climax, and it milked another thick spurt of his virile cum right out of him. He grabbed a hold of her, keeping her in place tightly as she quaked and screeched into the warm, breezy night until they were both panting and sticky.
“Don’t fuckin’ spill a drop,” he warned her so grimly, pushing down on her back to arch her spine and keep her pussy propped up in the air. He plucked his dick from her, leaving it to drool his thick cream, but he very quickly scooped her shapely body up into his arms and lifted her.
Her legs were wobbly, and the heels didn’t help, so she was grateful for his strong arms about her. He smelled so masculine and she nuzzled into his neck, inhaling deeply.
He carried her back into the bedroom and laid her out upon the extravagant, thick bed, his hard cock exposed as he grabbed a pillow and propped it in beneath her ass.
“Let that pussy drink it in,” he told her in that smooth, lyrical voice of his.
And she felt like it was the time to protest, to move away and escape his hold on her, but she didn’t want to.
She didn’t know it before that day, but she wanted absolutely nothing more than to have that tie to him, to know that they’d created something together, their souls forever linked. And so she lay on that pillow, his cum draining into her eager womb.
And he’d promised to breed her every day of the vacation!
About the Author
Candy loves writing naughty, dirty stories - both short and sexy, and long and scandalous. Young college co-eds, risky sex, and misbehaving daddy’s girls, all with the spiciest twists around. If you need something to scratch that secret itch, turn to Candy!
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ROCKSTAR - In the Shadow of The Riot by Delores Swallows
In the Shadow of The Riot by Delores Swallows
Jag stood to the left of the drums and played the final few bars of the song on his battered Telecaster. He watched their lead singer strutting along the edge of the stage; Jag knew Wood would be glaring at the pale, vacant faces of the people moshing on the floor in front of him. The drums and bass built to a crescendo, and even though the crowd seemed completely oblivious to the drummer not keeping the timing constant, Jag was still annoyed with him. He cart-wheeled his arm Townshend-style for each of the final three strikes of the A chord.
The lights went out, the crowd roared and Wood gave his usual end-of-gig “thank you, and fuck off.” With his cockney accent it sounded more like Fankoo and fack orf.
There were a few laughs and jeers from the crowd as the band left the stage and the audience headed towards the bar. Strobe lights lit the floor as the DJ took over from the live music. The Sex Pistols’ No Feelings belted out of the speakers, the volume so high the bass vibrated through the floor. It could be felt in the tiny office near the rear entrance where the band got changed.
Wood was looking down in disgust at the mess on his black drain-pipe jeans and ripped white t-shirt. “I swear, if I can get close enough to any of them cunts that gob on me, I’ll kick their fucking teeth down their throat.”
Muzza paused from drinking a can of cider. “Maybe you should learn to play the drums. Twats can’t gob that far.”
Biff looked up from his chair in the corner. “Pi
ss off. Some people think the best thing about this band’s their drummer.”
Muzza laughed. “The only person who thinks that’s your mum. She told me when I was shagging her the other night.”
Biff responded by throwing a plastic glass full of beer in Muzza’s direction, with most of the contents splattering Wood’s legs.
“Cunt!”
“Might help getting the phlegm off the jeans,” Jag pointed out.
Wood muttered more profanities as he made his way towards the clean gear slung over the back of his chair and started to undress.
Each band member changed from sweat-drenched clothes into a dry set which looked just like the ones removed. They all had their own style. Wood always wore tight black jeans, winkle-picker boots and a ripped white t-shirt; Biff chose ripped blue denim jeans with a black t-shirt, while Muzza was always in black leather trousers and a blue denim jacket with both sleeves cut off, showing off his muscles and tattoos. Jag favoured faded blue jeans with one of a large selection of coloured t-shirts that he’d splashed with bleach. He was privately proud of the fact several people in their audience had copied his style and made their own versions of the shirts.
Once changed, they made way through the crowd towards the bar. Whenever they performed here they were paid £30 cash plus free drinks. They always drank as much as they could to get the most from the deal. There were familiar faces in the club, many of their fans following the band to each venue they played. Some were friends they’d known since school, others were people they’d met in punk clubs. Jag and Muzza had started this group a couple of years earlier, Biff joining a few months later when the original drummer moved to London to join one of Malcolm McLaren’s lesser-known acts. It was Biff who had come up with their current name of ‘Frenzy’. Wood was their third lead vocalist. The first had left to go to university, the second was told to leave and go to rehab. Although Wood had his faults, the rest of the band knew he wouldn’t turn up to gigs so high he couldn’t even talk, let alone sing. He’d caught the train up to Manchester to audition having read the advert in Melody Maker, and had now been with the band for nearly twelve months. Jag felt this was their strongest line-up to date, and knew if they were going to make it, it would have to be soon.
Sid Vicious had died almost six months earlier and Margaret Thatcher — clearly not held back by mass youth unpopularity — had become Prime Minister a few months after that. Jag felt the punk movement had already lost some of its momentum. He knew this was his big chance to break away from his boring job in the warehouse. He’d spent endless hours locked in his bedroom, writing songs and improving his guitar technique, and couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing any rewards for all of his dedication.
As they drank and chilled by the bar, a young blond girl wearing a mini skirt and ripped fishnet tights approached Muzza. She had thick black eye-liner, green eye-shadow and black lipstick. Muzza slid his thick arm around her tiny waist and pulled her close, kissing her on the ear.
“Lads, this is Betty.”
The rest of the band either nodded or raised a glass in greeting.
Wood took a lingering look at her legs, and then smiled at Muzza. “I think she reminds me a bit of Zoe.”
“Fuck off and find your own bird.” Muzza pulled Betty closer to him and led her into the heaving mass of people thrashing around to The Clash’s White Riot.
Mickey, one of their fans, almost tripped up getting out of Muzza’s way and looked questioningly at Biff. “What was that all about?”
“Just Wood trying to get his end away.”
Mickey looked blank. “What?”
Biff went into it. “A few months ago we played a festival in Leeds. Muzza tapped off with some bird called Zoe, but she ended up shagging all of us that night.”
Mickey’s eyes lit up. “What, a gangbang?”
“Naw, yer sick cunt – one at a time.” Biff rolled his eyes. “We were all camping there, and after she’d had Muzza he fell asleep. She came to look for the rest of the band. We didn’t know ‘til next morning she’d had us all.”
Mickey was shaking his head. “Fucking dirty bitch. What was she like?”
“Filthy. She made me do her doggy-style while I played a four-four beat on her arse.”
Somebody else chipped in. “Maybe she was Catholic and used the rhythm method.”
As groans sounded from the others, Jag said, “I bet you speeded up the timing towards the end of that, as well.”
Biff’s eyes narrowed as he picked upon Jag’s little dig. “Alright, fuck off.”
Wood slid his gaze between guitarist and drummer, but shrugged off their cryptic exchange. “She made you fuck her doggy-style so she didn’t have to smell your breath.”
“Cheeky cunt.” Then Biff added, for Mickey’s benefit, “Jag liked her so much he wrote a song about her.”
“Yeah?” Mickey looked towards Jag. “Which one?”
“Feel Alright.”
Mickey’s eyes closed slightly as he hummed the tune, like he was mentally recalling the lyrics. “So this Zoe is Ellen O’Ride?”
Jag nodded. “Her real name’s Ellen O’Rourke. Zoe’s just her nickname.”
“How d’you know that?” Wood looked surprised.
Jag shrugged. “I talked to her.”
“Before or after you fucked her?”
“Both. She told me she was eighteen and had never shagged the same guy twice.”
Wood shook his head. “I had her twice.”
Jag laughed. “I expect a lot of the men she’s been with did – she seems insatiable. But she never sees any of them again, like on a second date. She reckons she only gets turned on by screwing men she’s never had before.”
Mickey was even more impressed now. “Fucking Hell, hot little slut. Wish I’d gone to Leeds.”
Biff punched him on the arm. “She might be a fucking nymph, but she’s not blind. She wouldn’t touch an ugly twat like you.”
Jag leaned towards Mickey but spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. “She told me she makes the ugly ones shag her from behind.”
It took a few seconds before Biff realised what Jag had meant. “Oi! Fuck off!”
* * *
The evening carried on in the usual vein for the next hour or so. The band played from ten until eleven and the bar closed at midnight. The police were actively looking for reasons to shut the place down, so the owners always made sure they abided by the set licensing laws. Biff left with a dark-haired girl Jag hadn’t seen before, and Wood had agreed to share a taxi with two girls he’d spent the last half-hour chatting up.
Jag shared a small terraced house with Muzza and he made the short walk home alone. He had to be at work at eight in the morning, so he’d not joined in with the woman-chasing like the others. As he approached the door he hoped for a more pleasant home-coming than the last time they’d played locally. He still had nightmares about opening the front door to the sight of Muzza’s hairy arse bouncing up and down on the stairs, a dark-haired woman in red fishnets lying beneath him shouting ‘Fuck me, Tiger!’ over and over.
As it turned out, Jag was the first back to the house and was already in his bedroom when he heard Muzza and Betty arrive shortly afterwards. By the time the amorous couple had made it up to Muzza’s bedroom, Jag was in bed with Who’s Next on his cassette deck and his headphones turned up high. Baba O’Reilly filled his head, but not even Keith Moon’s drumming could disguise the vibrations in the floor as Muzza’s bed banged against his bedroom wall again and again.
* * *
On the following night Frenzy was lined up to play in Stockport at a club called Bingo. Muzza’s brother owned a battered old Ford Transit and regularly hauled their gear around. He’d dropped them off just after seven and promised to return around midnight, hoping to catch the end of their set before taking them all home again.
As they carried their instruments and amps through the stage door, Muzza said, “There’s something not right with our Graham. H
e spends every Friday night and most of his pay-packet watching greyhounds chase a fake fuckin’ rabbit round a track.”
“Unlike his younger brother,” Biff pointed out, “who spends most of his time chasing all sorts of dogs and shagging any of ‘em he can catch.”
With the gear set up, Biff, Muzza and Jag ran through the first couple of verses of C’Mon Everybody, a rock’n’roll classic regularly covered by the Pistols. When they’d finished, Wood turned on his mic and asked if any of the bar-staff would care to help him into his stage clothes later. The three young men paused in setting up the liquor optics to shout a few obscenities, and that was it: sound-check complete. The band made their way out of the club in search of a pub for a few beers to get them ready for the first set, which was due to start at ten.