by Cynthia Dane
“You’re not a slut,” I whisper.
“Oh, no? Would some blushing virgin know how to do this?” Before I can tell her there’s much more between slut and virgin, she deep throats me. Takes me straight to the hilt, her voice gagging in her throat. Her eyes flutter shut as she takes a deep breath. The elevator doors open. There’s nobody there, and I can barely reach the hold button.
A satisfied gasp tickles my senses as I push her off me and jerk her up by the arm. Her bag smacks against her ass. She trips in her heels. Cackles follow me out of the elevator, my damned dick hanging out of my jeans as I haul her to my apartment a blasted forty feet away.
Can I make it to my bedroom? Do I throw her over my shoulder like I sometimes love to do? Me Drew, she Cher? It’s always fun to watch her tits bounce when she lands on my bed. I’m already enjoying the sounds of her shoes falling off her feet and clacking to my hardwood floors.
“That’s right, Benton,” she says with another devilish laugh. “Own this slut.”
Her skin is hot in my hand. Every inch of her is alive with excitement and sex. Fuck it, so am I. All I have to do is look down to see what I’m doing. I bet if I put my hand between her legs, my fingers would be covered in her cum before I had the chance to stick one in.
Nope. We’re not making it. I need her now. I need her cunt like she needs my hard length. We’re not taking off any clothes unless absolutely necessary, because that’s the kind of hurry we’re in.
She lands on her feet. I waste no time pushing Cher against my couch. Neither do I bother with shutting the blinds or turning on the lights. My apartment is fairly dark at this time of day. Maybe it adds to the ambiance. I don’t give a fuck. I only have fucks to give to the dripping wet pussy I uncover beneath her clothes. Bless her for always wearing such accessible fashion.
I also hope she doesn’t need these panties again. They’re ruined, and not just from how hard I yank them aside, a rip exciting her senses. She’s so wet I almost miss her with my cock. I slip right out the moment I let go, intent on plunging into her and riding her until I’m empty.
“Fuck me,” she whines, braced against the couch, hand fisting her own hair. “I need it, baby.” The desperation mounts her body before I have the chance. It’s precision. That’s what slamming my cock into her takes, and I’m so excited I forget what precision means. “Make me your dirty little bitch.”
Before I go completely nuts, let me point out that this kind of language is not unique tonight. When Cher is hornier than hell, she screams about sluts, bitches, and fucking. Some combination, anyway. Far be it from me to tell her what she can and can’t find hot. That ain’t my place. My place is giving her what she needs. Sometimes that means falling into the moment and letting loose the dirty talk she clearly craves. Other times, I’m a silent fucker. Literally. Just silently fucking her as she screams a bunch and coaches me like these are the Fuck Games and we have a shot at the gold medal.
Finally, I hit a home run instead of so many foul balls. I slam into her, forcing her to take my whole length in one stroke. Every part of her tenses, both against me and the couch. Her voice is caught in her throat. When she eventually makes another sound, it’s a strangled cry that tells me I’ve found her G-spot on the first try.
Cher matches every one of my thrusts, daring me to go deeper, harder, and more brazen with my need for her. My grunts are no match for her dirty words and naughtier claims. She calls herself the most sordid names in the book. Sometimes she begs me to call her this insult or some other phrase that would raise my grandma from the grave – you know, if she were dead. Instead, she’s currently climbing into her truck to come slap me for hearing such filth.
She demands I pull her hair. I yank. She begs for a spank. I smack her flesh. She spreads her legs wider and combusts into a pile of sporadic movements. It’s no orgasm. It’s like the opening move that preps her for climax. The hedonistic sounds of my flesh slapping into her wet body and the garbled cries of slobbery passion she screams into my couch means I’m about to completely lose it. Dare I waste energy on announcing it?
“Give me your hands,” I snap, taking both of her wrists into my grasp. Cher is so amiable that I worry she’s passed out. Oh, no. I should know better than that.
“Come in me,” she begs. “Come inside this nasty slut.”
I go in balls deep, holding myself there as I pull her up by the hair. A small cry of painful pleasure greets me when my lips hit her ear. “You’re no slut,” I say. “You’re my girlfriend. That’s better than some town bicycle I get to pound from here to across town.”
She drops back down to the couch. I brace my hand against her hip and wail on her cunt, my cock so hungry for her that I don’t feel my orgasm until I realize my cum is spilling out with every crazy thrust.
Cher screams into the couch the whole time. Her knuckles are whiter than the camisole beneath her kimono. I don’t know how she’s still alive, let alone has all her teeth. The woman doesn’t lift her head until I finally slow down, taking the time to empty my balls with a long, hearty groan.
I’m not satisfied. Neither is she. I can see it in her eyes when she slowly turns her head and gives me that come-hither look that always undoes me.
“Fuck.” My clothes are left in a pile as I pull Cher up by the wrist and drag her – quite willingly, I might add – to my room. The only reason she can’t keep up with me is because of how hard I fucked her in that position. My legs are sore, too, but I’m gonna persevere and fuck her some more.
As soon as I tear these clothes off her, anyway.
Is she upset about it? Not right now. Even if she is later, I’ll buy her new whatevers. The kimono is fabric, for fuck’s sake. Her underwear is worthless. I pull down the front of her camisole so hard that we both hear something tear inside the stitches. Her now-useless bra shelf spills out her breasts. They’re so swollen and her nipples so hard that I immediately grab them. Whatever softness had come to my cock is gone again. I need her. She needs me. Look at that face. That’s the visage of a famished woman who never gets enough hard cock. If I’m gonna be with her, I need to work on my stamina.
“Fuck me,” she continues to chant. Cher is on her side, one leg hoisted in the air. My cum mingles with hers and covers the gape I’ve left behind. She’s so ready for me that this time it takes absolutely no precision to enter her. My whole body hovers over hers, that leg swung over my shoulder as I hold onto her breast and fuck her for my life. Cher’s forced to hold herself up on one arm, lest we both collapse and have to start over again.
Her need to scream herself hoarse is as great now as it was before. It doesn’t matter how hard I pull her hair or pinch her nipples. I don’t touch her clit, yet she’s shuddering in one endless orgasm, the depths of her cunt squeezing the whole length of my cock. Yet after that climax from earlier, I’ll last much longer. There’s no mercy for her this time.
I’ve seen this look on her face before. It’s the face of a woman surfing through Heaven. I’ve probably shown her nirvana, and she hasn’t asked me to choke her yet. Not something I make a habit of doing, but when a woman whines for it, you give it to her, damnit.
This is who she is, after all. Maybe the reason she gets bored of her other boyfriends and dumps them when shit gets serious is because they can’t give her the sex she craves. Cher hates lovemaking, doesn’t she? She wants to be called a slut and fucked like a toy. Even if another guy can give her that now and again, it’s never quite right, huh?
I’m not sure I could do this every damn day. I’m exhausted. The only thing keeping me going is the promise of pleasing her.
“Look at me.” Her labored words are because of her restricted airway. I lessen my grip, momentarily afraid of hurting her. Yet that only gets me a bigger grin of defiance. “I’m your slut, Drew Benton. Make me feel like it.”
Maybe it’s what she’s said. Maybe I’ve been fucking for so long that I can’t go any more. Or maybe I’m such a sad sack of shit that there�
�s no hope for either of us.
As Cher’s eyes roll back in her head from another orgasm, I pull my cock out of her and jerk the very last of my cum wherever the hell it will go. Some of it lands on her face. More of it lands on her tits. Cher collapses into a panting lump of cum-covered glee.
While I finally succumb to the end of my bed, she throws her head back in laughter.
Those aren’t euphoric giggles. That’s her embracing who she really is.
And that other sound you hear? The one knocking you unconscious from how powerful it is?
That’s my heart plummeting into my empty loins. I get it. I finally understand. The puzzle that so many men have tried to solve. The secret to destroying Cher Lieberman.
Who she is. Why she is the way she is.
How had I never seen it before? It’s right there in the glistening seed sliding down her breast.
“You get off on it.” I back away, my cock still not quite soft after all of that. Yet I feel it. I’m about to collapse. The nightmare has only begun. “You fucking get off on it.”
Her laughter comes to a slow. Cher pushes herself up, unperturbed by everything slipping down her skin. Seed. Sweat. Her own dignity. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
My sigh isn’t for me. Nor is it for her. It’s the only way I can think clearly, now that my need to fuck fuck fuck has been temporarily sated. “You get off on feeling like a slut. That’s why you can’t stand being in a ‘real’ relationship. That’s the honest reason you want to be alone. So you can fuck anyone you want and keep that dream alive.”
After everything she’s begged me to call her, you’d think that would please her.
Instead, Cher slowly stands up, facing the truth I’ve flung in her face.
I know she’s going to slap me and leave. I don’t expect it to sting so much.
Chapter 28
CHER
You know when things seem to be too good to be true? When the guy you’re seeing magically forgives all of your terrible personality quirks with unfounded grace? Or when you think that maybe, maybe you’ve found your magical match and things might actually be changing in your life?
That’s when you bail, girl.
It’s one thing for a guy to get too clingy too quickly. Or to declare his undying love for you after only a few weeks. There are some seriously desperate men out there, so it’s never surprising when it happens. (Assuming you’re hot. I have it on good authority that makes a difference. Bonus points if you’ve tailored your grift to match their ideal type.)
It’s quite another thing for that man to insult the hell out of you.
Thought we had a good thing going, Drew. Thought you knew our relationship was founded on sex, even if I allowed you to call me your girlfriend. Not just any sex, either. Angry, fucked-up sex. You may have been one of the first men I’ve ever been with who didn’t make me feel like a total freak for what I like, but that doesn’t give you the right to say what you did.
It’s been almost a week, and I’m still pissed the hell off.
Naturally, Drew tried to contact me. I blocked him. I made a point of being away from my apartment from morning until night, even if it meant camping out at new-to-me cafés so I could avoid seeing his mug. He had come to my door once before already. I wouldn’t put it past him to try it again. Whether he has or not, I have no idea. I’ve found no notes or heard whispers from the neighbors, If he’s sneaking around my door, he’s not hanging around.
Good.
I’m not a crier. I definitely don’t cry over men. The only way I could cry over a guy leaving my life was if my dad died tomorrow. That’s it. If I got that dreaded phone call, I’d cry. For a few minutes.
Drew won’t make me cry.
Not his absence, anyway. There may be an ache deep within me, but it’s not a hollowed heart. It’s my stupid pussy missing his dick. If Drew Benton could do one positive thing, it was fuck like a damned jackhammer. Doubt I’ll ever find a guy like that again. Hot, great dick, and knew how to screw a girl? That’s the holy trinity, friends. The money only makes it so much better. Most hot dudes with nice dicks are absolute snores in bed. Great lovers with nice dicks tend to be way below my level in the looks department. Don’t get me started on hot and good in bed. At some point, the little winky drives me out the door again.
Yes. That’s the only heartbreak here. My pussy is doing most of the crying, but my logic will win out.
Even if I cry.
I spared ten minutes the night my anger subdued. A few tears fell down my face. This was after my nose wrinkled and something burned behind my eyes. I had been at my desk, attempting to use my laptop, when the tears began to flow. What happened? No, I don’t give a fuck about Drew Benton. He can take his gorgeous body and shove himself up his own ass. I can pay for my own five-star dinners. Camaros are so damned overrated, the only reason I was caught in one was because I like free rides. I’ll treat myself to a brand-new vibrator that gets the job done as well as he ever did. Maybe I’ll hop on Tinder and get myself a mediocre rebound to totally prove I don’t give a fuck.
I think we both know what made me cry for the first time since rewatching Pay it Forward.
“You get off on feeling like a slut. That’s why you can’t stand being in a ‘real’ relationship. That’s the honest reason you want to be alone. So you can fuck anyone you want and keep that dream alive.”
Thinking about it makes me want to knock the pencil holder off my desk.
How dare he? How dare he? Who the fuck is he to tell me who I am or what I’m about? I get off on feeling like a slut? He’s being way too literal about the sex we had. I bet he thinks women who like the missionary position and getting tender pecks to the lips are pious princesses. If I’m Mary Magdalene over here, then they must be the Virgin Mothers! That’s how it works, right, Drew? You either like getting your ass smacked and your throat choked or your little rosebud flicked with the tip of a tongue. There can never be anything in between. There are never emotions behind it. People are sooooo one-note, am I right?
Fuck him. Fuck him in his Camaro. Fuck him so hard his whole family going back four generations can feel that shit jam into his ass.
Maybe I don’t know why I’m crying. We can agree that I’m upset about what he said to me. You’d think I’d be over it after stewing in it for a couple of days, though. Yet for some blasted reason, his insinuation has hit me right in the diaphragm. He left me speechless. There I had been, reveling from some of the best orgasms of my fucking life, and suddenly he tells me I’m a bitch and a half because I like to feel like a slut?
Go to hell, Drew.
He’s not the first guy, you know. I’ve had a few exes tell me in their breakup spiels what they really think of me, and more than one insinuated I was a “fucking whore” who only cared about money. This is different, I guess? Drew wasn’t lashing out at me with the most misogynistic shit he could pull out of his codebook. He thought he was making a genuine observation! Hope he chokes on his next beer. Nicest thing that could happen to a lovely chap like him.
I don’t get off on feeling like a slut. Not outside of the bedroom.
Let’s be real, that’s what he meant.
You can’t tell me I’m the first lover he’s had like that. He’s too natural at taking complete control, even when I’m growling and daring him to be badder. Drew’s that guy who is a total cuddly teddy bear when you need him to be, and a ruthless porn star when the hormones are high. So, he gets the difference, doesn’t he? He knows the separation of bedroom personas and real life monikers. Just because I like it hard and rough doesn’t mean I prance through society going, “Look at what a slutty slut slut I am! Tee hee! Bet you’ve never seen a cunt gape and be filled with so much cum before!” Ugh. I want to barf thinking about it.
I want to do a lot of things. Like wring his neck.
One day, I shall write my memoir. (Maybe I’ll call it A Slut’s Life, huh, Drew?) In it I’ll pontificate about why I never marri
ed. “A hundred men fell in love with me, but none of them were good enough. There was always one or two major flaws that completely outshone the good things. Maybe he had a tender heart, but he was terrible in bed. Or maybe he treated his daughters like human beings but thought I should be held to a higher standard. This guy donated millions of dollars to charities every year, but his job was running low-income people out of their homes. This guy was perfect in every way, except he expected me to a baby-making factory. Even one baby would make me feel like a factory. Piss off, Frank.”
There’s no such thing as the perfect lover, but does that mean I have to settle? Does it make me a slut if I’d rather be serially monogamous than be in an OK relationship? It’s not always about getting my payday. Sometimes it’s as simple as realizing it’s time to move on.
It’s time to move on from Drew. I’m done with him. For good.
Of course, an idle Cher is the worst possible scenario. If I’m coming out of a breakup as gross as that one, I need something lined up. A new guy. A new life. Something.
I need to get back into the game. I need to get back to what I was doing before Drew attempted to ruin my life. Because nothing would get back at him and Jason Rothchild more than being up to my old tricks again.
It’s too soon to make an appearance at the lounges and country clubs. Usually, I alternate lounges with the golf clubs in Lake Oswego and Hillsboro. Lots of big tech and athletic wear guys in those places, but I’m afraid Drew might go looking for me there. I’m still vulnerable enough (God, I hate admitting that) that I should check out my Seeking Arrangement profile.
Although fruitless, I update my bio and some of my pictures. It’s the perfect time of year to snap some selfies and set up shots of me drinking tea or enjoying the sun. Flirty dresses, audacious kimonos, and slinky tank tops always attract attention. Better if I throw on some sunglasses and keep my hair freshly washed.
It’s while taking gratuitous shots of myself on a café balcony when my thumb accidentally opens my address book. There, toward the top of the list, is a man named Brian.