Bad Boy Quickies: A Collection Of Steamy Short Stories - When All You Have Time For Is A Quickie

by Gabi Moore

  I rocked my hips rhythmically against my fingers, having no trouble bringing my already swollen clit to a state of frenzy again. I was so unbelievably tense with pleasure that my entire pussy was spread wide and open, but I brought my knees even closer to my torso to open up even further – I didn’t want him to miss a single thing. I continued circling my clit as much as I could manage, breathing jagged and shuddering with the effort of avoiding coming.

  “Are you ready to come?” he asked. His cock was in his hand, and he was stroking it slowly, pointedly.

  I nodded.

  “I want to feel you come,” he said.

  He released his hand and introduced the head of his cock to me again, and even though he had fucked me senseless only a moment ago, the sensation was enough to send my whole body into fresh spasms of pleasure again. I was dangerously close to coming. I reached my hands out and put them against his stomach, stopping him from going any further.

  “Woah! Careful! I’m really… close,” I said, gasping.

  The room spun around me. I felt that a single tiny movement from him would send me hurtling over the edge.

  He waited, tip inside me, and breathed heavily while I tried to compose myself again, then slowly removed my hands, ready for more. Locking his eyes with mine, he slowly, slowly pressed another inch of his beautiful cock into my poor, ravaged body. I rushed right up to the precipice again, shivering violently to hold my body back from a luscious orgasm. No. I wanted to have all of him in me, as deep as he would go, before I would allow myself to come…

  “More?” he asked, and I nodded.

  I was given another inch, and with a violent twitch I yanked myself back from the edge again, laughing at how insanely sensitive I had become to him, to his hard body nudging me closer and closer and closer.

  “Oh fuck, I can’t take it …please …”

  He smiled, relishing what a quivering mess I had become, knowing how he could collapse this entire moment with just a single hard stroke.

  “You want it…?”

  “Fuck yes!” I screamed, clutching at the carpet in fists.

  In one smooth, confident thrust, he drove the rest of his cock into me, slamming the line of soft brown hairs on his stomach right up against my body. I cried out and threw my head back, letting the peak of a massive wave crush over my body, radiating out from the hot center in my core where he was, driving me into hot, wet spasms that my aching pussy lavished over him. He remained hard inside me, motionless, and when I had fallen into the deep, delicious pool of my first orgasm, I felt him stirring me up again, pulling another one out of me. I couldn’t believe it. I barely noticed that he had both of his fists clenched tightly around my wrists, and was pinning me firmly to the floor, his entire weight over my bucking, twitching body.

  “Tom …oh god,” I began and then the second orgasm hit me, this time broader, looser than the first. I couldn’t help but to break out into giggles. I looked up to see a bright expression of pure joy on his face, his eyes seeming to want to penetrate mine just as deeply as his body was. He smiled, and with a thrill, I felt my body collect and swell again for yet another, bone-shattering orgasm.

  My body felt so on fire by this point, so loose and free, so utterly his, that this third wave found absolutely no resistance. This time, I could scarcely make a peep as I slammed my eyes shut and let the sensations run through me, yet again. My body had become a vortex of wet, swirling pleasure, and at the center was Tom, beautiful Tom, tender-eyed, hard-bodied Tom, hung like a fucking donkey.

  My body still twitching and writhing, I reached out towards him and took him in my mouth again. His dick was soaked from fucking me, but I quickly lapped this off, taking him in as deep as he would go, thrilled at the thought of having him enter me everywhere.

  “Your turn,” I said to his crotch, and stroked it playfully against my cheeks.

  “Remember, don’t hold back…” I added, planting both of my hands on his butt.

  I heard a quiet murmur of assent; he gripped my head and began almost immediately fucking my mouth, savagely, driving himself right to the end of my throat. It easily reached to the back of my mouth and beyond, and I gagged, choking, my lips shaking around the fat base of it.

  “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said again, and this time, it was almost a plea; I could hear in his voice how close he was. I pulled him further into my hot throat, wanting all of him, as far as he would go, loving how good it felt to be filled and violated in this way.

  I gagged once more, long strings of dribble forming on my lower lip, and one hot tear growing on my lower lashes. I wanted to do this with him always. I squeezed his ass in my hands, urging him to release and shoot his cum into me. The hands pulled hard on bunches of my hair; he thrust once, twice into my mouth and then he burst into spurt after spurt of hot sticky liquid.

  I held him in my mouth, wanting to catch every last drop, proud at having eked out so much pleasure from this man, this man who had always seemed so strange to me, yet so familiar. He growled and I felt his entire body shuddering as he emptied himself completely onto my tongue; after a moment his spent cock slid out, bouncing against his hips.

  His gripping hands had turned into gentle, searching caresses; as he hugged my head close I showered his softening cock with kisses, nestling him back to his senses. He groaned loudly and flung himself back onto the floor, pulling me down with him. I landed on his chest and clung there, heart still beating in my ears and the echoes of my trio of orgasms still fresh in my mind, and in my body.

  I had never been so thoroughly fucked in all my life. I felt like the happiest girl in the world.

  As I traced a shaking finger over his chest, I realized that I could never tire of him, of his body, of this. I wanted him to do that to me again and again and again…

  Chapter Eleven

  And he did.

  It was a one in a billion chance that this, any of this would have happened, and to someone like me no doubt …but it did happen.

  And once I had gotten my mind around the fact, once I had relaxed into the idea, I was no longer surprised any more, by anything that we did together. I guess even the improbable happens once in a while, right?

  Tom spent the most of the next year trying to convince me that I wasn’t in some fantastical dream, and this was my life now, and his, and that it was OK to let go, to be happy.

  And I resisted it at first. And we’d argue it out, and we’d fuck, long, passionate evenings in that same fireplace-ed room, hashing out our disagreements. He was one moment the cocky celebrity alpha male I had written about all those months ago, the next moment a playful, sweet boy from my hometown, one who knew every little alleyway of my past, every untouched spot on my body.

  He was gentle with me, and I him, and we were unthinkably rough with one another, both desperate to see how close we could get, how many layers we could peel off, what was really underneath all that flesh we pawed at so hungrily. And we went even deeper still.

  There was money, of course, loads of it. Life became easy in ways that made me nervous, suspicious even. But there was nothing Tom’s firm gaze, firmer voice and unbelievably hard cock couldn’t convince me of. I let go …and I kept letting go. I let my mind soften with him, and my body yielded, first a little bit, and then more and more, until easing into the warmth of his big body felt like the easiest thing in the world.

  “Haha! Look at this one. Oh, you’ll love this,” he said.

  He had a new issue of Cache spread out on his lap, and we were both in its pages, highly pixelated and walking quickly out of a restaurant with the headline PREGNANT stamped on my head. He held up the pages to me and I laughed, nearly spilling my drink. It was almost a year since I left Cache, since Penelope had left, and Clara had taken over. Like I said, even the unimaginable can happen sometimes.

  “Should I call them up and tell them you’d just eaten an extra large burrito that day? That’ll break their hearts I’m sure,” he said, returning his gaze t
o the page. I playfully threw a sock at him.

  “Shut up. I’m simply devastated, don’t you know. There are rumors your eye is straying, of course. Ah, my poor playboy husband, what is he good for?” I said, pretending to swoon.

  “Good for? I buy you burritos, don’t I?” he laughed.

  “Can’t argue with you there.”

  He put the magazine down.

  “I want you again,” he said.

  I looked at him. He had that same look on his face, the one I was becoming very familiar with. He was like an adorable golden retriever puppy, only with a six-pack and a dirty mind.

  “Again?” I laughed. It would be the third time this morning.

  He sauntered over, cradling my head in his hands and kissing me softly.

  “Unless you’re feeling too sore…”

  I kissed him back, hard, and pulled him closer to me. I guided his hands over my body, letting his fingers rest on the spot where only a few hours ago he had pounded me relentlessly.

  One look from me told him what he wanted to know, and he pulled off my shirt, kissing each of my breasts, saying “I love you” as though he only wanted them to hear and not me.

  “I love you, too,” I responded and slipped my fingers through his hair.

  People really do go around this world closed off from each other, I thought. He was my one in a billion, but I was convinced now that with an open heart, anything was possible.

  Anything at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  I’m standing calmly, and I take a slow, disinterested sip of champagne. My hair is longer now, and has grown down to my lower back, where it grazes the top of my black suspenders. I’m wearing my favorite leather thigh highs, the ones with spike heels and tiny red chains around the ankle, plus a long, long string of real pearls that falls down between my bare breasts and to my belly button.

  I’m tipsy, but not overly so.

  For a moment, I have stepped back from the fray, standing apart from the mass of bodies in front of me, some dancing, some breaking off into slower moving groups of two or three, some already heavily twisted into each other… patches of light catch on their naked bodies.

  He is at the center, and as he makes eye contact with me, a deep, knowing glance erupts on his face. He smiles a small, private smile. I return one of my own. The music is good tonight, very good, and I let my head fall back a little as I enjoy it, enjoying also the summer air on my half-naked body, and the cold, wet crystal glass against my fingertips, of the near-bursting perfection of this moment, seemingly held in suspension all around me. The yacht is far from the shore now, floating in inky blackness, only the lapping of water reminding us that we’re still technically on planet earth. A familiar cry breaks me out of my daydreaming.

  The woman in front of me is being fucked to within an inch of her life.

  Her entire face is flushed red, the color extending far down onto her chest and to her two swollen nipples. She’s writhing like something possessed, as though she’s about to combust into flames at any second.

  “She won’t come until I tell her she can,” says her tormentor to me. He flicks a sweat-damp fringe from his face and pummels into her with more urgency.

  “What do you think – should we let her come?” he says through strained breath, flashing deep, laughing brown eyes in my direction.

  I smile.

  A year ago, I had only seen this man in pixelated images. He had been nothing more than ink on a newspaper for me and now …now he was sweaty and deep in a yelping woman who seemed to be melting before our very eyes.

  “Well…?” he asks again.

  Kai looks beseechingly into my eyes, her hair damp and disheveled and her lovely face contorting with pleasure.

  “No, fuck her a little more” I say, and smile.

  I lock my eyes with hers, savoring that sweet moment, and blow her a little kiss. It’s a bit mean, sure, but I’ll make it up to her later.

  - THE END -

  A note from the Author:

  It would only take 30 seconds of your time, but it would truly mean the world to me...

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  Thank you!

  - Gabi Moore

  Surrender

  Exhibit A: Blue and White Cotton

  On the day I lost my virginity, I also lost my first pair of knickers.

  A tired baby blue and white number I had had since High School, it wasn’t exactly a vision of sexiness, but I mourned it all the same. It had an obnoxious Snoopy print on the crotch from the days I thought that kind of thing was cute. But I was sadder to see it go, somehow, than I was to be rid of my virginity. My friends spoke about theirs as though virginity was a tangible thing, a precious, squidgy, lace-and-cotton thing that they were holding onto and waiting for that special day to fling it at a guy on a stage, or wrap up in white lace and deliver to some man wearing an obedient smile and a rented tux.

  But me? I just wanted to be done with it already. I wanted to be fucked. I sat in my first year law lectures and zoned out, practicing the words in my mind, trying them on for size. Fuck me I said in my imagination, to an imaginary boyfriend who conveniently had no opinions. I want you to fuck me I would say, which seemed so scandalous on its own that I seldom bothered to flesh out the rest of the fantasy. My idea of sex had been badly pieced together from Cosmo sex articles and my own embellishments on stories I had heard from a handful of friends. In these classroom daydreams, I was a vixen wearing leather, or a Hot Babe in Victoria’s Secret with beach ball boobs and a drum-tight belly.

  But on the day I actually lost my virginity …I was neither of these women. I was wearing my blue and white Snoopy knickers, and a cotton dress, and my hair twirled up in a messy bun. Looking back, I can see how this might not have been the crime I thought it was, but at the time I felt myself to be an awkward mix of hormones and inexperience, and that it must be more or less obvious to every male within a 5-mile radius.

  “Christy, stop all that studying would you? You’re making me look bad.” My friend Tara had blustered into our dorm room, and was furiously putting on mascara and changing her shoes at the same time, getting ready to go out. I grumbled something back but she stared at me. “I’ve got it! You should come with me. There will be boys there, but I think we can manage without adult supervision, can’t we?” she said, laughing and wiggling her eyebrows at me.

  Twenty minutes later we were in a pretty suburban house crammed full with every flavor of teenage rebellion – somehow I had already finished one beer and mysteriously had another in my hand. Perhaps adults were no less awkward than teenagers, but just tipsy more often? I was enjoying myself, I realized, someway through the second (or third?) beer. I wanted to show Tara that I could have fun, too. I wasn’t some predictable nerd who studied too much. In fact I--

  “Your life line is like, really long.”

  A scruffy boy sat opposite me on the couch, my hand in his hand, examining the lines on it almost as hard as I did my law text books. He was cute, in a scruffy kind of way. Had I seen him around campus? It was hard to tell. There were probably a million scruffy boys just like him enrolled in classes in any one year.

  “That means you’re going to have, like, a long life, you know?” he said.

  It was getting later, the music was getting louder, our friends were getting drunker. I had read somewhere that pretending to read a girl’s palm was a great excuse to touch her …and hit on her. My head buzzed a little. Why not now? Why not him?

  “You also have a really deep love line, which means…”

  Here he locked his soft brown eyes with mine, smiling shyly at me. He flicked his eyes back to my palm, smiled and stroked my fingertips with his. I watched a small vein pulse in his neck. I had rehearsed tons of imaginary conversations with imaginary boys in imaginary situations just like these. In my own mind, I was like a female James Bond, unflappable, never more than a few seconds
away from a devastatingly witty comeback. It was clear to me all at once, though, that James Bond probably wasn’t ever as drunk as I currently was. Ok, Christy. It was now or never.

  I took a deep breath. “I want you to fuck me,” I said. The room buzzed.

  Well, there it was. I said it recklessly, easily, but once the words were out there, hanging in the air between us, I realized that I kind of, maybe, might actually mean it. He immediately stopped stroking my hand. My cheeks burned. Oh shit oh shit what have I just said? What if he thinks I’m an idiot? Oh shit. We locked eyes again. It was something even more terrifying: he was grinning.

  “Well, that was awkward!” he said, leaning back into his chair and laughing. I felt like I wanted the ground to swallow me whole. I flushed a deep red. He tossed a shaggy brown fringe out of his eyes and stood up tall.

  “But yeah, nice and blunt. I uh, I like it.” He extended his hand and helped me up. “Come with me” he said, leading me out of the room and through a tangled clump of people who were standing around, drinking, laughing, being completely oblivious to the fact that I was about to…

  There they were, being all civilized, fully clothed and polite, meanwhile all this time there was a secret world underneath everything, and I had accessed it easily with the simple, naughty words: I want you to fuck me. It was like abracadabra, but for sex. Turns out, you didn’t need witty comebacks at all!

  I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.

  Had I always been this close to it all along, nothing but these words between me and …”it”? I followed him up some dimly lit stairs, realizing with half-panic that there seemed to be something hot and warm moving down my inner thigh.