“Good girl,” he says as I approach.
When I’m close enough to climb onto his lap, his arms spring toward me like coiled snakes attacking their prey. He grips my body and, in a single, deft movement, flips me onto the couch quickly and violently so that I’m facing it and he’s behind me. I feel a hand on my throat while the other explores and squeezes my tits between slippery fingers. I cry out in surprise, and he shushes in my ear while probing his hard cock against my thighs and pussy. His lubed hand leaves my tits and I feel him pull aside the thin strip that’s blocking him from what he wants.
I’m thankful he didn’t just rip it open, though in my current state of arousal, it probably would have just seemed hot.
With his lips against my ear, he says, “I’m going to fuck you now,” and I nearly cum from the words alone.
There’s no warning when he pushes his slippery, thick cock inside of me. He doesn’t bother giving me a gentle taste of the tip before feeding me his full length. He’s not interested in making me comfortable. He wants to hurt me with his cock, and I want to be hurt. The first thrust feels like it could split my body in two, but there’s no time to reflect on the perfect, sweet pain. Like a passenger on a roller coaster at the peak of its main-attraction drop, I’m plunged into a furious, rushing onslaught that leaves me dizzy. All I can do is struggle to hold on while he fucks me without mercy, stealing my breath and forcing every other sensation to fade away. There is no gorgeous loft, no leather couch, no kinky romp suit. There isn’t even a Hunter. There’s only his cock and his piston hips, which are pounding me with a rapid series of angry, punishing collisions that I’m certain will redden the cheeks of my ass. It’s Heaven.
Without slowing, Hunter reaches around my hips to rub my clit with his lubed hand, and within minutes I’m feeling a familiar shakiness in my knees. I try to tell him I’m cumming, but I’m too ecstatic for words. The half-formed syllables dribble down my cheeks like drool as he fucks and rubs and chokes my body into unconscious bliss.
When I finally cum, I gush so furiously that I squeeze his cock out of me with a popping sensation that’s almost audible. As I return to consciousness, I feel my warm juice pooling around my knees in the dimpled leather cushions while Hunter pets my hypersensitive clit.
“Good girl,” he says again, and I rest my head on the back of the couch. Then he whispers, “But we’re not done,” and I realize with startled excitement that he has yet to cum.
I’m not sure if I can take much more, but there’s no way I’m running from whatever else this brilliant beast of a man can do to me. Exhausted, I make an effort to raise my head, and he forces it back down, burying my face into the soft leather as I moan in pleasure and fear.
I feel his hand yank the romp suit’s thin strip of thong farther to the side, and once again his throbbing cock pushes against me. Only it’s not probing my pussy—it’s pressed against my tight, frightened asshole.
Now I know why his cock is covered in lube.
“Have you ever had your ass fucked, Faith?”
I try to shake my head, but he’s still pressing it into the back of the couch. “No,” I whimper into the leather. I want to tell him how scared I am—that I’m not sure if I can go through with this—but my mouth doesn’t cooperate. I might be scared, but deep down my body wants this.
“That’s okay,” he says. “We can fix that. I’m going to fuck you in the ass now. Do you understand?”
He lets my head up a little so I can nod yes. I don’t want to say anything, because I’m so scared of his thick cock that I’m worried I’ll cry if I try to speak.
He pushes my head back down and puts a gentle hand on my pussy, stroking it calmly while he slides his cock gently along the crack of my ass.
“Relax,” he whispers into my ear. “You want my cock in your ass.”
I try to nod again.
“Tell me.”
I don’t catch on at first, and he pushes my head harder into the leather to let me know he’s not playing around.
“Tell me to fuck your ass,” he says.
“Fuck my ass,” I say shakily. The black leather muffles my begging.
“What’s that?”
“Please fuck my ass,” I say again.
He leans back to position himself, and he pushes his slippery cock into my quivering asshole. He doesn’t fuck me hard this time—he slides into me slowly while the soft leather dampens my whimpers. After a few tense thrusts his pace quickens, and I start to relax. He puts his lubed hand back on my pussy and rubs it while pumping his cock into me, and the sensation drives me so wild that I can barely keep myself upright.
As I moan, he pulls both of my hands behind me, securing my wrists together at my tailbone with his strong hands. Then, with my head against the couch, my hands held firmly behind me, and my back arched to give him full access, he fucks me in the ass full-throttle.
I bite down hard on the couch’s leather while I cry out in ecstasy, and he growls like a feral animal as he relentlessly pounds me. I feel close to passing out when his groans intensify, and I can tell he’s about to cum. The thought of him coming inside of me—in a place that no one’s ever been—sends me over the edge, and my moaning quickens to match his.
Suddenly I feel his cock pulse hard as he releases, and the sensation is more than I can bear. I cum again, this time harder than any other orgasm in my life, and I collapse against the couch, fucked breathless and senseless.
I come back down, and my dizzy vision recedes to a single focal point: the two wet rows of embossed teeth marks I’ve left in the back of his couch. My first instinct is to search for other similar markings—signs that Hunter has fucked other women in this exact spot. Is this his anal couch? Does he make other girls pace down the length of his hardwood floor for his viewing pleasure before he pounces on them and redefines their bodies as feeble fucktoys?
With Hunter still holding me and breathing heavily, I perform a quick scan, and I’m relieved to see that my teeth marks are the sole signs of any serious fucking that would require a woman to bite down on something. I stare at the perfect little indents and smile. Faith was here.
With the case closed, I collapse onto my side on the seat cushions. Hunter kisses my neck and then releases me and heads back to his bedroom, and I hear him turn on his shower.
I’ll join him once I have the energy, but right now I feel so satisfied and spent that I could sleep for a thousand years.
Chapter 12
The next morning I wake up in Hunter’s Spartan white bed wearing nothing. I vaguely remember him carrying me into his room and helping me out of the romp suit, but I have no recollection of showering. A subtle sniff under my arm offers harsh confirmation, and I resolve to clean myself up without waking Hunter, who’s sleeping beside me like a sated lion in the Serengeti sun.
I sneak into his stark bathroom and inspect the shower, which is unusually clean for a bachelor. Equally unusual are the bottles of expensive designer bodywash and conditioner in its corner. I pry one of the caps open and inhale. It’s an intoxicating aroma of seaweed and mint, which makes me even more excited about the prospect of showering—until I realize that no bachelor would buy these products for himself. Their presence suggests I’m not the only woman taking morning-after showers in his loft.
I start the water and creep to the door to take another look at Hunter, who’s still sleeping peacefully. So what if he fucks other women? He’s not the one who’s married. All that matters is that I’m the one he fucked last night—and hopefully again this morning once I’ve cleaned up.
When I’m done, I step out of the shower and find a tiny white robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Could he have put it there just for me, or is it more evidence of the other women he brings home? I wrap myself in the soft terry cloth and look in the half-fogged mirror, and my jealously recedes when I see how well it suits my body. Like my gray Fräulein robe at home, it’s scandalously short, and my firm ass just barely pokes out th
e bottom hem. As I pose and check myself out, I concoct a series of silly housewife scenarios where I’ll have to further expose myself for him—bending over to slide pies into the oven, reaching up to the highest shelf on a step stool, or applying lotion to my legs while pretending not to notice that he’s watching. The sleeves are long and billowy, making my legs and ass the focal point, but I leave it open just enough at the top to showcase the inner sides of my tits.
Feeling suitably sexy in my little robe, I head back to the bedroom so Hunter can tear it off of me. But standing over him, watching him sleep, I can’t bear to wake him. He worked hard last night, after all. So I decide to let him sleep a little longer while I snoop around his loft. In the corner opposite his walled-in bedroom is his studio area—a white stage with a massive white backdrop draped behind it. Surrounding the stage are studio lights, a tripod, and a large table that’s scattered with prints. A few others hang on the wall in sparse glass frames. All of the photos are of beautiful, fit asses of women. Some are clad in tiny shorts and yoga pants, while others are a little more pornographic. He clearly has a specialty, and some of the shots make me wonder whether he’s more than just a fitness photographer.
Leafing through the pictures on the table, I find a print of what might be the most perfect female ass I’ve ever seen. A familiar envy wells up inside of me, and I feel an immediate need to hit the gym and do some kettlebell swings. My ass might be my best feature, but he’s surrounded by perfect asses all day. And how many of these flawless-assed women has he fucked?
Suddenly I feel another familiar sensation—Hunter’s hard cock against my backside.
“Nice to see you admiring my work,” he says.
“They’re gorgeous.” I try not to let on that I’m talking about the girls and not his photographs, which are just as beautiful.
“It’s a delectable ass, isn’t it?” he says.
“Yes,” I say, feeling dejected. I don’t turn to him—I stare down at the photo on the table, wishing it were me.
He leans in and brings his lips to my ear. “But yours is better.”
“Really?” I say. I’m fishing, but I don’t care. I want to hear it again.
He grabs a handful of my hard rump and says, “It’s the best ass I’ve ever fucked.”
He massages my cheeks, kneading them in his warm hands, and he draws my wet hair to the side, giving his lips access to the back of my neck and shoulders. Within seconds I’m slippery.
“Did you fuck her ass?” I ask.
The kissing stops, and Hunter pauses to choose his words. Damn it. I should have known better than to ask such a stupid question. Of course he fucked her. He’s a fitness-model-turned-wealthy-photographer with a faint Australian accent and a loft in the Garment Factory.
“Yes, Faith. I fucked her,” he says. “I fucked her right here on this table, actually.”
His hand starts kneading again, working its way closer to my wet pussy, and he punctuates his words with kisses on my neck. He lifts the back of my tiny robe with his hard cock, exposing my ass.
“Does that bother you?” he asks.
It should bother me. I should be assembling an imaginary posse to go out and hunt the bitch down, but instead the thought turns me on.
“No,” I say.
“No?” he says. “You like thinking about it? About me fucking her right where you’re standing?” He starts rubbing my pussy. How does he always know which buttons to push? He’s making me jealous, but the jealousy is an aphrodisiac.
“Yes,” I say. Visions of sharing Hunter with the faceless ass model flood my mind.
“No? You’re not jealous? It doesn’t bother you that these other women sucked my cock?” he says. “That I peeled down their panties and fucked them the way I fuck you?”
He forces my legs apart and tugs the lapel of the robe down to my elbows, holding it tight behind me so that my tits are exposed and my arms are bound by it. I’m so excited that I can’t form words to answer him.
Then he forces his cock into me. As I gasp and whimper, he bends me over the table and fucks me at a ferocious pace, forcing me to stare at the ass of the other woman he had in this very spot.
“Do you like that ass?” he asks.
I tell him I do.
“Do you want to eat her pussy while I fuck you?”
Good fucking God, do I ever. I’ll do anything to keep this gorgeous man’s brilliant cock hard.
Still binding me by the lapels of the slinky robe, Hunter continues fucking me while I stare at the prints of perfect asses scattered around his work table. I picture him fucking every one of them—each one eagerly spreading her legs for him and then licking her lips after she’s swallowed every last drop of his sweet cum. It should be self-administered torture, but it only heightens my arousal. My body shakes and I cum quickly, and then Hunter pulls out and summons me to my knees. Still shaky, I turn and kneel before him, and I wrap my lips around his cock just in time to take his white, hot load on my tongue.
When he’s done, he strokes my hair while I lick his cock clean and then plant tender kisses on it. Then he heads for his shower, leaving me dizzy and excited and somehow still hungry.
Chapter 13
My hair’s still wet on my cab ride home. My fancy new romp suit, which I’ll have to awkwardly hand to a dry cleaner at some point, is in my handbag, and I’m reliving last night in my mind, playing back every minute of the action and doing my best to catalog it in my memory in case nothing that hot ever happens to me again.
Right at the part where Hunter buries my face in the black leather couch, my phone rings, jolting me back to reality.
These days, everyone I know texts. There’s only one person who still actually calls me, and he’s the last person I should be talking to with the salty taste of Hunter’s cock still on my lips.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hey, darling. How’s my girl.”
How am I? Oh, I don’t know. Amazing? Phenomenal? Filthy and naughty and unimaginably slutty and alive for the first time in years? How do I articulate to my distant husband that another man—a man who probably doesn’t love me and whom I probably don’t even love back—has fucked me out of my post-college slumber? And how do I tell him that if I have my way, I’ll continue to fuck him—and maybe even fuck anyone else who can make me feel that way?
“I’m good,” I say. “I’m just on my way to the gym.”
“Really? It sounds like you’re in a car.”
Fuck. He knows how close the gym is to our home—and that walking everywhere is what I love most about our perfect neighborhood. Is there a hint of suspicion in his voice, or am I just imagining it because I know he has every reason to distrust me?
“Just running late and didn’t want to miss the warmup,” I say.
“Okay,” he says.
Phew. Despite all of my recent deceit, I still can’t lie to him. And even if I could, he’s a lawyer—he’d see through it sooner or later.
David tells me he’s on his way to a breakfast meeting, but he’ll try to call again later. He’ll be home tomorrow, which is a day early, and I’m strangely relieved by the prospect of seeing him again. I should want as much distance as possible right now, but after my past two whirlwind trysts with Hunter, I need to re-enter my normal, quiet life for a breather. But hopefully just a short one.
I tell David I love him and he tells me he loves me, and then I’m alone again for another day with my unruly frat boy libido. This morning’s quickie was too much of an appetizer to fill me up, and I’m bursting with pent-up energy. Maybe going to the gym isn’t such a bad idea after all. Besides, I’m still coping with a strange jealousy about the photos of the other women Hunter fucks. I’m eager to hone my backside with some heavy lifting.
#
After a smoothie and a change of clothes, I head to the gym. There’s no class right now, but I know Chad will be there. I’m worried that his last lapse in professional etiquette will change his open-door policy, but I�
�m willing to find out.
Just inside of the door is a small steel counter, with its exposed welded edges letting everyone who enters know that this is no place for the luxuries of paint. Chad’s sitting behind it, and the curved brim of his ball cap sits low on his face. It’s hiding his eyes, but I can tell he’s transfixed by whatever his laptop is displaying.
“What’s up, Faith?” he says. He scrambles with the trackpad like he’s closing a window, which means he was probably watching porn. I have half a mind to peek over the counter to see if his cock is out. If he’s stroking himself all alone in the gym, maybe he could use a hand.
“Hey,” I say. “I was hoping I could stop in for some squats.”
“Sure thing,” he says. “Let me know if you need a spot.”
He’s all business now. Which is unfortunate, because the thought of Chad standing behind me while I bend under the bar—hopefully with a hard-on from whatever was just on his laptop—is beyond hot.
I’m wearing a loose tee over a sports bra and my favorite yoga shorts, which are also my smallest—a tiny swath of neon pink Lycra that barely stretches across my sculpted ass. As I walk over to the indoor rowers for a brief warmup, I bemoan the lack of mirrors on the wall. I wish I could see whether he’s covertly checking out my ass.
After a low-intensity row, I stand and make a show of pulling off my tee. The sports bra beneath it is an understated black, but it’s low cut and it presses my tits together for a hint of cleavage. That feature makes it pretty useless as an athletic bra, but it suits my current purposes just fine. I should feel bad about the way I’m shamelessly displaying myself for Chad, but it’s distracting me from my jealous thoughts about the women on Hunter’s table. It might be a petty and pointless way of getting back at Hunter for sharing his perfect cock with other women, but what’s the harm?
Behind His Back Page 12