42 Filthy Fucking Stories

by Lexi Maxxwell

  When he got to the doors, the redhead ran around him and opened one for him. “Thanks,” Micky said with a wink.

  “You’re welcome, sweetie.” She winked right back.

  Micky walked through the door and waited for the redhead to tell him where to go. “Follow me,” she said, taking the stairs to the left up one flight. Micky followed behind, never moving his eyes from her ass. When they reached the top of the stairs, the redhead kept walking, straight toward a large room at the far side of the hallway. She stuck a key in the door, turned it andswung the door open.

  “Just put the box anywhere, hon,” she said, eyes on Micky.

  They went back for the second box. This time Micky’s cock was at full throb as he watched the swish of her ass up the stairs. He had to position his dick so it was pointing up, confined by the elastic of his shorts, as he walked behind her, finding it impossible not to imagine her cheeks uncovered and his cock between them.

  Micky set the second box beside the first one, then exhaled. “What do you have in those boxes, ma’am?”

  “Aerobic exercise equipment. I teach a class that starts here in half an hour. Tony gave me a deal on the room.”

  “Oh.” Micky nodded. The aerobics explained her big tits and tiny waist. “Well, have a great day,” he said again. Micky gave her a final nod, then took a step toward the door, away from the hottest piece of ass he’d seen in a while. The redhead stepped between the door and Micky.

  She’d been looking at him strangely ever since they first bumped into each other downstairs a few minutes before, but Micky finally saw the look for what it was: recognition. He was certain she was about to ask for his autograph, or maybe Andrew Dice Clay’s or Sylvester Stallone’s.

  Instead, the redhead inched closer, until her breasts were brushing the barrel of his chest. She squeezed one of his biceps with her girly hands and cooed. “Oooh, you must work out a lot!”

  “Yes, ma’am. Every day. In fact, I was –”

  He was about to say he was on his way to work out with Tony when she had interrupted him, but the redhead didn’t let him finish. Her right hand was on his bulge, massaging the tip of his dick through the top of his gym shorts and whispering in his ear. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice this?” She giggled, then added, “You look SO familiar.

  Micky said, “Yes, ma’am, I get that a lot.” He laughed nervously, then took a step backward toward the door. He was acutely aware of her brocade, and imagining how he would’ve felt if someone were in a room alone with his wife.

  The redhead giggled. “Oh, I bet you do.”

  This was more than flirting. Micky knew when a woman wanted to fuck.

  When he moved, she moved too, her hand never leaving his cock. She pinched the fat of his dick between her fingers. “Are you really going to leave without taking care of this?”

  He looked down, and there on her fondling finger was the largest diamond ring Micky had ever seen. He tried moving toward the door again, but again with no luck.

  The redhead threw herself in front of him. “It’s been a looo-oong time,” she said, pulling his pecker from his shorts. Before Micky knew it, she was on her knees, and his shorts were puddled around his ankles. Her red glossed lips slid easily over the head of his cock, then down the length of his shaft until it disappeared at somewhere toward the back of her throat.

  Micky stared down on the most beautiful redhead he’d ever seen, his cock in her mouth, just minutes after they met. He could barely believe it was happening, but there was no mistaking his eight inches getting swallowed, or the smile behind the sucking.

  Micky couldn’t remember the last time a woman had been so eager to swallow him whole. Now that she’d started, he didn’t want her to stop. “That’s right, baby. Suck it like a lollipop,” he started to moan.

  She stopped long enough to take a breath and snickered. “You like that, huh?”

  Seconds later, her blouse was on the floor and she was rubbing her fat nipples across the tip of Micky’s dick. With each pass between her large breasts, she paused just long enough to pull in half his cock which she teased with her tongue.

  Micky was about to explode. The redhead must have felt it coming. Just as he was about to blow, she stopped. She kept lightly stroking as she stood, then pulled her hand away, lowered her capris to her ankles, then kicked them off, along with her shoes.

  Micky was staring at nothing but raw flesh, from neck to toes, a red heart-shaped patch of pussy hair inviting him to fuck it. Her ass looked exactly as he’d imagined, giving Micky the sudden urge to shove her to the floor and thrust his cock as deep in her ass as it would go. She seemed willing enough, taking Micky’s hand and moving it to her pussy, then rubbing her clit with the tips of his fingers.

  “How about a guided tour,” she said. “Free admission.”

  Without another word, the redhead turned, pressed her ass against Micky’s twitching dick, then bent forward and palmed the floor with her hands. Micky’s meat hook gave one final twitch before he roped his hands around her waist and thrust himself inside.

  The redhead raised her right leg and pressed her painted toenails on the wall beside Micky’s ear – a move only an aerobics instructor could make – as he slid his eight inches as deep inside as they would go.

  She took her foot and slowly moved it to the other side of his head, then twisted, with his cock pumping in and out, until she came face to face with him against the wall. Her tongue found its way inside his mouth. He sucked on it andhis inner animal took over.

  Micky turned until her back hit the wall and he pushed himself deeper. She gasped. He tossed her legs over his hips, crooking her knees in his elbows. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and they rocked the wall of the aerobics room for five solid minutes without pause.

  He pumped. She pumped back.

  He rolled. She rolled with him.

  He rolled the other way. She moaned, “Fuck me, you GOD, you!”

  He wondered whose wife he was fucking, but didn’t dare ask. He kept pumping, harder and faster, faster and harder. The more she begged, the harder he slammed her. They were sweating and heaving and pumping and moaning. Her soaking sophole spilled onto the floor, quickly turning the aerobics room into a sloppy playroom.

  Micky didn’t care. Pure animal instinct drove him and he lost all care in the world.

  “Oh God yes!”

  She screamed. He pumped.

  “Fuck me, you pumped up jock!”

  He fucked her. Hard, harder, hardest – ramming every inch as deep as he could.

  “Oh, yes! Take me back to high school, yes!”

  He took her back to high school. As much as he was lost in the moment, the redhead seemed at the edge of delirium.

  “Fuck me like a cheerleader!”

  He did.

  “Like a linebacker fifty yards deep!”

  Micky pumped her harder than he’d fucked anyone in years. He thought they were going to tear the wall down, almost afraid he would break her in half.

  “All the way down to the goal line, baby!”

  He slammed her to the floor and continued to thrust. Harder. Deeper. Sloppier than he’d ever fucked a woman in his life.

  “Just like we used to do!” she screamed. “Pump it like you always did. Take your girl to the prom, honey! One. More. Fuck. Ing. Tiiiiii-iiiimmmm-uh.”

  Her orgasm drowned her own words as he pounded her into pleasure. Micky was about to cum himself when he realized she was talking to someone who wasn’t him. She was screaming to a memory, some jock she knew in high school. A linebacker. A cheerleader’s cheap after-game thrill.

  But she wasn’t screaming for Micky, and he didn’t like that at all.

  He’d never played football. He had been a wrestler in school, nothing more, and took up boxing years later, after his first divorce. Now, fucking the most beautiful woman he’d ever been inside, another man’s wife no less, he was being mistaken for a long lost love. Or an amazing fuck from the past
. It made him angry.

  But he couldn't stop, even if he had wanted to.

  Pac-Man Parvotti grabbed the brocade around the redhead’s flushed neck, then pulled her closer. He could see the shock on her face as he yanked her close enough to smell the banana on his breath. In one fluid motion he tossed her against the aerobics room wall, and into a standing position where he pounded her hard enough to crack ceramic.

  Orgasms continued to roar through her body. In a single bout of twisted anger and simultaneous glee, Micky screamed in a rattle and shot the largest load of his life.

  But not inside her.

  He dropped the redhead to the floor, pulling his dick from her pussy and pointing it at her huge flopping tits. He painted them like Pollack, juices spilling everywhere – on her tits, across her suntanned belly, all over her aerobically conditioned thighs, and splattered on her beautiful married face.

  The redhead lay on the floor, in a pool of sweat, cum, her own juices, as the air thickened between them. She was speechless, looking up at Micky like a lost dog, as he looked on her with pity and anger and joy.

  “Who do you think I am?” he asked.

  He watched her scramble to her feet, clumsy and cluttered. It seemed to take forever, and was as graceful as a just-fucked woman could muster. Her arms beside her, tits dripping with white honey, and makeup running down her face, she squeaked, “Aren’t you Billy?”

  She looked as if she was about to cry.

  Micky reached to his ankles, pulled his shorts to his waist, and tied the drawstring in a tight knot. “Sorry, darling,” he said, “I don’t know a Billy.”

  Micky left her dripping onto the floor, alone in Tony the Tank’s aerobics room.He went down the stairs and made his way to the boxing gym on the first floor. On his way down the stairs, he passed a couple of ladies, leisurely climbing to the second floor.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said, sweat painting his satisfied face.

  “Hi,” they giggled.

  When Micky reached the bottom of the stairs, he heard one of the girls at the top turn and say, “Hey, aren’t you Sylvester Stallone?”

  XXX

  Fucking Her Lover With Her Husband Home In Bed

  A sigh whispered from Sarah’s lips as she stared into the phone, reading its message. She leaned her head on the dark green headboard and closed her eyes.

  “What is it?” Clayton said beside her, lifting his head from his puzzle and turning it toward her, his voice blending curiosity with slight irritation.

  “He’s just depressed, Love,” Sarah said with a reassuring smile. “And drinking.”

  Clayton said, “He should know those two don’t go together, at least not well.” He turned back to his puzzle.

  “Easy dear, you’re the one making him depressed.”

  Clayton took a minute to consider before looking back across the pillows. “Well, then I’m glad he’s depressed. That means you’re still here.”

  Sarah’s heart was racing, though her face surrendered nothing. She hoped Clayton couldn't catch the uncertainty stinging like nettles in her eyes.

  The reassuring smile never faded from her lips, so Clayton must have believed her. He leaned over and kissed her, gently enough to gild her with guilt. Sarah was grateful Clayton didn’t push his mouth harder against her, and instead returned to his puzzle again, along with the familiar furrow of his brow.

  Sarah was exhausted, letting her gaze drift back to the words on the phone’s screen:

  I could give you the life you want. I want to be the man who puts the smile on your face and wake up beside you each morning.

  Grass was greener on the other side because it was usually fertilized with bullshit.

  Curiosity finally winning over reason, Sarah slowly and deliberately texted into her phone: What kind of life do you think I want?

  She stared at her own words as though someone else had written them.

  Did she really want him to answer? Did she expect him to reach inside her head and draw a description of her perfectly imagined life?

  If anyone could answer, it was Oscar. That man, more than any other, had a way of knowing exactly what she wanted - no needed.

  Sighing for the hundredth time, Sarah hit send, then closed the phone and tried to concentrate on her book, catching Clayton’s sideways glance and keeping her nose pointed at the page, even though her mind wasn’t registering a single word.

  Clayton probably felt the tension in her body. He had to, even if he wasn’t touching her. She willed her taut body to relax. Sarah found the calm in her breath as Clayton set his puzzle on the nightstand, then turned toward her with his gentle smile.

  Guilt soured her insides.

  She softly touched his arm, watching him look her up and down in a way that should have turned her on (used to turn her on) but didn’t now. Clayton was looking her over like she once loved, his eyes running from her face to the split horizon between sheets and body.

  The thought of having sex with him right then put a sick in her stomach. It was because of him, not her. Too much emotion and confusion inside her would make it difficult to go from dry to wet. Unlike with Oscar where it only took a glance.

  “Going to bed sweetheart?” Sarah smiled again, slightly more relaxed. As she hoped it would, her smile softened Clayton’s face.

  “Yeah. Good night, Babe.” Clayton planted a soft kiss on Sarah’s forehead, then turned toward the opposite wall, tucking the covers up around his neck.

  When he turned, the smile dripped from Sarah’s face like wax from a candle. Clayton’s breath grew quickly into steady until it was punctuated by the small snores that swore he was sound asleep.

  Forty winks were easy when shame wasn’t screaming in your ear.

  Sarah picked her vibrating phone. The new text said:

  You want to be happy. You deserve to be happy. Not the act you put on for everyone else’s peace of mind, but true happiness. I want to give that to you… I want to give you everything you want and need. You know I can give it to you.

  Tears stung Sarah’s eyes. She was happy, dammit. She made herself happy. No person or situation could take her happiness from her, and how dare Oscar insinuate that he alone could give that to her.

  The sudden tightening in Sarah’s chest betrayed her thoughts, as hot tears stung her cheeks. She felt her breathing gather speed, and her heart start to pound loudly enough to make her worry that Clayton’s eyes would fly right open.

  Sarah told herself to get a grip as her double crossing hands picked up the phone, shaking. She read her words three times before hitting send.

  I have my happy times.

  Truth was always safest.

  A few beats passed and then:

  When?

  Damn him.

  When I watch the sunrise with only animals making noise, when I can open the doors and not have to worry about neighbors, when I imagine my future and grow from my past…

  Sarah pressed send, willing herself to conjure more happy times in the space before he answered her back. She thought of the many moments she and the man on the other end of the line had spent together. Despite the guilt, they had been happy; lying on the river bank talking and laughing about nothing, or sneaking off in the middle of the week to a trashy motel room, for no other reason than they could no longer be without each other.

  The soft sound of tears slapping the pages of her book shattered the memories and returned her to reality. The buzz of the phone told her Oscar had more to say.

  I won’t give up on you again, Sarah. I can’t. You aren’t happy and it’s not right. I made you happy once; give me a second chance to prove I can do it again.

  A second chance, the same words she’d heard from men her entire life. Why did it always take a second time? Why couldn’t they just get it right to begin with?

  She had given too many second chances in her short 25 years. Hell, too many in just the past five. Her chin grew defiant as stubbornness replaced her longing.
/>   She typed defiantly: Why should I?

  She was staring at her answer four-seconds later: You shouldn’t have to. I should have done it right the first time.

  Who was this man, a mind reader?

  Sarah vented a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. He had made her happy. Truly happy. The thought tightened her chest and pushed tears from her eyes.

  Regret was a feeling now as familiar as the man lying beside her.

  What do I have to do? Tell me, please. I’ll do anything.

  Oscar was pleading, begging really, and without using text speak. Like her, he was deliberately typing every word, elongating the truth of each message.

  She texted: I don’t know, trying to keep her tears quiet enough to stop from waking Clayton.

  *****

  The cool summer night rustled the curls of dark blonde hair over his eyes.

  I don’t know, his phone read.

  He smiled. Well, at least he had her thinking. His muscular arm was slung over his knee, dangling a bottle of beer. Oscar brought another swig to his lips and tried to smile. At least the picture captured over the rim of the bottle calmed his spirit, with the wind ripping water from the lake, stretching for miles from the dock while boats bobbed and rocked above the ripples.

  The scene gave serenity to his heart’s chaos. Why had he told her everything? What on earth was he doing? Oscar shrugged off his uncertainty, and tried to convince himself he was right.

  Oscar was restless. He needed…something.

  You need her, a voice in the back of his head told him, the same voice that had been repeating the same thing for far too long.

  Oscar looked at his watch: 1 a.m.

  “No, I need sleep,” he thought, stretching the length of his body over the softly rocking boards of the dock. There, maybe that would do the trick.

  Ping!

  The noise of his phone hit his ears like a bomb. He shot upright and looked at the screen.

  Convince me.

  ***