Summer Shorts 3

by Huck Pilgrim

  Chet suddenly raised his body, took her face in both hands, and kissed her. His tongue thrust deep into her mouth. Rafia could feel him emptying his hot load between her legs. She groaned with pleasure as she felt his juice, but too soon her satisfaction turned to frustration. She still had not come! It was maddening to have taken this many lovers with no relief. She wanted to cry. Scream.

  Beg him to fuck her again.

  Chet’s tongue explored her mouth as he rocked his hips, delivering the last of his seed. He kept her face framed in his big strong hands. Rafia ignored her disappointment and returned his kiss. Soon he slowed, and then he rested, nuzzling his cheek next to hers. Rafia waited for his breathing to settle.

  “How many more?” she whispered.

  He raised his head, a puzzled look on his face.

  Rafia glanced to the door, then back into his eyes.

  “Oh,” he said. “Not that many.” His tone was perfectly offhand, casual. He might have been discussing the number of drinks he’d had tonight.

  Then the door opened and three red headed boys entered the room—the Watson triplets. Chet grinned. He started to rise, but Rafia grabbed his arm. She wanted to say something, but she didn’t know what. She wanted him to stay.

  To finish what he started.

  To please her.

  But she didn’t want to displease him.

  The Watson boys gathered around the couch.

  “Academy needs you,” Chet whispered. With that, he got off the couch, gathered his clothes, and started dressing.

  The Watsons were tall, gangly boys with close-cropped heads, freckles, and pale blue eyes. Rafia knew their names—Billy, Ron, and Howard—but had difficulty telling them apart. They each wore big grins, open flannel shirts, and black t-shirts emblazoned with the logos of hard rock bands. The boy in the middle—Ron?—suddenly unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants to his ankles. He stood there grinning, his big pink cock bobbing and swaying in front of him. He looked perfectly ridiculous. Rafia hid a grin, so as not to humiliate him. The other two began complaining and elbow jostling, but soon followed their brother’s lead, unbuckling their belts, and dropping their pants. All the brothers stood for Rafia, their cocks dipping wildly, each of them lobbying with the others to be first.

  Rafia had never been nude in front of so many boys at one time. Grinning to herself, she reached for the punch and sniffed it. Took a little sip. None of these Watsons was really her type. She enjoyed the warm feeling in her throat and chest as the punch went down. Rubbing her toes against the back of her calf, she enjoyed the sensation of nail on flesh. She needed an orgasm so badly.

  Rafia decided to let one of these Watsons bring her to orgasm.

  Once she’d satisfied herself, she would call for Mrs. Murphy. She’d tell the chaperone that the cheerleaders had set her up. She could say the girls were acting without principle. It pleased Rafia immensely to think about snitching on the cheerleaders after she’d satisfied herself. She knew it was unprincipled of her, but she didn’t care.

  She had needs.

  One of the Watsons—was it Billy?—clambered onto the couch. Rafia opened her knees, scooted her bottom lower, into the wet spot. Billy sank himself deep inside her. Rafia groaned and twisted her hips, rolling her bottom.

  Rafia wanted to encourage this boy, but she didn’t want to say his name for fear of getting it wrong. “Fuck me, baby,” she whispered.

  It felt delicious to simply ask for what she needed. She wrapped her legs around the Watson and said it again. “Fuck me,” she said. “Fuck my pussy, baby.”

  Billy looked wide-eyed at Rafia—groaned and filled her with his cum. Rafia ground her crotch against his groin. He held her as he waited for his penis to stop squirting. When he got up, his brother took his place. The new Watson came as quickly as the last, and Rafia sighed as the fresh juice jetted into her pussy.

  The final Watson—Ron?—climbed aboard.

  Rafia kept her body still. She didn’t say anything. She was breathing heavy and didn’t want to do anything that would make this last Watson ejaculate. No sooner had he mounted her, then he shot his cream inside her.

  Six boys already and still she had not come!

  “Please, baby,” Rafia said. “Please.”

  She grabbed his hips and ground herself against him. He gamely tried to give her what she needed, but it was hopeless. His soft cock soon spilled from her slippery pussy.

  Rafia looked with longing to the door.

  Randal Perry was next, a wiry black senior, who silently entered the room and removed every stitch of clothing. With slender arms and knobby knees, he stood before Rafia for a moment, then climbed into position. Rafia opened her knees and suddenly his cock—without a single touch—lurched and twitched, spraying semen all over her tummy.

  She gasped as the hot cum splashed on her abdomen and inside her thighs.

  Randal’s face fell like a popped balloon. He dropped his head, looked forlornly at his cock. He didn’t touch or stroke it. Rafia thought for a moment he might cry. Finally he stood from the couch and began the long task of putting all his clothes back on.

  Rafia considered reaching out, comforting him. Telling him it was alright. In the end, she did nothing of the sort. Instead, she took another sip of her punch. Used her hands to wipe his cum from her body, smearing his semen into her belly, her hips and thighs.

  She tried to remember which of the cheerleaders’ boyfriends were left. The door opened and a great shadow entered the room. It must have been a trick of the dim lights, but the figure was huge, a giant of a boy and Rafia couldn’t make out who it was.

  He gently shut the door and turned around. The Monk was in the room.

  Rafia’s heart beat faster. Mark Slabit—The Monk. He was a giant of a boy with an oblong face, a long sloping forehead, and a full beard of sparse, curly brown hair that extended down from his chin like a small cloud of dust. Where Logan and Chet were big, Monk was enormous. But Monk did not look as athletic as those other boys. Monk’s hips were wide, and his belly hung over his belt. And the hair—Good Lord the hair! He had long, tightly curled dark hair that hung to his shoulders. He took off his shirt and Rafia could see the hair was all over his chest and belly too.

  For the second time that night, Rafia felt like she was losing herself. Like she was being swallowed whole. She did not want to fuck The Monk.

  He was rubbing his tummy with his hands, looking at her hungrily. Rafia curled into a tiny ball, her arms wrapped around her legs. Monk reached two fingers into his mouth, then dipped them between Rafia’s legs. She sucked in air and tensed her body.

  He found her clitoris and oiled it with his spit. Rafia exhaled loudly.

  She moaned lustily.

  Monk chuckled.

  He had a certain confidence about him. He worked her pussy, often slipping his fingers back into his mouth. He paid attention to her body language. Rafia said nothing, made no sounds, but he seemed to grasp when she was close to orgasm and back off.

  Soon Rafia rolled on her back and opened her legs. Monk sent one of his wet fingers between the cheeks of her ass. He prodded Rafia’s sweaty asshole, and she craned her head toward the door. It was shut, seated firmly in its jamb.

  Rafia felt grateful.

  The Monk tugged down his pants.

  Dark hair matted his thighs and groin. He had a fat, club like cock. Lifting his belly with one hand, he stroked his cock with the other. Rafia heard her breath coming in ragged gasps. She raised herself up and peered between her legs to watch that big cock sink its way home. He pressed it against her labia. When his cock didn’t slip immediately inside, he dipped its meaty head in a pool of semen on the cushion, smeared himself against her swollen lips, and then mashed the fat mushroom head inside her.

  Rafia lay back, closed her eyes, and put her hands into her thick hair. She was closer than ever before to her orgasm. Monk grunted as he did his work. Rafia felt his hairy belly on the inside of her thigh. She glanced at
him through half lidded eyes. He was moving his body in a nice rhythm, his eyes on the door.

  Rafia moaned. She rolled her little bottom. Her asshole was wet with sweat and his spit. She grabbed her nipples and tugged, pulling them almost an inch from her body. Suddenly it registered with Rafia that Monk was still looking toward the door.

  A cold dread spread through her chest.

  Rafia turned.

  Veronica and Randal Perry were standing just inside the open door. Rafia had a nipple in each of her hands. Her hips were still twisting and grinding, as if they had a mind of their own. Veronica and Randal were talking with someone just outside the door. Veronica had a drink in one hand, the other hand on Randal’s shoulder. He stared at his feet, like a sinner in church. Veronica bit her lip, then nodded her head, staring up into the eyes of whomever she was speaking with.

  This other person entered the room. It was Mrs. Murphy.

  Rafia felt so ashamed. Not only had she been caught red-handed, she’d been caught red-handed in the throes of lust with the most unappealing boy at Academy. She let go of her nipples and used her palms to cover her breasts. Monk’s grunts grew louder, his thrusts more intense. She tried to close her legs, but only succeeded in wrapping them more tightly around his hairy torso.

  Mrs. Murphy had her back to the room, her hands on her hips. She was still speaking with Veronica, who now folded her arms across her front.

  She was listening intently. Nodding her head.

  Randal was gone.

  Someone from the hall—a boy—approached the open door. Veronica beamed her confident, rich girl smile at him. Stepping back, she allowed him to pass into the room. Mrs. Murphy reached her hand out to his cheek. He flashed his eyes at her. She leaned in, whispered something in his ear, and he grinned and nodded his head. As he moved past her into the room, Mrs. Murphy swatted him on his haunches, the way a coach might send a promising player into the game.

  In the ancient texts, a sacrifice was a sacrifice. It was never meant as metaphor. Most of the time, it required a person. It was done to win favor with the gods, to avoid divine retaliation.

  Or sometimes maybe even just for fun.

  The Monk came. Rafia felt the now all too familiar rush of hot semen filling her. She started laughing softly to herself. It all made perfect sense to her now. Mrs. Murphy’s Latin expression. Chet’s crazy words of encouragement.

  Monk slowed the bucking of his hips, his grunts now a satisfied mewl. Rafia watched the new boy drop his pants.

  Veronica and the cheerleaders were making a little sacrifice tonight.

  Monk got up from the couch. The new boy grinned down at her.

  Rafia was the sacrifice.

  She stroked her pussy, spread her legs. As the boy took his position on her, Rafia wondered what Mrs. Murphy had whispered in his ear. Wrapping her arms around his neck, Rafia offered her own secret whisper.

  “Fuck me, baby,” she murmured. “Fuck me like a whore.”

  The boy gave out a series of shuddery little half-breaths of exhalation. Rafia thought he was going to fill her with his seed, but then. He didn’t. He held.

  He grinned down at her.

  His eyes roamed the length of her sexy body.

  He started his thrusts.

  There were two things Rafia knew for sure. One, she was not going to come tonight. She had reached some crazy threshold of sensation that just wouldn’t allow it. Two, she was going to fuck every boy that came in this room.

  She wanted to.

  She felt as if she needed to.

  She was making a little sacrifice of her own.

  The night proceeded in a blur of cocks, sticky semen and grunts. Was she fucking the whole school? How did they choose? Occasionally she would find her mind returning to Veronica. How could she have known that Rafia would be willing to sacrifice? Did she just get lucky? Sometimes Rafia thought of her father: she would have more than panties to hide from him now! But mostly Rafia thought about her own needs. Her own desires. Not only how to get what she wanted, but how to get the best of all the things she needed to have.

  Rafia remembered the burning smell from earlier in the night. She hadn’t smelled it in some time now. Raising her head, she sniffed the air. She could smell something but it wasn’t anything burning. In some ways it was just the opposite kind of smell, musky and damp.

  Rafia sniffed her armpit.

  She chuckled. Putting her hand between her legs, she sniffed her palm. It was coming from her. It was the smell of sweat mixed with shit from her own ass. It was the smell of fresh cum, seeping from her pussy. It was the smell of the cushion reeking of her secretions. It was the smell of sweat and dried cum from so many of the boys at the party tonight.

  Rafia was an American girl.

  Five-finger Discount

  by Huck Pilgrim

  Jimmy Manley wandered through the dusty aisles of Murphy Mart, a small department store at the Metro Mall. He strolled the aisles of the store’s small electronics section, brushing his fingers over the boxes of video games. To a casual observer, he would appear consumed in making a selection, but this was a ruse. In fact, he was carefully scanning the store, looking for employees, trying to gauge his odds of getting away with a small theft. Jimmy liked to test himself in Murphy Mart: a small lackluster department store even in its better days, the staff here were mostly bored. He’d been caught stealing here a few times before, and the clerks had resorted to mild curses and an invitation to leave the store. One of those times, a heavy-set woman wearing a worn, harried look and a straining Murphy Mart polo shirt, had caught him stuffing a hardcover book down the front of his pants. She’d smacked him in the head with the back of her hand.

  “You,” she’d said. “Fuck off.” In her thick Russian accent, it had come out: Joo. Fack off.

  He’d tossed the book back onto the shelf and then run from the store, only to find himself on the other side of the mall, his heart racing, unable to stop laughing. Fack off, indeed.

  Jimmy couldn’t afford to get into any more trouble: the recruiter had told him to keep his nose clean, enjoy his birthday celebration and then graduate high school. Jimmy had just turned eighteen. In a few more weeks, he’d graduate high school. And then it was good-bye Carnal, hello Recruit Training Center Great Lakes—the U.S. Naval boot camp. He’d already signed the papers.

  Jimmy’s father didn’t want him to join the military. Jimmy had laughed at his father’s initial assessment of the situation: You’ll get your head shot off, Don Manley had said in utter dismay. Jimmy thought his father was being overly dramatic, but he didn’t particularly mind. It was good to hear an opinion from the old man, even if he thought Jimmy was making a mistake. He’d enjoyed the rare treat of his father’s attention.

  Jimmy deftly slipped a small electronic gadget into his pants—a USB stick in the shape of a shotgun: Jimmy thought it would make a nice Father’s Day gift. The cardboard backing dug into his thighs as he surveyed the store’s aisles.

  Meandering toward the men’s clothing aisles, Jimmy found a tall mirror. Jimmy could see the outline of the package stuffed in his jeans. He skillfully adjusted himself until he was satisfied that his prize was no longer visible. He picked and fluffed at his dark curly hair. He knew all his hair would get cut off in boot camp. His head would be bald and shiny. Jimmy longed to begin his adventure in the military. He hoped to transform his slim, boyish frame into the muscled body of a real man. He squinted his big brown eyes and put on a tough grimace, but he couldn’t hold it for long, breaking out into a big toothy smile. Jimmy was not much of a tough, and he knew it. Jimmy secretly hoped against hope that the military would help him transform more than just his body and his hair. He stuffed his hands in the deep pockets of his pants and wandered into the aisle of paperback books and magazines.

  He picked up a fantasy novel and surreptitiously looked at the shelf of pornographic girly magazines: on one was a soft-focus picture of a beautiful girl, her breasts and thighs covered
by the wide modesty wrapper of plain white paper. Jimmy could feel his cock moving in his pants. Jimmy remembered that his friend Roger Bones was also at the Metro Mall, but he didn’t feel like hanging out with Roger. Each time he hung out with Roger at the Metro Mall, Jimmy ended up at some gay man’s apartment, sitting on that man’s couch or his bed, with his pants and underwear pooled at his ankles, a pornographic magazine in his hands, the man’s mouth on him. Jimmy’s cock slid to attention just thinking about it. There was good money in hustling gay men, even after Roger took his cut.

  Jimmy put the novel back on the shelf. His penis pressed uncomfortably against the item in his pants, so Jimmy adjusted himself again, letting his fingers linger on his cock perhaps a little longer then he should have. He knew it was foolish, but Jimmy picked up the porno magazine and slipped its wrapper from the cover.