BIG MAN

by Penny Wylder

  I moan again. “Fuck yes I do.”

  He laughs once, softly, and slows in his pounding for a moment, hands sliding up my sides to cup my breasts, his thumb and forefinger teasing at my hardened nipples. Rolling them until I gasp from the sensation. “I thought you wanted me to come in your mouth this time, City Girl. You’re going to have to make up your mind.”

  “I…”

  Damn. I bite my lip. I do want to taste him. But it felt so good when he came in me last night—I’d forgotten what that felt like, fucking like this. Raw, as he put it.

  Grant doesn’t wait for me to answer. He keeps going, picking up the pace, fucking me on all fours. At the same time, he reaches between my legs with his free hand and presses his thumb to my clit. I cry out, unable to contain it. My clit is already aching for release, turned on as hell from sucking his cock. It feels swollen, like ripe fruit between my thighs begging for him to pluck it.

  “Fuck,” I hiss, as the building pleasure distracts me.

  “Going to have to decide soon,” he says, stroking my clit in time with his thrusts now, driving me wild. His cock is so thick that it presses against my inner walls, and with each thrust, his head grazes my G-spot, makes my pussy clench tight and my body quiver as I build toward an orgasm.

  He stops stroking me, right as I’m nearing the edge, and I shout in protest.

  “Tell me where you want me to come, and then you can come,” Grant says, his voice steady, infuriatingly so, as he continues to fuck me at the same steady, grinding pace.

  “My mouth,” I gasp. “I want you to come in my mouth.”

  His finger returns to my clit, and I scream wordlessly as the orgasm hits me almost instantly. My pussy tightens, convulses around his cock, and he drives into me faster, his muscles taut, his hands hard on my hips, fucking me as I finish, his cock sliding over my G-spot again and again to keep me at my peak.

  Finally, I sink toward the sheets, gasping. But without warning, Grant pulls out of me. My pussy tightens again, feeling empty without him. He doesn’t give me time to think about it, though, as he rolls me over on the bed. The blindfold falls off, but I don’t care—I’m grateful for the sight of him above me, his eyes dark with lust, his mouth a hard line as he holds his cock erect between us, wet with my juices.

  “Suck my cock clean, Sasha,” he growls, and I scramble upright to obey him, all too eager.

  The taste of myself mixed with him is intoxicating. I lick and suck at his tip, but I don’t have much time. He grabs my head with both hands, pulls me closer, his cock sliding deeper into my throat as he comes with a loud cry, guttural and animal with lust. I swallow hard, taking as much of him as I can, savoring his flavor, his taste, the white-hot rush of him.

  When he finally pulls back, his hands trembling, I sit up and grab his face, pull him to me in another deep kiss. His tongue slips into my mouth again, and I know he can taste our flavors too, the combination of us, the scent of our sex heavy in the air.

  When we part, we’re both breathing hard, our faces flushed, bodies damp with sweat. And we’re both grinning like idiots.

  “Fuck,” I manage, as I sit back on the bed, still quivering, my pussy sensitive and pleasantly sore.

  “You can say that again,” Grant murmurs. He draws me up to my feet beside him and wraps his arms around me for a long moment. I lean into him, savor the feeling of his strong arms around me, the scent of his body, and the tingle in my limbs from the orgasm.

  “I’ll be your slave any day,” I murmur into his chest, and he laughs softly, then taps my chin. Tilts my head back and leans down to kiss me once more, soft and slow this time.

  “Good,” he says softly against my lips. “Because I’m not ready to let you go just yet…”

  9

  Sasha Bluebell

  The next morning, I wake up in Grant’s arms. It’s still dark outside—even Mr. Early Bird isn’t up yet. But part of him is. I realize what prodded me awake, and I grin and arch my back a little to grind my hips against his, against the hard press of his boner I can already feel digging into the small of my back.

  Grant moans softly in his sleep, and I rotate my hips again, teasing.

  His hand slides around my waist, and he pulls me against him, his lips teasing along my neck. “That’s certainly one way to wake up a man,” he murmurs, his other hand sliding down my waist, around my front. He flattens his palm against my stomach and lowers his hand toward my bare pussy. We both slept naked last night, since we fucked again the minute we got home from the Johnsons’ party.

  I grin and wriggle my hips again. “Is that so?”

  “Mm… Playing with fire there,” he whispers. “Keep doing that, and I might have to show you a thing or two about what happens to naughty little girls who wake me up.”

  “Is that so?” I glance over my shoulder, a challenge flaring in my eyes. “Maybe you’ll just have to explain it to me, then, Mr. Werther.”

  “Gladly,” he murmurs, nipping at my earlobe lightly. I gasp, but his bite quickly shifts into a soft, caressing lick, then a kiss, as he works his way down the side of my neck.

  “Mm… For punishment, this isn’t so bad,” I whisper as he wraps his arms around me and pulls my body against his possessively. His cock presses against the backs of my thighs, and I’m getting wet already just feeling him there, so close to my pussy, so hard with desire for me. “I might have to wake you up more often.”

  I can feel him smile against the nape of my neck, a motion that sends another cascade of shivers trickling down my spine. “Uh oh. She’s discovered my motive.”

  I laugh, and turn to catch his eye. But he presses his mouth to mine in a long, slow kiss, and I’m distracted from whatever I was going to say. My lips part, and his tongue traces along mine, tentative, gentle. At the same time, his hand slides from my hip to my thighs, and gently draws my upper leg up, parting my thighs enough that his cock can slide between them, thick and meaty between my legs. I sigh into his mouth, and he draws back far enough to look at me, that same hungry look in his eye. Only this time it’s softer, sweeter. He looks at me like he can’t believe I’m here.

  I know the feeling. I’m not sure what I expected when I came home to the farm, but it definitely wasn’t this. It wasn’t him.

  Grant Werther came out of nowhere.

  His cock parts my pussy lips, and I arch my hips back against him to grant him easier access. At the same time, he reaches down to circle his fingertips across my mound, slowly increasing pressure with every circulation, making my clit tingle with pleasure. It doesn’t take long before I’m breathing faster, my body quivering at his touch. Only then does he arch his hips forward, slide his cock straight up to my entrance.

  Fuck, I’m already so wet for him.

  “God you are perfect, Sasha,” he murmurs softly, those eyes still fixed on mine, holding me in place, unable to look away.

  I can’t look away from him—but I don’t want to, either. I want to drink in that look in his eyes over and over, as long as I can.

  He pushes his hips forward in one slow, smooth motion, and the tip of his cock spreads my lips. Inches into my pussy, centimeter by torturous centimeter. I gasp softly, wriggling against him, trying to push him deeper, faster.

  “Always so impatient,” he scolds, a hint of a smile on his mouth. He’s still holding me against him, the little spoon to his bigger one, and I love this feeling, being completely enfolded in his body, even as his thick cock begins to fill me up.

  “What can I say?” I smile back, arching a brow. “I like having your big cock inside me, Country Man.”

  “Addicted already, City Girl?” He smirks, and with that, thrusts the rest of the way into me all at once, one swift hard motion.

  I cry out with pleasure, my hands fisting in the sheets beside us.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he replies, laughing softly, as he begins to draw out of me again.

  “You do have a great cock, I’ll grant you that,” I manage, reco

vering enough to arc my hips back, angling toward him.

  He thrusts into me again, and lets out a soft, faint groan. “Your pussy is fairly addictive too, City Girl.” He pulls out, and now we both thrust together, our breaths coming shorter as we move in sync. “So fucking tight. And you’re always so wet for me…”

  “Sounds like we’re both addicted,” I murmur, grinning, as we start to thrust in sync now, his cock spreading the walls of my pussy wide as he fills me again and again.

  “Sounds like,” he agrees softly, and then I lose track of his voice, lost instead in the feeling of his hands exploring me—one toying with my clit, the other wrapped tight around my waist—and his cock thrusting inside me.

  I lose track of everything. The farm, the bedroom, the outside world. The whole world narrows until it’s just me and Grant and everything between us.

  We both come together, him stroking me right up to the edge of my climax before his cock dragging along my front wall, right over my G-spot, sends me over the brink. He finishes at the same time, growling with lust as he pulls my hips back hard against his, pumping every ounce of his cum into me. I tighten my pussy, clench hard around him to milk every last drop, loving the sensation, the sheer animal lust of it.

  We collapse against the sheets together, tangled up, spent, and only then does dawn hint at the curtains, painting them a pale pink. A reminder of another day dawning. Another day less that we have together.

  I push up out of bed, mostly to distract myself from how nice it feels to lie there in his arms. I can’t get too comfortable. This is temporary, all of it. I can enjoy it while it lasts, but I can’t let myself relax too much.

  I can’t start to fall for him. Not when he’s… who he is. A country man, a farm boy, a representative of everything I left behind. Everything I thought I was over in life.

  I pad into the shower alone, leaving him on the bed. He watches me go, his eyes dark, unreadable, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing. He must be. He knows this can’t last, too.

  Still. We can enjoy it while it does.

  That’s what I tell myself as I plunge my head under the shower tap and try to block out the rushing sound in my ears. The sound of something like regret.

  That night, after dinner, Grant stops me as I stand up to do the dishes.

  “It’s my turn,” I protest, but he ignores that and clasps my hand instead. Leads me out back. I laugh and tug at his grip. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” is his only reply. I’m learning that my country man likes to do that—make mysterious promises.

  I have to admit, he’s lived up to all of them so far. So even though I roll my eyes and sigh, I do relax and let him lead me.

  We pad across the grass together, barefoot. That tickles something at the back of my mind, a distant memory. Doing this before. Tiptoeing through this dewy grass, feeling the mud squish between my toes and tickle the soles of my feet. For some reason, in my memory, it seems like Grant was there. Though of course, I know he can’t have been. I remember him from high school now, vaguely—the big handsome guy who hung out with the jocks. We didn’t really cross paths much, even though our parents were friends.

  Well, Mama, anyway, was friends with his parents. As for Dad…

  I shake that thought off the way I always do. Douse those memories in kerosene and light the mental match. I don’t need to go down that road. Too much could catch fire.

  I force myself back to the present, to the Grant who’s here with me now. The Grant I never knew back then. The one I wished I’d known better, if he was anything like the man he is now. Maybe if we’d been better friends in school, I wouldn’t have written this whole town off as useless.

  He leads me out into the fields. We climb over the fence together, he lifts me up easily while I swing my legs over the posts. Then, hand in hand once more, we tiptoe through the fallows, over the now-empty fields that will one day—probably not until next year though—hold crops again. These fields will grow food, sustain life. Be productive in a real, tangible way. The kind of productivity that’s easy to wrap your head around. You get your hands dirty, dig in this soil, and in turn it feeds you.

  At the core of it, that’s what life is really about. All the stuff I get up to back at home in the city, that’s all a kind of crazy distillation of this. It’s fun, but it’s not quite as… real, somehow.

  It’s not simple, anyway. It’s not easy to understand. It’s not feeding yourself off the fruits of your labor—except maybe metaphorically, with all the money I make from being a desk jockey, running errands and playing glorified secretary. I feel like I’ve been lost behind a computer screen for the last few years, and only now am I waking up to it. Remembering what life used to be like a million years ago… before.

  Before I let the stress get to me, start dictating my life. Before I let other people control everything—my schedule, my plans, my happiness.

  Back when things, just like life on this farm, were simpler.

  “You doing okay, City Girl?” Grant asks, tugging on my hand a little. I realize I’ve been lagging behind him, my feet slowing as I tilt my head back to take in the sky, the stars, the endless expanse above us.

  I shake myself and jog a few steps to catch up with him. “Doing just fine,” I say.

  “Not too dirty and messy for you?” he asks. I know he’s joking now. He’s seen how down and dirty I’m willing to get.

  In more ways than one.

  “Never,” I promise, and he laughs softly.

  Then we round the corner, past the fields, toward the trees that edge the borderline of Mama’s property, and I gasp.

  I don’t know how he set this up. He must have taken a while, snuck out in between projects back at the house somehow. My eyes widen, taking it in. He’s built a whole tent out here—not a simple pitch tent either, but a big billowing thing made of silk, taller than both of us, with open sides. In the center is a little fire pit, and there is a tray, with all the ingredients for s’mores arranged on it. Not to mention, a little bucket of ice with a bottle of wine cooling in it.

  “I know you’re used to the finer things in life,” he’s saying. “I just wanted to point out that you don’t have to be fancy to know how to pamper someone properly.”

  I laugh, not sure what to say. Not sure what this feeling is beating in my chest, as he kneels down on the blanket he’s laid out as the base of the tent and sets about building up the fire.

  The peak of the tent stands out stark white against the night sky, stars twinkling all across the background. It looks like something out of a movie or a painting. It looks fake, all of this. Too pretty to be real. Especially when he gets the fire going and beckons me down to his side.

  I drop down beside him, snuggle in next to him as we listen to crickets in the distance. Fireflies wink here and there over the field, and we hear the soft hoots of owls, the distant reverberations of frogs somewhere in the forest, where there’s a little stream that runs past the property. I breathe in deep, savoring the scent of the fire crackling away merrily at our feet, mingled with the cool, crisp fall air, so fresh that I can’t believe I ever thought I could breathe properly at home. You never notice things like that—stale, muggy, smog-choked air—until you’re away from it. Until real fresh air fills your lungs, and suddenly you realize what you’ve been missing.

  It’s not just the air I’ve been missing, I realize.

  Grant hands me a stick, a marshmallow already speared on its tip, and I grin at him. Huddled up beside him, wrapped in the blanket that he tugs up over our knees, I set about toasting this marshmallow to perfection. He’s a burner—he just sets his on fire, blows it out a few times, and calls it a day. Me, I like to slowly toast it. Get all the sides evenly browned before I slide it off the stick onto the chocolate-covered graham crackers to make the sandwich.

  “You’re such a perfectionist,” he accuses me, and I elbow him, eying his attempts.

  “You’re so lazy,” I counter.

  “Not lazy.” He takes a huge bite, chases it with a sip of the wine he’s poured for us both. “Just practical. I get things done, you know.”

  I laugh. “I’ve noticed. You’re making good headway back at the house.”

  “Can’t say you haven’t been a big help, City Girl. Despite appearances.”

  I snort and roll my eyes. “What, like I can’t do work just because I dress fancy?”

  “You can’t blame me for making assumptions.”

  “Sure I can. Why are you so biased against city people anyway?”

  “Why are you so biased against everyone in this town?” He raises an eyebrow.

  I bite my lip. Fair. “They never liked me,” I reply, shaking my head.

  “That so?”

  “I mean… I don’t know. I was never super close with anyone here.”

  “So that’s their fault then?”

  I laugh. “No. I just didn’t jive. I wasn’t built for this life.”

  “You seem to be enjoying yourself this week,” he points out.

  I heave a deep sigh, leaning back against his side, my eyes on the open sides of the tent. Out beyond the tent, the fireflies continue to flit across the field and along the edge of the forest, their lights winking like tiny stars against the dark grass. “I like it here, sure. It’s just… I don’t know.”

  For once, he just waits me out in silence.

  I draw in a deep breath as I try to find the words to explain. “I had to get away,” I finally say. “To prove to myself that I could. To prove I wouldn’t get stuck here.”

  “Is that really such a bad fate? Being stuck here?”

  I laugh again, faintly. When we’re sitting out here in this field, surrounded by nature, by magic almost, sharing these s’mores and wine, after a long hard day that left my muscles aching pleasantly—not to mention a long night before that of sex that left me feeling happier and more fulfilled than I have in ages… No. I have to admit, it’s not. “I suppose I can think of worse fates,” I murmur finally.

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