Extremes
By Lizbeth Dusseau
ISBN 13: 978-1-935897-75-0
A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication
Copyright © 2000 Lizbeth Dusseau
All rights reserved
Smashwords Edition
57 Chevy
She arises out of nowhere on a deserted stretch of road.
Where the dry land shimmers with heat, where you can see for miles the endless ribbon of hot asphalt stretched out in front of your eyes, he sees his first glimpse of her. He thinks at first it’s a mirage, the turquoise and white Chevy, with a blonde girl sitting on its hood. But he slows from an 85 mile an hour clip to a snail’s pace just to see if she’ll vanish as soon as he approaches. He stops his battered pick-up when he realizes that she is no mere apparition.
Like a phantom from his wet daydreams there she is, her long smooth legs dangling beyond the thin dress. Pale pink, peach and faded yellow flowers meander about the transparent fabric, while the dress barely covers her slinky limbs and her thin torso. In the light he sees through the fine material, how her large breasts are pushed against the flowers, how her waist curves, how her hips below blossom, and how she parts her legs so he can see the outline of her cunt. There’s even a damp spot on the dress where she’s pressed her fingers to her hole and the juice has stained it.
“Car broke down?” he asks.
He squints facing the sun, raising his hand over his brow so he can see her better. Tanned arms reveal downy sunbleached hair, matching the wind blown straw colored locks that dangle in his face.
“I think so,” she says giggling, though she doesn’t make an effort to move. “You know something about cars?” Something sensuous about her lips, he wants to move right in and kiss them.
“Yeah, sure,” he says. He runs his hands through his hair, pushing it back, and startling blue eyes appear, framed by darker brows. His T-shirt hugs his chest, his nipples poking through as clearly as hers poke through her dress.
He can’t help staring down at her as she bends her knees up to her chest and parts her legs wide. Where her ass meets the hood of the Chevy he can see her bare pink cunt. Caught off guard he stares beyond his embarrassment, as the sun bounces off the gold rings embedded in her labia. Six, he thinks, three on either side, and one wet hole between, he sees glisten in the sun.
“You want me to look under the hood?” he asks. He hesitates, though not his cock, that bobs against his denim blues. Hot—so hot he thinks it might explode.
She giggles again and shakes her head no.
She reaches between her legs, drawing the skirt up just an inch or two, and takes one ring bedecked finger of her right hand and slips it into the small hole. Then she pulls at the piercings, drawing the labia aside so he can see the purple hue of her inner folds.
“You can fuck me if you like,” she whispers softly. In her eyes lust drips like water from a lazy old faucet. Slow and languid her limbs ooze with sexual intent, drawing him into her closer, a step at a time. She sways just slightly as if she’s keeping time to music only her loins can hear.
“You mean right here? Right now?” He shakes his head and looks down the road. “There’s a motel …” he starts.
“Shush.” Her red puckered lips against her index finger quiet him. “I’m ready now.”
He hesitates, but she has him on the tether of her droopy eyes. At the bumper of the Chevy he reaches out with his thick well-used hands to part her thighs further. He gazes down between them while she smiles.
His hands, more impulsive than his reason, reach out and grab her hips to pull them close. Fingers at his zipper open the fly and withdraw his cock. It bobs momentarily in his hand, the last bit of hesitation. With the nod of her head as approval, he throws away logic and presses himself into her opening—that small place expanding with eager welcome around the throbbing organ.
“Ah, yes,” she murmurs softly as she lies back against the hood of the car, while he pulls her groin tight to his and begins to thrust. With her arms reaching out to either side of her like she’s grabbing bed sheets beneath her, she’s laid out for him like some vision of womanhood sent from the gods. He drinks in her sex as if he’s gulping wine. Her writhing torso gyrates her cunt. She moans, whimpers and jerks so hard, he thinks she’ll jerk him out. She comes. He knows that by the way her inner muscles squeeze down hard. But she’s much too quick for him. He’s still on the rise about to feel himself splash over that erotic edge. He hopes she’ll let him finish but she opens her eyes.
“My ass,” she says, now more like a dragon breathing fire than the sumptuous siren rising from the desert. Drawing up her legs so that his prick pulls out, he sees the shiny metal rings that thread through her vaginal lips. He feels them because he’s never felt anything like it before—some mark of sexual power, or obedience—or both. Perhaps they’re one in the same. A tug at the forward rings and she cries softly. “My ass,” she repeats, and she turns her hips so she’s lying face down on the old Chevy’s hood, her ass bare, ready for him.
“In your ass?” he questions.
She hisses her reply and parts her legs, her feet on the bumper, so he can see the target easily, that puckering hole already wet with juice that was dripping from her cunt.
His fingers slide in first as he draws more of her dew from its fountain source below. When they slip easily in and out he moves in closer and presses the hard head of his cock against what seems to be a tiny hole. He watches it expand as he forces the thick stalk beyond the opening door. Her backdoor scent, that odd perfume of earth and darkness and diabolical things, transports him back in time, to his darkest sexual hours. He’s no longer in the desert screwing a curious enchantress, but in a place where lecherous men fuck reckless whores.
“Yes, god yes,” she cries in muted tones barely audible to his ears. Her pulsing rhythms draw him inside her, the sensation profound. More. She clamors for more, thrashing about on the hood of the car, demanding his prick go deep, demanding that he pick up the pace so that his balls slap against her ass, so that he must grab her flesh and hold on tight.
“My cunt,” she groans.
Her meaning clear, it’s his fingers that find the lips and hole and the dangling metal. It’s his fingers that tug hard, that jerk the rings and pinch her clit. But it’s his cock that feels the benefit when her body explodes for a second time.
She gasps for breath, exhausted, but unable to stop the rollicking gyrations. She squeezes hard and his own gut wrenches. With a final thrust, he shoots.
Laid out. Spread eagle. Face down on the Chevy, he sees her breathing an even measured breath. He dabs his cock on the back of her thigh and then puts it back inside his jeans.
The transparent dress is bunched about her waist, while her wasted bottom remains in its lazy repose, showing signs of a good fuck—where he’d held her flesh tightly and kneaded it until it turned red. The color will fade soon, but for the moment, her bottom is a fine thing to look at. He parts her ass cheeks one last time with his fingers to see where he’d impaled her.
“Your car didn’t need fixing, did it?” he asks her.
“Hummm,” is the only sound he hears from her.
“Shall I go?” he wonders aloud.
“Ooo, no,” she suddenly finds her real voice. “Just one last thing.” She turns about. “Your lips,” she says pointing down to her pierced lower lips.
“My lips?” he questions, and she nods yes.
With a shrug and a smile he accommodates her again, his tongue doing a dance about the rings and flesh and warm wet hole, until she shrieks with her muted voice one more time and then goes limp. Falling back against the hood of the Chevy, she looks as if she’ll melt into the metal.
The sun, once so high above, droops down low, as i
f it’s been hours that have past. He could swear that their fuck took only minutes, but the facts belie that. The shadows on the surrounding mountains have been altered by the time of day. So long, they stretch across the desert like sulking phantoms. He notes the hour hand on his watch, staring at it as if something has gone awry. It’s late, much too late. And yet, the second hand ticks off the seconds as it always has, and he knows that somehow he’s lost reality under the spell of the woman lingering on her 57 Chevy.
“Can I help you up?” he asks her.
She’s on her side, her long thighs pressed together so that he can barely see the glistening rings, though they still peek at him. With her blonde head resting on her thin white arm she looks at peace. A coy smirk reminds him how she greeted him, though now she’s naked. Her dress somehow discarded, lies in the dust beside the car, as if it belonged there.
“No,” she answers him, “I think I’ll rest awhile.”
Any other lone woman on a lonely road, he’d never leave like this; but this one knows what she wants and he doesn’t argue. There’s little way to say goodbye. No thought of meeting again. He wouldn’t even know how to ask since she belongs to another world.
Walking back to the pick-up truck he climbs inside, all the while staring at her smiling face. Pulling into the highway, he drives by slow for one last look at her silky white shape and the hint of gold between her legs. Lying there, as if she has nothing better to do than shag strangers in a barren desert, she waves him on with the happy grin. And he takes off.
A little remorse, a little pang of fear grip him in that first instant down the road. He’s left her too quickly. He should have made sure her car would start. A girl, any girl has no business on this deserted stretch of asphalt. He thinks the thoughts, sure he should turn back. But then all that concern disappears. One look in the rear view mirror, he sees the truth.
She’s gone.
No turquoise and white 57 Chevy.
No girl, no cunt, no glistening gold, no sensuous limbs.
She’s gone.
It hasn’t been minutes since he’d left her side, it’s only been seconds and she’s gone, disappeared into the ethers of the heat. Where? He’s not about to ask. Shaking his head, he moves on, guns the engine on the truck and heads off towards the purple sky.
I Never Complain About A Gangbang
The lights are low in the theatre, just those tiny lights at the end of each row. They illuminate feet, but not faces. In this place no one really wants to be seen. It thrives on shadows and what’s done in the dark. Only when the celluloid images on the screen in front suddenly brighten, showing some milk white ass or thighs rendered on the theatre wall, do the patrons risk being noticed.
I walk in swishing my ass, knowing that there are a dozen eyes peering out of the darkness through the dingy haze of cigarette smoke, waiting expectantly for a little more light to flicker on the screen so they can see a woman in the flesh. I’m a rare commodity in this theater of men. And the sleazier I look the better for the show.
The third row, right in the center. It’s my favorite place. There I beg to be seen, beg to be approached and I know I will be. A woman alone in the theater, I’m sure I’ll have company as soon as the guys figure out that I don’t have a date still getting popcorn in the lobby. (Actually they don’t serve popcorn in this movie house—strictly sexual thrills)
I’m always amazed how polite they are when they approach, and the one this day is no different. Black, a mellow chocolate, his white teeth flash when he smiles. His braided dredlocks make me think he’s from the Caribbean, and an accent I’m not too familiar with suggests the same.
We watch the movie even though our attention is focused on each other. I like him, I decide. It really doesn’t take but a few seconds to discover the sexual attraction. Apparently he likes me too, either that or he’s too horny to care. Men can’t be choosy in a theatre, just bold. We watch the naked bodies on the screen while our temperatures rise. He begins to fidget and so do I. I can feel my pussy getting itchy, the thought of his crotch against mine keeps my hips moving softly against the seat. Then, by some mutual agreement, I rise for him, turn towards his eyes and throbbing groin, and begin to dance. He stares at my hips, then glances towards my eyes. The “come-ons” clear so I let my body lead.
There’re just two buttons on my sweater. One undone, the heavy mounds descend a little further, the cleavage appears more noticeable. And with his eyes staring at my chest, my nipples go hard with excitement. I can see he wants the other button, but I tease him for awhile. I know he likes the show, as he’s forgotten about the girls on the screen taking cock in their mouths.
The tease goes on until I let the second button free. Then so goes the sweater. I let it drop to the floor without a second thought. What he sees are nearly naked breasts since my push-up remains, the half-cup kind that raises the flesh but covers nothing. My skin jiggles above it making me look much more generously endowed than I really am. There are no complaints from my admirer.
He likes the dance. And I can see what more he wants when he glances down at my crotch still hidden by a skirt that just barely keeps it from view. I like it that way. I’m still not sure how much I’ll bare for his eyes and for those others that have made quite a crowd around me. Sometimes I dance strictly naked. But not today, I think. I like to keep them wanting more. And yet, I’m only vaguely aware of the other men with cocks in hand, those that jack-off while they lick their lips wishing they were in the seat where my black admirer sits.
I’m tempted to rub myself, but then I have other thoughts. The thought of his body and mine connecting, flesh to flesh.
Communicating my message with simple body language and the look in my eyes, I see his legs close enough so that I can straddle him on either side with mine, then climb on his lap to dance against his crotch. He dances back when he feels my pussy rub against his pants. With his hand he feels up under the skirt finding that I’m wearing no panties. I’m glad the seats are wide, that I can scootch down in so that my nakedness connects with the cock underneath his jeans. While my groin throbs against him, my breasts dangle in his face. Nipples meet his mouth and he takes them to suck. I lean back a little, expanding my chest, letting the other men get a good view while they remain hands-off on the sidelines. The black man’s hands are at my back supporting me, until they drop down to fondle my ass. When he pushes the skirt away, he holds each cheek in a hand and squeezes gently. I’m humping him hard and he’s humping back.
“Turn around,” he whispers and I catch his message. Climbing off his lap, I wait as he takes out his cock. I see the size and cringe happily, realizing how full I’ll feel to have this one driven up my cunt. Descending to it, I feel the head enter where it’s wet. A little dance at the top, I listen to him groan, then I sit right down so the full thick prick is way deep inside. We bounce together as his hands reach around to grab my breasts and hang on while he thrusts hard. I’m groaning, leaning back exposing more of me, taunting the boys in the theatre with what they can’t have.
My lover’s hands begin to rove my flesh in front, one hand pulling away the short skirt to find my labia and my clit. Good fingers—deft and skillful fingers—pinch and squeeze me there so I buck harder yet. He knows the action makes my crotch jolt, so his cock jolts in me. We’re hitting a peak, a real frenzy of hot maneuvers. Nothing planned, nothing by design, just raw stuff, whatever comes to mind, whatever feels good that will takes us to the finish.
In sync, the climax comes when our sweat’s dripping and his hands are crawling all over me, and I’m working myself into his cock, taking every orgasmic feeling I can take. I hear him groan, something mellow and lush about his finish.
Once we complete the act, I lean forward and rest my head on the seat in front of me. The man in my cunt stays still, recuperating too. I’m not completely satisfied, I’m not sure he is either. It’s raw what’s in me. In this theatre, where the naked images of fucking bodies keep parading on the scre
en in front of us, where there are thirsty men surrounding us, ogling the display —something to talk about with friends the next time they’re drunk —”Hey you should have seen the broad and the big black guy at the old Savoy …”, I’m only half satisfied.
There’s something more I haven’t gotten yet. Something crazy, like really over the edge, far out fucking to oblivion.
My black friend feels it too, feels how my pulsing cunt keeps his dick hard. He’s virile enough for two in a row, I’m thinking. And without another thought, we unclench and move out of center stage to the men’s john. There’s a bench there, padded no less. I saw it once before when I screwed my boy friend of the hour in the last stall. This time it’ll be all public. Me with my back on the bench, my legs forced wide apart by this boy friend’s hands. Yep. He’s still hard enough to shove it inside, I notice as he moves down on me. We hump more, my body wanting the impact of his thick prick shoved so deep it hurts. He stays for a while, and when he finally pulls out, I’m not sure if he’s come again. But that doesn’t seem to matter to either one of us.
For me, his prick is replaced by another. I wonder if they’re lining up outside the door, or if it’s just the four that hover around me with their dicks in hand that plan to take me?
The next one, not as big, is easier for me to handle. Not that I really want that. I’m glad when the third man barely fits, when I’m feeling so full I struggle to open as wide as he desires me. He isn’t a gentle lover at all. But pounds me so it hurts, and I start to cry theses big ecstatic tears. The fourth man’s like a little piece of myself (on my more mellow days) descending to me, all velvety soft, like a cool balm soothing the fiery insides. I loose myself for awhile in him, until that dick pulls out and I’m back with my dredlocked black man, riding his once again eager prick to the brink of another ecstasy for him and another cum for me.
I’ve had hands on me, my breasts mauled, my body turned over like a bitch hound so that I can be pummeled doggy style. I’ve climax half a dozen times, and let the men’s slippery juice get sticky on my thighs and ass. I’ve made a good show, in an exhibitionist’s dreamland, exposing what’s bad about me to a grateful crowd. I think it’s been a good day’s work. And no one around me disagrees.
Extremes Page 1