Coming In Hot Box Set

by Gina Kincade

She could question how she wound up on the streets, but she already knew. It was a matter of choice—her choice—and the men, the trail of men in her life, were a matter of choice too—her choice and hers alone. She picked them; they didn’t pick her. Still…It was just a matter of time before she would call one of those black rat holes home to curl up with the viper that lived within.

  There was a wild thought afloat that nothing positive ever happens until you hit the very bottom of the abyss. Nothing positive had even begun to happen in her life. Guess she had further to fall, since she clearly had not hit rock bottom. Could be. Until then, she entertained herself with the fine parade of men. The steady stream of eager lovers had only one thing wrong—there was no love involved. No names, no “what do you do for a living”, no talk about wives, lovers, divorces or kids. Those were her rules and if you wanted to fuck her, you did it on her terms. Clear, simple; no muss no fuss…and no kissing. She didn’t want to kiss the underbelly of society. They were all scumbags and she liked it that way—on the edge, the tight, unforgiving edge.

  If Brianna remembered, she showed them Tatianna’s photograph and asked if they’d ever met or seen her. If they had, it was sure they’d fucked her so there was little reason to ask them that. Sometimes she forgot to show them the photograph. It was those times she asked herself what was she really doing out here if she wasn’t looking for her sister’s killer?

  She liked the seedy, smoke-filled pool halls and honky-tonks where there was a foregone conclusion that the women who frequented joints like that were looking for “joints”, medicinal or meaty, of their own. She was no different and the joints she favored were prolific. Someday, one of them would be attached to Mr. Right maybe, but until then, there were plenty to keep her busy enough to feed her demons—and fight her sister’s battles.

  But, if she wasn’t chasing her sister’s killer, what was she doing? Her sister brought her out here, onto the cold heartless streets of despair, just like she pulled the cops into the sordid peep show that was her life. If they couldn’t find Tatianna’s murderer, why did she think she could? Maybe, the loss of her sister, her twin, was just the excuse she needed to find herself while searching for the answers in Tatianna’s life. Tatianna, poor Tatianna…When she grieved for Tatianna, she mourned for herself as well. They were both dead, in one way or another.

  She lost sight of her purpose as she fell, tumbled—out of control—into the depths of her own personal Hell.

  She rarely went to the same place night after night. She preferred to dot her sordid experiences in the arms of new men, occasionally a repeat, but she would never find Mr. Destiny or Mr. Murder if she kept repeating the same mistakes and the same creeps.

  It actually seemed like a good plan. Last night it was The Bitter End, a real cesspool where the beer was warm and the women were cold, but everyone played great stick and didn’t ask questions.

  She wondered briefly how long before tempting Lady Fate looking for Mr. Right in an ocean of Mr. Wrongs would result in her own bitter end.

  Tonight she planned on going to Baby Blu’s Sticks & Balls. Everyone called it Blu Balls…for a reason, she surmised. She had seen her share of blue balls in the past—plenty of them. She had been the source of inspiration for them.

  She smiled to herself, straightened her skirt before pushing the door open. The place was hopping and it was so smoke-filled, her eyes instantly teared. Why these places always stank of piss and sweat never ceased to amaze her. She wore leather all the time because the fabric never absorbed any of the odors and the clinging crap that floated in the air or stuck to the barstools around the bar. When she was done, she didn’t want to smell, see, or feel any evidence of her descent into the bowels of city nightlife. She told herself she was doing it for her sister and would leave it with her, in the dark, when she headed back to her apartment each night. It was what it was; she didn’t want to take it home with her.

  She left it all on the streets her sister loved, shrouded in the nights her sister sought.

  She walked into Blu Balls with her cue case, thigh high boots and attitude. The tables were cracking and as expected, he was there. He was there every time she showed up. She really wondered if he had a life, or if he was just waiting his turn, but then why would she? Why would she wonder—them’s not the rules. It was none of her business and she really didn’t care. But, she’d caught him watching her on several occasions. He watched her from the dark recesses of the smoke-filled saloon. With the crack of slapping balls and sticks as noisy as monkeys with tambourines and drumsticks as a backdrop, he watched as she picked the lucky man for her night. He always watched. He always waited. Hell, maybe he was her Mr. Right or Mr. Murder. She looked over at him, with confidence oozing from her every pore, full-faced, proud. No one ever turned her down. He wouldn’t either. She didn’t care what he was.

  Tonight, it would be him—the black-haired blue-eyed hunk of honeyed sex with the heart-shaped baby face.

  She wondered if he ever fucked her sister.

  She walked right by him leaving a trail of perfumed seduction in her wake. She dragged her fingertips across his chest from shoulder to shoulder. She stopped abruptly, her fingertips still resting lightly in a near afterthought on his left shoulder.

  “Fancy a challenge?” she said.

  “You or a game?”

  “Both, maybe…”

  “Pony up,” he replied. “It’s your quarter.”

  She slapped a quarter on the frame of the pool table and challenged the duo pulling off their latest win.

  “My quarter, my break. Rack ’em, pretty boy.”

  The night slithered by into the wee hours of the early morning. The smoke in the pool hall hung in the air like a noose from the ceiling. She wanted a bath but she wanted him more, first.

  She seduced, lured, and kissed his neck in the heavy shadows. When she was ready, he followed her home. She was wet with anticipation by the time they’d climbed the stairs to her apartment. He stripped his drenched shirt then yanked her tube top down, her leather mini up, and lifted her by fingers he brutally plunged into her creamy core. She gasped; he inhaled her sex and they rolled along the wall to her apartment door. He fingered her while she fumbled for her keys, unlocked the door and they stumbled inside.

  She kicked the door closed and grabbed his balls with her right hand. He had exactly what she wanted and her desire, and his inspiration, were both growing in her palm.

  Right now, he was here and Mr. Good-Enough and nothing else mattered.

  Who cared anyway?

  He was gonna get what he wanted, whether he deserved it or not.

  So was she. But she was wrong…

  She couldn’t deny the strength of their desires, for she was the one who sought the pleasure of the truth and when their body’s burned for one another, she couldn’t turn away, but flew instead into the center of the heat. If she gets burned, it will be because they sought all that was real and strong and good. Because she discovered the power of attraction and how she felt at the time their flesh grew and yearned as one. She didn’t fear that which she knew was special—uniquely theirs at least undeniably for the moment. They did not turn or run from the lust, or even the love, so pure and true—so real and alive! That would deny the essence of their beings and keep them from the fire that burned within of truth she sought to build. It is forever in a single shared moment.

  They tug each other’s clothing off as swiftly as possible while locked in a kiss.

  Pushed up against the wall of the bedroom, she takes him with nothing but raw need. Hers is a powerful need that makes her want to push his spine against the wall and fuck him until he could no longer stand—she wanted his surrender!

  She raised her hips, crawled up and wrapped her legs around his waist then slid down upon him, impaling herself on his whipping, engorged cock.

  God damn it, he is so fucking hard, wide, HOT…

  He flipped her, exchanging places. Now it is her spine flatten hard
and fast against the unforgiving wall. He has his forearms locked under her legs, parted wide to receive him, and her hips restrained against the wall. He bent his knees just slightly and rammed the full length of his cock up, deep inside her. And she was so fucking wet…

  “Baby, slide it in deep—to the hilt—now! Let me have it!”

  He was balls deep in her hungry pussy and he held it there; she clenched down hard—oh yes, right there; for a few precious, magic and stunning moments—she felt him twitch inside— before he began thrusting, pushing, the long and rhythmic, relentless, in and out and in and out.

  Oh God, his cock is so burning hot it is scorching my pussy!

  He pushed as far up into her as he could and then pulled back until the slick fat purple head just brushed her outer lips before he slammed back up inside her again and again.

  And OH MY FUCKING GOD AGAIN!!!

  He is buried so deep in her it felt as if his fat, swollen balls were up inside her too. She could feel them, slickly wet; they were covered with the juices that seem to stream out of her stretched and voracious heat. Over and over, he literally dove into her. His face had become a distant mask of passion; there, yet not there. She was in another dimension, riding his stiff plunging cock like a Valkyrie to her rescue. Her jaw went slack, her breathing loud—loud as a cannon roar—panting, moaning, coming up from the depths of her lungs and soul…so it's a deep husky roar.

  And her husky voice whispered, not his name—she didn’t know it—but… “more, deeper, harder, faster. I want you inside me forever.”

  And she wanted to be there, to stay, to live there, with his cock buried in her soul, at her center; at her core, feeling his essence.

  And then there was no turning back, nor would they wish to and they couldn’t. They both began to cum; to fire, to launch, to leave the earth and seemingly leave their feet. His thick precious semen rumbled deep in his balls. She felt them tremble, could almost hear them screaming for release and rockets out of his cock deep, deeper into her. Her body is wracked—lurching, spasming—as she cums in tidal waves of uncontrollable orgasm. They are pinned to the wall, unable move, to do anything but ride out this cataclysmic rush of fire and ice, love and lust.

  Oh my God, I feel as I am going to cum forever.

  And he shot two-three-four long streams of his hot sperm up and up and up into her. They are awash in their own juices and they are pooled, yes, pooled at their feet as it runs down their legs.

  Oh MY GOD, Oh yes, oh yes, oh no, don’t ever ever ever stop…

  They stop. They breathe. They are still locked against the wall and a stream of cum, their cum, drips behind and runs down the wall. He pulled away from her and looked into her just-opening eyes. They do not speak; there are no words. He eased his cock from inside her still clenching pussy. She unlocked her legs and stood, barely, as he knelt before her in the warm puddle of their juices. And he began to lick slowly, up the insides of her thighs, taking the product of their passions, their love, into his mouth.

  When she was clean and shaking, he continued his journey up to her still parted and enflamed ruby red lips, slick with cum. He looked up at her, smiled and began to lick and suck what remained of their desire as it trickled out of her ravaged pussy. He drank deeply of them both and it slid around his lips. It ran out over his mouth and chin. He rose to his feet and kissed her deeply, so deeply, their juices, their cum passing from his mouth to hers and back again—both their faces now as slick as their thighs. He pushed up against her and they were one—they are here.

  Forever is now.

  They tumbled into bed and slept the peaceful sleep of exhausted satisfaction.

  An hour later, she woke him and rolled out of bed to go take a piss. She lit a cigarette.

  “You better go.”

  “Why? I thought…”

  “You thought what? You had no right to think anything. I told you, no questions. I have no answers. Now, get dressed and get out.”

  “But…I thought we were getting on so…”

  “But, nothin’. You fucked me and that’s all the ‘but’ you’re gonna get. Now, we had our fun and it’s time to wrap it up. I need a shower and my sleep. Be gone by the time I get out of the shower. And hey, thanks…you were good—real good.”

  Ten minutes later, she heard the front door slam and he was gone.

  She pulled the sheets off the bed and threw a clean set back on then climbed in. She was sore, and tired, and actually satisfied. She was also hungry but she resisted the temptation.

  Tomorrow was another day. Saturday.

  She couldn’t get the black-haired, blue-eyed man with the heart-shaped face and the gentle mouth out of her mind.

  Shit…

  ***

  That night, the dream returned. It was the same one, the same as always, the same relentless dream as every night. She watched as ‘she’ stood above the mesa overlooking a vast abyss. The chasm was a billowy vision of cotton-ball clouds and wisps of rising steam-devils which gave the illusion of arms reaching for her, daring her to just let go and fall. It was an apparition that she could float into, an embrace of thousands.

  If she stepped from the mesa, off the edge of the cavernous cliff, above the yawning hollow of the precipice, would her unrequited dreams carry her as her Valkyrie, like strong barebacked clouds, and fly into the face of her fear where success, honor and love await?

  Or…is it possible that her dreams are weaker than her fears and she would fall into the cruel embrace of heartache and humiliation? Could it be that her Valkyrie, her fearless-steed, hasn’t the strength to hoist her into the Heavens of her mind, her heart…while her words and deeds dash the insistent shadowed wall of terror into the recesses of her misadventures, the casket of unforgotten, unforgiving struggles known as her failures?

  How is it that the anchor of fright prevents her from the exploration of her soul? It is there, within her, as paralyzing dread and iniquity. Her talent, love and heart are all a part of her soul, too, along with the cavernous darkness of anxiety, however, is the courage and certainty of self enough to brave disappointment?

  There is but one way to find out. Trust the will of her instincts; lean into her dreams, fall into the face of failure and brave the sweet, gratifying nectar of soulful triumph…

  …and soar.

  Didn’t she want to be happy?

  But the real question remained a shadowed doubt—was it she or her sister that was falling? Or neither? Perhaps was it both…

  Would the night kill them both as she fell into the lies and the arms of the liars?

  ***

  The next morning, late, she woke. Brianna felt foggy-headed, as if she had been drugged. She knew that feeling well enough. She needed a cigarette.

  She lit that first cigarette of the day, took a deep drag and sat at the window of her apartment. She listened to the bed linens tumble in the dryer, and looked down on the sodden, black street feeling the now familiar twitch between her thighs where the flesh was soft and moist. Filled with nervous tension, she felt the tug of her desires and the street, then shuddered insistently, deeply. She lit another cigarette—toying with herself—stalling.

  When had the pull of the street changed from finding her sister’s killer to finding her…what? Her self? Her weaknesses? Her limits? Her dreams? When had her sister become her excuse and not her reason?

  When had the streets claimed her just as they had her twin, Tatianna?

  Her thoughts drifted to her man with the heart-shaped face of the night before. She rarely did that—looked back. Then she realized she thought ‘her’ man and not ‘the’ man with the heart-shaped face… what did that mean?

  Oh, God, it was supposed to get easier.

  She wanted to change. She wanted to be different. She struggled against her own will for what she knew would be briefly, beautifully…a nice dream and all but futile.

  She snuffed out her smoke in an already overfull ashtray, clearly evidence of her internal torment. T
he aimless smoke seemed to hang around her head as if a thought bubble of anguish had been forgotten.

  She’d lost.

  She killed the afternoon with chores, laundry and a bite to eat. She hadn’t an appetite anymore she was so repulsed by her nighttime street crawl. But, when it was time, she hadn’t enough resistance to prevent her from going out again. There was a killer out there and the night beckoned. She was helpless.

  She readied herself with a hot shower and her red leather armor.

  Before she stood, she ran her hands from her ankles to her thigh-highs lovingly, each in turn, straightening the seam. She had not as yet abandoned all of the personal pride she took in her appearance for convenience and still wore stockings. She slipped on her red patent leather, peek-a-boo toed heels. They were slightly platformed, a little too well worn, but comfortable still, sporting a tarnished shine that gave a clear and distinct message: come fuck me.

  When she was satisfied with her appearance, not that she was overtly picky, she sighed and headed for the door. She took a step over the threshold and, just as she did every night, cast a resigned look back into the apartment as though it might be the last time she would ever see it. Maybe it would be.

  She hit the stairs then opened the door to the cold unforgiving street. She heard a scream in the distance, brought to her on bitter night foils which hit her face briskly and should have scared her. She stood, perusing the street and hesitated only briefly. She thought she heard the laughter of her distant past drift across in a memory. She looked up and down the street for the sound, but there was none. There was even very little traffic at this dirty hour. Methodically, she opened her umbrella while the rain pelted her face with razor sharp accuracy, reminding her that her appearance was superficial and her pride nearly shattered. Her make-up hid the real secret within.

  She started to walk: click-clack, click-clack, click-clack…with the lithe shape of her right leg fully exposed by her ass-length skirt, she stepped over an oil-slick, butt-riddled puddle…click-clack. She continued on mechanically, hips swaying to the rhythm her heels announced to the night.