by Ryan Ramsay
I let her clit go and caress each breast with the right amount of tenderness. I tickle slowly, down to her sweet navel, then to her beautiful cunt that contains dripping, almost creamy pussy juice. She can’t wait. Neither can I.
I nod. She licks her lips and raises her thighs. I align my cock with her silky lips and tilt my head to the right, giving her my approval.
She falls onto me, taking my entire length up her sweet, previously untouched pussy. She moans and I thrust my cock in her tight pussy, extra hard.
“Who am I to you?”
“My master,” she whispers.
Her eyes roll to the back of her head in pleasure, and as I look down to where our hips are joined, my cock glistens in both our juices.
I bring her closer to my face, pounding her to submission. She screams muffled cries of agonizing pleasure, and I trace my tongue all over her curvy, sensational body. She tastes of salt and fear.
Good.
Her skin burns hot as I pump my cock in her pussy. Harder. Intentionally.
I feel my balls tighten.
I feel her walls clench.
Softly, I caress and bring her body to mine, and I faintly whisper into her ear.
“Cum.”
She does, moaning and then screaming out my name. And at the same time, I cum too.
In real life, streams of pure white pleasure shoot out of my cock from the depths of my soul and onto my thighs, my ridged stomach and I think, the fire. It hisses in consent as I groan out my orgasm into the nothingness. I catch my breath and sigh alone to the echoes of an empty house, a huge but lonely home.
I need the real thing. Something true. Something fresh. A challenge to my prowess. I want to make a virgin love my cock in her. I want her to worship at my feet, to serve me and only me.
“Call Damien and Logan,” I command.
The ringing reverberates out and about the walls. Both click simultaneously. The sound of a country song lowly plays in the background.
“Fancy that drink, mate?” pipes out a mildly inebriated Damien.
“Boys. I’m sending my car to pick you up.”
“Why?” Logan asks.
“It’s time we get ourselves a real challenge,” I add and hang up.
Mysterious? Maybe.
Rude? Definitely.
Exciting? Diabolically.
But I want that challenge. And I know just the right girl for the job of arranging it.
Chapter Three
Christy
In real life, I’m in the church bathroom, free to explore my desires without anyone seeing. In my fantasy, my mystery man’s hands softly caress the base of my neck and trickle up through my hair. His lips gently tremble close to mine, an almost fearful heartbeat creeping on the both of us.
“Help,” I whisper to him so that he can hear me, so that he can fall with me.
“It’s okay. I got you.”
He holds his breath, only for an instant. I pause, and let him come to me. Slowly, all his worry, all his eternal fear melts down to nothingness and he falls into me.
His mouth lands on mine and begins to explore hard, his tongue going to places I never thought possible. I moan into his mouth, a moan I have been holding onto for years now, begging for release.
I can feel his throbbing cock through the thin fabric of his boxers. My sweet Hollywood man, the star of my show, is hard and ready for me.
The smell of his sweat spikes me to action; his soft skin under my wanting nails feels like marshmallows ready for a sucking; his taste, oh God his taste, feels like the sun and moon colliding at the tip of our tongues.
I watch him slowly slide his fingers down my neck, down my screaming heart and gently down my left breast. He pinches my nipple and at the same time bites my lower lip. I quiver, and my clit responds in a quick swell.
In response to what he’s doing to my body, I tear off his gray boxers and let his big cock slap me in the face. My cheek gets slimy as the monster cock rises to meet my waiting mouth, dripping and breathing in eternal flames of ecstasy. I grab onto the base of it with both of my hands and stroke them in a combined up and down motion.
“Christy,” he moans to me in my ear.
I run my tongue up and down his cock and slowly, playfully, swirl my tongue along its edge to get a taste of his salty, enriching pre-cum. Then, I swallow his cock whole.
The only sounds that fill my ears are those of a man moaning my name out, and the sloppy slurp of my mouth against his cock. God, my clit feels like it is owed. And with his hand on my neck squeezing slightly, I oblige.
I plop his cock out and straddle his strong thighs and look deep into his green eyes. His cock strays and lines up with my threaded dripping cunt and with one slow, calculated motion I run the tip of his cock alongside my heated hole and push it in.
Fuck!
The feeling of his cock inside me, filling me up to the edge of my cervix, spasms an innate need to scream at the top of my lungs. I have never been stuffed this full in my life – or stuffed at all – and his cock feels like the remedy I have been searching for all this time.
He grabs my tits through my torn bra and sucks on my already tense nipples. The aching urge shoots down to a clit that glistens with his juices as well as mine.
I ride him up and down, reveling in the sensations that make my knees feel weak and my spine explode with crackling and my heart thunder between my chest and his.
I can taste my sweaty hair in my mouth.
I can smell the hot breath of his lust on me.
I can feel his heart run and run and run in my hands as his own firm hands grab and squeeze what is left of my dignity. I’m completely exposed and vulnerable for him and it feels amazing.
His finger plays along the crack of my wet ass line and I feel his thumb press against the lining of my butt hole. He slides it in and holds my nipple in his teeth, and in one swift motion, he bites.
“Fuuuck…” I moan and shatter as my cunt spews and quivers in never-ending ecstasy around my fingers.
My heart beats harder and faster as I see the man cum inside of me harder than I ever give him credit for, and my clit throbs as his cock hardens and spews, and softens and moves. I open my eyes and catch my breath. At least I try to.
Back in real life, after that trembling orgasm I just gave myself while thinking of my mystery man, I am on the toilet stall floor, confused and satisfied. My clothes are strewn all over the floor and the bathroom is silent, since everyone else is listening to the sermon from which I’d escaped.
My hand is sticky with my own juices. This was a great masturbatory session but I’d better get back into church before my sins burn it down. I rise up and take my time to calm my temples and still dripping pussy the fuck down.
That was hot. I mean, it’s never not hot, but when you do such a thing under a forbidden roof, it tends to make things less subtle and a heck of a lot more thrilling. My clit swells once more.
I put on my bra, panties and dress and touch myself up poorly. My hand rests on the door handle, and it suddenly dawns on me that I’ve been in here for the last ten minutes.
Will what I’ve done in here be that obvious to everyone else when I come out?
I walk out of the stall and proceed to the glistening mirror and freshly marbled sinks across the freshly tiled and almost always disinfected ceramic floors. Just as I’m wetting my already wet (in a different way) hands, the main door swings open.
Fuck. I just got caught.
My mind quickly switches to my sister. Oh boy, the scolding I am going to get is so major I’ll never hear the end of it. But then I see blonde hair. And I smell a smashing dash of perfume that hits my nostrils subtly.
Through the mirror, I look at her tall and outstanding figure, and her strikingly beautiful face, which is surprisingly smiling at me.
It’s fucking Mia. And she’s smiling at me.
“Oh, hi,” I say quickly, hoping I’m not blushing too much.
“Hey.” She do
esn’t stutter. “You should use soap after that… ordeal,” she snidely remarks with her hands behind her back.
“Huh.”
She heard me. Not knowing what else to say, since I’ve obviously been caught red-handed, hastily I rush through the process of washing my hands.
Mia steps closer and reaches out to hand me a paper towel that she’d retrieved from the dispenser on the wall while I was fiddling with the soap in my failed attempt to be fast.
“Take your time.”
There is no sense in being coy: she knows. Then again, there is never any harm in playing dumb, which is the only other art I’ve mastered.
“What did you mean by that?” I ask her, figuring I should find out what she knows and how she feels about it now, rather than after the news has been spread through the grapevine of the entire church congregation.
“By what?”
“Using soap after that ordeal.”
“Oh,” she smirks. “Nothing really. I just mean that these toilets are so disgusting. They never use the donations properly to hire a good janitor.”
Her finger caresses the smooth window-like mirror as she breathes in the freshly-scented aroma of citrus-packed fresheners stationed across the room.
“Ah.”
“Yeah,” she adds with a wink.
Now I know she knows.
I take the paper towel from her waiting, unstretched hand, then use it and dump it. She’s still smiling, and not in a creepy way. It’s more reassuring. Like she means to tell me, ‘You are not alone, sister. We girls need to take care of ourselves.’
She also seems to be waiting for something. It hits me softly, as if on the temple.
“Hey. I’m Christy. Christy Adams,” I start, with my hand out. She reaches out and shakes it. “I’ve been meaning to introduce myself for a long time now. I don’t know if you’ve seen me around or even know—”
“I know who you are, Christy,” she said, self-assuredly. “Schrödinger Lane. Right off the on-ramp, right?”
“Wow, yeah. You know where I live even. Not creepy at all,” I goof.
She waves it off as she lets go of my hand.
“Don’t be silly. I’ve seen you grow up. You were three classes behind me in high school, right?”
“Yeah. Funny you said that. I never thought you could remember me.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
There’s a twinkle in her eye, almost like a golden speck.
It flashes momentarily before the blue color comes back in full reveal.
“I remember everyone,” she says.
“Must be nice, having so many friends.”
“You’d be surprised.”
It’s almost a sad tone, the way she says it.
Three seconds of silence befall us. Then she lights up again.
“You seem like the kind of gal who really likes adventure.”
“Like hikes and zip lining?” I ask.
Is she trying to rope me into a bonanza of some sort?
She laughs and places her hands on her neat beige skirt before straightening a crease on the side out.
“A little more than that,” she says. “Do you know where Stephanie is?”
So, she knows Stephanie too. I guess.
“You mean the Stephanie? The quiet one?”
“Is there any other Stephanie in this church community?” she almost snides. “Of course, that Stephanie. The quiet one,” she emphasizes.
I heave silently. There is no way for me to know where this is going.
“No. I haven’t seen her today. Which is kinda weird, considering how strict her dad is about going to church every week.”
“Oh, I know,” adds Mia, as she lightly touches up her mascara with a kit from her creamy magenta handbag.
“Why does it feel like you know where she is?” I finally ask.
“Because I do. Wanna go to where she is?”
“Mia. That just came off as some cryptic cult-like invitation to a field filled with crazies waiting on aliens to deliver them to some kind of salvation.”
What? It really does.
She laughs and snaps her makeup kit shut, directing her full attention and golden blue eyes right at me.
“It does, doesn’t it? Well, it’s nothing like that. Stephanie was also into adventure and we found a mutual interest in that. I’m thinking you do, too, even though you like to suppress it, which is something else you have in common with Stephanie. I think, Christy, that you would want to follow Stephanie on the same exciting journey. Would you say it’s too crazy that I’m right?”
Like honey to a starved tongue, her words drip truth and conviction. I hate this life. This life that is quiet and sedentary and almost like a rote routine handed out on a Monday right before a long work week.
I tilt my head to the side and lick my lips in acceptance. Mia smiles an indifferent smile and turns, slowly, effectively, towards the door and swings it open. In her wake is a subtle hint of hibiscus, jasmine and anticipation that vibrantly make me whip out my phone and quickly text Amy.
“Not feeling 100%. Gone for a walk to get some fresh air. Will be back home before dinner.”
I don’t know where Stephanie had gone. And I don’t know where Mia is taking me. But I am a willing follower, excited to do anything out of the ordinary for once.
Chapter Four
Damien
“Damn. Tequila’s never tasted this good. It’s got all this flavor and shit these days,” I proclaim.
“Quit hogging and acting like a deer in head lights: you’ve had that brand before,” Logan says.
He and I are still sitting at the bar, drinking, while I consider taking Ron up on the invite he’d just made over the phone to us.
“I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”
“I think I would remember the taste in my mouth, Logan.”
“You have: last week at the barbeque with Marcy and the girls.”
“Oh, yeah… almost forgot. Oh, wow. Quite the night, huh?”
“Yeah. Needed some hair of the dog in the morning to chase away that hangover. Not to mention some stretching.”
“Still doing the weird Kamasutra stances with random hook-ups?”
“Random pricey hook-ups. They behave better, leaving when they’re supposed to instead of wanting to stay and cuddle all night.”
“Hmm,” I sigh.
A man stares right through me, five feet ahead. He sits squalidly on his chair, dustcoat drapes round his shoulders and torn pants lining his thinly scrapped thighs. His knuckles, though ashen white and almost cracked, seem strong enough to warrant the blatant stare he’s giving me.
His hair seems to almost stand on edge, waiting for something electric to happen. In his background, the surreal images of a destitute barn in red stand resolute among the weeping subjects that may be his family.
I never really liked oil paintings. They seem so… nostalgic. The painting hangs above the mantle’s crackling and ember-laden fireplace, from where five feet away Logan and I enjoy our drinks; him more than I.
The afternoon could not be any more calm and relaxed, with a nearly bleak feel to it. I almost wish Ron hadn’t left so abruptly and called so curtly. I level my arm and sip some more whisky. If livid and distraught ever were a taste…
Logan hums away at the latest thrill of his past night. I watch as the man drones on quite seductively about how much fun he had doing things men should never talk about in a palatial space such as The Gentleman’s Hub. The bartender, eventually, notices his use of certain ‘tasteful’ language, and smiles.
“She’s gonna cut you off,” I say, with a slight catch of my breath.
Logan turns around and scoffs.
“Never.”
He swigs the last finger in his glass and winces slightly. I can feel his eyes tersely on my skin.
“What?”
“I don’t know, Damien. I think you and Ron are hitting your mid-life crises way too early for my li
king.”
Here we go again. I don’t even interject.
“If it’s not Ron’s head space, it’s yours. At least Ron makes sense, with his over the top testosterone-adrenaline-needs, but you? You, sir, need to get rid of that mountain over your shoulder and heart once and for all. It’s not healthy.”