9781618857569GettingitAllStorm (16 page)

She squealed like a deliriously thrilled stuck pig as he thrust past
the tight entrance and proudly pried his way
home
, zippers entangling,
denim
grinding against gabardine.

He was in her.
Deep.
Forever.
His balls still trapped inside his pants with his dick buried up to the root in
her tight warmth, her hot wet center, her clutch, her hold. Her pleased pussy
held on to him for dear life. With supreme effort he eased back as she mewed
plaintively, but allowed his retreat, knowing what was to come.

His hands flattened against the van on each side of her. He wanted to
feel her breasts against his body.
To meld their middles.
To entangle their thighs.

Next time.
Next time!

He filled her again.
And again.
And again.
Driving deeper.
Diving deeper.

He fucked her quick and solid.
In the parking lot.
Behind the vans.
Her flattened breasts entrapped in
her silky blouse molding against his newly re-hardening
pecs
inside his shirt. Her hips moved a counterpoint to his elliptically grinding
butt, his jeans hanging low, her slacks slackened. They were a perfect pair.
Beauty and the
beast
.

Christy’s cunt was great. He loved fucking the white-blond cougar,
loved the battle, loved the animal duels they set up and wallowed through. He
loved the sweetness of Lucy, the newness, the fresh rapture. But
this…Dorothy... this was home… this was hearth. There was no place like this
Dot, Dot,
Dot
.

The banked heat in each of them roared into full inferno.

Damn, he snickered to himself, feeling the inexorable build, the
inevitable blowout. Just like a kid, like a desperate stud with no control.
Pre-mature. That was okay, he told the rushing sensation, next time he’d take
his time. Next time he’d do it the way it should be done.

Next time.

From now on there would be plenty of next times.

But for now, for this everlasting moment, Dot was his woman and he
gave her his all. Emptied
himself
.
His
entire load of seed.
Pump after bone-rattling ejection. He planted his
ownership stake. Kissed the land and made it his.
And loaded
her up again.
And again.

Slowly he finished circling overhead, circling and not giving a damn
at the shamelessness of their public spectacle from the buzzard’s viewpoint.
Slowly, carried on great gasps of breath he evolved back into his own exhausted
skin.

Damn, his dick was almost done in. It must have been the denim
chokehold that shot him into space. He had almost passed out from joy. Thank
God, he was man enough to have made it all the way up to
buzzardland
and back again…but had she?

“Two or three times, you asshole,” she chuckled rudely against his
cheek before tonguing his ear and dragging her teeth across his neck. “We’ve
got some catching up to do, Matt, if you need to ask. I imagine you don’t have
to ask Christy if she's made it or not. She probably produces her Christy Cunt
GPS to direct you to exactly where she wants you to go and what she wants you
to do. And Lucy, bless her, won’t shut up about how
wuuuuunderful
you are, which makes me
wuuuuuunder
if she's even
aware of exactly what is it you're doing to make her feel so wuuuuuunderful.”

She was back to being smug and secure and sharp-tongued as ever. His
ears tingled. His strained neck ached.
And happy.
She
was happy. Happily, he himself felt a handsome surge of having given a fine
performance. Improvisatory and ad
libbed
as it might
have been.
Up against the metal, ma’am.
But fine. We
will work on the detailing, he thought, but the basic design held up.

He could and would do even better once he had his lines learned and
was off script.

She gently pushed him off her and adjusted her underwear—had she been
wearing any? He didn’t remember feeling any—and zipped her slacks up. He was
still hanging out. She dropped to her knees and took him in her mouth to clean
him up. She licked him and sucked him and groomed him catlike content as if his
meat had been her territory for years.

Matt was so happy groggy stunned he could barely get his instantly
re-hardened dick back in his jeans. He had no idea what his fancy underpants
were doing. Knotted around his drained balls, most likely, he surmised. He
would have to do some major adjusting once he had a bit of privacy.

“Thank you, sir.” She rose and kissed him quickly on the mouth, not
concerned with where her mouth had just been.
“Now all three
of us have had a taste of your manly charms.
That will hold me nicely
until the next time.
Which will be goddamned soon!”
She tucked in her blouse, threw her shoulders back—which did magnificent
knee-weakening things to her chest— smoothed her hair back into place, and
strutted from behind the SUV across the parking lot, up the stairs, and into
the back entrance of the beauty parlor.

Didn’t even look back.

“Hot damn!”
Matt pulled a biceps-popping fist down and
did a little strutting himself as he emerged from behind the vans and headed to
his truck.

“Hot double damn!”

No, now that he thought about it…

…
three
fantastic ladies deserved a...

“Hot triple damn!”

Chapter Seven

Dorothy knew Christy had gathered
her
and
Lucy together like lambs to the slaughter, but at least she did it with class.

“This is lovely,” Lucy, dear little lamb,
said, looking around at the candle-lit space.
“I’ve never been to a wine bar before.”

A drunken lamb to the slaughter, at that.
Good thinking, Christy. Dorothy took a sip of
her wine. Good stuff.
Might as well go having a good time.

“It is, Christy. Really nice,” she said. “I’ve read about what they
did with this place and always meant to come, but just never got around to it.
“Thanks.”

“My pleasure, ladies.
It’s some old government building or church
or meeting hall or something in the middle of nowhere the town couldn’t decide
what to do with. But they knew it had some kind of historical value so they
wouldn’t let anybody tear it down. Then the guy who fixed it up found it. I
think there’s a plaque somewhere. Frankly, I come here for the hot wine guys.”
She smiled wickedly, looking around at the very fit and extremely good-looking young
men in their snug black pants and white shirts circulating among the guests.

The three of them were seated in a small raised banquet against one of
the walls of the timber-framed, high-ceilinged space, giving them an overall
view. Subtle lighting and flickering candles defined various seating areas
scattered over the polished concrete floor between flanking wine bars.

“How do you like the noir, Christy?” One of the handsome young men
approached, bearing a plate of various crackers and cheeses. “And ladies.
Surprisingly good for a New York State vintage, right?”
He
chatted pleasantly for a few minutes about the pros and cons of the various
grape harvests that year, then with a “Looking forward to seeing you again,
soon,” very definitely directed at Christy, moved on.

“Do you know him?” Lucy asked.

“In the biblical sense?
Yes.”

“He doesn’t strike me as being particularly biblical,” Dorothy noted,
slyly, thinking of Moses and other stern-faced prophets in tight pants and
open-necked white shirts.

“Only in the ‘fit the walls and they came a-tumbling down’ sense,” she
lightly sang. “My walls,” she tilted her glass toward the young man who was
chatting with customers at a nearby table. “They just tumbled right down with
his
fittin
’. You know how that is. Give me a good
‘fit’ anytime.”

Lucy seemed slightly puzzled for a moment,
then
giggled, blushing slightly. “Christy, you do get around.” She sighed, pleased
at her sophistication. “It’s nice to have a place like this in
CoveHaven
.”

“It isn’t, Lucy love. All these little towns run together. They’re not
even little towns, really.
Just areas in a bigger town, or
something.
Business districts or something.
These town names are what they were called back in Revolutionary days.
Before my time.”
She arched an elegant eyebrow. “I’ve never
gotten it straight, and we’ve lived here all our lives. Right, Dot?”

Dorothy smiled. “Various heritage committees started putting up those
very nice, old-fashioned signs which only surprised most people who thought
they were living someplace else. I go with whatever the post office says
,
that’s the only way I can figure it.
And
whatever high school district you were assigned to.”
She laughed. “It
did make it hard to keep straight who was on the right side and wrong side of
the tracks. We pretty much grew up all blended together. A little different
now,” she added. “Ever since the summer camps got turned into sub-divisions
with their four and five bedroom
McMansions
.”

“Seems like everybody new here now, came from Queens,” Christy noted with
a slight shrug, carefully munching on a cracker and cheese so that her lipstick
wouldn’t smear.
“Or Albany.
Wanting
to get some country air.
Which we have plenty of.
Have something to eat.” She tapped the plate. “I don’t have all that much to
serve you guys back at the apartment.”

“Matt used to live in one of the new places, right?” Lucy asked.

“Three bedrooms, two stories, vinyl siding, three-quarters of an
acre,” Dorothy answered. “Matt was doing really well when they got married and
he and Alice expected to have kids right away. Afterwards, I guess he just
thought the place was too big for him.”

“It’s a nice little cottage.” Lucy munched contemplatively.
“Where he lives now.
It’s just charming.” Dorothy could
imagine Lucy imagining being a permanent residence in that charming cottage.
But now that Christy had asserted herself, that hope was pretty well shot. She
felt a slight pang of loss herself.

“I don’t think he expects to have any kids soon.” Dorothy looked at
Christy. “Speaking of which, what’s your take on how the competition’s going,
Christy? I assume that’s why you’ve called us together.
To
tally up scores.
Or is it just to give Matt’s…Matt…a rest?” She smirked.

“Well, since you finally decided to move your beautiful ass and get
involved, I thought it might be time to reconnoiter, as it were. The rules
might have changed now that he’s actually playing three on a horse.”

“In what way?”
Dorothy asked, carefully.

“Three what?”
Lucy interrupted.

“It’s a play,” Dorothy explained.
“Three Men on a
Horse.
About a guy who can pick a winning horse if he doesn’t bet
himself. It’s a comedy,” she added. “Like this was supposed to be.
Now, about those rules, Christy.”

“Oh.” Lucy’s smooth brow wrinkled, attempting to process the
information. “What’s horse racing got…?”

“I think with her theatrical reference what Christy is trying to
remind us in her literate Bryn
Mawr
way is that it’s
not up to Matt to pick the right horse, it’s us.”

“We are the masters of our fate, as Gloria Steinem would say.” Christy
finished her glass and poured them all another, finishing the bottle.

“The rules, Christy.
What’s changed?” Dorothy chomped down on a
cracker and cheese.

Christy smoothed her elegant slacks and ran her fingers through her
hair, giving her head a shake to put everything in its preordained place.

“Well, you know this whole thing started pretty simply. Nothing
complicated. Get Matt in the sack. I can’t remember what the prize was.
Maybe a free shampoo or something.”

“Matt.” Dorothy remembered.
Very definitely.
“We would all be dating Matt. That was the prize. But then you decided after he
blew you away—and I suppose I mean that literally—that he was going to be yours
and yours alone. So you made that pronouncement that we would have to fight for
him. And then…and then…”

She didn’t want to remind herself that she had
sicced
Christy on Matt when Lucy had suddenly fallen into lust her first time out. If
she had not exactly betrayed her innocent friend, she certainly had not helped
Lucy’s cause. But that had pushed Matt over the edge and he had angrily come
looking for Dorothy. And then…and then…mind-blowing…three orgasms…in the
parking lot, for God’s sake…the wonderful parking lot…