Behind His Back (10 page)

I gasp with surprise and then immediately blush.

“Sweet Jesus,” she says. “Is your ass made of bronze?” She punctuates her flirty question with a firm slap to my behind that makes me gasp. “I just want to put grill marks on it.”

“Um—thanks,” I say. Good God, this girl must hear fucked up lines like that from guys all the time.

Like a royal attendant, she kneels in front of me to smooth and separate the latticework of strands around my hips. The fabric is thin and slightly stretchy, and it feels like dirty, sexy magic against my goose-pimpled flesh. Each time her hands roam close to my pussy, I plead with my body not to gyrate toward her touch.

“Is that your boyfriend out there?”

“I’m not really sure,” I say. I try to think of the proper Facebook relationship designation for whatever’s transpiring between Hunter and me, and I come up with nothing. There’s no “He’s fucking my brains out” box to check.

“He’s hot,” she says. And before I can even get jealous about it, she adds, “He can’t wait to fuck you. You can see it in his eyes.”

Then, as she’s extending the upper strands up past my tits and over my shoulders like a pair of sexed-up suspenders, she whispers in my ear, “I know I’d be excited about it.”

Holy shit. How did we go from a mildly tense girl-on-girl dressing room encounter to a full-on lesbian proposition? Is this the sort of situation that just falls out of the sky when you give into your cravings and flip the slut switch?

I’m halfway considering whether I should guide this girl’s hand toward my pussy when she turns my attention back to the romp suit.

“Normally when you wear this, you’d have a pair of pasties because it doesn’t cover the tits. But you can go tits-out just fine. You have small nipples.”

“Thanks,” I say. It’s maybe the strangest compliment I’ve ever received, and I had no idea how relieved I’d be to hear my nipples are small.

“All right. Just one more thing,” she says. “You’re a seven, right?”

“Huh?” With all the attention she’s been lavishing on me, I was starting to feel like a ten.

“Your shoes, silly,” she says.

Relief washes over me, and I tell her she’s bang on. The girl is good.

She winks and then dashes out of the dressing room, and before I think to check myself out in the mirror, she’s back with a box. She opens the lid and shows me a pair of simple black pumps in patent leather. She kneels in front of me and helps me step into each shoe, and I feel my ass raise three inches.

“Now our lips are on the same level,” she says playfully.

She spins me around to face the full-length mirror and then steps back to let me soak it in. Or should I say
soak
in it
—because the sight of my new body in Fräulein’s dirtiest, skimpiest little getup makes me quiver.

“You look hotter than a fucking sauna,” she says. “I wish I looked this good in it.”

Maybe it’s just sales talk, but hearing a concession like that from a bleached-blonde firecracker feels almost as good as Hunter’s throbbing cock in my mouth.

As if he’s reading my mind, Hunter forces open the curtain and leans into the tiny, ornate room. The sight of him corrects me: nothing could ever feel as good as his throbbing cock.

I turn around and show myself to him. I feel chastened and vulnerable, like I’ve been naked and naughty with another woman without his permission.

He smiles at me and then tells Miss Sassy Pants that she has good taste.

“So do you,” she says, standing beside me and petting my arm like I’m a wild animal she’s somehow tamed.

“Faith, this nice young lady paid you a compliment. You should thank her.” Suddenly his smile is gone.

My shyness takes over. “Thank you,” I say.

“Not with words,” Hunter says. “Thank her with your lips.”

Good God. Is this a test? Is he trying to figure out how far I’ll go to please him? Or can he really read my mind? Maybe he’s plugged into the dirty thoughts I’ve been having about this twenty-year-old sales girl in her skimpy little outfit.

But kissing her? Is that really something I can do? I think back to a drunken episode in college—a night when Casey had just caught her douchey boyfriend having a three-way with two high school girls who worked at Baskin Robbins. She paid him an unannounced visit to surprise him with a sloppy blow job—sloppiness being the key ingredient of quality head, according to Casey—and she found him sitting naked on his couch with the two jailbait scoop-slingers kneeling before him. Wearing nothing but their pink aprons, they were passing his cock back and forth like they were sharing a rapidly melting ice cream cone.

Knowing Casey, I assume she would have joined in if the girls weren’t so creepily and insultingly young. Instead, she snapped a few cellphone pics and reported him, and he spent eighteen months in minimum-security lockup.

On that particular night, after she had painstakingly recounted everything to the cops, men seemed like the slimiest, most vile creatures imaginable, and as the evening progressed from glasses of wine to inevitable shots of straight vodka, Casey’s inhibitions turned to mush. Being a good friend, I didn’t pull away when she took my jaw in her small, determined hands and pressed her wet, vodka-flavored lips against mine. We both passed out before the petting got heavier—or at least that’s how I choose to remember it—but I’ve always wondered whether I could have gone all the way with her that night.

Thinking of Casey gives me a sudden surge of courage, and I turn to Jessica and put my hand on either side of her face. I look into her eyes and lick my lips, and she places her hands gently on my exposed tits. The second her palms make contact with my nipples, blood rushes to my barely covered nether regions and my pussy tingles.

I lean in and place my open mouth against hers, and our eager tongues playfully caress one another. I hold her head firmly and deliberately, the way I want Hunter to be holding mine, and she circles my erect nipples with gentle thumbs. As we kiss, she moves a hand down to my pussy and begins stroking it. I’m slightly embarrassed by how wet I am, but it doesn’t deter her. Maybe she’s just as wet as me.

“Good girl,” Hunter says. As hot as this is, I realize that it has nothing to do with me wanting to fuck a tattooed sales girl. This whole scenario is purely for his pleasure. My sole goal is to make him want me more—to make his cock throb for me. As I kiss her sweet-tasting lips and move my hips in unison with her exploratory hand, I picture his cock ripping through his denim, dripping with lube and ready to be forced down my throat.

I’m starting to wonder whether Hunter’s planned “adventure” will conclude with a three-way in this dressing room, but when I come up for air and beckon him over with my wanting eyes, he motions for the sales girl to step out of the room with him.

“Let’s have a chat,” he says to her.

She gives me a final playful peck on my lips and then walks toward him, shaky in her heels, as though her knees are weak.

Now alone, I examine myself in the mirror. The romp suit makes me feel hotter and more desirable than I’ve ever felt in my life, and making Miss Sassy Pants’s knees wobbly didn’t feel so bad either. So what’s next on Hunter’s list?

After a minute of listening to their muffled speech on the other side of the curtain, I start wondering whether the sales girl is on Hunter’s list too. A burst of jealousy overtakes me, and I challenge her to an imaginary fuck-off, wherein I prove that I can suck his cock better than she ever could—that I can fuck him better and make him come harder and be his hardbodied little fuckslave who makes him forget that tattooed sales girls in upscale lingerie stores even exist.

The thought of kneeling beside Miss Sassy Pants and competing with her at sucking Hunter’s cock should make me feel threatened and anxious, but it just turns me on even more. What the hell is wrong with me?

When the curtain retracts again, I’m worried it’s just Jessica returning to end our little adventure by helping me out of the romp suit. Except it’s Hunter. No Miss Sassy Pants, and no smile. He marches toward me and wraps a hand around the back of my head to pull me into him.

“Do you have any idea how hard you just made me?” he says.

All I can do is gasp in response.

To show me, he grabs my hand and guides it to his cock, which I can feel pulsing through his thick, dark denim. Good fucking God, I’ve never wanted anything as badly as I want to spring his cock free and bury it in my mouth.

He puts a strong hand on my throat and squeezes just enough to let me know he’s not fucking around. He grabs my ass with his other hand, digging his fingers into my hard rump and reaching his fingertips thrillingly close to my asshole, and he kisses me wetly and deeply.

“Get on your knees,” he says. With his hand still on my throat, he guides me downward, where I belong.

I should play it cool and coy and unwrap Hunter’s cock slowly, teasing him and building his anticipation, but I can’t tear into his throbbing package quickly enough. I pull open his belt and then tug his button fly open like I’m ripping open a candy-bar wrapper after a decade of dieting. I yank down the elastic of his boxer briefs, but his pulsing cock has extended so far down the left leg of his jeans that it takes three frantic jerks before it springs up to greet me.

I waste no time devouring it. I don’t touch it or stroke it. I don’t playfully lick it. I cram it into my wet, slutty mouth and suck it ravenously, bobbing my head and forcing it as deep as I can handle. Saliva trickles from the corners of my mouth, and mascara tears trace watercolor trails down my cheeks. Breathing is the last thing on my mind as I plunge him farther and deeper into my throat—I want to drown in his cock.

Finally I come up for air. Between gasps I shakily tell him, “Please fuck my mouth.”

His smile returns, and as he puts a firm hand on the back of my head, I look over and catch a glimpse of myself, nearly naked and on my knees, in the room’s ornate mirror. My parted lips are wet with saliva and Hunter’s sweet pre-cum, and my tits, tipped with small nipples that are as hard as frozen raspberries, heave up and down with each gasp for air. This is who I am now. This is who I want to be.

Suddenly he pulls my head back toward him and forces his cock back where it belongs. I groan in ecstasy as he probes deep into my mouth.
I asked for this—I can do this
, I tell myself. Hunter wastes no time honoring my request, and he fucks my throat in quick, forceful thrusts.

The sloppy blow job sounds off with unavoidable and astonishingly sexy slurping sounds—there’s no way Miss Sassy Pants isn’t hearing this. She’s probably on the other side of the curtain, listening to every thrust and wishing it were her mouth Hunter was fucking. But it’s not her mouth—it’s mine. And no other slutty little mouth will ever be as obedient and welcoming to him.

I must be doing a good job of turning him on, because barely a minute has passed before I feel his cock start to convulse. His breathing hitches and his movement becomes slower and more deliberate.

And then he cums.

I look up at him with obedient eyes as five strong bursts of hot, white Hunter fill my cheeks. His breath settles and he pets my hair as I swallow every drop and then lick his cock clean, sucking the last bit of cum from his cherry-red tip.

“That was the best head of my fucking life,” he says.

“Glad I could be of service,” I say, looking up at him and licking my lips.

“Your work’s not done yet,” he says. “Put your clothes on over top of that and we’ll get going.” He wrangles his still-hard cock back into his briefs and then buttons his jeans. Then he bends to kiss my forehead, and he helps me up to my feet before disappearing behind the curtain.

Considering how sopping wet my pussy is after sucking his cock, I’m elated to hear that the adventure isn’t over. I clean myself up with some tissues from my purse, and then I undress so I can take my wet thong off—I won’t be needing it wherever we’re going next. I put the romp suit back on and then put my clothes on over it. I give myself a last look in the full-length mirror, and I smile at the sexy black strands showing through the thin white fabric of my fox-print shirt.

As I pull back the curtain, I’m momentarily terrified that a crowd of silver-haired Holt Renfrew shoppers will be waiting on the other side to see what breed of hussy was just debasing herself in the Fräulein dressing room, but the store is just as empty as before. Hunter is squaring things up with Miss Sassy Pants at the counter, and when I emerge she stares at me with mischief in her eyes. She definitely knows what just happened—Hunter likely set this up with her so we could have some privacy. I can tell she still wants to fuck him, but I feel confident that I’ve just shown her where his cock belongs.

“I’ll throw in a little something extra,” she says as I approach them, and I have to stifle a delighted squeal when she hands me a tiny golden box of the same perfume that was on the vanity in the dressing room.

“Let’s go,” Hunter says, and I follow him out of the store and back into a cab, eager and wet for round two.

A
s good as
it felt to drain Hunter’s long, hard cock in the Fräulein dressing room, I’m so eager to be fucked that the cab ride back to his loft at the Garment Factory is a total blur. But as soon as his thick wooden door closes behind us, reality snaps back into place with an injection of adrenaline. He presses his toned body against me, holding my head and kissing me furiously while I struggle to unbutton my shirt and undress without pulling away from him. I want every part of me to be pressed against him, touching him and feeling his hardness.

Once I’ve stripped down to just the romp suit, I get to work on the buttons of his shirt. Occasionally he pulls away from my mouth to kiss and bite my cheeks and neck, and he alternates between cradling and slapping my exposed tits while I yank his shirt off and start on his belt.

I’m expecting him to spin me around and fuck me against the wall again when he whispers, “Don’t fucking move.” Then he walks away and disappears into the same sparse bedroom that I woke up in the last time I was here.

He rummages around and then reemerges, completely naked and with a stiff cock that appears huge even from so far. At the other end of his loft, against the wall directly across from his doorway, there’s a leather couch. Staring at me, he sits on it and begins to stroke himself.

“Come to me,” he says. “Slowly.”

I plod toward him in my bare feet, stalking slowly like a pale panther. I wish I still had the heels from the Fräulein dressing room to prop my ass up, but the romp suit alone makes me feel like, at this particular moment, I’m the sexiest woman on the planet. I watch him stroke his cock and stare at my exposed tits between the black suspender strands. I can feel them bounce almost imperceptibly with each careful step.

I’m quaking with anticipation as I close the distance. What is this strange, sexy man going to do to me next? As I get closer, I can see that his shaft is slick and shiny with lube. I’m not sure why he’d need it, considering that my pussy is practically dripping down my thighs, but I’m not about to question him. His cock slurps with each stroke of his hand, and it brings back the vivid memory of the sloppy head I just gave him in the dressing room.

“Good girl,” he says as I approach.

When I’m close enough to climb onto his lap, his arms spring toward me like coiled snakes attacking their prey. He grips my body and, in a single, deft movement, flips me onto the couch quickly and violently so that I’m facing it and he’s behind me. I feel a hand on my throat while the other explores and squeezes my tits between slippery fingers. I cry out in surprise, and he shushes in my ear while probing his hard cock against my thighs and pussy. His lubed hand leaves my tits and I feel him pull aside the thin strip that’s blocking him from what he wants.

I’m thankful he didn’t just rip it open, though in my current state of arousal, it probably would have just seemed hot.

With his lips against my ear, he says, “I’m going to fuck you now,” and I nearly cum from the words alone.

There’s no warning when he pushes his slippery, thick cock inside of me. He doesn’t bother giving me a gentle taste of the tip before feeding me his full length. He’s not interested in making me comfortable. He wants to hurt me with his cock, and I want to be hurt. The first thrust feels like it could split my body in two, but there’s no time to reflect on the perfect, sweet pain. Like a passenger on a roller coaster at the peak of its main-attraction drop, I’m plunged into a furious, rushing onslaught that leaves me dizzy. All I can do is struggle to hold on while he fucks me without mercy, stealing my breath and forcing every other sensation to fade away. There is no gorgeous loft, no leather couch, no kinky romp suit. There isn’t even a Hunter. There’s only his cock and his piston hips, which are pounding me with a rapid series of angry, punishing collisions that I’m certain will redden the cheeks of my ass. It’s Heaven.

Without slowing, Hunter reaches around my hips to rub my clit with his lubed hand, and within minutes I’m feeling a familiar shakiness in my knees. I try to tell him I’m cumming, but I’m too ecstatic for words. The half-formed syllables dribble down my cheeks like drool as he fucks and rubs and chokes my body into unconscious bliss.

When I finally cum, I gush so furiously that I squeeze his cock out of me with a popping sensation that’s almost audible. As I return to consciousness, I feel my warm juice pooling around my knees in the dimpled leather cushions while Hunter pets my hypersensitive clit.

“Good girl,” he says again, and I rest my head on the back of the couch. Then he whispers, “But we’re not done,” and I realize with startled excitement that he has yet to cum.

I’m not sure if I can take much more, but there’s no way I’m running from whatever else this brilliant beast of a man can do to me. Exhausted, I make an effort to raise my head, and he forces it back down, burying my face into the soft leather as I moan in pleasure and fear.

I feel his hand yank the romp suit’s thin strip of thong farther to the side, and once again his throbbing cock pushes against me. Only it’s not probing my pussy—it’s pressed against my tight, frightened asshole.

Now I know why his cock is covered in lube.

“Have you ever had your ass fucked, Faith?”

I try to shake my head, but he’s still pressing it into the back of the couch. “No,” I whimper into the leather. I want to tell him how scared I am—that I’m not sure if I can go through with this—but my mouth doesn’t cooperate. I might be scared, but deep down my body wants this.

“That’s okay,” he says. “We can fix that. I’m going to fuck you in the ass now. Do you understand?”

He lets my head up a little so I can nod yes. I don’t want to say anything, because I’m so scared of his thick cock that I’m worried I’ll cry if I try to speak.

He pushes my head back down and puts a gentle hand on my pussy, stroking it calmly while he slides his cock gently along the crack of my ass.

“Relax,” he whispers into my ear. “You want my cock in your ass.”

I try to nod again.

“Tell me.”

I don’t catch on at first, and he pushes my head harder into the leather to let me know he’s not playing around.

“Tell me to fuck your ass,” he says.

“Fuck my ass,” I say shakily. The black leather muffles my begging.

“What’s that?”

“Please fuck my ass,” I say again.

He leans back to position himself, and he pushes his slippery cock into my quivering asshole. He doesn’t fuck me hard this time—he slides into me slowly while the soft leather dampens my whimpers. After a few tense thrusts his pace quickens, and I start to relax. He puts his lubed hand back on my pussy and rubs it while pumping his cock into me, and the sensation drives me so wild that I can barely keep myself upright.

As I moan, he pulls both of my hands behind me, securing my wrists together at my tailbone with his strong hands. Then, with my head against the couch, my hands held firmly behind me, and my back arched to give him full access, he fucks me in the ass full-throttle.

I bite down hard on the couch’s leather while I cry out in ecstasy, and he growls like a feral animal as he relentlessly pounds me. I feel close to passing out when his groans intensify, and I can tell he’s about to cum. The thought of him coming inside of me—in a place that no one’s ever been—sends me over the edge, and my moaning quickens to match his.

Suddenly I feel his cock pulse hard as he releases, and the sensation is more than I can bear. I cum again, this time harder than any other orgasm in my life, and I collapse against the couch, fucked breathless and senseless.

I come back down, and my dizzy vision recedes to a single focal point: the two wet rows of embossed teeth marks I’ve left in the back of his couch. My first instinct is to search for other similar markings—signs that Hunter has fucked other women in this exact spot. Is this his anal couch? Does he make other girls pace down the length of his hardwood floor for his viewing pleasure before he pounces on them and redefines their bodies as feeble fucktoys?

With Hunter still holding me and breathing heavily, I perform a quick scan, and I’m relieved to see that my teeth marks are the sole signs of any serious fucking that would require a woman to bite down on something. I stare at the perfect little indents and smile. Faith was here.

With the case closed, I collapse onto my side on the seat cushions. Hunter kisses my neck and then releases me and heads back to his bedroom, and I hear him turn on his shower.

I’ll join him once I have the energy, but right now I feel so satisfied and spent that I could sleep for a thousand years.