Authors: Tenille Brown
Can't Get Enough (2 page)
There is no shortage of lustful women here, but the men have a hot presence, too, as in Tilly Hunter's rough and dirty tale of “Mud and Pain” and Kissa Starling's devilishly ironic story about “Blue Balls.”
There are insatiable couples in long-term relationships, as
in Rachel Kramer Bussel's “Under His Watch,” Blair Erotica's “Embraceable You,” and the playful couple in Allison Wonderland's “Strip to My Lou,” and there are fly-by-night moments of passion such as Beatrix Ellroy's “Before They Burn” and Monica Corwin's “Sleepless Need.”
I could go on, but I'd run the risk of saying too much, when simply turning the pages of this lust-filled collection will be enough, at least for now.
Tenille Brown
Atlanta, Georgia
R
ow is big, the biggest guy I've ever fucked. She towers above the majority of people, surpassing them in height as well as width. She takes up a lot of space; she can't help it. This has been true for most of her life, and you can tell by the way she holds her body, the confidence she exudes, that somewhere along the way she became used to it.
Her biceps are solid and beefy. I can barely wrap my two hands around them. When we are lying in bed I like to bury my face in her armpit and kiss out along the sensitive underside of her arm, trace her tattoos with my tongue. Her back is a paradox, a broad sheet of rock-hard muscles covered with soft padding. I've tried to give her back rubs with my tiny hands but find the territory too daunting, my elbows and knees way more suited for the work.
There is something specific and physiological that happens to me when we are in close proximity. She walks by and my heart beats hard at my blood, driving it to the surface. I swear I can
feel every particle of air displaced by her motion sliding over my skin, it's so sensitive. She wraps her massive arms around me and I go limp, swooning like some wacked-out lady on the cover of a paperback romance novel. And when she rolls on top of me with my legs spread wide to accommodate her, it grounds me like nothing else. Being a big girl myself, she makes me feel small in a way no one has.
See, when I met Row I wasn't used to fucking people bigger than I was. For me, this took our power dynamic out of the theoretical. It took it from a place I went to in my head, giving myself up to someone's psychological domination, and turned it to a real live thing rolling around in the bed with us. In the heat of the fuck, with her holding me down, I can struggle all I want; the only way up is to ask. That's okay, though. Mostly I don't want up.
Row has big appetites. She eats more meat than anyone I've ever been with, devouring whole animals in one meal, it seems. I can tell it's good for her; it's what her body needs. Even with me being a vegetarian, it somehow makes me wet watching her rip apart a steak. She eats her meat rare, still bloody. She likes to ignore me while she's eating and I just sit there watching her, crossing and uncrossing my legs, squeezing my thighs together. She'll look over at me every now and then, licking the juice from her fingers, and say, “You hungry or what, baby?” Like it's the meat I want, when she knows damn well it's her I want to sink my teeth into.
It's not like she ever keeps me waiting long. Like I said, the guy has big appetites. She likes to fuck, all the time, day or night, public or private. That's okay, though. I like to fuck too.
Really, you can't take us anywhere. Try as our friends might, it just doesn't work out. Take us out for dinner or drinks, ten minutes into it she has her hand up my skirt and I'll wind up
in the bathroom bent over the sink getting my ass fucked. Or, if I'm lucky, she'll be up against the wall with her pants shoved down, her fist in my hair, maneuvering my tongue all over her hard clit. We can't help it. We're both sluts, and together we're always horny.
Trying to drive anywhere is the worst. One time we even drove her truck into a ditch. We were going to her mom's house for dinner, a thirty-minute drive, but fifteen minutes into it she had me frantic. I had my panties off and everything.
It went something like this:
We're going to her mom's house, okay? So, I'm getting ready, trying to look presentable. I like her mom a lot, she's a great lady, not uptight or anything, I just want to look nice. I put on a high-waisted skirt, a little below the knee, black, paired with a silk button-up blouse, a deep wine color. I top it off with a black cashmere cardigan, soft as a kitten's belly, that I scored at Goodwill. I button the top three buttons, but it's pointless. No matter what I'm wearing, Row always makes me feel like a total slut.
She picks me up in her piece-of-shit truck, you know the kind, held together with duct tape and prayers, with mileage pushing three hundred thousand. I grew up with cars like that, the ones my dad or brothers were always working on, trying to get them to pass inspection, trying to get just a little more out of them before they got retired to the back lot for parts. Even though I don't work on them much myself, I've soaked up a lot of knowledge just being around them, and I have a few tricks of my own. Like, you'd be surprised how many miles you can go with a pair of panty hose replacing a shredded fan belt.
Anyway, she picks me up. First off, she pushes her glasses up her nose and gives me a long, slow look up and down. There's lechery in her eyes, in the crook of her mouth as she shifts into
reverse and says, “Nice outfit.” Like I said, she makes me feel like a slut.
Next she starts talking; she knows she can always get me this way. It doesn't even matter what she's saying, it's how she says it. She could be saying anything in that smooth, deep voice of hers and my pussy starts weeping.
This time though, it's not just any old thing coming out of her lecherous mouth. She's telling me how every time she sees me in lipstick she can't help but think about having to scrub it off her cock after our dates, how she'd love to see those lips wrapped around her cock right now. We're going to her mom's, she's not packing, but does it matter? She just wants to see me worked up. I could hold out on her, but I don't. She's getting to me and she knows it. I start crossing and uncrossing my legs, squeezing my thighs together.
She tells me how good it feels to come down my throat. “You give really good head, you know that?” she says. “And, fuck, you're such a slut for it. You LOVE sucking my cock. You'd go for that shit anytime, wouldn't you? You can't get enough.” It's true; I'm a slut for her cock.
I'm sitting as far away from her as possible, looking out the window. I can't look at her or it will be all over. This doesn't faze her. She can see me shifting in my seat; she can tell she's got me wet.
“You know, if there's one thing I love more than my cock down your throat, it would have to be my cock buried in that tight, wet pussy of yours.” She's looking straight ahead, drumming on the steering wheel, nonchalant. “It really gets me when you're all laid out for me, naked, your legs spread wide, and you pull me down on top of you and I slip my cock right up into your pussy. I can look right into your eyes as I rock my dick in and out of you, just the way you like it. That look in your eyes
is so sweet, so fuckin' precious. It's like we're making love, like we're making babies, or some shit.”
This is a new tactic, and it throws me. I break my rule and look at her. She looks at me, kind of awkwardly, and that's how I know she is serious. Not like she doesn't genuinely love to fuck my pussy, but this is something different.
We look at each other for a second and then she's back on track. “That's when you wrap your legs around me, when you beg me to start fucking you harder, really fuck your pussy. You're so wet I can hear my cock slamming in and out of you. That's my favorite sound, that and your voice telling me to fuck you harder.”
I decide it's all over. Like I said, I'm a slut, and Row really brings it out in me. I lift my hips and pull my skirt up around my waist. I slip my lace panties down and off my left leg, letting them dangle from my right as I prop it on the dash. I know I'm going to leave a nice puddle on her seat to add to the years of grime already accumulated there. I slip my finger between my swollen lips. Jesus, how wet I get surprises even me sometimes. I'm not looking at Row. Despite that sweet moment, I'm still pissed that she decided to pull this on the way to her mom's.
But she's looking at me. I can see her out of the corner of my eye. She pushes up her glasses, takes quick peeks at what I'm doing to myself. She licks her lips, unconsciously, runs her hand across the short hairs covering the back of her skull.
My clit is hard and slippery; I can't get enough friction going, but I keep stroking. I want to make this look as good as possible. I arch my back, stick my tits out. I unbutton my blouse, showing off some cleavage. I throw my head back and start moaning while I stroke myself faster, making sticky noises I doubt she can hear over the muffler.
My eyes are closed, but I can feel her gaze like it's a tangible
thing. Then I feel her fingers brushing my thigh. She has to stretch a little to reach me.
“Get over here,” she says, her voice sounding strained.
“No,” I say, continuing to rub my pussy, rocking myself into my fingers.
“I said get the fuck over here,” she says, her need making her voice, making everything about her hard. “Little girl, get your ass over here right now, or I'm going to beat the skin off of it the next possible moment I get!”
There are two things about this that we both know. One is that she is the only one who can call me little girl. Two is that I love it when she beats my ass.
So it's not because of her threat that I unbuckle my seat belt and scoot my naked butt over to her. She takes one hand off the wheel and wraps a thick arm around me. I've got my left leg scrunched against her side and my right thrown over her lap and hanging between the seat and the door. I start sucking on her neck, whimpering in her ear as I hump my pussy against her thigh. Her hand kneads my ass and then slips down my crack and underneath.
Her fingers slip into me, and I gasp as she starts to fuck me in this crazy position. My hand slides around her gut, squeezing her flesh, then goes to her crotch, rubbing her through her jeans. She groans and pushes down on the gas pedal, jerking us forward. She is trying her best to look forward and drive straight. Suddenly she grabs my hand and puts it on the wheel. “You steer,” she says, as she buries her face in my cleavage, taking a chunk of flesh between her teeth.
“You are fucking crazy!” I scream. Truth be told, I don't know how to drive so well. Steering is only one small part of driving, you might say, and doesn't seem like it would be so hard, but maybe you've never tried it with fingers up your pussy
and a large piece of your tit between someone's teeth.
It all happens so fast. I swerve, she slams on the brakes and we're in a ditch. It's actually a lot better than it might have been. There's no one else on the road, no cops behind us, no tree for us to crash into. The ditch isn't deep and we haven't flipped over. We're both kind of shook up though. We just sit there for a minute, panting, not looking at each other. Then Row growls deep in her throat and pushes me back onto the seat. Her fingers find my pussy again and thrust home. She throws my leg over her shoulder and fucks me hard and fast, just the way I like it, looking into my eyes, like we're making babies or some shit.
I
'm wet just thinking about him, can't concentrate on anything other than trying to remember the sensation of his lips pressed against my sex and his sharp whiskers pricking my sensitive skin.
I lose my grip on a half-empty wine goblet. It slips to the floor and shatters, the sounds of breaking glass piercing through me.
Damn it
. Everyone looks up. My OCD mother in her pristine white skirt-suit rushes to clean up the red liquid soaking into the lush cream carpet, and party guests pile around me, trying to engage me in their conversation about the secrets to a good marriage.
Perfect! Now I'll never get away
.
Throwing my arms in the air, I give up. I despise how my cravings have taken over everything, leaving me constantly focused on my wants instead of my needs.
Want. Yes
,
I want him right now
,
even as my mother mops around my feet
.
This is stupid. I'd taken hours to tease my hair into soft, spiraling curls. Pinned it up with cute diamond pins. I wore
a new dress and shoes. I looked nice. So why would I want to ditch my sister's engagement party for him? That would be such a waste of a pretty frock. And it would infuriate the bride-to-be, not to mention my mother. Then I remember the pretty peach lace corset squeezing in my waist and giving the girls a boost and I feel a grin spread. Shouldn't put that to waste, either. Wiggling my butt, I relish in the tight pull of the G-string between my cheeks. He could be yanking that cord, pulling my knickers down to take me from behind.
I give in, can't stand here any longer pretending I'm all sweet as pie when all I want to do is fuck the best manâ¦again and again. I decide it's time for a fix and swiftly exit the parlor of my mother's Victorian semi to go look for him.
He is leaning against the brocade wallpaper decorating the hallway. He smiles at me from behind his long, dark bangs, twirling his bike keys over his decorated ring finger.
