This action might not be possible to undo. Are you sure you want to continue?
By J. Jenkins
Published By: J. Jenkins
Copyright © 2010 by J. Jenkins
Notes From The Author Thank you for downloading this free e-book. Please share it with your friends. This novel may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its original form. If you enjoyed this story, please consider reading works by other independent authors on sites such as Smashwords.com, Obooko.com and Booksie.com. This e-book is intended to be a blending of erotica and romance. The work is the product of my twisted imagination, and while some detailed locales and referenced material truly exist, main characters, and events are completely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons or occurrences is entirely coincidental. Please be advised that this book contains ‘Adult Reading Material’: graphic language and descriptions of sexual encounters between adult characters that some readers will find vulgar and offensive. Persons under the age of 18 and those of a conservative nature, please don’t venture beyond this page. Acknowledgements As always, I dedicate this story to everyone who gives the words and characters a chance to come alive in their imaginations. Thank you for investing your valuable time in downloading and reading my work. Without you, my story would never have an end. The cover image ‘Red/Woman/Female/4518008’ is the work of photographer Sergiy Goruppa, © Sergiy Goruppa http://www.photoxpress.com/stock-photos/red/woman/female/4518008 and appears in accordance with outlined terms of usage.
We’re at the corner of Pacific and Ocean, the sun is setting while you’re wondering why I’m wedged between these boxwoods. Here’s the thing, I’m waiting ‘til it’s time to go up to my girl’s condo. I’ve been standing beside this building so long, not in the same place mind you least the police are called to investigate a PeepingTom, that residue from the peach stucco has stained my Safado jeans and the pigeons have mistaken me for a statue, something to poop on. My girlfriend, of three years, shares their sentiment. When she’s not working her way up the corporate law ladder or sleeping with all my industry contacts, she privileges me with visits to my Malibu crib, where she picks at my food, occasionally sipping on a flute of Dom and complains about everything under the sun, especially me. She borrows money she has no intention of repaying and occasionally allows me to sleep with her. Correction, fake-fuck her, I’m not good enough for her to spend the entire night. Being pussy whipped, I’m grateful for anything she gives because I love her. Ah, don’t roll your eyes and criticize because I’m lobbing the ‘L’ word around. I get enough attitude from her. Especially, she bemoans my inability to make her come. I dismiss the reprehensions and promise to do better. I haven’t, so far. She’s never had an orgasm with me, says I don’t work hard enough, lack imagination. Ladies, are you nodding in agreement, already siding with her because your man has also left you unfulfilled? Well let me tell you, and guys pay attention too, my first year with her I did newbie boyfriend stuff that is supposed to make a woman happy: gifts of expensive perfume, scarves, etcetera, as well as weekly bouquets of roses and Richart Chocolates from Lyons. One weekend a month, I took her on romantic getaways, Barbados, Italy, Hawaii, Paris and so on. Women are you feeling the Shanghai Maglev love I was sending her way? Guys do you see I was headed for a train wreck? The Clive Christian perfume irritated her sinuses, so she sprayed the waste bin with the stuff. She gave the scarves to her grandmother and a homeless woman who’s still flying eight-hundred dollar Hermes silk as flags on her wobbly-wheeled shopping cart. The roses always made their way to one picklepuss friend or another and the candy she gave to her brother’s glue-sniffing kids. Can you friggin’ believe that shit? Then to really rip the uglyass beehive wig off Amy Winehouse’s head and punt it the length of the Bruin’s football field, when we were on vacations she always insisted on separate suites and never once was I gifted with a climax. And men, yes it’s a gift, one we eagerly await like Rover begging for scraps from beneath the dinner table, or else we’d just sit solo, happily stroking our peters and not invest time and money on the fairer sex. But, back to the point, if I’d said to her, ‘Hey, lets spend three days a month in Somalia or Liberia,’ I could’ve understood her snatch being drier than Chile’s Atacama Desert and her voiced appreciation being in the area of an audible groan of disapproval. But, we’d done Paris in the spring, the Festival de Cannes and all I got was bitch and moan, bitch and moan. I’d been playing by the wrong book, following the rules and hadn’t cracked the code to her love vault. The next year rolled around and I thought, goddamnit, that was going to be it, I was set to make her scream and writhe with passion if it broke me. So added to the expensive shit I was already shoveling out, I labored hard and plenty to buy her a BMW Z4, you know the convertible roadster, fully loaded, and was sufficiently creative to ensure the color exactly matched the deep sea blue of her eyes. I tossed in three-million large on eye-popping bling that made Dr. Dre and Lady GaGa’s diamonds resemble those ugly, fake-ass crystals Joan Rivers hocks on QVC. Then I had my iron maiden extended limitless lines of credit at shops along Rodeo Drive. Finally to really show I meant business, I purchased a fully furnished condo in Santa Monica for her as a ‘just because you’re special’ gift, which is where I’m skulking about right now. Considering she never bought me a effing thing, I think she would’ve given me one tiny, ‘Oh, ah, baby you’re so good,’ followed by a semi-believable shudder as she scraped her nails down my back, while I rammed my insistent dingis into her slightly wet pink canoe. Well, I was dreaming in hillbilly heroin land. What I actually got was a yawn accompanied by a limp-wristed pat on my shoulder and a humphed out, ‘Is that it?” My accountants are still tallying up what boning her twenty-four times during those twelve months cost and she’d been impersonating Simon Cowell. You’d be spot-on if you’re thinking after each occasion when I’d pulled out of her, barely having enough time to get the spunk-filled condom off and shoot it sadly to the trash, that she’d ridiculed my technique. She’d advised me to find some innovative approaches of satisfying her or she’d kick my
ass to the curb with the same amount of regret she’d give to scraping dog crap off her Dolce and Gabana Python pumps. Okay, get your eyes set to roll… The threat made me diamond hard and I would’ve been back inside her licketysplit if she hadn’t always put her perfectly arched foot on my chest and dismissively pushed me to the floor. She was my ‘Hard Hearted Hannah’ and I was her J. C., that’s my money name, cashing in on movies, music and crank. My bi-racial parents named me Jhumar Castiglione. Go ahead and laugh, is it my fault I was conceived during their vacation at the third apex of the ‘Golden Triangle’. Stop crackin’ up and let me go on. Year three rolls around and I’m bustin’ my ass to keep the cash flowing in so she’ll at least allow me to dry hump her, which now takes place once a month. I’m still doing the attentive boyfriend bullshit, adding a lot of something every now and again, stocks, land and a Cessna Citation Mustang. Albert Einstein said insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, well… I won’t own being clinically senseless, but clearly I have issues, because although I was offering her different things, always sweetening the pot, I wasn’t getting what I wanted in return and that was to see her O face. Dawgs, y’all know what that’s like, seeing your main squeeze, your boo, with her head thrown back, eyes shut tight and her mouth forming an inviting oval as she bucks beneath you. For fuck’s sake, a caring man would sell his soul to see that expression, feel the sensation. Before Hannah, I was handing out orgasms with more frequency than Florida writes speeding tickets. With her though, my ballpoint seemed to be out of ink. So what was the solution? Have you guessed? Yo dawgs, we’ve been schooled in this lesson before. In ‘Sexy Origins and Intimate Things,’ we were taught that many words mean both penis and idiot because desperately horny men think with their wienies instead of using their brain. So, I had to stop letting, helmet-head, the bald yogurt slinger run the show and do what I did best and that was make informed decisions using readily available information. The combination to vault H.H.H. (hard-hearted Hannah for those of you who haven’t been following along) was her telling me to be creative, imaginative and innovative. She’d never asked for any of that stuff I’d spent a gruntload on. What I’d needed to do was invest some time in learning about her and I had. This is what I’d done. A couple of months ago, I hired two retired Marines, who now do P.I. work throughout California and Nevada, to determine what got her off. She has the ability to climax; I know that truth as well as I know my name. Hannah is a sexy, confident woman, a fact that figuratively flashed in neon around her, alerting the public that she’s better than damn good in the sack and high rollers line up to get between her thighs. Never once have I thought my Hannah is frigid and the investigators provided me with enough glossies of her and various players working their way through the Kama Sutra, an O on her face every time, to validate my certainty. So why wasn’t I rockin’ her boat? What in the world, did I have to do to bring my woman to climax? Men, you won’t believe how easy it was for the private dicks to come up with the skinny. The answer had been evident, right out in the open and women don’t go getting kitty spittin’ mad because I’m about to give up your secrets. Drum roll please… The answer to what makes a woman sexually tick sits on her bookshelves. Brothers, men, comrades, there you’ll find the things she’s open to letting you do to her. If you want to delve deep into her sexual psyche then invade the back of her closet or check beneath the bed for some mind blowing porn, erotica and depravity that will make the skin-rags and girl-on-girl action we beat off to seem G-rated. Alright ladies, so now you want a slice of my salami for opening my mouth. Put your Fissler deboning knives away, I had my bris many years ago. Look, I’m doing us all a favor. Listen up and I’ll tell you what I specifically learned about Hannah. You and I all know she’s been 304-ing, which is hoeing for those of you who aren’t up on the lingo, her way to the top of her profession and I don’t hold her drive and determination against her. She’s a sizzling copper-haired, wispily layered, pixie-cut sporting, Jenny McCarthy, promiscuous, flirtatious, provocative and let’s not forget hardhearted. She doesn’t suffer fools lightly. Those other sweet dick daddies with their candied balls hadn’t lasted more than a few weeks with her. The fact that she still tolerated my boneheadness showed she was at least,
on some level diggin’ me and now that I had the down and dirty on her fantasies, I was hoping to soon get that ‘I Love You’ text I’d been long awaiting, keyed by my Hannah from Savannah, a ball-bustin’, heartbreaker. So are you eager for me to spit out the lowdown? Brace yourselves cause my gal is into some serious shit. She openly reads ‘I Claudius’ and ‘Claudius The God’, having dog-eared pages and underlined passages. More of her favorites were the books of the Sleeping Beauty Trilogy and I’m not talking about the Disney Classic, with sections that showed faded text and held the pungency of her hungry, little red snapper. Collectively the five books had been handled so frequently they were on the verge of falling apart. The investigators also found a grip of vampire erotica in the living room and enough lupine, lycan-loving tales beneath her bed to let me know Hannah was a serious freak, of the sexually adventurous kind, and I planned to gain her devotion by making her my plaything. So, that’s the gist of what’s gone down and why I’m here. Now, it’s time to go give her what she needs. Let’s posse up quick, that bike cop is mad-dogging me. Oh, here comes trouble. Y’all go on and I’ll catch up, then we’ll see how this plays out.
Well hello, I’m Hannah Hardcastle and before you ask, yes, I’m from Savannah, that’s in the take no crap state of Texas. Thanks for dropping by. We don’t have a lot of time. J.C. will be here soon. This isn’t our usual hook-up day. He called my office a few hours ago, asking to see me this evening. Of course, I said no, initially. Then he got demanding, which is unusual. Before, he’d always conformed to the schedule I set. I’d relented because of a subtle nuance in his tone, a note hinting at an impending scene if I didn’t agree. Dramas, at work, aren’t my thing, which is synonymous for; I’m working, not humping, my way to the top of that firm. I’m not going to risk my career just because J.C. probably wants to bring me another of those gifts he bombards me with because he doesn’t sexually satisfy me. Okay, you’re thinking, ‘How does he know?’ Jhumar is aware of his ineptitude because I repeatedly tell him of his shoddy performance. Are you shocked that I’d be so forthright with him? Well, if I don’t speak up how else is he going to discover he’s wasting both our times? I’ve invested three years with him, giving him ample opportunity to get his act together, do a little leg work to uncover what really sets my canoe to sailing and all he wants to do is throw presents at me. For instance, this condo was a gift, affording me state of the art, contemporary luxuries topped off by breathtaking views of the ocean and sunsets. He even made certain the interior was done in a neutral palette of creams and beiges, to please me. You think I should be grateful don’t you? Well, I’m not and I won’t fake some sentiment that’ll only make both of us miserable. I won’t lie about not liking any of the stuff he’s showered on me and I most certainly won’t pretend to climax so he can feel macho. I only do that with the men I toy with. J. C. deserves better and so do I. He’s the only man of whom I’ve ever had expectations. In the beginning, I’d dreamed he’d be the one who’d make me settle down. That highflying hope was quickly grounded by the realization that he was unable to pilot my aircraft. Of course, I could bluntly tell him what to do that would have my eyes rolling back in my head and my legs wrapped around him so tightly he’d need oxygen when I finally turned him loose. But women you know it’s not the same when you have to lead a man to your gridiron of love with a playbook in hand, prepared to give him maneuver-by-maneuver instructions. So, men, after this conversation, don’t feign ignorance about women not wanting to be your coaches in the bedroom, and don’t cover your ears, trying to ignore me, least I take I stick to you and you find yourselves in a similar position to J. C. For me, sex is not a football game and I’ll be doggone if I’m going to huddle up and tell Jhumar how to score a touch down. Ladies, you and I know that by the time we’ve finished our dialogue, just before the game is set to commence, and by the way, we’ll always have to do this because some estrogen challenged individuals in the room won’t bother to remember, the thrill is gone. We’re on our backs, legs splayed open, being poked and prodded, while they’re grunting and asking how they’re doing. Duh, they’re performing tip-top because we’ve done almost everything for them and if they’re anything like J. C., you sometimes have to help them find the opening, which in my man’s case is ridiculous when he’s hit more aces, even on par 4 and 5 holes, than any pro golfer. Hee-hee, you should see the shocked expressions on your faces. Was it the hole comment or hearing me refer to him as my man? I’m betting it was the latter. J.C. is mine, you know. He provides for me, lets me sow my oats, is loyal and loves me. There are a couple of big problems with the scenario. First, I’m not inspired to do or feel anything similarly for him. How the heck am I supposed to be loyal to and cherish a doormat? What gift should I give to something on which I wipe my feet? A good shaking once in awhile is what I offer most often and when it’s really dirty I feel obliged to take a broom to it and knock some of the grit and grime loose. All in all most doormats are disposable. After they’ve served their purpose, I toss them out and get a new one. Luckily, for J.C. he’s durable like one of those Frontgate water shield entry runners, if not I would’ve dropped him long ago. Now, for the second humongous issue: Jhumar doesn’t sexually satisfy me, hasn’t ever. And before you start
letting the idea that I’m a gold-digger, user and world-class bitch take root in your minds, believe me when I say I never wanted gifts from him, except for a little pocket change every once in a blue moon. My friends and family are the ones who are heads-over-heels for the presents he tosses around and the old homeless woman I give his scarves to thinks he’s the ‘cat’s pajamas’ and that I’m too hard on him. Well it’s my life; I’m going to live the way I want and I refuse to settle. Don’t crease your brows and glare at me, so what, if on occasion I’ve asked for money, and slept with some of his contacts, only the really influential ones by the way. That’s a perk of knowing a media mover and shaker. Guys, here’s a serious news bulletin: money and power are sexy. Women you might as well admit that you want their cash and the influential people that surround your significant other, be those peripheral individuals recline in the shape of a man or woman. Did I just hear ‘bullshit’ from the men? Think about the reality of what you see around you every day. How else can you explain old, fugly men getting young, beautiful women to sleep with them? Not that J.C. is similar to King, Rourke, Crous and let’s not forget J. Howard Marshall. Jhumar has a baby-face reminiscent of the young DiCaprio or Macchio. In order to look older he constantly sports fashionable facial scruff. Being a French-Caribbean, Italian-Jew he’s tall and exotically swarthy, having thick, dark hair and mesmerizing, wolf-gold eyes. His body is leanly muscular and should be on the cover of a coffee-table book exhibiting the world’s sexiest swimmers. His junk is more than impressive, a set that most men would envy and women would love to get a hold of, if he knew what to do with his endowments. By far his mind is his greatest asset, and for all of you gathered here, know this, great sex is a good part psychology as well as physiology. I wish he’d mind-fuck me more and keep his dick in his pants. For example, If you meet J.C., you’d be fooled by that hip-hop jive he’s cultivated for his career, probably get to thinking he’s liable to bust a cap in your ass at the blink of an eye, but you’d never mistake him for a poser, although he doesn’t manufacture or deal drugs like the tabloids lead the public to believe. Those stories are all ghetto-fabulous hype to keep his money train on the tracks, and he grew up in Brentwood, so don’t be suckered by that Steve Martin, ‘I was born a poor black child’ mumbo-jumbo. Jhumar has a PhD in Cinema and Media Studies, another degree in music composition for visual media and a MBA, all from UCLA. More impressively, he makes money as if he has private access to The U.S. Treasury. I’m bragging a little aren’t I? Are you surprised? Well don’t be. As far as his looks, big Italian salami, wealth and professional power go, J.C. can’t be improved upon. What keeps him at a position beneath my Christian Louboutin, patent leather peep-toes is his lack of personal authority, his inability to dominate and thrill me. Men stop salivating and women no cringing allowed. I don’t want J. C. to tie me up, bathe me in golden showers or attach electrodes to my nipples and sensitive stadium gates. I need my man to sometimes be in control of our relationship, set the pace, make me see that his needs are equally significant to mine, on occasion more important and when I resist and oppose, I want him to make me yield. I know that’s a tall order and if those things aren’t enough for him to have to accomplish, I also want him to provide me with sudden, unexpected sensations of excitement and alright, I’ll admit I want him to frighten me, just a little bit, really get me revved up. Unfortunately, for J. C., I don’t believe he has the stones to do any of those things personally; professionally I’d be hesitant to fuck with him. In business Jhumar is highly creative, perfectionistic and quietly ruthless. He’s callously ruined people, gobbled up agencies, stolen performers and most frighteningly brought industry giants to their knees where they remain childishly weeping because of their downfall. I wouldn’t want his ‘taking it to the neck’ posture directed at me. A measure of his firm control I want, but the thought of complete annihilation doesn’t get me wet. Such an idea makes me want to fortify myself for a hard-ass, Texas-style standoff. ‘Buzz, buzz. Buzz, buzz.’ Well, that’ll be J. C. Stick around and witness his pitiful efforts to gift an O out of me. He won’t be here long. I have plans for the evening that don’t include his trying to score in my end zone. Let’s hope he’s not still in that odd, demanding mood, because if he is, Jhumar just might find himself getting the boot, literally.
Whew! I never thought that cop would cut me loose. A fast bit of explaining followed by a flash of my identification and here I am, standing just outside the condo’s open entry door, looking at the woman who has me so sprung I’m prepared to do anything to make her my love, my dusk-to-dawn, lingerie Barbie. Standing upright, I give her an easy smile and open my arms. “Boo, come here and give me a kiss.” She puts her hands on her hips and taps her foot impatiently. “What do you want J. C.?” “I’m coming in so we can talk.” “No you’re not. If you have something for me then hand it over and be on your way.” Slowly I extend my right hand to touch and caress her shoulder. “Hannah, I need to speak with you.” “Like I give a rat’s ass. How dare you disturb me at work? Don’t ever call my firm having another tantrum.” “You mean my firm. I bought that place weeks back for a little security. If you weren’t busy getting rug rash with half of Hollywood’s leading men you’d be in the know.” With an abrupt motion, I apply pressure to the area where my fingers are resting, pushing her. She staggers backwards on those sexy, black high heels I imagine as the only thing she’ll be wearing when I’m on top of her. Hannah gasps and I disregard her shocked exclamation as I swagger in demanding, “Get me a drink. I’ve worked up a thirst jacking-off to all the pictures I’ve commissioned of you whoring around.” I hear the door slam with a heavy ‘thump’ and the rapid clicking of her shoe heels across the granite floor as she follows me. Entering the living room, with my foot, I shove a Prescott chair out of my way so I can fall onto the short-end of the L-shaped sectional and stretch out my legs. As she passes beside me, I snag her hand and forcefully tug her down across my lap. Already aroused at just the sight of her, the feeling of her tight rounded ass, beneath her form hugging, black skirt, contacting Mr. Harden Happy has me grinding against her. “What the fu-” Thrusting my tongue into her mouth, I force the taffy-wrapped, specially formulated medication, that I’d cheeked before pushing the buzzer, into her mouth and hold her head in place, punishingly grinding her lips back against her teeth, while my cock jabs at her bottom, until she swallows the fast-acting capsule. Hannah heats up the situation, squirming and wiggling against me, trying to get free. Our eyes lock and I can tell she wants to pimp slap me into next week, so I shove my free hand up her leather-trimmed pencil skirt to the top of her thigh-highs, wedging my fingers between lace and skin. Her eyes narrow. I’m not holding her arms, so she swings her fist toward my deltoid. Releasing her neck, I capture her wrist in mid-flight and bite down on her lower lip. Our gazes remain meshed. Her pupils are dilating and I feel the increased rate of her breathing against my mouth as I begin to suck hungrily on her flesh. Hearing and feeling her moan, although she continues trying to twist her wrist from my tight hold, I send my fingers, which are still beneath her skirt, on a mission to discover water in the SaHannah desert. None to gently I force my fingers up the divide of her tightly clamped thighs to the crotch of her lace underwear, which are fantastically damp and warm. Her free hand rests upon my left pectoral muscle. Hannah’s fingers, seemingly with a mind of their own, stroke my nipple while the set of her brows let me know she’s at the point of wanting to cane me. Pushing the seat of her panties aside, I cross my index finger over the middle one and poke them into her, rotating my hand back and forth as much as her stubborn thighs will allow. On goes the thrusting of my hips beneath her money-maker and H.H.H. gives out a whimper that I’d never heard before. Her cunt juices are flowing faster than the waters of the Amazon, sticky, stinkin’-sweet, coating my fingers, hand and wrist. Now my horny Hannah, although still resisting, is pinching my nipple angrily, while pressing her hips down as I pump upwards. Chancing at the least one hell of a shiner, I release her wrist to unzip the back of her
off-white, jersey knit top and of course she sends her fist barreling toward my face. Wanting to avoid looking like Petey the Pit Bull from ‘The Little Rascals’, I pull my head back out of range, releasing her lips, while successfully undoing the top. “You scaly snake. Get your fingers out of me.” Hannah beats at my shoulders and chest, drawing her hips back, away from my plowing fingers. “Have you been smoking crack?” Allowing, excitingly hard blows to land on my torso, with one hand I yank her blouse down to her waist while continuing to treat her southern vineyard to the Italian corkscrew. Her black lace, bra covered breasts are heaving, the skin flushed pink, the veins across her mounds clearly visible. She wants me bad. Backhand, slap, slap, punch, Hannah is fanning my desire. “J. C., get your damn hands off me and get out of my condo.” Abruptly I stop screwing with her and unceremoniously dump her pretty-ass on the floor clarifying in a ballsy tone, “My condo, Beauty, which this Monday is subject to a rental agreement that I’ve arranged. You and your personal possessions will need to relocate.” “Where am I supposed to live? I can’t possibly find a decent place over the weekend. Do you think I’ll be sleeping in the car? I can imagine you masturbating at the thought. You can’t control me J. C., so don’t try. Life will be easier for you if you go back to being my doormat,” she finishes with narrowed eyes and a dominating tone that promises all sorts of delights, except for one, if I did as she commanded. Smilingly I inform her, “I had the car seized. Right now it’s on a flat-bed, tow truck headed for my garage.” Hannah’s right eye begins to twitch and her balled fists are resting on her thighs. “You’re a prick,” she grits out between her teeth. Nonchalantly, I polish the nails of my right hand on my navy, gingham sportshirt. “Nah, I was acting like one for a while, but it’s my time to shot call. What are ya bitchin’ about anyway? You never wanted anything I ever gave you.” “You’re damn right, moron. The one thing I wanted, you couldn’t supply. Fuckin’ nutless wonder.” She rolls off her butt to her knees, readying herself to stand up. I’m behind her doggie style before she has a clue. I mold the cheeks of her bottom, squeezing and massaging the tight muscles as she tries wiggling way. With one arm wrapping around her waist, I hold her in place, fishing in my back jean pocket for my trusty Swiss Army knife. She’s cursing and bucking, “When I get up from here I’m going to get the broom and bash the tar out of you. I control this relationship, not you and as of this minute, it’s over. I better not ever again, set eyes on your fuckin’, weak-willed, gansta wannabe ass.” Positioning myself so her hips are captive between my thighs, I demonstrate how candy ass I am. ‘Snip, snip. Snip, snip. Rip, rip.’ I cut and tear the blouse from around her waist and toss it to the floor in front of her. “Baby, you don’t want the power in this thang we got. That’s been the problem between us. It’s time I storm and seize your fort, sweet-pussy Hardcastle.” ‘Snip, snip. Snip, snip. Rip, rip.’ The skirt meets the same fate as its companion garment and I tug the material from between our bodies. Sliding back in position behind her, I begin dry humping against her black lace covered bottom. Hannah is doing a kick-ass impersonation of a pro bull trying to dislodge its rider, tossing her head back, swiveling her hips, shifting on her hands and knees. She’s getting me off alright, but not the way she wants. “Get that thing away from me J. C. or when I do get up from here, I’m going to cut it off.”
Mr. Harden Happy is in one hand and I yank her panties aside with the other. All the time I listen to her threats and curses, feeling sweat covering her back as she continues to struggle. I envision the many low-down and dirty pictures of my Hannah taking so much cock she should be a spokesperson for Zacky Farms and I stick my meatcleaver in her and begin forcefully fucking, holding her hips in place, as I pump hard and fast. She’s sopping wet. This isn’t the typical lube job she gave. “Are you this wet with those players?” “Screw you J. C.,” she bellows, trying not to slide on the polished floor as I ram into her west-end. “Aw Boo, when you talk like that, it makes me want you more.” Fully, covering her back with my chest, I place my mouth beside her ear whispering, “Hannah, you want this. It’s best you admit the truth to yourself and by the time we get back from Vegas you’ll have transformed into the woman you’ve wanted to be.” Biting down on her earlobe, I begin humming heatedly into her ear, my hands finding her breasts to grip and massage them, pinching the nipples, continuing my frenzied pump-jockey pace in-and out-of her wet slit. “Damn it. Damn it. Oh shit. You have no idea what you’re playing at,” she pants. Hannah is no longer trying to get rid of me. Her hips are smacking back, matching mine stroke for stroke. Her snatch is steaming, pulsating, and I know she’s close to revealing herself to me. Pussy contractions of this magnitude don’t lie. Ah what a shame, I think and say softly against her ear, “What’s that painting doing on the wall?” “Ahh, ooh, oh God. What kind of question is that at a time like this? For fuck’s sake, that picture is hanging,” she huffs, continuing to push her slick twat along Mr. Happy. I was at the point of no return and I could either revert to her whipping boy or forge ahead, carving out a new position for myself in her life. Decided, I murmur against her ear, “And so are you.” I pull out of her and hop to my feet. Placing the bottom of my black leather high-top on her exposed, warm-ivory buttock, I nudge her forward and she sprawls face down on the floor. “Oww, you filthy bastard,’ she screams, pushing up on her palms. I snap my fingers at her in a chop-chop cadence. “When you get up, I want that drink I asked for. You’re an inhospitable whore as well as being a lousy lay. No wonder those other guys didn’t stick around for you to suck the marrow from their bones.” If the shot heard round the world signaled the start of the Revolution, then Hannah’s blood curdling ‘aargh, aargh’ heralds the onset of her transformation and it’s beautiful. She scrambles to her feet, looking about the room, probably for something with which to clobber me. Abruptly she ceases her actions, and stands visibly shaking. I see her reach down to straighten her panties before taking a deep breath. Her skin is sex flushed pink. She then strikes a pensive pose, chin lowered, one closed hand positioned near the lower half of her face and the other resting at the curve of her hip. I know Hannah is trying to hold herself together, searching for the inner control she’s accustomed to wielding like an old-school principal’s instrument of punishment. Beginning to sway slightly, without looking in my direction, she states, “I’ll be packed and out of here by tomorrow. In the morning, I’ll tender my letter of resignation to the office. I hope this evens the score J. C., because if you come near me again, I’m likely to murder you.” Yo, yo, yo, how I love this hard-hearted woman. Watching her sway again, I ask innocently, as I close the distance between us, “Boo, are you feelin’ alright?” “Stop calling me by that ridiculous name,” she directs intoxicatedly. Raising the hand that’s nearest her face to her forehead, she sways, sways, and sways. “Damn it J. C. what did you make me swallow?” Directly behind her now, I place my hands on her shoulders and she relaxes against me to avoid sliding to the
floor. “A little something I cooked up to turn you into my Sleeping Beauty. You’re heightened physical state has sped up the drug’s onset,” I explain, holding her, needing her, knowing I had to go on to truly make her mine. “You can’t do this. Leave me alone,” she cries weakly and I feel a shudder momentarily grip her body. My Hannah doesn’t like feebleness, which is why she’d never loved me. Picking her up, I carry her to the sectional. She doesn’t resist. My sweet Boo doesn’t have the strength. I position her to recline upon the cushions. She’s still awake, just barely. Hurriedly, I divest her of her underwear, then remove her shoes and hose. Putting the red-soled, fuck-me pumps back on her feet, to fulfill my own tiny desire, I release Mr. Harden Happy once again and take position atop her body, between her thighs. She looks into my eyes; I’m swimming in an ocean of blue as she begs, “Please. Please.” “Sure Beauty, I aim to satisfy.” I dive into her sex pool and feel her wetness, so much slick viscosity that I know even without the drug she wants this. For once, my Hannah truly desires me. Kissing her forehead, down her nose, her cheeks and then lips, I thrust my tongue in and out of her mouth, just as my cock strokes back and forth in her tight cunny. Her breathing slips into a relaxed pattern and I feel her lashes fanning my face. The intervals between the open and closed positions of her lids become longer when her lashes rest against her cheeks. I feel her fingers, of one hand, lightly caress my stubbly cheek as I continue thrusting and flexing. Her lashes are set in the down position and her hand falls away from my face. Into my mouth she whispers, “Please, release me.” She’s asleep. I pull out and climb off my Hannah, because this isn’t about me bustin’ a nut. Righting my clothes, I cover her with a nearby throw and sit on the floor, beside the sectional, watching her sleep, stroking strands of red, sweat dampened hair from her brow. Never had I been allowed to see her so vulnerable and she is splendid. For all of her erotic readings, where the lead female desired surrender, Hannah fought against her cravings to be under any man’s control, but now she was under mine and I was going to prove to her that being submissive had its rewards.
Slowly coming awake, at first I give a mental stretch. My senses turn on, with everything that is sexual about J. C. invading my being. I feel the firmness of his lips moving against mine, further rousing me from my dormancy. His warm breath tastes of honeysuckle and narcissus, with hints of sandalwood that arouse me. Puffs of aromatic air, escape his nostrils, teasing my cheeks, making me shiver, summoning a somewhat more receptive Hannah Hardcastle to life. Tasting of candied plums, saffron and spices, his tongue fills my mouth, entwining with mine for an intense and lingering kiss. I’m revitalized. Remembering his rough treatment, my breasts plump up and their nipples stand at attention, so rigid they pain me as they stab into his chest. My pussy weeps, crying out for more of his manhandling. If I’m not careful, maintain being clever, I’ll lose the upper hand and my heart to him. He’d called me his ‘Beauty’, and so I am, having achieved a superb state of sexual tension and readiness that I’d never before known. Now is the opportunity for me to realize my full potential. I wonder how much he knows, what he plans to do with me. His fingers circle my areola, then twist and pinch my nipple like a stoner rolling a joint and I fear he doesn’t have the balls to take me all the way. Particularly, I’m afraid to surrender completely. It’s one thing if he’s going to be the one to finally make me submit and truly come, but wholly another to have him completely control me. As much as I want him to give me what I need, treating me to several scrumptious rounds of his big beef sausage and white gravy, I’ll oppose him because I fear uncertainty and change. With my eyes still closed, I lift my hands to caress the bristliness of his jaws and hear him sigh. His jean-covered hips, spiral against mine. My bare legs are opened wide and he’s planted between them. Denim scratches along my inner thighs, causing a fluttering in my core. I want his fingers inside me, then I need his mighty meat thermometer to test my heat. When he determines my stockpot is adequately boiling, I want him to extinguish my fire with his tongue, letting his saliva cool my lips and seep into my smoldering oven to snuff out my pilot light. Then he should impale me, stoking my fires back to life, use his tongue to fuck my snapping snatch until I’m shuddering and declaring him my main squeeze, my fatal attraction. As if reading my mind, he deepens the kiss, tonguing and tempting, hips gyrating steadily and I slide my calves up to rest across his firm, rounded buttocks, supporting the heavy weight of unfamiliar pumps against the back of his legs. I lift my pelvis into his spiraling motions, feeling his erection pulsate against my spandex covered slit. Setting forth a seductive rhythm of forward and back rocking, mixed with enticing shimmies of my hips, I hear and feel the thundering of his heart and need to see what I’m doing to him. Opening my eyes, I look into his orbs of rich, incomprehensible gold. Fuck, he’s hotter than I’ve ever admitted, mysterious and dangerous. My back bows and my pleasure box magnetizes to the steel of his cock. I sigh into his mouth, nearly climaxing. The muscled walls of my pleasure stadium are subjected to shakes and tremors the magnitude of a major earthquake. I ride them out, not wanting J. C. to undo me so easily. Abruptly, he ends our kiss, but continues stroking and teasing my nipple. With his lips mere inches above mine he grinningly announces, “You’re right on time Beauty.” Sliding my palms from the sides of his face, I trail my fingers down the column of his neck, to silk covered, muscled shoulders, where I bury my fingernails. Tightening the vice of my legs around his hips, I begin squeezing intensely. “Get off and take yourself home. If you’re lucky, I won’t turn you in for doping me and doing God only knows what else while I slept. I’ll allow you to make amends by returning my condo and car,” I state cantankerously, all the time thinking how good he feels on top of me. His eyes darken as he pinches my nipple with increasing force. “No can do, Beauty. Go ‘head, crush me some more, then scratch the fuck out of me. You drive me wild when you go all Mistress Natasha Sweet,” he
uninhibitedly admits, starting to caress and massage my thighs. To spite J. C., I loosen my grip from around his hips and plan to use my pump to push his smiling ass to the floor, when he grips each of my calves and locks me in place. The captive is now the captor. “You’re going down,” I threaten half-heartedly, as the lips of my whisper pot mouth his name, calling to him, wanting to clamp onto his big pacifier. He licks his lips, and then executes several snakelike tongue flicks before stating suggestively, “Ah Beauty, you know I love the taste of your yum-yum cake.” J. C. slides his left hand down my leg to the spike heels of my shoes, where he holds them together. Lowering his torso onto mine, he sends three fingers of his free hand beneath the crotch of my panties and into my wet slit. Immediately he starts pile driving them in-and-out and I’m on the verge of really giving voice to his name when he pulls out. Releasing the shoes, he raises his torso to look down at me as he puts his cunt juice coated fingers into his mouth and sucks them clean. I’m furiously aroused and envision myself watching J. C. undergoing a thorough cavity search. Inspired, I threaten, “As soon as I get up, I’m calling the Santa Monica police to have you carted off. A handsome devil like yourself will be thankful for that tight ass, skilled tongue and fingers when you’re serving a shower full of prison admirers.” “Boo, those costal cops will have some long ass bike rides since we’re at my place in Nevada,” he laughs out. For the first time, I look around a large Graeco-Roman inspired room I’ve never been in before. Positioned hereand-there are low sitting tables, armless chairs, large potted plants and several feet away, parallel to where we are, is a double-chaise lounge of cream and gold, identical to ours. Taking the time to note my own appearance, I see he’s dressed me in a short, sheer, hot pink negligee that strategically leaves my breasts and nipples bare. Of course, he’s shod my feet with cock teasing pink pumps. He’s been busy. “How did we get here and what time is it?” Rolling off me, he extends his hand before saying, “Me and a few of my homies stole you out of your former crib. Then I flew us here in the Cessna you use to own.” Taking his hand, I get to my feet and allow him to lead me in the direction of a gilded floor mirror. Along the way, he snags an open bottle of Rémy Martin from one of the tables. He takes a huge swallow of the spirit, then answers, “It’s four hours since you fell asleep. You look refreshed, energized. That treat I created for you worked like a charm.” I look him up and down. “You won’t be so smug when you’re doing eight years for kidnapping.” J. C. positions me to stand before him, both of us studying our reflections. He traces the circle of gold paint that surrounds my nipple, asking in a deeply enigmatic voice, “Are you afraid of me?” “You wish,” I state challengingly, unable to look away from the reflection of the living, love doll he’s fashioned. He’s had extensions added to my hair, which is now styled atop my head, maintaining the color, but adding length, so that when the tresses are let down they’ll easily brush my shoulders. My face is expertly made-up with an artist’s light touch, my attractiveness appearing natural, brows and lashes delicately darkened, big, deep-blue eyes finely outlined, cheeks bare and lips tinted blush pink. In contrast, my bare breasts are contoured to enhance their fullness and my nipples, which are the exact color of his eyes, stand out from the surrounding hot pink gossamer fabric, begging to be worshipped. Dressed like this, I can easily give the girls at the Bunny Ranch some serious competition and the six-inch, hot pink heels, I effortlessly balance on, give him the perfect alignment to my rounded bottom. Still holding the bottle of cognac, he drapes his arms over my shoulders to hang down my chest, the black silk of
his shirt coordinating handsomely with my pale skin and vibrantly colored nightie. He eases his hand down into the waistband of my g-string, and makes me thrust my buttocks back against his erection. As he teases my southern lips apart and begins circling my clit with his finger he says, “Boo, since I don’t frighten you, I’d maybe face a year max in county. But once you hear my plans, I don’t think you’ll claim I confined you against your will.” I place my palm over my pink covered mound, applying pressure to push his fingers deeper into me. With my free hand, I try to take the bottle from his, to have a long drink of liquid fire, to taste J. C.’s mouth on the glass, but he won’t let go and I give up, pouting prettily. Using my spare hand to massage his thigh, I ask, “So what’s this about?” “Me giving you some bona fide orgasms, with you letting’ loose some serious Niagara Falls water action, so I know beyond any question that I’ve satisfied you,” he answers, all the time looking into my eyes, while churning my waters with two of his fingers, his thumb circling my clit. Groaning, I shudder, inhaling the scents of expensive liquor and unchained, musk mallow masculinity, warm, sensuous and animalistic. I want him to cleave me, bend me forward and make me watch as he lays some long and hard pipe in my sex stadium. Wanting to force him into action, I ask goadingly, “Why would I want to be stuck here with you?” Hips still rocking against my ass, fingers continuing to stroke inside my snatch, he places his lips against the side of my neck and breathes out hoarsely, “It’ll be fanfuckintastic. From now until Monday you’re mine, then when this is done, if you want, I’ll cut you loose.” He was going to cut me loose, well that was damn hilarious. I have visions of the docile, dutiful and deferential man-child I’d been figuratively leading around by a spiked, leather cock leash, and laugh aloud. He may take back all the crap he bought me, but when we ended, it would be on my say-so. My burst of hilarity quickly dies and I sourly ask, “Why will four nights make a difference?” J. C. is clearly unbothered by my disrespectful joviality. He nuzzles my neck, licks and bites my earlobe, before pulling his fingers out of my sportsman’s arena. Raising his wet digits to his nose, he inhales, before lowering them to his mouth to bathe them with his spiraling tongue. I watch, my coochie doing a hardcore rendition of the Pogo, and when J. C. finishes he answers, “Because I know you masturbate while fantasizing about fucking more men than the Empress Messalina did during her competition against Sylla.” In the mirror, I see my mouth form a perfect O, as my head falls back against him. The shudders and clenching begin and feel like they’ll never end. My knees buckle and I feel him steadying me, lending me his strength. Damn it, he was looking pleased by my reaction. “Ah Boo, that was hotter than all the ones I’ve seen in the pictures of you knob-jockeying those Hollywood players. Damn, I got a real one and I’ve hardly done shit. Maybe this Messalina thing will be too much for you. Do you think you’re up to getting twenty-six men to blow their wads?” My heart is hammering, my head spinning. “J. C., are you serious?” “Damn straight,” he declares, looking directly into the eyes of my reflection. I will my body to calm, but the sincerity of his gaze, the support and acceptance I find there unnerves me more. “You want me to compete against a prostitute?” He kisses my cheek, the side of my neck and with his unencumbered hand, strokes the sensitive underside of my breast, calmly stating, “Naw Boo, I want you to pulverize Messalina’s record while I watch. You’ll do twenty-six men in twelve hours.” J. C.’s hand continues on its southerly path, his gaze that’s once again fixed on mine is unwavering.
His expression tells me he’s serious and the rivulets of feminine liquid wetting the creases of my thighs, which his fingers are now slipping through, announce my interest and I’m torn. For all my domineering treatment of J. C., I now believe I never really want to hurt him, not in a way that may mean we won’t survive. I squeeze the lean muscle of his thigh, wanting to assure him that he doesn’t have to continue and in response, he gives me a slight incline of his head, a sign that we’ll proceed if I agree. He’s seen pictures of me with other men, knows what I’m capable of but this will be a different story, IMAX 3D quality, with different rules and consequences. I don’t want to make the decision that could ruin us, so I ask, hoping he’ll change his mind, “Will you be okay actually seeing men nut inside me?” He takes hold of my right hand and inserts it between our parted legs so I can feel the heat and hardness of his imposing erection. Into my ear he admits, “I’ll be turned on by the sights and sounds of you making them weak, breaking and leaving them wanting more.” I cup his balls and cock, holding and comforting, trying to encourage myself. A little sadly, I decide. “Okay, when do I start?” J. C. turns me to face him, stroking my hair and caressing my cheek, his golden eyes studying my expression. “Listen closely and you’ll hear music coming up from downstairs. Your party’s been blastin’ for hours. The first guy is right outside and with a press of a button, men will be breakin’ their damn necks to get up here. I expect you to throw down some mad, Jenna Jameson skills, have them ninety-percent-to-nuttin’ before they get inside your pleasure dome. Then I want you to ruin them, so you’re all they think about. I want them willing to do or say anything to get with you again.” Ah, shit, this was the J. C. I had to be careful of, the media monster, the urban myth, the man who took no prisoners. Growing wetter by the second, I ask, “Do you know them?” He lifts his hand to take pins from my hair so it cascades around me. “Some, but I want you to have the danger you crave, so others are relatively unfamiliar to me, but are associates of associates, who are Daddy Warbucks rich. They’ve all cleared medical evaluations and everyone of them will wear a condom. And by the way, you won’t service them orally or anally.” I give a frown of confusion at his final stipulation, placing my palms on his chest. “I don’t think Messalina had to compete with such limitations.” His eyes narrow and he takes another big gulp of cognac. Standing, staring at me for several seconds, he finally says in a threatening tone, “For weeks I’ve studied pictures of you with men in positions I didn’t know existed, but two things became mother fucking clear almost from the start. First, you never give head. Second, a man getting any backdoor action wasn’t ever going to happen, not a finger, tongue or dick.” “This is different. The thought of taking a stranger’s cock in my mouth and sucking it until he forgets his own name, makes me hot,” I attempt to torment him, so he’ll put on the brakes. He sucks down some more bottled courage. “No Boo,” he states in a tone that doesn’t invite argument. For our sakes, I try anyway. “Wouldn’t seeing a big trucker drive the distance along my Cadbury Road excite you?” J. C. grips my chin and glowers at me. His eyes dull and darken while his testosterone deepened voice rumbles forth, “Pay attention Hannah. Your mouth and ass belong to me, if any man tries claiming my territory he’ll pay.” He’s giving off enough androgen that his stimulatingly musky fragrance sets my beaver to itching, needing to be scratched, by him, my man. The longer I prolong the ultimate satisfaction, though, the greater my pleasure will be. Yanking my face out of his hold, I snap, “So I’m to be a selective whore because you say so?”
Deftly, he uses one hand to undo each side of my breakaway thong, and slowly pulls the pink material from between my thighs. He then raises it to his nose and lips, first sniffing then kissing the crotch. I watch him tie the scrap of color and sequins around a front belt loop of his jeans, and then he seizes my mouth, all tongue and temper. When he releases me, I’m breathless. With a mysterious smile and an unfathomable wink, he says, “If that’s what you want to think. Now, get your fine ass back on that lounge, cause it’s playtime.” J. C. motions towards the door and I see a handsome, blonde-haired, blue-eye man has silently entered. He’s dressed only in black, CK poly-spandex briefs and his cracking tool is ready for work. In a flash I sum him up, know what he wants, as I have with every man I’ve ever been with except one. Not speaking a word, I switch over to the lounge and kick off the heels. Stretching out on my side so I’m facing where J. C. is now sitting, watching from the other lounge, I call out to our first performer, “Well, Big Ben come on over and delve into my apple box.” He doesn’t have to be invited twice. Standing beside the lounge, he shucks his briefs and his large cock springs forth. I reach out and stroke it, massaging his balls, groaning out my admiration, “You’re huge. I bet you’ll spread my walls nice and wide.” Placing his hand over mine, he joins in the tactile worship of Benjamin and the twins, excitedly asking, “Do you think you can take it all?” Still stroking and massaging his tool, demurely, I look up into his eyes. “Why don’t we find out and if it starts to hurt when you’re putting it in I’ll tell you and you’ll stop, right?” “Of course,” he promises hungrily and hands me the foil-wrapped condom he’s been holding. I open the package and have him sheathed within seconds. Falling back onto the lounge, I draw my knees up to the sides of my golden nipples saying, “If you’re able to get that big thing inside me, I want you to go long and deep.” “Yes. Oh yes,” he pants, staring at the entrance of my prized box. Positioning himself above me, he wraps his hands around the soles of my feet. I hold his gaze as he slides the head of his cock against my opening. Tightening my muscles so he can’t get in, he’s treated to the sensation of forcing me, having to knock at my door several times, as I cry out, “Oh, oh, it hurts. Ow, ow, please stop. You’re too big.” “Naw, just relax. All you need to do is loosen up a bit and I’ll be in before you know it.” “No,” I cry and use my palms to push against his upper thighs. He shoves harder, making my knees crush my breasts as he rams his knob against my opening and I let out a frightened scream as I allow him to get in about half an inch. “That’s good, so good. Now take just a little more,” he pants with his eyes closed. I know, for at least a few seconds, he’s lost in his own fantasy, so I turn my eyes to J. C. who’s sitting, sipping cognac, studying me and I see him mouth the phrase, “Finish him.” I blow a kiss in his direction, wishing he was the one inside me and I skillfully obey his command. Redirecting my full attention to Big Ben who’s still basically locked out, but trying his damnedest, pumping and grinding away against me, I shudder and whimper, “You’re just too big. Take it out. It hurts so much.” “Just a bit more and I’ll be in baby, I swear,” he pants, sweat dotting his brow and upper lip. He gives a mighty shove of his muscled hips and I unclench my vagina, announcing his successful entry with a loud cry and several whimpers of mock misery. I feel him slide in to the point where his balls spank my bottom.
Big Ben then pulls all the way out and rams it back home to which I moan and grip his thighs. As he’s repeating his actions, this time when he sliding back in, I set my squeeze box into action and milk an orgasm out of him with three successive tight clenches, and a dramatic, “Ah Benny, nobody can make me take it like you do.” He collapses on top of me and motions to kiss me on the mouth, I quickly turn away so his lips contact my cheek. My eyes meet J. C.’s and he’s looking pissed. Whisperingly, I tell my boy toy it’s time for him to go. J. C. is moving in our direction and I’m off the lounge and blocking his path before he can do anything stupid. Big Ben’s in his briefs and calling out his digits to me as he’s departing the room. I look up into my man’s eyes, caressing his chest with my palms and remind him, “You started this. He only wanted a kiss and I handled the situation. Don’t get crazy over something so small. I’m playing by your rules and so should you.” He captures my wrists and forcefully pulls me against him. I brace myself for a punishing mouth match, but the kiss he delivers is long, loving and tender. When he sets me free he calmly asks, “Are you ready for the next go round?” “Yes,” I reply, with a nod, feeling bewildered. “Alright Boo,” he says, just as the door opens and in marches a drop dead gorgeous Taye Diggs look alike that has my mouth watering, until I see the three hip-hop hoochie mamas that are right on his trail. The hunk waits by the lounge, but those skanks storm the room in a cloud of cheap perfume and push me away from J. C., surrounding him as if he’s the main attraction at the Tagata Shrine. A dime store Shakira is unbuttoning his shirt and eyeballing me like I’m supposed to be afraid of her skeezy ass. Another one, who appears to have been scoping out Nicki Minaj’s castoffs, poses beside him with her hand cupping his ass. The last tramp, a bottle-blonde, with monster truck sized boobs, kneels before him and unzips his pants. Aw, hell naw, I think and ask between gritted teeth, “So J. C., it’s gonna be like that, huh?” He gives me an infectious grin just as Big Bazoombas takes him into her mouth, immediately starting to suck and slurp away noisily. “It’s all good, Boo. All mighty damn good,” he declares as he grips that bitches head and pumps into her mouth. Staring at them, I want to scream. I seriously think about diving on her and pulling her off my man. However, I have a better plan, one to let him know I wasn’t to be played with.
When I first offered up this challenge, Sting’s ‘If You Love Somebody Set Them Free’, had been billowing into the room. I’d hoped to give my Boo the message that my feelings for her made me strong enough to give her everything she needed to be sexually satisfied, endless companions having fantasies to live out. She hadn’t noticed. Now that my Killer Kittens, hard-ass girls who’d do everything to ensure my safety and happiness, have tried entertaining me, Hannah won’t look my way. She’s totally focused on fucking with a vengeance and the things she’s done boggle the mind. Rarely, have I taken my eyes off her. Not even when one of the girls had been busily jogging her head up-anddown in my lap, after swallowing a mouthful of crème de menthe, had my gaze wavered, my cock remaining rigid. So baby kitten had lubed up her palms and latched on to my pole, grasping the underside at the base with one hand and had pulled her way up, until her hold slipped past the head. Immediately, she’d alternated hands and resumed her tugging, tighter and faster. She’d kept on rope climbing, changing the tautness and momentum of the grips until her palms had grown flushed from the friction. I still hadn’t blasted. So she’d given up goodnaturedly. When the girls had come in, as part of this orchestrated plan, and I’d tenderized my meat between my main kitten’s teeth, it had been to get Hannah ready to go postal and it’s worked. My Boo is using her fury to shoot down, no, vaporize Messalina’s record. In six hours, she’s busted out twenty-four men and hasn’t broken a sweat. They’d been mostly the standard, missionary fucks, but a few standout in my mind for various reasons. The first young guy, the only son of a major Hollywood Executive, had been an easy triumph, ready to jizz just staring at her burning bush, which partially concealed the dewy, pink petals of her wild orchid. His being hung like John Holmes, had apparently given Hannah the ammunition she’d needed to slay him. Most men want to hear they’re huge and feel initial resistance when they come calling. That was no big to-do for Hannah since she can tighten up so much the Jaws of Life would break trying to pry open her doors. The reason he remained in my thoughts was that he’d been prepared to loose his livelihood for violating one of the maxims outlined to those selected for this tournament: no kissing, no oral, no anal. The initial bull in the ring and he’d underscored a time old, masculine problem, the rise of Willie the witless thinker. Apparently totally wasted on Hannah’s premium conchita, he’d tried to lock lips with her. I’ll have to deal with him or come off looking like a punk-ass chump and before I knew it, fools worldwide would be thinking they could hustle me, bend me over for a fast fuck anytime they pleased. They’d be dead wrong. Only Hannah makes me weak, and he definitely wasn’t my Boo. In a few days I’ll sic the kittens on him and when they’ve finished repeatedly subjecting him to their specialized member’s only bounce and some hardcore behind the scene direction, he won’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Having been paired up with my four main players, when I needed to know what was going on at his dad’s studio, he’d readily give up the goods. With contestant two, a high ranking DEA official, closely resembling T. D. from ‘Private Practice’ Hannah had curled into the fetal position so he could admire and examine her everlasting wound before he’d situated his head south to her north, scissoring his legs around hers. He’d started cutting in to her, their thatches scratching, occasionally elevating her upper leg so he’d see his blade carving her out. He’d been facing my direction so I witnessed his O, O, O, O, oh baby expressions, of an intensity, which revealed that he’d castrate himself if he thought he’d never have another chance with her and for that privilege, he’d turn a blind eye if ever a certain someone’s shipments showed up on DEA radar. A gold-medal gymnast, the son of two Senators, had Hannah doing a complicated floor routine. He’d lifted her up into his arms with her hands around his neck and legs encircling his hips. Skillfully getting his Trojan uniformed cock into her Coliseum, he’d instructed her to let go of his neck and arch backwards until her hands rested on the floor. She’d done so and her legs had unlocked from around his ass. He’d immediately started hammering her, thrusting and plowing, the force of his motions making the muscles in her arms visibly tremble, the ends of her hair sweeping the floor like a broom, as he worked her rigorously to cries of, “Keep your legs
lifted. Now give me a single handstand, while I push into you, pump it in, push and pump until I come.” He had, to a loud round of applause from the Kittens and when Hannah had gotten right side up, she’d treated him to a double backwards flip with a double twist. That nut had buttered again, getting so weak for wanting another workout with her that he’d begged and pleaded until my Blonde Kitten had helped him the hell out of the room. Score three more for me, him and his bill passing parents. For a Mormon Bishop, Hannah had positioned herself between two of the room’s eight architectural columns, hands encircling one pillar as she stuck her hips out seductively in the direction of the other so he could raise his post into her temple. He’d positioned himself between her straddled legs, stroking her arched back, before grasping her hips to shove roughly into her, demanding, “Baby, tell daddy you’ve been a dirty little bitch.” She’d told him she was his naughty, nasty whore, who loved to suck cock and swallow cum until she choked on the sour spunk, and like that, his shaft had shot forth its own man-juice before it came crashing down. Meth in Utah was a magic carpet ride for a mess of Mormons and the Bishop wouldn’t mean-mouth the dope as long as Hannah helped him channel his incestuous lust. The next performer, who’d stood out, had done so, not because of a near violation, but because of his animalistic desire and the way Hannah had managed him, which highlights why I’m stuck on her. For me a plaything can be either something easily disposed of, rarely enjoyed or a treasure you invite others to delight in because of its prized value and unique functionality. My Hannah, like the kittens, ranks high in the last category, a beautiful, sex driven commodity. Additionally, her ability to speed read men, before they’d even sampled from her snackbar, makes me cherish her above all others, which brings me back to guy number eight. He’d been a boyish, brown-haired, five-six jockey, weighing about a buck twenty-five. Walking over to where she’d been sitting on the chaise, without a word, he’d started rubbing his nose all around hers, then over her face. This behavior progressed to his nipping at her ears and neck, before he’d toppled her backwards. They’d wrestled around wildly, until she’d escaped from beneath him, racing over to one of the ladder-back chairs. Positioning herself there, Hannah had looked over her shoulder, winking and wiggling her naked ass, at which point he’d let out a roar and charged her. She’d given forth a couple of high-pitched squeals and I swear, what sounded like an actual whinny, before dashing off, making him chase her around the room to the lounge, where he roughly tackled her, flipping her on her stomach. At that point, I’d reached beneath the chaise for my Glock and the kittens, ready to pounce, had gotten to their feet. He’d straddled Hannah’s hips, then leaned forward, nipping and biting at her neck, breathing heavily through his nose, snorting and neighing. Then Saddle-up Sam had jockeyed his horse’s handbrake against her three times, as she’d repeatedly lifted her buttocks, before he’d gotten into the allowed lane. I’d finally taken my hand from beneath my seat, but the kittens had stayed poised to strike. Racing at a dead heat and rounding the stretch, Hannah had made more of those wild mare sounds as he’d bitten at her shoulders and neck. When she’d begun bucking beneath him, he’d started riding her hard and I mean backbreaking brutal. Pump, thrust, buck, then whinny, roar, neigh, pump, thrust, buck and on it went, with the lounge lurching beneath the force of his passion. So focused was he on winning the race that within fifteen seconds he’d thrown back his head, letting out a shrill squeal, while pushing her down into the cushion, leaving her equine goal unfulfilled. Falling forward, he’d bitten at her neck, his glutes visibly aquiver at his realized vision. After he’d pulled out and climbed off, he’d sniffed at her buttocks, nipping each one in turn, before leaning down to rub noses with her. Then he’d finally spoken in a cocksure tone, inviting her to his Kentucky farm for an indefinite stay. Hannah’s response had been a final wink and he’d galloped out with a twenty-million dollar smile. I’d made a mental note to take her to Churchill Downs where we’d bet on him. For her, he’d set a new winning record, netting me a stable full of Franklins, easy money for a game well organized and enacted. When a star player was sprung on my Boo, there was nothing he wouldn’t do. Hell, I’m living proof of that truism. Being a media mogul and manufacturer of a superior recreational product, I remain standing because of the
dynamic company I keep. With Hannah finally at my side, I’ll never topple from my thrones. For added security, a Vice Admiral had been her nineteenth challenge. If the shit ever hit the fan I wouldn’t be relying on trigger happy, coked up kids with more bullets than sense, nor would I be cut down in a hail of gunfire a la Tony Montana. I’d have military strength surrounding my flanks, the U. S. Commander In Chief on speed dial. In a war I wanted the very best, the most cutthroat at my back and there was no mistaking that the flag officer that had come to dock in Hannah’s harbor, was an authoritative force to steer clear of. The erect carriage and high stakes player’s stare commanded attention and respect. His powerfully athletic physique resembled a much younger man’s and that body and bearing, combined with a thick thatch of silver hair and maritime blue eyes had made the kittens ogle him with interest. My Boo hadn’t been immune to his appeal either. All the other men before him had been made to approach her, but one look at him and she’d regally gotten to her feet, naked as the day she was born, showing him her gold stars, and the pleasure craft she had at her disposal for his enjoyment. Marching up to him, she’d taken each of his hands in turn, first kissing their backs, then rotating them to worship his palms. When she’d finished, Hannah had knelt, slowly pulling his white boxers down his muscled legs to the floor, and old Popeye had sprang forth, standing at attention, ready for battle. She’d stroked and played with his sailor’s cap until he was thrusting into her palm, then she’d dutifully lifted each of his feet free of the garment, before rising with shorts in hand, folding, then neatly carrying them as he’d led her to a ladder back chair. There he’d taken a seat, removing the fabric parcel from her and placing it aside, before he’d reverently said, “Ocean Queen, I’ve been adrift for awhile. May I come aboard your vessel and take refuge within your cockpit?” She’d reached out and caressed his dimpled cheek, asking with a smile, “Admiral, shall I accommodate you ahead or astern?” “Astern, Empress. I’ll set our course and act as Helmsperson, while having your winches at hand for manipulation, as the storm rages,” he’d commanded, cupping and stroking her breast, before trailing his hand down her flat stomach. Encircling her waist, he’d drawn her belly to his lips, licking around the navel, before spiraling his tongue into its center. His free hand had run up the curve of her hip to her rounded buttock, squeezing and massaging the firm flesh. She’d given a shudder of pleasure, holding his head close and stroking his hair. “Aye aye Admiral,” she’d whispered, lowering her lips to the top of his head, cradling his body against hers. I’d been mesmerized. Though close with Jockey Sam, Hannah hadn’t once given up an O during this competition but for the Admiral, she’d awarded me a glimpse of something greater: genuine affection. My plaything was getting into the game, trying to mind fuck me, the way she’d done with every Tom in her life, every Dick that had entered this room, every Harry who didn’t possess enough common sense to realize that in order to win Hannah, they’d have to break her first. The Admiral, her obvious weakness, would be her pawn and mine. I’d determined having him associated with her would benefit my enterprise. She’d decided that being real with a powerful man, who could easily have me erased from the planet, might push my buttons. She’d been right and wrong. Right, seeing them together had depressed a control that had made me hard as a damn brick, erecting into maximum readiness my I only want to fuck Hannah missile. Wrong, their being together would never irritate me. I wanted them to enjoy each other so I’d score points each way. I plan to make her mine forever and as long as I have her, I’ll have him. Nestled snugly against the sensually addictive curves of my Boo’s body, it had taken the Admiral several seconds to compose himself, and when he had, he’d unwrapped his arms from around her to sheath his sword. Helping her climb astride his lap, facing away from him, he’d outstretched his legs, wrapping his hands around her wrists, and she his, so she’d had leverage to draw the balls of her feet back to rest on the seat’s edge. Leaning the full weight of her upper body forward, Hannah had become the sail, mast and helm of his craft and he’d precisely propelled himself into her cockpit, while pulling back on her arms, controlling her buoyancy as she bobbled up
and down. Initially the trip had been calm, with the two of them effortlessly gliding along with the Admiral occasionally calling out admiringly, “You handle beautifully.” Pulling her back, until her head had rested against his muscled shoulder, he’d released her wrists and clutched her breasts in his big hands, first palming, and then tweaking her erect nipples. “Such superbly designed winches, so easy to crank and adjust,” he’d complimented her. Hannah had turned her face into his neck, declaring, “I was specially constructed for your seafaring pleasure.” She’d pressed her lips to the sturdy column of his throat, all the while stroking her fingers down his side, to the curve of his muscled hip. This play had made the kittens frisky and since I was useless to them, they’d started in on each other. The older two, who sat nearest me, my blond and brunet, had tongued each other, Raven’s hands overflowing with a treasure trove of her fuck-buddy’s tits. The blonde had sent her fingers swimming in her shipmate’s ocean for a bit of pearl diving, judging by the whimpers and sighs coming from my dark Kitten’s throat. Baby Kitty Kat, sitting a short distance away, had been left to play by herself, stroking and cupping one breast while her other hand had been busy beneath her skirt. The whole time her eyes had remained fixed on the Admiral. While I’d been checking out the nearby naughtiness, he’d gotten Hannah back into her sailing position, taking up more of a turbulent swaying motion, his powerful pumping, growing frenzied as he’d called out, “Ocean Queen, we’re heading into rough waters. I’ll make sure you come to no harm.” Hannah had been bouncing around on his cock, head whipping from side to side, back bowed with her arms still being pulled by her Navy Man. “Oh yes Admiral, steer me to the end of this fantastic voyage. I trust you within the heart of my vessel,” she’d professed, gripping his thighs with her own and the Admiral had suddenly stopped moving, gripping her hands tighter in obvious concern. Hannah had shot him a sexy stare from beneath sultrily lowered lashes, announcing passionately, “Oh no, it appears you’re locked in the steering compartment. If you adjust my knobs, I’m sure you’ll get free to complete our trip.” The Admiral had released her wrists and sat up. Cupping her breasts, he’d fitted himself tightly against her back, rotating his hands across her globes. Hannah had smiled over her shoulder at him, saying, “Autopilot is engaged, sit back and enjoy the ride.” She’d started pounding down on his lap, her cockpit latching on to him in a manner of which he’d apparently never experienced before, because he’d buried his face against her back, clutching her to him tightly, giving a muffled shout of, “Sweet Lord, how are you doing that.” Hannah had kept on bouncing her treasure chest on his key, panting out, “Sailor, you haven’t felt anything yet.” Grinding her hips down on his battle sword, the sucking noises her sea grotto made had caught and held everyone’s attention. The Admiral had gibbered and groaned, goddamn gurgled at one point before finally gushing out his come, crying out his complete satisfaction with his Ocean Queen. Palming her breasts, he’d held her in place as he reined kisses across her back, the corded muscles of his hips and thighs convulsing in the aftermath. Hannah had melted into his embrace, murmuring worshipfully to him until the Admiral, casting a guarded look in my direction, had reluctantly released her. Helping her from his lap, he’d sat caressing the top of her head, while she’d redressed him. Then hand-in-hand they’d walked to the door where he’d asked if she’d see him the next time he was landlocked. Without hesitation, my Boo, had said she would, raising her lips to his invitingly. Being a Man of Honor, he’d looked my way for permission to proceed and I’d given a nod to what I thought would’ve been a quick peck. No, siree, those two had looked longingly into each other’s eyes, with the Admiral cupping her face in his big hands, as Hannah had rested her palms on his bare, muscled chest, their lips moving together slowly, mouths opening for some flirtatious French action that had Baby Kitten sighing in desire. When they’d finally ended the embrace, the Admiral had left the room with an uncommon stoop to his shoulders.
Baby Kitten had looked ready to chase after him and offer up her own brand of Cutty Sark. But as with all my crew, work came first, so in her seat she’d stayed, looking longingly at My Boo, who stood for a time with her fingers raised to her lips in wonder, her eyes dreamy. I’d known she hadn’t only been thinking of him. Her reflections had been dominated by the one man who’d made her meeting the Admiral possible, and I was that lucky buck. Winning tournament Hannah Hardcastle wasn’t going to be effortless or peaceful, but a little more of this combined with a bit more of that out of this world sex stuff that she craved and I’d have her, game, set, match. I smelled victory in the air and the pending success held the faint coconut fragrance of her enchanting pussy willow. So here I sit, stone-cold sober, getting ready to watch her take down player twenty-five. He’s a Cuban Conan, buffed-up, badass, packing a little smokie sized boneroni, whose been trying to hustle in on my Cali ice capades, but of course he doesn’t know it. He’s been boldly dipping his mini bent stick where it doesn’t belong and now it’s time he’s melted. He won’t even feel the initial heat before he’s already dissolving in a puddle at my feet. Hannah’s hotbox, her Messalina fantasy and her customary domination of me will be the torch of his dissolution. She may have a slight idea that in this sex laced fiction of hers; she’s my submissive, serving up whom I say and what I allow to be dished out. But she doesn’t know that by Monday I’ll be declaring ‘Checkmate’ on her fine, nut-crunching behind. In the time we’ve been together, she’s yet to fully figure me out and she never will. Hannah can read most, but I’m written in a language she’s yet to master. To all but my dedicated crew, I’m more mysterious than Keyser Soze. Verbal telling Rabin in ‘The Usual Suspects’, “The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist. And like that… he’s gone,” sums up the way I roll. Even though my sweet Boo has my banjo string so knotted up only she can strum it, she doesn’t grasp what I’m capable of, because before, she’d only been treated to a snippet of my odyssey. After this weekend though, she’ll have a better idea. For three years I’ve been living out my fantasy with her, having a ball wracking broad lay some hard rock maple wood to my ass, and it’s felt damn good. Without the discipline, the debasement, I run the risk of getting too conceited, thinking my shit don’t stank, and oops, before I know it, I’ll end up mugging for a rich idiot downfall of the year photo. I’ll never go out like that, skating on my own glass, having some chatty-Cathy, cathouse, hedge-creeper, gabbing my business to the tabloids because I won’t leave my wife for her. Even worse, have the woman who’s vowed to stand by me, serve my filberts up, with a Connecticut Suckfest Martini on the side, to the divorce lawyers, because I occasionally take my dog for a run in a different park. Hannah is my solution. I’ll give her what her heart and snatch desire. In return, she’ll absolutely give herself to me, along with a bit of O, a bra full of tit-for-tat, and any man or woman I need on my winning team. She’ll deliver what I need. She always has, because she loves me, although she tries to hide her feelings. By now, her senses have already told her I can’t stand this Cuban chocolate-chimney sweep. To her, the why isn’t important. The fact that he never intended to adhere to my guidelines and that he only ever gets off one of two ways has also been added to her sexual assassin’s kit. Combined with the other knowledge, she can’t help but realize he’s high, been cracking the ice, smoking meth immediately followed by crack, for so long that he stinks of that shit, sweat pouring off him like rain coming down in the Congo. If he’s slept in the last seventy-two hours I’ll blow my own bazooka and I sure as hell not leaning forward. On the slim and short chance that he’s able to get an erection, she knows making him come will be a tedious chore. Well what was Hardhearted Hannah to do? Try to play me of course, with a partner who was speed skating on a thawing lake, an opportune accident just waiting to happen, a prelude to the next segment of Hannah Give Me An O, when she'll physically become my plaything.
THE END OF PT. 1
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