Then the pulse of her body changes from the rhythmic push and pull of my cock thrusts into erratic spasms of pleasure. She squeals, gritting perfect teeth between wide lips. I feel her juice gush over my cock, slamming out of her. Her * tightening so sweetly against the base of my dick that it takes every muscle in my body to hold back.
Her legs drop from my waist and back onto the ground. Now it’s my turn. I grip her hair in my fist and push her head down towards my cock, and she willingly obliges. She rips off the condom and starts using her mouth. If I thought her * was sweet, her lips are even sweeter. She wraps them around the head of my dick, taking my balls in her hand, kneading them like she’s conjuring me to come inside her mouth. Her tongue presses up against the curves of my cock like she’s sculpting it.
“Suck it,” I say. And she does.
I have my hand on her head, but she doesn’t need any direction, she knows exactly what she needs to do. She’s moaning and stroking herself with her free hand as she sucks, and pretty soon I’m so hot that the second she opens those blue eyes and looks up at me from beneath the strands of her straight blonde hair, I come between the erotic redness of her lips. She licks my cum from around her mouth, her eyes half-closing with sweet pleasure, smiling as she rolls it around in her mouth before swallowing like it’s a vintage wine getting her drunk.
She stands up and pulls the strap of her dress back over her shoulder while I button my fly. Once we’ve adjusted our clothes and set ourselves right we look at each other through now sober eyes, acknowledging a job well done.
I nod towards her torn panties, lying in the center of the alley.
“Sorry about that.”
Her eyes narrow into cat-like slits of the brightest blue.
“You have nothing to be sorry about.” And then she slinks away, before I can even ask for her number as a courtesy. Not that I do second dates— if that is, in fact, what we just had.
“My kind of girl,” I think, “if I had a kind.”
Continue reading Insatiable by JD Hawkins
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BOOTYCALL
Chapter 1
Dylan
Movie reviews are bullshit, but I like to think the one that said I have the 'eyes of a man before the kill and the smile of one who enjoys it' got it right.
At least tonight, anyway.
I’ve spent almost the entire day working out, and though there’s a dull ache flowing through my body, there’s also that tingle of electricity I get whenever I stand still for too long. A twinge in my muscles that makes me want to move, to find some action. Luckily I know all the right places to find it.
I step out of the shower and towel myself off as I walk into the bedroom, grabbing the beer I left on the desk and downing all of it. It’ll take a lot more than beer to cool off the energy that’s gathering momentum inside of me though. There’s a song with a slow beat and a growling guitar playing, and the dusty light of a dying LA sun highlighting parts of my room through the blinds. I grab my phone as I settle on the edge of the bed and spin through the contacts.
I pause before hitting dial on a friend. I could dress sharp and head out to the bars of Los Angeles, get plenty drunk, and see where my instincts lead me – most likely my place or hers – but that’s not what I want tonight. I love the thrill of the chase, but I’m ready for action right now.
Then there’s ‘Hot Ass,’ ‘Kinky Blonde,’ ‘Finger Sucker,’ ‘Leggy Redhead,’ and all the other girls with talents memorable enough to give them a special place in my contacts, but even that won’t cut it.
Tonight I want something dirty. Something new. Something a little dangerous. My body’s thirsting for a new taste.
I walk through the long hallway and down the staircase that runs to the gigantic den of the mansion, big and empty but for the expensive toys and random beer bottles lying around. I open the BootyCall app on my phone and it presents me with a big green button, the word ‘chat’ written across it like a big understatement. I swipe it with my thumb and hold the phone to my ear.
“Hey,” comes a dark, husky voice on the other end. Now this is more like it. I pour myself some of the whiskey I keep on the coffee table and stretch out on the couch.
“Hello there.”
“So. What you looking for?” she says, making it clear what she’s looking for herself.
“I’m not sure. But I’ll know when I find it.”
She laughs, and it sounds like she’s making love to the phone.
“I like your accent,” she says. “Where you from?”
“I’m Irish.”
“Ooh,” she coos appreciatively. “You got money?”
It’s not my favorite question, but hey, this is Hollywood after all. If I didn’t fuck girls who said stuff like this I’d be a monk here.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling, “I’m fucking loaded. You got a nice rack? Since we’re asking personal questions and all.”
“Thirty-four double-dees. As good as money can buy.”
Again, it’s a weird turn of phrase, but I’ve heard worse.