First Date with Pisarro

From the novel Double Blind

Pisarro’s getting cryptic on me. Her email reads, Map to my condo follows. 7 p.m. Walk right in (don’t knock). Report to the kitchen for instructions.

            It’s a new-looking building, three blocks uphill from the main strip of San Carlos. The layout’s a little wacky. From the front gate, I have to walk downstairs, then take an elevator three stories back up. I’m wandering the walkway, trying to figure out the numbering system, when the next door takes an irrational leap to Pisarro’s address.

            I do what I’m told and barge right in, a clean entryway of large white tiles and black grouting. The tiles continue leftward into the kitchen, a modern confabulation of blondewood cabinets and gunmetal appliances. At the right is a tiled counter separating kitchen and dining room; this is where I find my instructions, written on the back of a postcard from New Orleans.

Drink a half cup of coffee (warming on coffeemaker behind you). I want your nerve endings open. Report to mantelpiece for further instructions.

I take my java to the living room, divided from the dining room by a stand-alone fireplace. Note number two is on the back of a postcard from Milan, taped to a long, barbecue-style lighter. I sit on the couch before a smoked-glass coffee table (balanced on the back of a bronze female nude) and read the following:

Light the Duraflames in the fireplace. Find the CD player and press play. Adjourn to my balcony, enjoy the view, then enter the door to the right. Proceed to the number one. Do not remove your clothes until you see red. Do not speak.

The Duraflames start up easily. The CD player produces Pavarotti. I carry my coffee to the balcony, which provides a stunning view: the downtown strip, the train station, the downbending arch of the San Mateo Bridge, the East Bay a band of rhinestones shimmering in the cold. I finish my coffee, Pavarotti telling his poet’s life to Mimi on the garret floor. I toy with the idea of stopping right here. My destiny lies on the far side of this door; how deliciously tantalizing to leave it unopened, to leave it perfect. I’m fooling no one. I turn the knob; I walk in.

I’m expecting candlelight; I get a lamp, casting the room in sepia. On a large bed, over a spread of gold and copper, lies a black form. The head-piece is a kind of mesh, allowing breath, but the rest is thicker. I sit on the edge of the bed and find that the bodysuit is spotted by numbered patches. I touch the fabric and find that it’s velvet.

“We-ell…”

“Sh!” A single, harsh spurt. She’s serious. I raise an apologetic hand, and proceed to number one.

It’s a six-inch square over her stomach, held at each corner by a knot of string. I pull them loose and lift the fabric to reveal a field of light olive skin, marked by a tangle of cubic snakes. A crossword! I notice a clear filament, tied to one corner of the opening, trailing all the way off the bed. When I pull it, a black pen peeks over the bedspread and crawls my way. It’s a permanent marker – evidently, Dr. Pisarro wants this memento to last.

But what of clues? I search the opening for more filaments, then I notice the patch of fabric, its inner skin tattooed with words:

1.        Pepper __________

2.        Spanish explorer

3.        Prurient literature

4.        Cupid’s weapon

5.        Dependable

6.        Nibble

7.        Painting

I fill in Grinder, Pisarro, erotica, arrow, reliable, bite and art, holding steady on my quivering canvas as she fights the tickles. I blow my letters dry and proceed to number two.

Number two is a half-sock on her left foot. I pull it off to liberate five pedicured tootsies and a slip of paper reading Dresser. Upon said dresser I find five colors of nail polish, and set carefully to my work. After ten minutes, Pisarro’s piggies are silver, bronze, emerald, hot pink and metallic blue – a strange array if ever I saw one. I blow them dry and run a finger down the middle of her sole. She squirms in protest.

I locate number three on her right forearm, tugging a Velcro patch to reveal a strip of skin, one inch by three, the mound of the flexor muscles descending toward the elbow. No instructions. Being a student of patterns, however, I find a rectangle of paper Scotch-taped to the inside of the patch. But not just paper – sandpaper. Scrawled across the back are the words Draw blood.

Game or no game, I’m going to need some confirmation. Then I feel Pisarro’s left hand, patting my shoulder, and I know exactly what she wants. Playing soccer, I would sometimes dive across bare soil, and small rocks would tear at my skin. Days later, I would run my hand over the ant-size scabs, and feel an odd tingle of pleasure.

I begin slowly, not wanting to go any deeper than necessary. The paper draws white scratch-lines, blushes of pink, then beads of red as the sand breaks through. I wipe my thumb across the blood and lick it off. Pisarro shivers. I blow my work dry, and move on.

Number four is a prize, and Pisarro has treated it accordingly. The circle of  felt over her left breast is secured by four loops, threaded through eyelets on the surrounding fabric and held in place by tiny combination locks. The back of each lock confesses its numbers on a strip of white tape, but still it’s five minutes before I can unwrap my present, the lovely mound and tan areola that triggered my lunacy four months ago.

So close to the promised land, I am not about to break a rule, so I check the inside of the patch to find the word Nightstand. Upon said nightstand, I find a spatula and a small gift-wrapped canister. I open the lid, dip my finger into its creamy white contents and lick off a dollop of vanilla frosting.

Five minutes later, I have completed the finest birthday cake in my 42 years, hiding the final sliver of flesh with a painterly stroke. I see no reason to forgo my pleasure any longer, so I lower my mouth with the intent of cleaning every inch.

I am taking my time, paying extra gratuities to Pisarro’s eraser-tip nipple, when her stoicism begins to burst. She squirms against me and opens her legs to reveal the number five. I tear away the Velcroed patch to unveil a carefully shaved arrow of pubic hair, aimed at Pisarro’s butterfly-wing labia, beaded with moisture. By this time she is bucking, and I am desperate for instructions. The inside of the patch reads Shoebox, foot of bed, and I’m there in a flash. The box contains several phalluses and a bottle of massage oil.

Pisarro isn’t going to make it. I start with the handle of a paintbrush, then a tapered candle, going slow, trying to back her off. Next is a peeled carrot, then a zucchini. A dildo of clear plastic. She waves her arms in the air like a gospel singer. I insert the anatomically detailed vibrating penis and her breath turns into bird-like shrieks. She explodes. I hold her torso, watching her pelvis as it describes arcs in the air.

I slide next to her and hold on to her breast as she comes back down. I’ve known all along that number six resides over Pisarro’s mouth. I take off the patch, and receive my invitation with a delighted shiver. I back off the bed and shuck my pants, cup my hand beneath the black, faceless head and lower my cock to Pisarro’s red lips.

After three times, I’m feeling like a college kid, enjoying Pisarro’s body as a whole, as we curl together before the dying Duraflames.

            “The library.”

            “Ye-es?” she says. She nudges her butt into my groin.

            “Got erections there all the time in high school. All that beautiful forced silence. That’s what I was thinking tonight when you shushed me, like some dominatrix librarian. Man! I could smell the card catalog.”

            “You must have been a fun study partner.” She pulls my hand to her breast; I see the scratches on her forearm, already clotting. “I didn’t really think I could pull this off,” she says. “But how often do you get the chance to make a first time so memorable?”

            I stretch upward to Pisarro’s ear and whisper. “You’re an amazing creation.”

            “Thank you,” she replies. “And Mr. Grinder has earned his name.”

            “So long, Mary-Margaret.”

            “Good-bye.”

Cabellera

(from the novel Operaville)

He had never seen anything so white. The nipples were like the pink sugar cookies his abuelita would make on Sundays. He took one of her breasts in his hand, and when he nibbled on the tip the caballera let out a gasp of pleasure.

            His member was painfully stiff. When the lady knelt to unzip him and take him into her mouth, it was too much for him and he burst. He expected her to be angry, but instead she kept sucking, swallowing his seed and continuing until he was hard again. She motioned for him to lie down, then she spread her skirts and crouched over him, bringing his cock to her opening.

            This, then, was Esteban’s first time, and now he understood why the older muchachos spoke so endlessly of the wonders of puta. It was like a liquid fire wrapped around his cock. He wished he could see what it looked like, his staff disappearing into the caballera’s white body, but there was something just as stimulating about this mysterious force beneath the pile of skirts, the dreamy look on the lady’s face as she rode him.

            This time he was able to last much longer. Soon the gringa was shaking, and moaning, and letting out gritos of her own. He took her by the waist and exploded into her. As his body subsided, he lay back, leaking into her depths as the yellow clouds drifted across the sky. He fought the urge to sleep – he wanted so badly to stay with this pleasure – but inevitably he fell back into slumber.

Surprise Attack (from the novel "Operaville")

An hour later, the party is even drunker, and being taken over by Joe’s new Wii gaming center. I’m at the back of the crowd, fascinated by the levels of simulated reality. A familiar pair of lips descends upon my neck.

            “I hope to God that’s Maddie.”

            “Oui,” she whispers. “Follow me.”

            She leads me to the master bedroom, then heads back to the door.

            “Please lock, please lock – ah! It locks.”

            She wastes no time but kneels in front of me and takes down my pants.

            “Well! To what do I owe the pleasure?”

            She takes me deep into her mouth, gives me a long, slow suck and then smiles.

            “You used the word ‘girlfriend’ in a sentence. Women love it when you use girlfriend in a sentence.”

            “It’s always a bit of a surprise, the first time. It just sort of pops out.”

            “‘Boyfriend,’” she recites, then gives me a lick. “I am sucking my boyfriend’s dick in his friend’s bedroom.”

            “Now in French!”

            “Je suis sucer mon ami de dick dans son ami de chamber à coucher.”

            “When you put it that way, it sounds dirty.”

            She takes me out and tickles my balls with her fingers. “We probably haven’t much time, honey. When you feel like you’re getting close, I want you to pump this thing into my mouth like you’re fucking me. I want every drop.”

            I look sideways to find us framed in a closet-door mirror, and it seems that much filthier. A few minutes later, I hold my diva by the ears and stroke into her like there’s no tomorrow. I hear a roar of applause from the living room and imagine that it’s for me.

Scrabble Sex

From the novel "Rhyming Pittsburgh"

Two poets seeking intimacy tend toward Scrabble. We kept up the pretense till the occasional meetings of thigh and shoulder caused us to start losing pieces of clothing. Soon we were naked, in her bedroom. She knelt before me.

            “You’re so good at that,” I said.

            She took me out and laughed. “My old boyfriend said I was ‘unafraid of the penis.’”

            Given my previous hesitation, she was surprised when I pulled out a condom. From there our activities were underscored by enthusiasm, which means much more to men than we will ever admit. Maybe it was the years of fatigue, the years without sex, but Carolyn simply adored it, and exploded twice a minute. I enjoyed her enjoyment so much that I wore myself out. She removed the condom, washed me off with a warm cloth, then used her mouth to bring me back to erection.

            “What can I do to finish you off?”

            “Get on top,” I said. “Face away from me. Now. This’ll take some effort, but lift yourself into a squat, and when you go down ... don’t go down all the way.”

            Now I had the all-important visual element, Carolyn’s generous white bobbing ass. It didn’t take long.

The Micaela Seduction

From the novel "Operaville", available on Amazon Kindle.

I light the candles and incense, setting the room in a hazy orange glow. I sit on the couch, an expectant audience. Maddie gives another three knocks and enters. She wears a long gray skirt with petticoats, a white rectangle of apron descending from the waist. Above that is a white blouse with puffs at the sleeves and a chocolate-brown leather corset. Her collar is open, revealing just a hint of cleavage. She wears her hair tied up in a blue scarf, flowing out the back, and her face is marked with swipes of dirt, as though she has been on an arduous journey. She speaks in clear, unaccented English, but the formality of her tone implies a 19th-century European.


“Thank you so much for taking me in! These travels have been much more difficult then I expected. It’s very gracious of you.”

She listens for a moment, as if someone is speaking to her, and then smiles.

“Oh! Well, you see, I am on a quest of sorts. I am trying to find my beau, Don Jose, who has taken up with gypsy smugglers. His mother is quite ill and… May I sit? Thank you.”

She settles rather properly on the armchair and takes a sip from an invisible glass.

“Thank you so much. Yes, you’re right, it is quite dangerous. I’ve never really done anything like this.”

Another attentive pause.

“Oh, well. I… care for Jose quite a lot. We grew up on neighboring farms, and we played together as children. And I remember this one day. I was twelve. I was beginning to… develop. I was walking back to the house after milking the cows. Jose was working the fields. It was hot that day, and he had taken off his shirt. He waved to me; I went to lean against the fence and talk to him. He continued to work as we spoke. I could see the muscles moving in his arms, like the strings of a guitar, and the way the sweat shone on his back.

“I don’t know if it is proper to describe what it was that I was feeling. A tingling. Like the tickle on your skin when your clothes rustle in the wind. Only this… tingling seemed to emanate from beneath my skirt. I wanted so badly to reach down and rub myself, but of course I could not. And watching Jose, I recalled something I had seen two days previous. A bull approached a cow in the field and, amazingly, he stood on his hind legs behind her. I had heard of such things, but I had never seen the mechanical aspect, the way the bull’s tube of flesh slid in and out of the cow’s backside. I tried to be disgusted, as I knew I should, but I was fascinated by the beauty of the design, as if these two dancing animals had rehearsed all their lives for this one performance. And that same tingling beneath my skirts – though why I should feel this way about a bull and a cow I do not know. I almost could not keep my hands off of myself. That Sunday, in church, I prayed for God to remove these temptations, or at the least to let me understand them better.”

She stops for a moment; her thoughts seem to drift. Then she squints her eyes and purses her lips.

“I detest gypsies! Filthy, ignorant animals. You see, I always thought that Jose and I were rehearsing. I suppose that I loved him. But I was a terribly shy girl, and I did not tell him a thing. Before I knew it he was in the army and off to Seville – Seville, that evil place. It was there that he met this Carmen person. I do not know what he sees in her – she’s not even pretty. But now… Now I have what it will take to win him back. If his mother’s sickness is not enough, then I will simply have to give myself to him. I am ready, I love him, and that should be enough for God. Just the thought of it… just the…”

She reaches inside her blouse, brings out one white breast and tweaks her nipple, arching backward. Then she opens her eyes and smiles.

“Everyone at home believes that I am a good girl, but I have spent years walking by the field with the bull and the cow, and… well. I know, sir, that your wife is away at her sister’s, and I hope that you do not think that I am taking advantage of circumstance, but I wonder if you… if you would show it to me.”

It takes me a moment to realize that I have been drafted – that I am the kindly farmer who has offered her lodging. I stand and shuck my shorts, revealing a hardening but untrustworthy member. She giggles.

“It is not so large as the bull’s, but it is much more handsome! Here, I have brought some oil with me. Perhaps you’d like to rub it? I have heard that men like to do such things.”

She pulls a small vial from her skirts and hands it to me, then dashes back to her chair as though I were the bull in her story. I pour some of the oil into my hand, apply it to my dick and make a good show of stroking it.

“Ooh!” Her eyes squint in pleasure and she places a hand over her skirt. “It’s that… feeling again, that tingling. Only now it’s unbearable. Are we… Are you sure that we are quite alone?”

I nod.

She looks around nervously, then slowly gathers her petticoats until, in a narrow gap beneath all the layers of clothing she reveals her pussy. She opens her legs further, displaying the moisture coating her labia, then reaches down to rub her clitoris and dip a finger inside.

“Oh! Oh! I see now why I have wanted to do that for so long! What an incredible sensation. I think it is time…”

She closes her legs, reaches into her skirts and extracts a large black dildo, made to look as realistic as possible.

“I hate the gypsies, but they do occasionally prove themselves useful. This one was a peddler of novelties, and he sold me this, a life-cast from the erect member of a Zulu warrior. ‘Even though you may not yet want to join with a man,’ the peddler said, ‘this will give you an idea of what it feels like. And you won’t get babies.’”

She spreads her legs again, pushes her petticoats aside and inserts the black cock. The sides of her entrance cling to the dildo as it slides in and out. Micaela moans.

“Oh! It feels so good. I want Jose to fill me like this. Sir, oh sir, please. Be my Jose. Put your thing inside me. Show me how it feels.”

I leap from the couch, take her hand away and push the black cock in and out, faster and faster until Micaela’s eyes begin to bug out. It’s the filthiest thing I have ever seen, and it’s divine. I take the dildo and throw it to the floor, take my cock in my hand and I am inside of her, aloft on a cloud of petticoats.

“Oh, Micaela, you feel so good.”

“Jose! Jose! Je’taime Jose. I will love you forever.”

The layers of identity are getting pretty deep. I am the middle-aged farmer banging away at the lost little girl as the pretends that I am her soldier-boy. Carmen could never be this hot – she’s too fucking obvious. I sink into the illusion and continue pumping Micaela into the armchair. I hold myself deep inside of her as I drive my tongue into her mouth, then I stand up and order her outside. I push her against the Lexus and I lift her skirts so I can surround my dick with that plump white ass.

Then I’m on the ground, redwood cones digging into my butt as Micaela bounces on top of me, all of our parts delicious hidden beneath her petticoats. She takes off her scarf to release her hair. I find myself shouting a long string of yesses as Micaela begins to sing. She looses a top note into the trees; I can feel the vibrations all the way down to my dick and it’s too much. I explode, gushing into her. Micaela screams; the sound echoes off the hillsides. I grab her by the waist and continue to empty myself out, then I roll beside her. We spend the next five minutes laughing, kissing and smiling, leaves and sticks and God-knows-what entwined in her hair.

“Micaela! You are a bad, bad girl!”

“You knew that all along; that’s why you picked me.” She kisses me and snuggles her face against my neck. I roll onto my back and see the moonlit sky, jagged silver patterns sketched across the treetops. A jetliner skates across, flashing red and white signals.

Michael J. Vaughn's novel Operaville is now available on Amazon Kindle - free for five days beginning tomorrow!

The Pirate and the Pimp

From the novel "The Monkey Tribe"

The Spirit Garden is dark and unoccupied. It could be that few people actually know about it. He considers finding some way to lock the gate, but realizes that he doesn’t really care. He takes Audrey to the pentagram, motions for her to kneel and undoes his pants, unleashing a steel rod resembling his penis. Audrey gives it a lick and smiles.

            “My God, honey, it’s like something on a marble statue. Did I do this?”

            “You and that outfit.” Jack looks down to take in the sight: a wicked red-headed pirate girl sucking off a pimp at the center of a pagan garden. The combination is dizzying. He looks out over the long rows of soil next door, hears snatches of conversation and music floating over the fence. It’s all so almost-public, so free and nasty. Audrey has a hand on him now, is pumping his cock into her mouth. He’s tempted to let himself go right now, but decides that he wants even more.

            He takes her hands and pulls her up, guiding her to the statue of Lakshmi. Audrey takes the god’s upraised hands in her own and arches her back, extending her ass toward Jack. Jack collects the vision, the curve of Audrey’s cheeks peeking out from beneath her skirt, then runs a hand underneath, happy to discover nothing but flesh and moisture. He dips two fingers into her pussy, rubbing her juices over her labia, then takes his cock in his hand and slowly slides forward. Audrey takes a quick inhale and sways her hips, savoring the feeling.

            Jack brings the camera back again and takes in the whole scene: the eaves of the stables across the way, the insect buzz of a motorcycle on a far-off road, the aura of light from the far side of the house and the upwelling thunder of a song’s ending, rolling bass, growling guitar, a screaming singer and the large drummer hammering everything in sight. He brings the focus back to the strange menage with Lakshmi, Audrey’s thin arms held in a skyward plea, the satin folds of her outfit, the white frame of her ass-cheeks surrounding his cock, his hands around her waist, the pimp-rings spelling out SEX and THUG in blingy sparkles.

            This is the absolute peak moment of my life, he thinks. He thrusts forward and arches his back, discovering a half-moon in the sky behind him, then bends back forward, reaching around to rub Audrey’s clit. Her legs begin to shake in orgasm, and that’s all he needs; he pours himself into her as the tricorner falls from his head and lands on Audrey’s back. The plume tickles his face and makes him laugh. The mix of sensations is too much; he loses his legs and settles back onto the pentagram.

            Noting that he’s still hard, Audrey comes over to plant herself on top of him, happy just to stay there and soak him in. She’s suddenly overcome by laughter, and bends forward to rub her face against his. Jack looks up and finds Cygnus the swan, flying over Salinas. He remembers this from Boy Scouts. Now he is Cygnus, hovering over the valley, looking down on the couple fucking on a pentagram, the two hundred people gathered at a tent nearby.

            “Mr. Pimp, you are an outrageously nasty boy.”

            “I am, you know. I really am. But I swear, I have never done anything like that in my life!”

            “Like this,” she says, squeezing his cock with her pussy. “But you should know, if I have my way, I expect to hear you say that many more times. Mr. Teagarden.”

            “Ms. LaBrea.”

            They hear voices, and the sound of the gate opening – and the sound of the gate closing.

Wife Surprise

From the novel "Double Blind"

Late at night, when morning has become a distinct possibility, I am dreaming of Pisarro’s lips on mine, petals of spongy flesh sliding across my mouth. I seem to think that this is the extent of it – the basic teenage makeout session – but then I feel a distinct warmth surrounding my cock. Am I fucking Pisarro?

            The edge of a tooth triggers me awake. My wife is sucking on my dick like it’s a circus toy, performing feats of circumlocution that I never dreamed were in her repertoire. She whips her tongue like a tentacle around the head as she works a fist up and down the base. Charged up by weeks of inactivity, I am gone quickly, erupting into her mouth. She swallows, licks me clean, then pulls up beside me with a grin.

Diva Frustration

(From the novel "Operaville")

Maddie has other ideas. She nudges me like a border collie working a sheep, driving me across the living room, to the edge of my bed and over. She yanks at the layers of my softball gear – pants, sliding pad, athletic briefs – until she unearths my cock. She works it over with her tongue until I’m sporting a grade-A hard-on. Then she hops off the bed, removes her pants and readies herself to hop onto my dick, which is now limp.

            She looks at me. “Is it all right to yell?”

            “Yes.”

            “Neighbors won’t mind?”

            “No.”

            “FUCK!”

            She stands to give her diaphragm more room, and delivers her next three notes with an impressive amount of volume.

            “Fuck! Fuck! F-U-U-U-U…”

            I’ve got my hand clamped over her mouth, an arm around her waist. She’s still yelling – I can feel the force of her breath against my palm.

            “Maddie? Honey? Ya gotta stop, Maddie.”

            It takes her a few breaths to calm down, and then she peels my hand away.

            “Why?”

            “Because I am not going to explain to the opera fans of America how it was that the end of your singing career was inspired by my limp dick.”

            She takes in a hissing breath that might be a rising indignation, then lets out a little burst, like the first puff from an air compressor. That’s the hole in the dike; the rest is a flood of wild, rolling laughter that sweeps me along in its wake. Two minutes later we are flat on the bed, pantsless, trying to stop before we asphyxiate ourselves. After that we grow silent, and I think I know why: we’re both afraid that the next utterance will send us right back into the water.

            Maddie curls across the bed, grabs my dick and gives it a stern look.

            “Why don’t you like me? Everybody else likes me.”

            This isn’t as funny as it should be. I am drowning in frustration.

            “When you got home from your drive, did you masturbate?”

            “Yes.”

            “And?”

            “Hard as Wagner.”

            “Wagner is hard. I’m so sick of this.” She releases my idiot cock and leans back on her elbows. “Sadly, this has happened before.”

            “Really?”

            “I’m a pretty intimidating figure. La Diva! Tenors and penises cower before her. Christ.”

            “Sorry.”

            She leans up and gives me a kiss.

            “If I was smart, I would sleep only with men who know nothing about opera. But don’t worry about it, honey. Please don’t. Well. I gotta go.” She hops off the bed and fetches her pants.

            “Huh?”

Tenderly with Katie (from the novel "Operaville")

With Katie I am as tender as possible, spending a long time kissing, a long time caressing, and a long time bringing her to an oral climax. After that, we assume the friendliest position possible, sitting on the floor, facing each other, our arms around each other’s backs. After a half hour of this slow squirming, I experience a quiet orgasm, leaking into her as I shiver in pleasure. It’s about as nice of a fuck as one can have, and by now I have thoroughly recovered from the Seattle fiasco.

Sex with the Ex (from the novel Operaville)

The thought of it draws a hand to her crotch. She opens her legs and hikes up her dress, revealing pussy lips the color of tawny port and a patch of black pubic hair shaved into a heart.

            “Nice work.”

            “Jing-Jao at the salon. She’s the best.” She runs a manicured finger along her slit and dips it inside.

            “What do you say, ex-husband? Fuck the woman who fucks the attorneys? Strike a blow against The Man?”

            My cock is instantly hard. (I really gotta have a talk with that dick.)

            I wave a hand toward the rug. “Why don’t you give me a show, porn queen? Money-grubbing slut? Carnivorous bitch?”

            As my language gets worse, her fingerwork gets faster.

            “Ditch-digger,” she hisses. “Welfare mother. Blue-collar piece of shit. Why don’t you take a good look at the ass you gave up to be a dick-stainer?”

            She crawls onto the rug, pulls her dress slowly upward to reveal her tight little cheeks, then reaches underneath to bury two fingers in her hole. I don’t know why this mutual loathing makes such excellent foreplay, but I am grateful for any mojo that comes my way. I yank off my jeans, take my dick in hand and rub the tip along her entrance before jamming myself inside. Allison lets out an aristocratic shriek, grabs two fistfuls of rug and slams back against me. I am filled with luscious hate.