by Avery Aster
“Who needs rubies or emeralds when I have Warner Truman’s nuts?” Sucking on his dick, his girth filled her mouth. Hard and thick, she bobbed her head back and forth, working him over as if she owned it. Her tongue lapped up his excitement. She traced her fingers with his pre-cum then massaged her pussy. In her favorite position, cowgirl, she straddled him.
The head of his cock disappeared against her folds.
Leaning up then forward on her palms, she arched her back, slowly lowering herself down over him. Locks covering his face, she dangled her hair over him, knowing it made him wild.
“I love your tuberose smell.” Filling her, she finally felt complete. He sat up, kissed her on the lips, and leveled his mouth at her right nipple. He always started there first, stimulating it with the flick of his tongue, grazing the areola with his teeth, sucking hard ‘til she begged. She couldn’t take it anymore.
“Oh, God,” she cried out.
“What was that, Red?” He tortured her, studying her face, waiting for her to cream. Close, so close. His focus switched to her left nipple, repeating the blissful movements all over again.
“Lay back,” she instructed. Warner was alpha, but so was she. It had been a fine dance of power exchange since the first day they’d met.
“I love you, Taddy.” He grabbed at her ass, kneading her flesh in circular motions. A rhythm between them started. She glided herself up on his shaft, begging him to thrust deep and hard inside her. Coming down hard on his cock, she allowed her body to sink further as the walls of her cunt contracted, milking his cock.
Loving him as only she could.
He cupped her breasts and pulled her face to his. “You feel so good.”
“Please. Please. Fuck me harder,” she begged. It had been three days since they’d had a moment like this. It was a shame it took a plane to make this possible. But she’d take it. She’d take anything Warner would give her. She loved him more with each passing day.
“Red, I hate it when I can’t look at your face.”
“Big Daddy, you promised one hard fuck every so often.”
“That I did.” He sat up, grazed his teeth against her right nipple, and then stole his final kiss.
“Hard,” she begged again.
“Turn around, little girl. Face the wall.”
She repositioned, crawling to the edge of the bed on her knees.
Warner got off the bed, stood and came up behind her.
With a toss of her head over her shoulder, she looked back at him. “Make me come.”
“Take a deep breath.” He stabbed her pussy with his cock then pulled back and slid in again. Fisting her hair in his hands, he drilled and pounded his flesh against and into her.
Screaming in ecstasy, a wave of pleasure built up high and fast inside of her.
“I’m going to—” Her body spasmed.
“You’re going to come all over my cock, Red. Is that what you want? Tell me.” He thrust in and out of her, stretching her walls. “Throw that pussy back on me, baby. Give it to me.”
She knuckled the sheets in her hands. Fighting off the urge to orgasm, trying to hold out just a little bit longer, she pushed her backside into his front and fucked him.
“That’s my girl. Come on, Red. Come for your Big Daddy.” He slapped her ass.
She whimpered. As a sound of an erotic moan built up through her, Warner’s fingers came wide and filled her mouth. She bit down, stifling the scream. Moist and wet, she came on her final push onto his cock. Kneeling on all fours, she paused, for only a second.
Pulling her into his chest and kissing her, he turned her over. Her budded nipples pointed out between them as she splayed her legs wide. His body, all six-foot-five of him, hovered over her. He collected the moisture from her cunt and covered his cock.
His body pressed into her first with a slow, tight and shallow thrust. “Can you take it?” Warner played with her.
“Bring it.” She tapped the underlying soft flesh of his balls.
With his hands holding up her left leg over his right shoulder, he pierced into her again. This time, though, it was about his needs, his release. Thrusting deeper than ever before, he pulled back and forth as she moaned in his mouth.
Pumping once, thrusting twice. “Tell me you love me.”
She held onto his shoulders. “I love you more than ever, Big Daddy.”
“Say it again, and don’t stop ‘til I come.”
Nervous, she looked up at him. That request was a new one. In the three years they’d dated, and probably nine hundred or so times they’d fucked, he’d never said that before. But she was madly in love with him, so she did as he wished. “I love you, Warner.”
“I’m going to—”
She pressed her hands against his cheeks as his hazel eyes flicked to that possessive look. “I love you so much.”
“Red. Yes. Taddy.” He drove in harder, his body shuddering, trembling almost violently.
“I love your heart. I love your mind. I love your body. I love your smile.”
He growled in her ear as his body collapsed on top of hers.
The pilot’s speaker came on. “Mr. Truman. We’re going to need you to take your seats now.”
“We’re coming!” Taddy answered for him with a double entendre.
He climbed off her and extended his hand, helping her off the bed.
As they dressed, she saw the box on the table.
“Here, let me.” He came up behind her and zipped her dress up the back. He couldn’t see she’d taken the gift in her hands. She was nervous. This was a ring box; she wasn’t stupid.
“Warner!” she voiced in surprise, opening the box.
He laughed and turned her around. Warner dropped to one knee like something out of the movies. “Taddy Brill, I love you. Will you marry me?” The hope in his eyes was quickly darkened by the realization of what she might say. Warner knew her better than Lex, Vive and Blake. He’d been a part of her life so intimately. He was there when she confronted her mother and helped her when she’d learned Eddie Easton wasn’t her paternal father.
Each office Brill, Inc. had opened overseas—Hong Kong, Sydney and Qatar—he’d co-signed the leases, the loans, bought the buildings. Her business was just as much his as her soul was, too.
There was one thing Taddy Brill was not and that was a gold digger. Every penny she’d made, she earned. Independence was who she was. It defined her.
“Taddy?” His voice had changed.
She dropped to her knees, looking up at him. Her hand came up to his cheek and she kissed him on the lips as if it might be the last. She had no clue how he’d react to her reply. “I love you, Warner. I want nothing more than to share my life with you. And it pains me to say this, but I can’t marry you.”
“You’re kidding. Red. Come on….”
“No.” She closed the box, allowing it to fall into his hands. The hurt look on his face and the devastation in his eyes told her she’d just destroyed the best thing that had ever happened to her.
“Touch my balls with your tongue. Babe, that’s it. Right there!” Dejon’s dirty talk burned permanently in her consciousness while she sat in the yellow cab. Her skin prickled in ways and in places she didn’t know existed—between her legs.
Since Dejon had gone down on her in Stockholm, her feelings for him had intensified, from a ten to a ten-thousand. Infatuation had been there, and lust, too. Her love for him remained unconditional. It was Kiki’s desire for Dejon Turay to take her hard, take her fast, take her raw, and take her now. It ate away at her as some kind of untamed animal, from the wild. Hungry and determined, he’d been aggressive to get her to orgasm.
An enigma, she didn’t understand Dejon’s moods. One minute, he’d be all sweet and loving. Then the next, it was as if a nymphomaniac had taken over his delicious body. Was this normal for all guys? Why couldn’t they have a balance of sweet and tender? Without having any other relationship experience to go on, it’d pained her to deny him. S
he wanted to give this to him, and herself. And soon!
Manhattan’s skyline stood in the far distance ahead. Erect and prominent, her sights caught the splendor of the Empire State Building. Kiki’s mind blazed with erotic thoughts and images of Dejon’s cock. How it had looked up-close, felt between her hands, filled her mouth, and tasted on her tongue. Dick Heaven!
Sculpted to perfection, long and thick, she’d never touched, or kissed, another penis to make any comparisons. But she felt confident her fiancé’s was exemplary.
With the airport behind her and the city’s incoming traffic bumper-to-bumper in front, it might be another twenty or so minutes before the cab made it to her doorstep.
In the backseat, Kiki uncrossed her legs. A muffled gasp escaped her lips as the desire to touch herself dominated her. The day before, while she’d worked with Paloma, this lust cloud had ruined her ability to think professionally. To the point where Paloma, one of the world’s most famous and luxurious jewelry designers of her lifetime, had stopped whatever she was doing and asked if Kiki was all right.
Drunk! That was how she felt. Or at least how she imagined intoxication would be. Under Dejon’s influence while on the trade show floor, her brain was incapacitated to do much else other than think of his dick in her hands and playing peek-a-boo with her ass cheeks.
On the plane ride home, the urges had returned, hearing Dejon say, “Touch me! Touch me!” Again, she thought in much more detail about sucking on his beautiful cock, taking it up her ass, and deep, deep, deep inside her pussy.
Seated between three hundred or so people on the flight, she’d taken a blanket and covered herself. Crossing then uncrossing and re-crossing her legs to relieve the churning in her lower body, nothing worked. It was as if her pussy had been set on fire and there was only one way to make it stop.
There, in the yellow cab, she sat alone—just her, Dejon’s words, and the undertow taking her down as a current of bliss and lust rose up to orgasm.
Sorta…
His driver’s ID said Satchet. Mumbling on his phone, the driver spoke in Hindi. Whenever he stopped at the red lights, Satchet penciled in his crossword puzzle and laughed to himself, all while taking a bite of something saffron-smelling from a Styrofoam box.
Preoccupied, Satchet, the crossword-playing, cell phone-chatting, forever eating, yellow cab-driving guy wouldn’t notice if Kiki touched herself. Right?
“Hmm.” For privacy, Kiki closed the thick acrylic divider separating her from Satchet.
Quiet.
She rolled down the window a smidge. Fresh air kissed her face as she felt her lips curl into a smile. Exhausted from the trip and yet oddly euphorically high with memories of being in Dejon’s arms, she replayed for the one millionth time every word he’d spoken.
“Babe, this is the best. You’re perfect,” he’d complimented.
Tapping her fingers along the grainy leather of the Coach bag on her lap, she glanced up at the driver. Satchet’s attention appeared to be on the Long Island Freeway, not on her. In one fell swoop, she locked the door, closed her eyes, and then slid her hand under her purse. She rubbed her palm and fingers against her slacks, yearning to pull her pants down.
“Look up at me. Let me see your beautiful eyes. That’s my Kiki.”
”I want you, Dejon. Now,” she purred to herself, forgetting she didn’t have much experience masturbating, let alone never in a billion years had she touched herself in public.
Kiki didn’t see any other way to make the crazy desires stop. She had to, or she was going to go insane. It was that simple. The New York Post’s headline the following day would read, ‘Cock-Starved Vagina Causes Woman to Be Admitted to Bellevue’s Asylum.’
Eyelashes heavy against her cheeks, she inhaled a shallow breath. Again, she heard Dejon speaking to her. Licking her middle finger, she glided it under her waistline, past her panties and straight into her warm, moist place.
“I can’t wait to make you nice ‘n’ nasty.”
With a shaky hand, she raked her nails through her pubic hair. Pressing down hard on her swollen flesh, she increased friction and whimpered, “Ohhh, gosh.” In quick circular motions, three fingers from her right hand massaged her lips.
How liberating.
Free and in control of her own needs, she stroked up then down. Hunkering down further in the seat, she could no longer see out the window. With a flick of her clit, a tingly sensation traveled all the way up to her scalp. The heat came off her—first, a simmering burn then scorching, bringing her to her knees.
Make me your wife. I want to be your…everything.
Her upper body felt heavy. Buttocks pressed against the door, she rested her forehead on the seat in front of her. Again, she licked her fingers, reinserting them. Deeper this time into her vagina, while a moan lodged in the back of throat.
“Let me fuck your sweet mouth,” he’d begged.
“Forget my mouth, Dejon. Take me.” Almost brave, she spoke louder and pinched her clit, in that special way as Dejon had done the day before.
Wet and hungry was how her flesh felt as she caressed herself. Nearly vibrating, ready to take off into another world, she’d never felt herself so eager.
Sprawled out, she didn’t care what was going on around her. Miley Cyrus could’ve been cleaning the cab’s windows with her long-ass, giraffe-like tongue and Kiki would never know it. Dejon was on top of her. He was all that mattered. I love you, Dejon. I love you so much.
“Make my cock disappear. Get it all the way in there,” he’d dominated.
Hands moving faster, she arched her feet as if letting out steam from the soles of her shoes. Pent-up erotic air decompressed from her tense, undersexed body.
“I’m going to…Ahhh.” In her mouth, she tried to taste him—that saltiness, that manliness, all of him, musky and sweet. Mmm.
“Sooo close. Yessssah. Almost.” He’d almost orgasmed.
Frantic! Her hands—now longer fingers, now Dejon’s cock—thrust inside her. Blood pounded in her ears. Ready to shoot off, to somewhere close to Dejon Turay, she pressed her feet against the passenger partition.
Her hand slickened and glazed from her new excitement.
The car screeched to a halt.
Ouch! Her body smacked the divider. Then sweet cream jetted. “Yes—”
Lunging forward, the car moved up a foot then stopped again.
Engrossed in her Dejon fantasy, Kiki’s body bounced toward the seat.
“Ahem. Lady! You back there?” Satchet shouted in a thick Indian accent.
Oh, come on, already. Can’t I have ten minutes to myself?
“Eight Street. Five Avenue. We are here. $46. Plus tip.”
“One sec…” Wiping her damp forehead, she pulled herself up onto the seat, swallowed hard, and asked, “What?”
He pointed to the meter. “Green Village. You are here. I get your bag.”
Manhattan’s crisp fall air invigorated her senses as she stepped onto the curb. Was it enough to shake the jetlag from Air Sweden’s eighteen-hour flight home?
Nope.
The layover in Moscow had made the trip unnecessarily long. I need a hot bath. Walking into the marble lobby of her apartment building, she spotted a UPS box sent from Provo with her name on the address label.
“Kiki! Welcome back.” Caris, the doorman, greeted. Peering out from his green bifocals, he scratched his bald head and handed her a receipt, acknowledging the package. “I’m glad you’re home. Your roommate hasn’t come out of the apartment in four days. I’m worried.”
Ugh. She’d hoped to get in some alone time before heading to the office. Kiki needed all of her energy for the Style Gala preparations. “Duckie may be experiencing something personal.”
“Has Duckie’s Master, Dom, whatever the boys are calling him these days dumped him again?”
“Pretty much.” She smiled, realizing Duckie’s openness about his servitude as a submissive to a wealthy older man was privy to all, even their d
oorman. The previous summer, Duckie had been collared by Mr. Leather USA. “Any unusual noises…or smells, like before?” She had to prepare herself for those accusatory stares from fellow tenants, who’d fallen victim to Duckie’s hallway tirades.
“Three days ago, it was non-stop Adele music and that fruity hookah stench.” Waving his hand over his nose, Caris suggested, “Maybe I could cheer Duckie up with a romantic dinner.”
He’d had a crush on Duckie ever since they’d moved into the building. A Vietnam veteran who’d returned to America and lived through the Stonewall riots, disco and the AIDS crisis, Kiki had found Caris’ stories fascinating. Caris didn’t understand why Duckie’s feelings for him weren’t mutual. He was also pushing seventy. While Duckie lusted after older men, Kiki had figured Caris might be a smidge too old.
“Sounds like Duckie’s grievance ritual with accompanied melodramatic anthems. What about yesterday? Any more noises?” Shifting from one sore foot to another, she counted how long she’d been in these dressy work clothes. Twenty-six hours.
“The tunes progressed to Lady Gaga and Beyoncé.”
“Good. Peppier music means Duckie’s spirits are lifting. Thanks, Caris.” Taking the package, she placed it on top of her roller bag and offered, “I have a feeling Mom sent some of those chocolate mint sandwiches you enjoy so much. I’ll bring ’em up when I’m on my way back out.” Kiki made her way into the elevator. Pushing ‘B’, she headed for the basement.
Located at the corner of Fifth Avenue and East Eighth Street, Taddy had found Kiki the apartment through her talk show host friend, Poppy White, who lived upstairs in the penthouse. Designed in 1928, the Art Deco skyscraper was a social step up from the Jersey City apartment she’d lived in before. It had only one tiny setback.
Twice over her budget, the apartment, with its cement floor and brick walls, was a renovated boiler room. To prevent a maintenance fee increase for the tenants during the recession, the Co-op board elected to rent out the unused space, after upgrading the building to central heat and air conditioning.
