by Naomi West
I walk across the room, willing myself to go into the bathroom and pick up her clothes or the bathrobe. I’ll drape it over her like a gentleman and put her into bed. But I’m not a gentleman. I’ve never been a gentleman. I fall to my knees in front of her, staring up into her face.
She bites her lip. “This is me, Dusty. This is who I am. I don’t know how many times these bruises have healed and then appeared again. I couldn’t even guess at that. Lots, but I’m not sure how many. This is me . . .”
The old man is a mean bastard. The old man is a mean lunatic. I don’t understand how a man, a fully-grown man, can lay his hands on a woman. I especially don’t understand how he can bruise her like this and then see what he’s done, and then just keep on bruising her. He must have something wrong with him. I ought to go by his place and string him up, gut him like a fish. I ought to call up the boys and all of us’ll go round there and teach him what happens to men who hurt women. Hurting women is just something we don’t do. Men are supposed to be men. Part of that is you never hurt a goddamn woman.
“Hush.” She brings her hand to my head, stroking it softly, sliding her fingers through my hair.
I don’t even realize that I’m snarling until she says that. I try and stop myself, but I just can’t wrap my head around it. I trace one of her bruises with my forefinger, wondering if I’d ever have it in me to punch a woman, just punch her and watch as a bruise appears and . . . He needs to die. That’s the truth of it. That fucking bastard needs to die.
“Hush.” She touches my cheek.
She looks nervous and frightened, but only slightly. Most of all, she looks horny. Her gray eyes are wide and filled with anticipation. I study her for a moment, her arched back, her pert breasts, her tight legs, the triangle of her pussy tugging on the bikini bottoms. My cock never stopped being hard, but now it’s harder than hard. One last effort at restraint battles inside of me. It falls. The soldiers of restraint collapse. I’m lost.
I bring my lips to a bruise on her thigh, yellow-red, and kiss it softly. At the same time I slide my hands up the back of her thighs toward her ass, massaging it, pushing the cheeks together as I lightly kiss her bruises. She moans, which is easily the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. It fills the room like a song. I grab her panties and stop the kissing to look up at her, reading her face. It says yes. It says don’t stop. It says anything but no.
I pull her underwear down slowly, careful not to hurt the bruises. She steps out of it when it reaches her feet. There’s something unbelievably sexy about that movement, the way she hops away from her underwear as though eager to be free of it, as though eager to show me that she wants to be naked with me. I return to her legs, her pussy. Jesus fuckin’ Christ . . . She has the sexiest goddamn pussy I’ve ever seen in my life. It’s tight and tucked away, mostly, but her lips jut out a tiny bit, as though beckoning me. Her pubes are shaved into a stenciled line.
The moment I kiss her clit, there’s no damn way I can control myself.
Chapter Eight
Marilee
I’m nervous as heck when he falls to his knees before me, this big tough biker covered in tattoos, his hands sliding up my thighs. But when he tugs my underwear away and brings his face to my pussy, the nerves begin to evaporate. I will myself into the moment, blocking out all the pain and the misery. He traces my bruises and I imagine—perhaps wish—that his touch cures them. He just keeps his face near my pussy for a while, staring at it, which is easily the sexiest thing a man has ever done with me. His breath caresses my lips, warm, somehow rough on my clit. He grabs my ass cheeks, pressing them together, his lips quivering as though he can barely contain himself.
He grabs me even harder and then leads me to the bed, nudging me onto it. Then he pulls my thighs apart, baring my pussy. “I need to feel you come,” he says in a throaty voice. “I need to fuckin’ feel it, Marilee.”
“Hmm-mm,” is all I say, is all I feel capable of saying.
He looks so hot right now, hunched over in his T-shirt, his face hidden between my thighs. I exhale in shudders as his warm breath massages my clit, pricking it, exciting it. Then he brings his face even closer to my pussy so that all I can see is the very top of his head. He drags his tongue up one lip, slowly, teasingly, and then down the other, all the time avoiding my clit. My clit screams at me, compels me, begs me to grab his head and force him onto it. But I know that I can’t force this man to do anything. He’s going to take me as he wants me. I close my legs around his head, his hair brushing my inner thighs, and let out an urging moan.
He laughs softly, two distinct breaths of warmth on my clit. He’s enjoying this, the twisted prick! I smile to myself. It takes me a second to realize where the smile comes from. Then I get it. I’m not nervous. I’m not anxious. I’m completely at ease. I close my legs even tighter around his head, squeezing them. He pinches my thighs playfully. Both of us laugh. The laughter passes soon. He grows serious, and so do I. Finally, he brings his tongue to my clit.
I expect him to tease me like he did with my lips, which are throbbing, aching now. But he doesn’t give my clit that mercy. He licks it fast and hard straightaway, throwing me into a world of pleasure. I lean back on the bed, gasping, unable to find a center because he keeps changing the speed of his licking. I bite down to stop myself from screaming, as I’ve always stopped myself from screaming in all aspects of my life. I claw at the sheets. But then the urge is too strong. There is pleasure in my belly and its only escape is through my mouth. I let out a primal scream, an animal scream, and lock my legs around his head with all my strength, my volleyball-honed legs, trapping his tongue there.
He grabs my thighs, handfuls of flesh, turning them red. But I don’t care. This is bruising I can get on board with. The pleasure in my clit is like a hot ball. It starts small, a tiny pinprick, and then grows larger and larger each second. It spreads outward from my clit, touching me outside and inside: my pussy, my belly, my neck, my toes and my fingers and my face. My body becomes warm to the touch. Sweat slides between my breasts, down onto my belly. Sweat coats my thighs. Faraway—at least, it sounds far away from my island of pleasure—I am moaning, singsong moans which sound nothing like me. Soon my clit feels as though it might burst, bulging and shifting under his never-ending licking. His breathing is so damn hot, the way it gets quicker and more pleasure-filled the closer I am to coming. It’s as though he takes as much pleasure from this as I do.
I close my eyes and my smile grows even wider. Normally when I close my eyes I see horrors: a thousand injustices, big and small, scattered throughout my teenage years. But now I see nothing but red, hot red, pink-red, blood-red, orgasm-red. I close my eyes as tight as I can, feeling the old Marilee slip away in this instance of impending euphoria. His tongue strokes at just the right angle, and then I’m done; nothing can save me.
The orgasm throws my body back as though by some massive force. My clit explodes. The shrapnel flies all throughout me, touching every single part of me. I clench my fists on the sheets so hard I tear them. Waves and waves of pleasure release inside of me, starting at my clit and then touching my sweet spot and then rebounding everywhere. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know a thing except for the tingly ecstasy which captivates my body.
He doesn’t lick softer once the orgasm hits. He goes even harder, gripping my thighs with huge strength, lifting me up a few inches from the bed, eating my pussy with everything he has. I press down with my hips, pushing my clit firmly against his tongue. The last wave of the orgasm spends itself inside of me, shimmering around my brain, my smile so wide I feel as though it will run away from my face.
Then I lie back, panting, one hand on my chest and one hand in his hair.
We stay like that for half a minute. Then he looks up in between my legs. “You know,” he says, “we haven’t even kissed yet.”
Both of us laugh at that, can’t help but laugh. He wipes his lips on his sleeve and stands up, watching me.
“Let’
s make a deal,” I say. “Once you get naked, you get a kiss.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He pulls his T-shirt over his head, revealing a torso covered in both tattoos and scars. He has wolf tattoos, snakes, symbols and runes and dragons, with pale scars crisscrossing almost every one. I can tell which tattoos are newer than which scars by how they overlap. If a scar cuts through the middle of a snake, the tattoo is older. If a tattoo rests upon a scar, the scar came later. His torso is even more impressive when he’s shirtless, his muscles tight and bulging, the sort of muscles which allow me to relax, because I know that if anything comes through that door trying to hurt me, he can deal with it. That feeling is amplified when he places his weapons on the bedside table: a knife, a knuckle-duster, and a small pistol. He pulls down his jeans and his underwear . . . It flips up, the biggest cock I’ve ever seen, so big that it clings to his waistband until it’s around his knees, and then flies upwards. It must be ten inches, eleven, maybe even eleven and a half.
He steps forward. “Stand up,” he says. His tone is not one to be argued with.
I do as he says. He leads forward and reaches around my back, unclipping my bra. When it falls away he stares at my breasts, drinking them in with his eyes. He goes to suck them. I intercept his mouth with a finger. “I promised you a kiss,” I say.
He grabs the back of my head and tugs me toward him. I feel as though a powerful engine has moved me, unstoppable, impossible to resist. Our lips meet in a flash of lips and teeth and tongue, smacking together clumsily because it just feels so good. His lips are chapped from the wind, rough here and there, and that just makes it all the sexier. This is a real man kissing me.
Then he breaks off the kiss and buries his face in my breasts, sucking one so much that my nipple goes hard, blood rushing to it, and then massaging that with his hand as he sucks the other. He sucks them both and then pushes them together, licking and biting softly.
“I need to fuck your tight cunt,” he growls as he lifts me up by the shoulders, tossing me onto the bed.
I let out a squeal, stunned by his strength—he picked me up like a ragdoll—and then open my legs for him. I lie back and stare up at him as he leans over me, his muscles crunching together like cogs in a machine, each one as honed and smooth as metal. Then our bodies are inches from each other, sharing heat, kissing just as we kissed earlier. I reach down between my legs and grab his cock. It’s so, so big and so, so hard. It presses firmly against my palm; a vein mirrors one of my palm-creases. I guide him to my pussy. I’m soaking wet for him, come and wetness mixing together, and my body is ready. There’s fear there, too, because I’ve never been with a man this big, a man who was even close to being this big.
He slides inside of me. For a few seconds all I know is pain, his massive end opening me up. I close my eyes, finding the pleasure. There’s a spot of it deep in my pussy, waiting to be awoken. He thrusts further and further into me, and then the tip of his cock presses against that sweet spot. My pussy opens for him. I feel it, spreading between my thighs, an almost instant replacement of discomfort with overwhelming pleasure: wet, steamy, hot, close. He lets out a growl. The animal side of him emerges. I don’t stand a chance.
He pins my arms to the bed and fucks me savagely, fucks me like a madman, fucks me so that it would normally frighten me. But I’m right there with him, letting out my animal side as well. I try and move my arms but I can’t; I don’t want to. I want him to pin me down, to take control. I want to give him my agency. I push with all my strength against his hand, but I can’t budge them. My pussy gets hotter as he thrusts into me. I push down against him, the sheets sticking to my back, the room filled with my moaning and his growling, the smell of our sweating bodies, the sound of our frantic fucking.
He leans up and stares at my chest. “Push those fuckin’ tits together,” he commands, letting go of my hands.
I do as he says, loving the way he stares at me, loving the look in his sea-green eyes. It’s like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. It’s like he can hardly believe what he’s seeing. I’ve never felt so sexy in my life, so wanted.
“Come for me,” he moans, urgency in his voice. “Come for me, Marilee.”
His words trigger something within me. My pussy reaches inferno temperatures at once, the fires consuming the entire lower half of my body. I lose all feeling except for his eleven-inch cock plowing into me, so fast I can’t feel each movement, just the great mass of him, thrusting that fire-poker deep inside of me. My hot spot catches his tip over and over, the pressure becoming so immense within me I feel as though I am struggling to hold back the entire ocean with a cupped palm. I hold back the pressure for a minute, and then I can’t do it anymore. I let go, I drop my hand; everything releases.
I twist and writhe and gyrate on his massive cock, bucking up and down in rhythm with his pumping hips. It’s like my orgasm is attached to the tip of his cock and the harder he pumps, the more intense it is. He thrusts all the way inside of me, deeper than anybody has ever been, and that’s when it really hits me. My body is consumed in the fires of euphoria. I close my eyes and see nothing, nothing at all. I can’t see anymore. All I do is feel, and all I feel is the lower half of my body burning. I tilt my hips, chasing the pleasure, forcing myself down on him so that his balls slap against my ass cheeks. I feel myself moaning, the twisting of my vocal muscles, but I don’t hear myself. I hear nothing. I ride the fiery pleasure all the way to its peak, hovering there for what feels like a long time but could be no longer than seconds, and then rush down toward the earth. Slowly, the sound of my breathing returns, the sound of Dusty’s grunting and our slapping flesh.
Dusty pumps into me one final time. Then he lets out a roar that is truly like a lion’s, his voice tearing and becoming raspy. He comes inside of me, his cock wilting after thirty or so seconds of constant coming, emptying his balls inside of me. Once we’re both panting and tired and spent and pleasure-filled, he rolls aside and lies on the bed next to me.
We lie like that for a long time, sharing in the aftermath of the pleasure.
Chapter Nine
Dusty
I stare up at the ceiling, wondering if I have it in me to just get up and leave now. That’s what I’d normally do. I’d just tell the girl I need to get going and that’d be that. Most women I’ve been with understand it when that happens. They don’t put up a fight. I think about saying that I’ll leave in the hopes that Marilee will put up a fight, but then I think about her face meekly accepting that I just came here to fuck her and leave, and I can’t do it. It was wild sex, relatively rough sex, and yet I still feel as though there was something else there, an added element to the sex that I’ve never experienced with another woman.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, draping her hand on my bare chest.
Maybe I should just tell her the truth: I’m trying to fight the urge to care about you, I’m trying to stop myself from feeling, ’cause feeling leads to ruin. Her head just exploded, a thousand bony pieces . . .
“Nothing,” I reply.
“I don’t believe you,” she says.
I laugh gruffly. “You don’t think an outlaw has it in him to think about nothing? Maybe you’ve never met an outlaw before.”
“No. I don’t believe that you, right now, are not thinking about anything.”
“Is this a therapist’s office, Marilee? Is that where we are right now?”
“Wow.” She rolls over to the other side of the bed. “There’s no need to be a dick about it.”
I stand up and get dressed, pulling on my clothes slowly to see if she’ll talk. This is the petty shit I’ve been reduced to. This is what has happened to the stone-cold Dusty Ripton. I remember Dagger saying to me once, “You know, Dusty, you’re about the coldest damn bastard I’ve ever met in my life. Think of it like this, boys,” and he turned to Lex and Clint, “there’s cold, and then there’s real cold, and then there’s real cold, and Dusty is right there.” I wond
er what Dagger’d say if he knew I’m getting dressed slowly on purpose, in the hopes a lady I just fucked will speak to me.
Marilee doesn’t speak, just lies there naked. My body stirs at the sight of her, but I don’t make a move. I could summon up the animal again, but it’s fed for now. Instead I sit in the corner chair and watch her.
After a while she rolls over, pulling the blanket up around her chin. It feels intimate to be sitting like this with her in bed, covered now but for her pale face. The sun has almost completely set; the room is all shadows. “Just for the record, I didn’t say it was a therapist’s office. I was just asking you a question.”
“I know.”
“So why be a jerk about it?”
“Why does a dog bark?”
“I want to get to know you, just a little bit.” There’s unspeakable emotion in her eyes. I can’t read it, it’s so complicated. “That was . . . I’ve never felt anything like that before.”
“Me neither,” I say.
“Really?”
Really, and that’s what scares me. I shouldn’t be sitting here. I shouldn’t be talking. The bullet tore through her head . . .
