by Amy Brent
I sipped the wine and stole a quick glance at him. He wasn’t looking at me. He had his phone out now, fiddling with it.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “I didn’t mean to bust your balls.”
He didn’t look up. He shrugged and said, “My balls are tough. They can take it.”
I softened my voice in a sad attempt to justify my bitchy behavior. “It’s just that, well, the team doesn’t need any more negative press.”
“I understand.” He kept fiddling with the phone. “No problem.”
“After Vern Davis was fired as the head coach at the end of last season, and that idiot Malcolm Jamar was caught on video buying crack from a prostitute, well, as I said, the Trojans have had enough bad press.”
“There will be no bad press from me,” he said, holding up a hand without looking at me. “Scouts honor. I just want to do my job and build a winning team.”
He finally glanced up to catch me staring at him. As my eyes focused on his, I felt the doubt and anger draining from my body, replaced by something far harder to control.
The t-shirt fit him much better than it fit me. It was snug on his muscular frame, like a second skin. The round muscles of his shoulders and chest pushed against the thin fabric. The sleeves hugged his thick biceps. The sinewy muscles in his forearms danced as his thumbs tapped on the phone.
“What’s up with all the tattoos?” I asked, hoping a change of subject might prove that I could have a conversation without being a ball busting bitch.
He spread out his arms so I could see the sides of his thick biceps. The tats came from his under his shirt sleeves to his elbows. He pushed up his right sleeve to show me his upper arm, which looked as if it had been chiseled from dark stone.
“They are Hawaiian tribal tattoos,” he said proudly, pushing up his other sleeve. Christ, if he looked this good as a forty-two-year-old coach, I wondered what he looked like during his playing days in New York.
“Interesting,” I said, leaning in to admire his muscular arms as much as the artwork covering them. I resisted the urge to reach under the table to feel his muscle. I mean, reach across the table to feel his arm.
Jesus, have another glass of wine, Allie…
I asked, “Do they have special meaning? Are you part Hawaiian?”
“No. I’m part fan girl,” he said with a grin. “I went into a tattoo shop with a picture of The Rock and said, give me those. A few sessions and a few thousand dollars later, I am a walking homage to the great man himself. I have The Rock’s tattoos. Or at least as many as I could stand to get. Those fucking needles hurt like a million bee stings.”
I blinked at him, waiting for him to tell me that he was joking. The broad grin on his face told me he was totally serious.
“You got all of those tattoos because you liked The Rock’s tattoos?”
He took a sip of beer and let his head bob. “Women get their hair done to look like Jennifer Anniston all the time. It’s the same thing.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Sure it is.”
“Getting your hair done doesn’t involved someone poking needles into your body.”
He thought about it for a second, then pushed down his sleeves and smiled. “Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly the same. But it’s kind of the same.”
“Kind of,” I said. I smiled as I picked up my wine glass and took another sip. I could see why women were attracted to Sam Carson.
He was not only extremely good looking and fit, but he had a casual air about him that sucked you into his world and made you have a good time. Even when you tried not to.
I felt myself swaying in the chair a little. The wine was starting to go to my head. I was exhausted and a little drunk. And always a little horny. I realized I was one glass of wine and one bad bridesmaid dress from jumping into bed with Sam Carson.
It was time for him to go.
I looked around the table. The plates were empty. The pizza was gone. I took a deep breath and said, “Well, this was lovely, but don’t let me hold you up.”
His handsome forehead wrinkled. “I’m sorry?”
“It’s getting late,” I said, glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall. “You must be tired. You’ll probably want to find a hotel and get some sleep before heading home. Hilton Head has several really nice hotels. Is that what you were looking for on your phone? A place to spend the night?”
“I was choosing players for my fantasy football team,” he said, holding up the phone to show me the screen. He shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m spending the weekend here.”
“What?” I shook my head at him. “You can’t stay here!”
“Why not?” He made a show of looking around the room. “This place is huge. There’s plenty of room for both of us. You won’t bother me a bit.”
“I came here to be alone for the weekend,” I said, gritting my teeth at him.
“So did I.”
“I don’t want company,” I said.
“Neither do I.”
He set the phone on the table, then folded his arms over his chest and pushed his eyebrows up.
I folded my arms over my breasts and glared at him.
“You have to leave,” I said.
“I was here first,” he said.
My mouth dropped open. “Seriously? You were here first? What are you? Twelve?”
“Forty-two,” he said. “But I look good for my age.”
“What?” I shook my head to make sure I was hearing right. For a moment, I thought he was just fucking with me. “What does how you look have to do with anything?”
“Obviously, not much,” he said, pushing his big shoulders up and down. I licked my lips without meaning to. Shit, he did look good, regardless of his age.
“Look, Sam, it would just be inappropriate for both of us to spend the night here,” I said. “It really would be best if you left.”
“Well, Miss Winston, as you have reminded me all evening, inappropriate is my middle name. So…”
He pushed himself out of the chair and went to the fridge to get another beer.
If he was getting drunk, he wasn’t showing it.
His eyes were clear and his walk was straight.
“Where are you going?” I asked as he headed toward the stairs.
“I’m going to bed,” he said without turning around. He gave me a little wave over his shoulder. “Good night, Miss Winston. Rest up. I’m sure you’ll want to bust my balls some more tomorrow.”
Allie
I sat dumfounded for a moment, waiting for Sam to come back down the stairs with his bag so he could leave me alone.
I heard the bedroom door close.
Two minutes later, I heard the toilet flush.
Then, I heard… nothing...
He had gone to bed.
He really was in for the night.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, the words slurring on my lips.
I picked up the wine glass. It was empty. I picked up the bottle. It was empty as well. No wonder I was feeling light headed. I’d drunk the whole bottle of chardonnay myself.
Fine.
Fuck it.
Let him stay.
I’d deal with him in the morning.
I needed sleep.
I set the security alarm and shut off the lights on my way to the downstairs master bedroom.
I closed the door and peeled off my clothes as I dragged my feet into the bathroom.
I sat down naked on the toilet and rested my cheek against my hand.
I closed my eyes and peed for what seemed like hours.
I fell asleep for a moment, then jarred myself awake.
I wiped myself off and flushed the toilet.
I turned off the light and crawled into bed without worrying about pajamas.
Fuck you, Sam Carson, I thought as I drifted off to sleep.
There’s a naked, horny woman sleeping in the room right under yours.
A naked, horny woman with great
tits and a tight box who hasn’t had sex in a while, I might add.
You should have been nicer to me…
You and your big muscles and nice smile…
And your bulging gym shorts…
Fuck you…
Fuck…
You…
* * *
“More wine?”
I opened my eyes.
I was lying on my back in the sand.
I could see the clear blue sky above.
I could hear the surf breaking into shore.
I glanced down at myself.
I was naked.
My breasts were swollen and oiled in a film of sweat.
My pink nipples blossomed and glistened in the sunlight.
Sam was standing above me with the wine bottle in his hand.
He was naked, all muscles and tattoos and sweat.
His cock was long and stiff, stemming from his dark pubes like a snake ready to strike. His cock was veiny and curved upward near the end. The head was like a large mushroom that bloomed before my eyes.
He asked again, “More wine?”
“Yes,” I moaned. “More wine.”
He tilted the bottle and showered me with red wine from my breasts to my cunt. The wine was cool and felt good in the summer heat. I spread my legs so it could run between my folds and across my taint.
Sam emptied the bottle, then tossed it away. He stroked his cock as he stared down at me with a devilish look on his face.
“Is this what you want?” he asked.
The sky above him began to roll with dark clouds, as if a summer storm was blowing in from the Atlantic.
“Yes, Sam,” I moaned, spreading my thighs for him. “I want your cock.”
“Where do you want it?” he asked. His cock grew larger as he slowly worked his hand back and forth. I licked my lips in anticipation of having him in my mouth. But first, I wanted his giant cock inside me, ramming me, splitting me open, and pushing me past the point of no return.
“Fuck me, Sam,” I said. I clutched my breasts and squeezed them until they ached. “Put your cock inside me, now...”
He lowered himself on top of me…
I could feel his hot skin melting into mine…
I could feel the sand, gritty between our sweating bodies…
I closed my eyes…
I opened my eyes…
Sam was on his back now, lying in a bed with red satin sheets and big red pillows. His cock was standing tall like a ship’s mast. My hands were around it, stroking him up and down, watching him grow even longer and thicker from my touch.
“Fuck me, Allie,” he moaned.
I climbed on top of him. My pussy was flowing, sending rivers of hot juice running down the insides of my legs. My breasts heaved as I straddled him and slowly lowered my pussy onto the head of his cock.
I braced my palms on his muscular chest and dug in my nails, making him moan. His cock head slid into me, forcing the breath from my lungs in quick gusts. I could feel my pussy expanding for him.
I lowered myself an inch, then two.
Sam put his hands on my hips and roughly forced me down onto him, impaling me fully with his massive cock. I could feel his heartbeat deep inside me, from my cunt to my temples. My heart began to beat to the rhythm of his.
With his hands on my hips, Sam began to lift me up and down, driving me onto his big cock, going all the way in, pushing against my cervix.
“Sam…” I sighed. I’m going to cum...”
“I’ll cum with you,” he said quietly. His muscles flexed as he easily lifted me up and drove me back down fully onto him.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
I could feel the orgasm building deep within me.
Every nerve in my body went on end.
Sam’s cock pulsated inside me.
My pussy grabbed him like a thousand tiny fingers.
“Now…” he said, arching his back to push deeper inside me.
“Now…”
I screamed his name and exploded against him.
My juices flowed from my pussy and washed over him, covering his body and drenching the entire bed.
I could feel his warm jizz filling me up.
I could taste him in my throat.
I licked my lips…
I could taste his salty cum on the back of my tongue…
I leaned down to kiss him…
And jarred myself awake.
I looked down to see two fingers of my right hand buried deep inside my cunt.
My hand was covered in my own juices.
The sheet beneath me was hot and wet.
I let my hand slide free, wiped it off on the sheet, then rolled over and went back to sleep.
I’d had enough of Sam Carson for one night.
Sam
Allie’s bedroom door was still closed when I came down the stairs just after eight to go for my morning run. I tiptoed through the kitchen and quietly let myself out the back door. I wasn’t awake enough to face her yet, nor did I feel like arguing this early in the morning.
She had a gorgeous face, a great set of tits, and a round, tight ass you could bounce a quarter off of. But sadly, I didn’t think Allie Winston and I were destined to be very good friends.
And certainly not lovers.
I didn’t have to like a woman to fuck her. After all, I was a guy. Guys will fuck a hot chick whether she likes them back or not. But girls aren’t built that way. They don’t do hate-fucking. Too bad. They don’t know what they’re missing. Some of the best sex I’ve ever had was with chicks I couldn’t stand.
Take that, bitch…
Anyway, I was fine not getting added to Allie Winston’s buddy list on Facebook.
I had enough friends.
And I had my groupies, so, yeah…
I’d keep off her radar by being a good boy and she could keep off mine by being a bitch.
The back of the house faced the ocean. The waters of the Atlantic were calm and inviting, tempting me to take a swim after my run. The sky was a bright, cloudless blue. The sun was already well into the sky above the horizon. It was going to be a beautiful spring day.
There was a wide deck that ran across the back of the house, with a set of eight stairs that descended to the beach. The white sand extended thirty or so yards to the edge of the shoreline.
I stood at the bottom of the stairs and took a minute to stretch the stiffness out of my joints.
I grunted like an old man when I stretched these days.
I might look good for my age, but my joints and various injuries – those obtained on and off the field -- reminded me that I wasn’t a kid anymore.
My battered shoulder ached like a son of a bitch when the weather got cold. Somedays, my back cracked like bubble wrap and my knees popped when I walked. I could practically predict the weather with the aches and pains that crept through the repaired tendons, muscles and bones in my body.
I was wearing the same running shorts and shoes from the night before. The temperature outside was already in the seventies, so I didn’t bother with a shirt. I’d let the warm ocean breeze dry the sweat from my body as I ran along the shoreline.
I clipped my iPhone to the waistband and tucked the earbuds into my ears. I flipped through my iTunes library, then chose The Beach Boy’s Greatest Hits as my musical accompaniment. A fitting selection if I do say so myself.
I glanced back at the house. No sign of Allie.
I took a few deep breaths, then set out across the sand for a quick run.
I’d face off with Allie Winston when I returned.
Allie
Sam was already gone when I got up. I stuck my head out of the bedroom door and listened for a moment, then tiptoed up the stairs and peeked into the upstairs master bedroom. His bag was on the floor and the bed was a mess, so apparently, he hadn’t gone far and would be coming back.
I fixed a pot of coffee and poured myself a mug, then carried it out onto the deck. It was a gorgeous day
. Bright blue sky. Calm waters. No clouds. A warm breeze blowing in from the ocean. Perfect for my planned weekend of solitude.
I put a hand above my eyes and glanced up and down the beach. This section of beach was private, meant only for the homeowners and their guests. I could see people scattered about the beach in both directions, but I would have the stretch of beach behind the house all to myself.
I had the day all planned.
I would have my coffee, then put on my new red bikini and floppy straw hat, grease myself up like a party pig, then take my book down to the shore to sit with my toes in the sand. Perfect!
And with any luck, Sam would come back from wherever he was and clear out his things before lunch time. Surely he’d figured out by now that he had no business being here alone with me. I mean, I didn’t even know the guy. Although I certainly knew of his reputation when it came to women…
Women, hah…
More like groupies…
I settled into a deck chair and took a sip of coffee. Then I remembered the dream. Sam and his monster cock… me with wine all over my naked body… me riding him like a polo pony… my own fingers buried inside me…
My cellphone was resting on the arm of the deck chair. It buzzed and fell onto my thigh, jarring me back to reality.
I picked it up and looked at the screen.
It was my dad on Facetime.
I slid the button to answer the call and held the phone up so he could see my face. I worked up a smile and said, “Hi, dad, how are you?”
He always held the iPhone too close to his face. All I could see was his nose and mouth. I told him to hold the phone away from his face so I could see him better.
“Is that better?” he asked, giving me a goofy grin.
“Perfect.”
“So, how’s my little girl?” He brought the phone back to his lips to speak, then pulled it away to listen, like he was talking into a walkie-talkie. I rolled my eyes.
“Your little girl is twenty-four and fine.” I could hear noise behind him, like an airport lounge. “Where are you?”
He glanced around, then brought the phone to his lips. “I’m still at the owner’s meeting in Los Angeles, but I just wanted to give you a head’s up about something. Do you know who Sam Carson is?”
