Then he kissed me again and, as he kissed me, one hand slid under my sweatshirt and cupped my breast through my bra. My nipple tightened and pressed against his palm through the lacy material.
I glanced around. We were as alone as we could be in the city. I unfastened Brandt’s belt, undid the front of his jeans, and released his erection from the confining material. His pants slid to his ankles. After stroking his cock several times, I told him that one in the hand is never as good as one in the bush, and that I was already wet with desire.
Brandt took the hint. After some quick work, my jeans and black thong dropped to my ankles. He spun me around and bent me forward. I braced myself on the rear bumper of my SUV as he grabbed my hips and pressed the fat head of his swollen cock against my pussy lips.
I braced myself as Brandt drove his cock deep inside me. When he drew back and drove forward again I had to help brace myself with my other arm, too, or his powerful thrusts would have bashed my head into the back of my SUV.
We were so turned on by the possibility that one of the other firefighters would round the corner and catch us in the act, that our sex was hard and fast. I came first, and I bit my lip to keep from crying out. My orgasm seemed to excite Brandt even more and his thrusts grew faster, harder, and deeper.
And then he came, hosing my spasming pussy with thick wads of hot cum.
After we finished and pulled our clothes back on, Brandt held my car door open and asked, “How about a proper date?”
Apparently, I’d been approaching my sex life all wrong, trying to get to know the men I dated before taking them to bed. “What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner, dancing, see what happens from there.”
What happened is that we wound up in my bed, where we’ve been spending quite a bit of time ever since.
As soon as Wendy and I selected the photos for the calendar, she dropped them into place in the layout she had waiting and delivered the electronic file to the printing company. The calendar sold out within two weeks and went back for a second and then a third printing, netting several thousand dollars for the injured firefighter. Four of the calendar models met their future spouses because of the calendar, and the other unattached single men easily filled their date books.
Brandt’s sexy, post-orgasmic photo for July turned out to be the hit of the calendar, and I know several women who tore it out when the year ended and now keep it magneted to their fridge, taped to the inside of their gym locker, or pinned to a bulletin board where they can lust after him regularly.
Me? I didn’t bother. I now have Brandt on a permanent three-days-on, three-days-off rotation. When he’s not putting out fires for other people, he’s putting out my fire as the first firefighter model to meet his future spouse because of the calendar.
Out With A Bang
Tim, San Jose
When I realized that I couldn’t talk her out of it, I relented and promised I’d rent some seedy dive bar for a night. Maybe some place over on ‘F’ street, where the winos and back-alley hookers hung out. Some place where nobody knows your name or gives a shit about what you’re up to. Some place anti-Cheers.
No, that isn’t what she wanted. She liked the sleazy nature of my suggestion, of course, but she wanted something with more risk and less predictability.
She wanted to do it at my job site.
Let me explain. I’m an ironworker, one of those beefy, goateed mugs you’ve probably noticed when you look up from your brown bag lunch in the plaza. That’s right, we’re the ones making all that racket and blocking million-dollar views. But nobody causes erections like we do. That’s a little ironworker humor. You’re welcome.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that ironworkers are a little rough around the edges. That our scruffy exteriors and unsophisticated ways make you nervous for your daughters. But ask yourself this: Who would you rather have backing you up in a bar fight? I thought so.
And something else: What is it about us that chicks can’t resist?
Take Janine, the pint-sized hellraiser I used to go with. I picked her up one night at Fast Eddy’s when she was playing eight-ball with some pasty-faced insurance guy. I showed her my trick of guzzling beer while whistling through my nose, and that’s when she noticed the shark tattoo on my sleeveless shoulder. Right away she knew that she’d found a soulmate – or at least another die-hard fan of the San Jose Sharks.
Janine moved into my trailer a week later. At first, like any new couple, we jockeyed for position. We drank too much and fought like we’d been married forever. But we soon settled into a nice domestic rhythm of fucking and eating Chinese takeout. Followed by more fucking. Sure, we butted heads over stuff like her excessive smoking and my carousing with my biker buddies. But these were usually abbreviated affairs and nearly always ended with me hoisting Janine up on the kitchen counter, ceremoniously lighting her a butt, then pulling down her sexy cut-offs so that I could eat her splendiferous snatch while she wriggled, giggled, and smoked like a chimney.
Man, those were good times.
They were particularly good because Janine liked to party as much as I did. Do. She had a high-octane sex drive, and could match every thrust of my johnson with a libidinous thrust of her own. Most nights when I slumped in from work Janine was in down-and-dirty mode and ripe for a sound screwing. Hell, she wouldn’t even wait for me to clean up before attacking me on the couch while Wheel of Fortune blared in the background. Then, for an encore, she’d shove something in the oven (usually mac and cheese or chicken pot pies) and jump me in the shower, and what we did in there would have gotten us arrested in Alabama and Tennessee.
(Just between you and me, I loved spreading Janine’s ass cheeks apart and watching the water sluice between them before burying my tongue as deep as I could up her pert little asshole. Hey, I’ve still got the blurry pics on my cellphone to prove it.)
But did our debaucherous shower play do anything to tamp down her fire? No, it did not. So, after dinner, bushed as I was, I’d roll out some premium homegrown, crack open a bottle of Jack, and instead of “talking about our day” like a couple of sitcom losers, we’d find interesting things to put into Janine’s pussy while I strummed her clit like a banjo.
I swear, if I hadn’t of quit her, I’d have ended up in some rehab clinic for guys addicted to chicks who never say no.
Janine was no one-man woman – I knew that going in. Oh, sometimes she’d drop hints about getting married and having babies, but an ex-den mother for the Mongols biker club doesn’t just quit the life overnight and start shopping for patio furniture. No, she was used to having men around, lots of them, and hooking up with me was her E-ticket to Testosterone Land. So many ironworkers, so little time, if you get my meaning.
So, realizing the tenuous nature of our partnership, one day I asked her to tell me her wildest unfulfilled fantasy. Maybe I could help her achieve it. Little did I know that I already had the answer cued up on the DVD player.
It was a fairly recent porno, one that I’d picked up for half price at Frenchy’s over on 14th Avenue. I’d happily discovered that watching smut with Janine was like offering a match to a girl already prone to spontaneous combustion. Nothing revved her engine like watching people fuck on hi-def video. And the raunchier the flick, the hotter she got, which meant that my overworked pecker was putting in for some serious overtime. But, hey, you never heard me complaining.
That Frenchy’s video – somehow it unlocked the vault where Janine kept her really prurient inclinations. I could see it in her eyes, the way her pupils blew up when she stared at the lewd photos plastered on the DVD cover.
“What’s Bakkake?” she asked in a choked whisper, and I laughed so hard I almost hurt myself.
“No, no. It’s pronounced ba-kaw-kay, not bake-a-cake. It’s Japanese. I think it means ‘Welcome to super-fantastic happy hour’.”
Janine told me to get serious. She wanted to know more. So I explained the premise. This particular movie was a homemade
job shot in people’s living rooms and backyards, and every scene involved one woman – sometimes two – who hunkered down inside a circle of masturbating horndogs, sucked them off, and let them come on her face, her tits, wherever. It was, I said, kind of like the girl who has to keep a half-dozen plates spinning on skinny sticks without letting any of them fall.
It was a terrible analogy, but Janine got the picture. The look of fascination on her face said it all. Any other woman would have reacted with revulsion, but she was clearly intoxicated by the idea.
This made me wonder: Would she want to take it a decadent step further?
Is the sky blue? As soon as I pressed “play” and the first scene of carnal depravity filled up the screen, Janine had her hand inside my boxers and her tongue in my ear. “Can you make this happen for me, baby?” she whispered, pointing to the scurrilous image of a cute redhead with her mouth full of cock. As if to prove that she was serious and not just dirty talking, she placed my hand over a wet spot on her panties. “See? Your movie is making Janine all wet.”
That was the moment that I knew our relationship was almost over. I also knew just how it would end.
With a bang, not a whimper.
But to have our last blast at the place where I worked? No, that was impossible. The high-rise we were building in the heart of downtown was wide open, just a steel skeleton of columns and cross-beams, with temporary plywood floors. Too many things could go wrong. On the other hand, I knew that I wouldn’t have any problem rounding up volunteers. I’ve known ironworkers so horny from looking down the blouses of tight little office workers that they’d fuck a meatloaf sandwich.
Yeah, but this was Janine’s freak show, and I had to consider her wants and wishes. We’d been together for nearly three months, so I owed her for all those nights of non-connubial bliss and days of warmed-over grilled cheese sandwiches. Besides, if I wasn’t man enough to arrange a kinky rendezvous with some of my more virile co-workers, she’d seek out some other, maybe more dangerous, playground to get her ticket punched. I couldn’t let that happen.
Christ. It’s hard enough figuring out what women want. When you finally do, you have to move heaven and earth to get it for them.
Except, not this time. When I mentioned Janine’s fantasy to my red-white-and-blue brethren, hands shot up like they were attached to eager schoolkids. Pick me! Pick me! So I gathered up enough promising candidates to field a beer league softball team and told them we’d meet up on the following Sunday, when I knew the job site super would be attending a 49ers’ pre-season game. Bring old blankets, I told them. Bring beer. And leave your condoms at home, because Janine isn’t into sucking on foul-tasting petroleum products. In other words, I said, scrub your peckers with borax until even you would eat off of them.
And, most importantly, I instructed, don’t fucking jack off for at least three days before the big event. And no fooling around with wives or girlfriends, either. Make up some excuse. Tell them you accidentally caught your dick in the car door. Something.
Why?
“Because Janine wants to watch each and every one of you hobos milk a half-pint of hot, goopy spunk from your cocks and feed it to her like honey.”
Well, you never saw so many slackened jaws and glazed eyes staring at you in disbelief all at the same time. Janine had predicted this would be easy, because guys were so easy. Score one for Janine.
We all arrived as planned on the third Sunday of August just after 1 p.m., parking on busy Santa Clara Avenue to avoid suspicion. Janine came dressed in a wraparound denim skirt with nothing underneath, and a killer Motley Crüe T-shirt. The night before she’d told me that she was going to use the shirt as a come rag to mop up all the male spend. I shrugged. I don’t shock easily. But when she said that she was going to save the damn thing as an X-rated keepsake, I knew that whoever she did eventually marry would have to be the King of Kink, for surely she was the Queen.
We took the freight elevator up to the ninth floor, nine randy hardhats plus me and Janine. When we stepped out, the cross-breeze that greeted us felt surprisingly warm on our skin. Plus, the view was spectacular. Janine, she wasn’t exactly down with getting down above the treetops, but when Jimmy, an ex-con welder, pulled the tab on a beer for her and told her that he couldn’t wait to see her tits, she immediately relaxed. She knew that she was in good company.
Me, I was as keyed-up as a racehorse at the starting gate. After all, I’d lived up to my own demands and gone without nookie for three days. I was in quite a lather. Even so, I’d watched Janine closely that morning, trying to gauge her mood. Did she still want to go through with this? Watching other deviants perform indecent acts on a DVD was one thing, but to actually be the willing recipient of alien sperm was quite another.
There was no need for concern. From the get-go, right out of the sack, Janine was like a cat in heat, rubbing her ass up against me, clutching my cock when we squeezed past each other in the narrow hallway, practically singing anthems about how hot the whole idea was making her. Let’s get this party started, she kept repeating.
And so we did. Beers were passed around, and the guys huddled in twos and threes making pornographic small talk. I could see them undressing Janine with their eyes as she paced up and down one side of the room like a caged lioness. She looked fantastic in her sparkly make-up, and with her hair pulled back in a girlish ponytail. For an added touch of naughtiness, she had shaved the night before, and I mean everything. Plus, she’d made me violate my hands-off policy by convincing me to rub baby oil over her entire body.
That right there nearly broke my will.
Anyway, how to begin? All of us schmos knew how to work from blueprints, but there were no instructions for this kind of thing. Who starts? Who makes the first move? I finally decided that it was up to me to be the lead dog. If Janine was going to get butt naked for a bunch of unkempt rogues wearing steel-toed boots, it was only fair – and way more arousing – if we all stripped down to our birthday suits.
When I peeled off my snug black T and camo vest, the guys picked up on my cue and formed a lopsided circle around the patch of neatly folded blankets we’d laid down for Janine’s comfort. Boots and ball caps hit the deck first, followed by faded jeans, plaid shirts, yesterday’s grungy T-shirts, and a crazy assortment of shredded undies. Janine watched all this with detached amusement, but I could tell that her temperature had risen from simmer to boiling. She was ready to get busy. More than ready.
“You nasty, nasty boys,” she said, taking a slow-walking tour around the ring of naked men, smacking the occasional ass as she admired our work-toned physiques. “I hope you fellas have saved up plenty of love for Miss J.” She stepped into the center of our circle and quickly unwrapped her skirt, and I saw several guys react by grabbing their nuts, while others swore under their breaths. Frankly, I expected more hooting and hollering, but the sight of a bottomless gal tends to put you at a loss for words.
When Janine shucked her rock-and-roll shirt and stood naked before us, hands on her ample hips, nipples hard as cherry pits – the very nipples I’d rolled around on my tongue dozens of times – I knew that it was on.
So, yeah, I was a little miffed when Janine got down on her knees and approached Hank, the good-looking forklift driver, first. After all, this was supposed to be our going-our-separate-ways party. But when I saw how she greedily took the meat of Hank’s semi-hard cock into her mouth with a feral look in her eyes, my own cock responded, and I brought it firmly to life.
God, it was all so unreal! Suddenly the ninth floor hummed with a synched-up sexual energy, and the power of collective lust took over. Lucky Hank wore a mask of pure pleasure, while the rest of us jacked off with the nastiest of intentions, barely able to wait for our turn. When Janine finally moved off of Hank and onto Juan’s chocolate-brown cock, we all cheered like idiot sports fans. But no football game could ever hold our attention the way the spectacle in that erotic funhouse did.
Let me digress for a min
ute. There is something about the way a naked woman squats on her haunches that drives men crazy. Maybe it’s the smooth contour of her thighs, and how they seamlessly merge into her ass. Or the fact that the act itself naturally spreads her ass cheeks, revealing that delicious brown cookie that’s normally tucked away. The thing that really pushes my button is all that fleshy bottom! Makes a man want to sink his teeth into it and bite off a piece.
Anyway, I’m only guessing, but maybe that peep-show pose of Janine’s was the reason young Davey, only a pup among us big dogs, shot his load all over her tits the second she shifted over and took his cock in her hands. Poor kid. He barely had time to get acquainted. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t enjoy himself. When he popped his rivet his eyes rolled back in his head, and I almost lost it myself when Janine licked a warm smear of come from her nipple like it was vanilla frosting. Holy shit, it was like something out of a celibate’s wet dream!
But Janine was just getting started. Davey told me later that he’d felt his knees go wobbly while she kneaded every last drop from his dick. And when she took the last stringy remnants into her mouth, I knew she was going to get her nasty on in a big way. In one cat-like motion she side-stepped her way to Jimmy, swirled the cocktail of spit and sperm in her mouth, then spat the gooey mess onto Jimmy’s cock and used it as a bastardized lube to jerk him off.
Well, I’ve seen a lot of things, but this – it was an act of such depravity that you wouldn’t believe the commotion it caused. Jimmy growled, bucked his hips, and came like a freight train, fat dollops of his spunk splattering Janine’s thighs like bacon grease. This was too much for Tiny, the boulder of a man who was next in line. Before Janine could even sidle over to him, he unleashed a jet of ejaculate that gave her the pearl necklace she could never afford. I remember her laughing and saying to him, “How lovely. Now get that dick hard again, because I want to try on something more expensive.”
Jesus. Even our heated romps in the trailer couldn’t hold a candle to this. Janine was playing the title role of Slutty Degenerate for all she was worth, and probably should have been arrested for arson, because every guy there was burning up. One by one I watched her pick the locks of those horny bastards, making them shudder and spurt and howl like sex-starved nature boys. The ratty blankets cushioning her knees grew damp from all the male spend, but Janine wore most of it like a second skin. Her hair was matted with it. Her tits were painted gluey white.
The Mammoth Book of Urban Erotic Confessions Page 5
