by Alexis Angel
I claw at her hair as she cups my balls, her mouth finally filling with my throbbing member, the warmness and wetness of her inside almost making me dizzy. She pulls out as slowly as she leans into me until only my glans is on her lips, and then goes down again, each coming and going motion of her head almost too much to endure. I can’t help it and I groan loudly when I see a thin trickle of spit lingering as she moves her mouth off my cock and looks up at me.
“Did you miss me?”
I nod my head and groan as her hand joins the pendulum motion of her mouth, stroking and sucking at a rhythm so perfect I wish for it to never fucking end. I look down at her, seeing my flesh going in and out of her mouth, and the sight of it makes my cock pulse hard against her tongue.
"I want you." I whisper towards her. She lifts her eyes up to me and, sliding back out and allowing my cock to pop out of her mouth slowly, she smiles at me, beautiful dimples forming around the edge of her mouth. I offer her my hand and, taking it, she rises and turns me, guiding me towards the bedroom. I let her lead and follow her, the sway of her hips making my mouth water at the sight of her moving ass.
Turning on her heels, she motions for me to lay down on the mattress. I remain still, though, my heart thrashing around inside my chest as my eyes wander over her perfect shape. God, I want - no, I need - to feel every single curve, every single inch of smooth skin on her body.
I take a step forwards and, taking my hands to her hips, push her down to the bed. She offers no resistance, laying down as I climb on top of her, my hungry hands sliding over her body and making a teasing climb towards her breasts. I let my fingers go over the cup of her bra and hook themselves under it, my fingertips tracing the curve of her breasts and finding the warm hardness of her swollen nipples.
She arches her back and gasps, surrendering to my touch. Hungry for her, a white pulsing heat inside my head, I sit her up on the bed and rest one hand of mine on her lower back, my fingers resting over the lovely depressions that are her dimples.
With a turn of my fingers, I unclasp her bra. As the straps fall down her shoulders, the bra cups gently fall down her breasts, letting me see her firm, round, perfect mounds.
I guide my mouth there, flicking my tongue at a tiny hard nipple and then, overwhelmed by the desire to taste her, lower my mouth and suck on it as I cup both breasts and squeeze, the taste of her flesh making me turn into an animal.
More. That’s the only thing I can think to myself. I need more.
My fingertips make the climb back down from her breasts, making the journey over her stomach and discover the hem of her yoga pants. I go over it and around her crotch, my touch settling on her inner thigh as she squirms anxiously. With one finger only I trace the tender lines of her groin before surrendering to impatience and pressing down the palm of my hand over her crotch, making her draw a purred moan out of her lips.
I pull down her pants, each inch I pull free making my heart kick and punch at my rib cage, the lace white fabric of her thong slowly revealing itself to him. With one hand under her lower back I push her ass up and slide her pants down her legs, my knuckles brushing against her smooth skin.
It almost hurts me to not be touching her for a single second - I take my hands to her ankles and slide them up her legs, my mouth feeling dry as I feel the dripping wet fabric of her thong on my fingertips. I lean into her, my lips gently kissing her knees, her inner thighs, her groin... I place my mouth over her thong and, breathing in, suck hard, her scent and flavor so sweet I feel lightheaded.
She pushes her hips upwards, pressing her pussy against my mouth, her eager wetness coating my hungry lips. Then, unable to wait one second more, I push her thong aside, just enough so that I can taste her labia with the tip of my tongue. I lap at her, flicking my tongue at her clit and circling it slowly; pressing my mouth where I suck, the desire to taste her taking hold of me.
I pull back for just one second, enough time for me to pull the thong down her legs. I take one more second to breathe in as I take in the sight of her, the beautiful small triangle of trimmed hair between her legs calling to me. I dive into her, burying my mouth in her pussy, devouring her carelessly as if I need to do it to survive, two careful and gentle fingers brushing against her clit as she keeps jerking her hips against my face.
There is no stopping - even when she claws at my hair, moans breaking free of her mouth through gritted teeth, I don’t fucking stop. I keep going until she surrenders to that sweet madness and starts forcing my head down and her hips up, making me eat her out in the most wild and delicious way there is. And I love it, I love everything about it: how she wants my mouth on her pussy, the taste of her, the aching moans she fills the room with...
Parting her labia with my tongue, I slide one finger inside her, making her hips sway wildly. I take my forearm and place it over her belly, holding her down as, with my mouth and fingers, I claim her. She thrusts her pussy against my face, fighting against the hold I have on her and, holding her position, she cums hard as I devour her.
She screams - it’s a high pitched scream and, yet, almost musical and sweet. I pull back and look at her, my mouth still coated by her wetness. Seeing her like that, closed eyes and breathing fast, her legs shaking as if they’re not hers to command... It makes me happy. It’s a strange thing to feel, at least for me - but it’s the fucking truth. Seeing how I pleased her, pleases me. Nothing more, nothing less.
Her lazy eyelids open and she looks at me. I smile and, before I even notice what’s happened, she throws her arms at me and makes me lay down.
"I need this... I really need this." She purrs against my ear as she climbs on top of me.
No... I'm the one who fucking needs it, I think, surrendering to Julianna as she grabs my cock and eases herself down. I groan as I feel the tip of my member pushing her labia aside - then she falls on me, my length piercing her in one single motion, the tightness of her almost too much for me.
I grab her ass, feeling her sway on top of me as she leans into me, her nipples inches away from me. I go the distance, taking a sweet hard tip in my mouth and sucking as her body rocks against mine.
Feeling my body on hers, her eager breathing and the desire that makes her skin glisten... this is just fucking perfect. It’s not just lust, or just desire... It’s all those things but it’s also something more. Closeness, comfort. And it feels good. It feels fucking good. But there’s something weird.
It doesn’t feel…complete.
I wasn’t always like this. Fuck, I was never like this. Far from it.
But It doesn’t seem right, or fucking complete…without Ethan.
Julianna is riding me perfectly, going up and down in a flowing motion, my cock defenseless against the tight embrace of her pussy. She comes up until only my tip was inside her and then back down once more; then she sways forward and backwards, my shaft burying itself deep inside her. And then she does it all over again. She goes at me like this and it’s getting unbearable - my muscles burn and my bones seem to rattle anxiously against each other.
I’m going to cum. Hard.
Grabbing her ass cheeks hard, my fingertips over the perfect curve of her crack, I thrust upwards and, as she screams her way to orgasm once more.
That’s it.
I erupt.
I shoot my cum deep inside her.
I cum in buckets. I’m going crazy.
My eyes roll up in my head and I nearly black out.
For a fraction of a second her scream of pleasure dances with the sound of my harsh breathing as I gush inside of her and, just for that one moment, I think of her. And then I think of Ethan Blake.
Ethan fucking Blake.
I pull her close, her head resting against my shoulder as she tries to catch her breath. Still inside of her, I turn my head to the side and lay a kiss on her flushed cheek. As far as I’m concerned, there is no place in the world I’d rather be than right here, holding Julianna in my arms.
She feels the same way as she
looks at me.
We’re on the same wavelength as she traces a finger over my abs and looks me in the eyes.
“You missed him too, didn’t you?” she asks.
I sigh. Fuck.
“Yep,” I say. She smiles a sad smile, but there’s determination behind it.
“We’ll get him,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
“How do you know?” I ask. Not even I’m so confident as she is right now.
“Because,” she says with a dirty, nasty, wicked smile that makes my cock twitch harder and gets me hard again. “I’m Julianna fucking Heaton.”
Holy shit. This woman is amazing.
Ethan
"We should think of this as brand development." Larry Summers waves his hands excitedly. "And your brand is worth millions." He is a short, petite man, but has the energy of an angry hive of bees. I hired him to help me quiet the negative media buzz. He has a history of helping celebrities turn their lives around, and he has a 100% success rate. I'd say he’s worth the money. How can I go wrong with him? It's an understatement to say that I can use the help. I can't believe how crazy things have gotten with my life. One minute I'm buying a woman 100 long-stemmed roses, and the next, I'm broadcasted as one of the biggest sex scandals of the year.
"There are three general areas that we must focus on—communication, behavior, and physical appearance," he continues. "I'd say you're fine in the appearance department." He eyes me up and down and then continues, "Your Armani suits are sharp and tailored—perfect because that shows you are serious. But perhaps consider wearing a tie that will bring out your eyes, like a nice blue one, or even yellow—yellow is a power color you know."
"Good point. I'll make a quick note of that." I have a note pad out and reach for my pen.
"But we need to make adjustments to your communication. When you find yourself in a conflict zone—like you are so often finding yourself with reporters and other members of the media—listen first! When it's your turn to say something, speak in a calm, level tone. Punching people on National television will never do. That should go without saying."
I laugh. He is right, of course. But that seems like a million years ago now. I no longer feel like punching Colt Stackford in the face. And I am still trying to come to grips with what exactly I am feeling for him.
"I mean it," he continues. "Use your nonverbal cues to your benefit. Instead of throwing a fist or giving off some other negative cue like crossing your arms—which you are doing now, by the way—keep eye contact at all times and give off positive cues, even when you are screaming inside like you are about to burst, or like you are an angry elephant about to stampede a village."
"That feels dishonest, like shaking my head yes but internally saying no," I say.
"You are Ethan Blake, one of the greatest defensive ends in the NFL. Stop falling into unhealthy knee-jerk patterns of behavior. If you want to continue living as the darling of the league, you need to pull it together. And quick. Quite frankly, you are running out of time."
"Speaking of time, I'm having a hard time staying focused," I admit. I involuntarily slump my shoulders at this realization. Remaining focused and working hard is one of my strengths, but now it seems just out of my grasp. It is a frustrating feeling.
"That'll never do. You have to pull your head from the clouds, Ethan. Focus is key here."
If only I can describe these clouds for Larry. My head is currently locked in clouds shaped as two humans.
"You seem overwhelmed, and when you compound that with a lack of focus, the results are disastrous. 911 disastrous."
"No kidding," I say sarcastically. Is this man dramatic or what? It is not as simple as he makes it out to sound.
"And your behavior has been, well, how should I put it—"
But before he finishes his thought, I hear a sharp knock at my door and excuse myself to answer it. Standing in the doorway, I see a man in his late 30s with one of the toothiest smiles and flashiest suits I have ever seen. He greets me with a bear hug and a masculine pat on the back. His large hands make thumping sounds just below my shoulder blades. "It's good to see you," he says. "How you feeling champ?" There is something in his smile that makes him look dishonest, and I’m about to kick him about, but I hesitate, thinking how I’m supposed to be rehabilitating my image.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask instead, through gritted teeth.
“Oh, pardon me, Ethan,” Larry says as he waddles over to where I’m standing. “This is my assistant, Dave.”
I’m still a bit weirded out that Dave is so physical when he greets other men. But who am I to say anything? I let my team mate jerk me off in the locker room, right?
Dave looks at me and asks again, “How you feeling, champ?”
I wince at his usage of the word champ, but reply. "Just trying to put this shit storm behind me, man, but I'm hanging in there."
"The hell you are! You’re Ethan fucking Blake!"
"So I've heard," I say, leading him into my apartment. "Why does everyone keep saying that today?"
Dave ignores my question because Larry turns to both of us.
“Dave is an excellent strategic negotiations counsel that I’ve bring on challenging cases,” Larry says walking back to the table. “Dave, tell Ethan your take on the situation, and try not to bore us with technical lawyer bullshit.”
"You're funny,” Dave says with sarcasm. Then he turns to me. “Listen, I'm concerned about negotiating a new deal with the New York Nailers. There's no doubt in my mind that you deserve a spot on this team, but with all of this scandal, if you don't make it, it may be difficult to find you a spot on any NFL team. No one wants to touch a 'head case' as they say."
"A head case? Is that what you think of me?" I ask - a bit surprised.
"Not me man—them! The media and other franchise owners. You might be a tough sell."
I can feel the rhythm of my pulse increase, and I feel a hot wave of anger rise in my chest. I clench a fist. This is all feeling like too much to handle.
"Remember what I said about non-verbal cues," Larry says, noticing my fist and lowered eyebrows. He is right. I need to make a more conscious effort to remain calm.
Larry opens a notebook and jots down some points. "Any other thoughts, Dave?“ he asks, and then Dave gives a giant sigh.
"Yeah, I gotta say, you've been getting a bit too much action off the field," Dave says, laughing and jabbing me in my side with his elbow. He is trying to be funny, but I really am not in the mood for jokes.
"I actually have a plan," Larry says, continuing his train of thought, and that really grabs our attention. “I’ve been talking with AJ Ledoux over at the Times.”
"What's that?" I ask. "I'm open to any ideas you have, but why are you talking to that man?"
"There's one way that we can wash you of these scandals," Larry says. "While the SportsNation highlights are damning, we can flip the story. It's like that old saying, 'if you don't like what people are saying, change the story,' and in this case, I think it would work brilliantly."
"How can we change the story when the evidence is captured on video? I just don't understand," I say, furrowing my eyebrows. “And why have you been talking to AJ? You didn’t answer my question.”
"Right now, the media – basically spurred on by AJ - is painting you as a willing participant in these actions," Larry says. I can hear Dave giggle at the word 'action' and I wonder if he is secretly 12 years old. “Ninety-nine percent of the anger is because of his daily column where he takes you and runs you over the coals. But I know he’s open to a deal.”
Larry continues, "What if you weren't a willing participant after all? What if you were seduced and strong-armed?"
"That's not what—" I begin to say, but Larry cuts me off. I know I just said that I was open to any ideas, but now I really am not so sure that is true.
"You know what the new script should be? Well, I'll tell you even if you don't want to hear it. The new story should tell the world t
hat Julianna deceived and seduced you, and Colt accosted you in that locker room."
“But that’s not true,” I say, standing up. “She didn’t do anything like that. In fact…”
But Larry doesn’t let me finish. “I know that, but who cares?” he asks me. When I don’t answer, he looks at me. “Listen to me, Ethan, AJ Ledoux has his sights set on only one person – Julianna Heaton. None of this shit would have blown up if he hadn’t been stoking the fires this entire time. Now you can stay on the burning bus that he’s pushing into a ditch, or you can get out. But if you get out, you gotta help him push. Now what’s it gonna be – your career, or your cock?”
That night, I can't sleep. It doesn't feel right. How can I throw Julianna and Colt under the bus? The media would have a field day with that kind of story. I am pacing from one room to another. The entire place makes me feel claustrophobic, like a caged animal. I have to get out of my apartment. It is 9 pm and I know my favorite pub, Black and Bull, down the street is still serving food. I grab my jacket, keys, and wallet and head out the door.
The place seems a little more crowded than usual for a weeknight, and just as I am about to turn around and head back home, thinking it may have been a bad idea to come, I find an open booth in a far back corner of the room. This place is great for a number of reasons, but my favorites are that the seating offers a lot of privacy, the number of different beers on tap are staggering, and the burger, well—you might as well ask for a bib with that burger. Take one bite and melted bleu cheese gushes out and offsets the crunchy slabs of bacon placed on top of the patty. If I was to have sex with a burger, and I realize that's a strange thought—this burger would be it.
I settle into the dark wood and red vinyl booth and the waitress hands me a menu. I immediately look at the beer listing. I need something to mellow me out. There are ales, wheat beers, lagers, IPAs—why are IPAs so popular these days? I can't understand it. And then I see the darker beers—stouts and porters. Yes, that is what I am in the mood for, something substantial, like a meal in a pint. I am buried in the beer menu when someone approaches my table. I think it is the waitress, so I begin to order. "I think I'll have the dark—"
