by Lana Hartley
“What is that…is that…?” I ask as he enters me and starts thrusting and for a minute that is all I can think of, that and his awesome teeth clamping on my nipples and he tugs away at them like a puppy playing with a rubber toy.
“Oh Nathan…” I sigh.
“I hope you don’t mind, I wrote lyrics for the song,” Nathan informs.
“That’s so…sweet…” I start crying. This is the single most sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. And I hope Vincent doesn’t mind, but right now Nathan has my heart.
“Oh Nathan…” I cry and sigh over his shoulder as I listen to a man beautifully belt out the song.
In her arms/I come alive/shine through the night/like a firefly
The magic builds in her eyes/the best surprise
Like a little firefly
Just a part of the game, like a little flame, in the dark
She keeps up light; she says it’s the heart
That lights up the firefly
In her arms late at night that’s exactly what it feels like
Like I’m a firefly
“Nathan…” I wrap my arms around him and hold him as I feel him go deeper and deeper inside of me. My crown has fallen off of my head and Vincent picks it up and carefully places it on the table where he is finishing a bottle of wine and he has a smoke as I shut my eyes and feel Nathan inside of me and continue to listen to the lovely song being performs outside.
“You…wrote this?” I ask him.
“You wrote the music…I wrote the lyrics...”
In her arms/I come alive/shine through the night/like a firefly
The magic builds in her eyes/the best surprise
Like a little firefly
Just a part of the game, like a little flame, in the dark
She keeps up light; she says it’s the heart
That lights up the firefly
In her arms late at night that’s exactly what it feels like
Like I’m a firefly
I just can’t breathe right
Until the night
Sets me free, I come alive
Just like a firefly
Such a sweet surprise
To see her eyes light up like that
Every time she’s in the room I feel like dancing
You can’t help but notice
She’s just like fire
A firefly
Nathan is thrusting harder and harder and Vincent is sipping his wine and looking out at the garden, the garden where this band has apparently set up shop and I think maybe this ruffles Vincent’s feathers a bit. I do know how much he loves that garden.
Nathan pays no mind and just keeps thrusting and thrusting and thrusting, until he’s about to cum, and I hold onto him and run my hand through his hair, and we kiss really hard and my feet wrap around his back so my ankles are mashed together and he keeps fucking me deeper and deeper with solid big thrusts and I think Vincent has his cock out and he’s playing with himself and the night smells like whiskey and rain and wine and the band is in the middle of some big triumphant climax and I hear the piano and trumpets and the saxophone and the man keeps singing our song.
In her arms/I come alive/shine through the night/like a firefly
The magic builds in her eyes/the best surprise
Like a little firefly
Just a part of the game, like a little flame, in the dark
She keeps up light; she says it’s the heart
That lights up the firefly
In her arms late at night that’s exactly what it feels like
Like I’m a firefly
I just can’t breathe right
Until the night
Sets me free, I come alive
Just like a firefly
Such a sweet surprise
To see her eyes light up like that
Every time she’s in the room I feel like dancing
You can’t help but notice
She’s just like fire
A firefly
“Oh Nathan…Nathan…I love you sweet boy, I love you so much…” I say as three music buildings and builds out there where both of these men have planted flowers for me – flowers that represent me in many ways. The gloriosoas represent fire, and the dark lilies that Nathan planted represent a piece of him and now my song – and Nathan’s song – is being performed out there and I’m not sure how this night could get any more romantic.
I look up and see that Vincent is gone and Nathan is still hard and inside me but I think he is about to cum and then I see Vincent come back to the terrace and he has something in the palm of his hands and he goes to the table and stands around my crown and starts letting those rose petals go so they tumble over my crown and he picks up the wine and starts sipping and pours us all glasses of wine as Nathan keeps fucking me and I claw at his back because it has never been this good before.
“I just want you to be happy,” Nathan says.
“I am, I am so, so happy.”
“I hope that this song made you happy…I thought so hard how to…” he cums and I think he even shakes a little and I hold him tight and I’m just amazed by the song and the lyrics run through my head long after the song ends and I lie there with him still inside of me and Vincent sitting over my crown and the rose petals he brought in and I think it’s starting to thunder way off in the distance and I feel a little rain hit us too, and the rain is nice and cool, a nice mist that coats every perfect thing about this perfect night.
I am so happy and warm. A princess becomes a queen when her two princes become the kings of her life, of her pleasure. That’s what I have and I wish for nothing more. Every thing is perfect, you see?
Hit & Run
An MFM Romance
By Lana Hartley
Copyright 2018 by Dark Princess Press
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.
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Hunter
The ring goes off somewhere and it’s like it sets off something in my body that I can’t even control. Fuck the Russian standing across from me, he’s dead already. There’s nothing that can save him now. He had at least three months to back the fuck off—to not challenge my World Heavyweight title. But he didn’t. Fueled by fucking pride or whatever the hell, the motherfucker thought he could take me.
That false pride and expectation that he's going to make it out of this fight standing up vanishes from his fucking eyes in less than two seconds. I’m not fucking lying to you. I see it. His eyes go dull. It happens right about the time that my arm swings up in a fierce uppercut that would normally just defy the laws of biology and physics. See, you’re not supposed to be hurtling straight for your fucking opponent and able to maintain such strong control over your limbs. You’re also not supposed to be lacing them with so much power that they throw the other person’s head back and send him reeling.
It’s probably been three, maybe four seconds I shit you not. I mean, the fight is on Pay Per View. You probably saw the fucking purse for this. $89 million dollars. This is bigger than anything else. Pacquiao and Mayweather? This is nothing. This is bigger than the biggest. If the Russian loses, you can be sure he’s not boxing again after this.
And if he beats me? You gotta believe that he would have fucking killed me. That’s how big the stakes are. That’s how focused I am on winning. I've never fucking lost in my life. I've never fucking given up. I’m a fucking winner.
The Russian tries to stagger back but my feet have already taken me the five paces to get all up in his fucking face and I land another haymaker straight into his temple.
I hear a crunch and I resist the desire to
let it distract me. Everything here is a fucking distraction. From the crowds who are cheering to the fucking whores who are waiting on the front seats, ready to suck the winner’s cock till he explodes. The fucking hustlers taking bets. The promoters counting their money. The photographers and journalists hanging on every single action. It’s all a distraction from the absolutely critical few seconds that exist on this fight.
I’ve known guys who get in the fucking ring and swear that time stands still. They say that the moment they leave their fucking mental bubble in the ring, they know they fucking lost. That it’s all a test to see who leaves their fucking zen state first. You gotta keep pummeling the guy over and over until they realize the world around them and get fucking distracted. Because once they realize the world is out there, that’s fucking it. Their heads are outta the fucking game and you fucking won.
Don’t fucking look at me like that. I mean, sure go ahead and look as I deliver three quick jabs to the stomach of the Russian, which makes him bowl over and then one last uppercut literally shoots his body off into the fucking air. He lands on his back and he ain’t moving.
I stay focused as the ref starts calling the count.
Right, if you’re looking at me now and wanting to know who the fuck I am, I think you can take a guess. The Hunter Bradley Vs. Vladimir Gorbachev fight has been promoted for a while now.
And that’s fucking right in case you just clenched your thighs together. I’m Hunter Bradley. That 6 foot 3 inch specimen of fucking man with the fucking sinewy and sculpted muscles. With the lean face and the mysterious fucking eyes. With the 12-inch cock that swings between my legs like a fucking foot long trouser snake.
That’s right, I'm the Hunter Bradley. The bad boy boxer of the sports world. Breaking faces in the fucking ring. And breaking hearts outside.
The ref is holding up my arm. Shit, it’s already been ten seconds. I must've lost fucking count. Guess you could say I got distracted talking to a fucking pretty lady.
That’s you, darlin’.
But you know that, don’t ya? You know that if you were standing next to the ring right now, it’d be you that I get down from the ring to kiss.
I mean, don’t look at me like that, like I don’t fucking care. The whole fucking fight lasted less than 45 seconds. In tomorrow’s newspaper they’re going to say that the fight was over before it really even began. That I had administered my famous Hunter’s ‘Spring For The Kill’.
Whatever.
All I care about is that I won. Everything else is just stupid fucking bullshit.
As it is, there is no one waiting for me and I make my way toward my changing room. They gave me a pretty nice studio to get ready in and I need to fucking get away from all the fucking cameras and media circus that’s enveloping the MGM Grand right now.
It’s not just that I don’t care much for the media circus.
I just loathe it.
To be completely fucking honest, I need to be as far away from that crowd right now as possible. The media and the preening is good, when it’s needed. But I just fucking won. What else do they need me there for, ya know?
I’m happy to see you’re coming with me though as I make my way through the corridors toward my room, decorated with a giant star on the door. I can fucking see it. So fucking close.
“Hey Hunter,” a sultry voice says from outside my field of vision. I turn my head and see perhaps the most fucking dangerous thing in the world right now—a hot woman after a boxing match. After a boxing match that I just won.
Where I prepared by focusing on nothing else. Where I gave up fucking.
Guess what I’m thinking of fucking doing to her right now.
That’s right.
I don’t even have to fucking say it.
She seems familiar, I think to myself as she saunters over to me. Maybe I fucked her before?
“Thirty three seconds against the big Russian and you knocked him out,” she purrs. I can smell her. I lick my lips. I can almost taste that sweet pussy in my mouth. I want to ravage this woman. She scrapes her nails across my chest.
“Do you think you could last more than thirty three seconds with me?” There’s lasciviousness in the question and my eyes glint. She gives me a look of pure lechery and my hand reaches over and grabs her by the ass.
I squeeze her ass cheek and she sighs loudly, coming close to me.
I can smell her. She’s wet. Horny.
They all are when they meet me.
I push her into my dressing room and kick the door closed with my foot.
She doesn’t even need words for what I’m about to do to her.
Natalie
“Just one article, Ed, that’s all I’m asking for.”
“Natalie,” he says, taking a long puff from his cigarette, “we’ve already been through this. People don’t care about that kind of stuff, and we’re in this business to sell newspapers. Last time I checked, we weren’t doing it to change the world.”
“I know that,” I protest meekly, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I watch as Ed exhales the smoke out through his nostrils, finishing his cigarette and then crushing it on the overflowing ashtray sitting on his desk. “But I think that good journalism can help the Gazette sell some --”
“No,” he grumbles, reaching for the red carton next to his keyboard and fishing out another cigarette. Perching it up on the corner of his mouth, he lights it up and takes a long drag, the smell of it making me wince.
“But --”
“I said no,” he repeats, resting one hand over his shirt, his overgrown belly stretching the fabric thin. Turning his attention to his laptop screen, he waves one hand at me dismissively, and I know that this meeting is over.
Sighing, I turn on my heels and start making my way toward the door when he calls my name. “Hang on,” he mutters in that hoarse voice of his, a product of decades of smoking like an industrial chimney. “Maybe there’s something you can do.”
“Really?”
“Maybe. Don’t get your hopes too high, kid, I still ain’t taking you out of the sports department.” Flicking the burning ash on the tip of his cigarette, most of it landing over the documents covering his computer’s keyboard, he then looks at me as if he’s sizing me up. “Can you handle something more longform than news articles?”
“Longform?” I ask him, not really sure what he’s talking about. Most of my days are spent writing short and snappy news articles (most of which don’t even end up on the print version of the newspaper, they just make it online), and the word longform has really made me perk up my ears.
“Yes,” he nods impatiently, leaning back. His chair creaks as he pushes his weight against the back rest and, for a moment, I almost think he’s going to fall back. He doesn’t, of course; he just keeps on staring at me with his beady eyes, his gaze cutting through the constant cloud of cigarette smoke that covers his office.
“Well, uh… What do you have in mind? I can handle longform,” I assure him, even though I have no idea what kind of job he’s thinking of. Either way, it has to be better than writing all those fluff pieces about athletes on vacation.
“How familiar are you with Hunter?” he asks me after a long silence, finishing his cigarette and burying it in his ashtray.
“The boxer? He just defended his title last night and --”
“I know who he is,” he growls impatiently, looking at his carton of cigarettes as if he’s thinking of going for another one; he decides against it, though, and just drums his fingertips against the surface of his desk. “What I’m asking you is, can you handle an article on him?”
“Definitely,” I reply with a nod, doing it so fast that I think I might’ve pulled a muscle in my neck. Truth be told, I don’t know that much about Hunter or boxing, but Ed has just thrown me a lifeline; I sure as hell am not going to waste it.
“Okay, good. What about Logan?”
“The light heavyweight champion? Yeah, I know who he is,” I tell h
im, even though all I know is that his name is Logan and that he’s a boxing champion, and just like Hunter, he’s hailed as one of the best fighters to ever grace the ring.
“That’s the one. Do you think you can handle a profile on these guys?”
“Do you want me to start profiling boxers?” I ask him, not really sure what the interest in these guys is. Sure, they’re two of the best paid athletes in the world, and they’re two households names… But why the sudden interest in the boxing world?
“I didn’t say I wanted you to start profiling boxers,” he growls, slapping his thigh with one open hand, the jowls under his chin quivering as he does it. “I want you to profile Hunter and Logan. They’re the ones that matter.”
“Alright, I can do that… What kind of piece do you have in mind?”
“Something well-researched, long… and juicy,” his lips curling into a thin veiled smile as he says that last word. “I want these profiles to sell newspapers, capisce?” He asks me, his tone making him sound like a don of the Italian mob. “You do that and I might give you a chance at a different kind of story,” he continues, waving his hand at me again, telling me to leave his office.
“Thank you, Ed!” I reply, not sure if I should feel excited about it. Are boxers even that interesting? Oh, why am I complaining? Sure, this might not be the project I’ve always dreamed of but, hey, it’s a start!
Marching out of his office, I close the door behind me and take a deep breath, sending a rush of clean air into my lungs. I don’t know how he manages to spend all day inside his office; he smokes so much that there’s a perpetual curtain of foul fog inside it.
“Is Edward inside?” I hear someone ask behind me, and I look back over my shoulder to meet the steely gaze of a man in his seventies, a scowl on his face. Despite his age, he’s the complete opposite of Ed; instead of fat and with a slouched posture, he’s elegant for his age and stands tall, so much that he looks like he’s always looking down at the world. He’s wearing a black tailored suit with a blue pocket square, and there’s something so intimidating about him that I just feel as if I’m half my size.
