Now most guys would have fucked right into her, but trust me, as a man with a lot to give, I don’t do that to my partners. Ana had a particularly small twat and it would have been sheer torment, the fit too tight.
So I pushed my dickhead against her hole a bit, that pussy stretching valiantly around my mast, trying to take it, to accept donkey for the first time.
“Relax,” I soothed, “It’ll feel good, I promise.”
And although I couldn’t see her face with my brother humping her mouth, her sweet cunny gave me all the answer I needed. It clenched at first, tightening around my dickhead and then relaxed, the lips becoming more elastic, almost kissing my glans on each side.
“Thatta girl,” I crooned. “Take Daddy’s dick, kiss it and touch it.”
And I began sliding my length in, pushing against that spongy resistance, groaning as the cunny stretched and accommodated, that slick, slippery warmth taking more, more and then some more.
I had to be at least five inches in now, five agonizing miles of pleasure … but there were still ten to go.
Tensing my hips, I decided to go for it. With one drive, I thrust forward swiftly, burying myself balls-deep in that sweet, hot cunny, letting her little vagina take me deep.
There was a squeal from up above, a startled grunt from my brother as she bit down on his dick, and I came to a stop as well. Because I’d felt the unmistakable punch of a barrier. I’d just busted a virgin, cherry-popped a teen girl.
“Ah shit,” I grunted. “Ah shit, ah shit, ah shit.”
But you think I stopped, let her relax a little? Hell, no! This little pussy was getting the ream, no ifs, ands, and buts about it.
“Hold on girlie, it’s coming,” grunted Pax at her head, and the little girl held her breath in anticipation.
Because my brother and I started fucking like rockstars, him going at it in her mouth, me between her legs, drilling that sweet, dripping cunt. She was so tight, so hot, that virgin flesh like a new rubber band, that I started blasting after only a few strokes, the sensations overtaking me as I shot reams of sperm into her puss, spraying those fertile fields with pure man milk.
My brother, meanwhile, did the same. Overcome with lust, he blasted shot after shot of sperm into her mouth, the little girl swallowing furiously, her mouth full, almost choking with the white filling her oral cavity.
And in the middle of blasting her, we pulled out and switched positions, double banging her in the mouth and twat once again, our DNA mixing for a creamy froth that only the most wanton girls could take.
Ana didn’t let us down. Without missing a beat, she opened her legs, her mouth, letting us use her body, every receptacle ready for our cum, her limbs moving with an elasticity that surprised us, almost acrobatic in their ability to accommodate.
And after it was all done, the three of us lay on the forest floor exhausted, limp, fluids covering us, smeared all over her body, pools of semen and pussy juice spattered on nearby leaves.
“You like?” she asked sweetly, licking her lips, giving my dick one last swipe with that cunning pink tongue.
Now I know she expected an answer like, “Oh yeah, I’m going to drill you again pronto” or “Hell yeah! Let’s get down tomorrow,” but Pax and I are unpredictable. Keeps girls on edge, you know?
So I climbed off of her and stood up, shaking my dick dry, a few last droplets of semen flying in a spray.
“Come on,” I said to my brother, not even looking her way. “Let’s beat feet.”
And with a soft sucking sound, he pulled his dick from her twat, massive inch after massive inch appearing like a snake from a hole, shiny and glimmering with her pussy juices, shaking it off, droplets of man juice flying.
“Yeah, let me get my pants on,” he rumbled, also not making eye contact with the girl.
Because we hate doing virgins. It’s against our policy in fact, they’re too needy, too clingy, too everything. You can think what you like, but we’re not up for the responsibility of banging a girl for the first time, although plenty have asked, even propositioned us.
So we got dressed pronto, ignoring the girl below us, her expression disbelieving, her body still nude and warm from our incredible sex session, even some big handprints still visible on those boobs and thighs.
“What, you’re going to leave me here?” she sputtered, shaking her head in disbelief. “What am I, just a one-time fuck?”
My brother and I shared a look but didn’t reply. Because yeah, she was, especially now that we’d discovered she was a first-timer. It’s not part of our M.O., and besides, we were headed to school on opposite coasts, it was better this way.
Shielding her nudity as best she could, hands covering her breasts, crossing her legs to hide her cunt, the girl sat up on a bed of leaves and began shaking her head furiously.
“Oh no you don’t,” she spat, “you don’t get to ignore me again. Not anymore,” she hissed, fury in her face, clouds in her eyes.
But my brother and I had no words except the most mundane.
“Sorry, little sister, no can do,” shrugged Pax, sliding a massive arm into his blazer. “It’s time.”
“Time for what?” she practically shrieked, blonde tresses flying. God, she looked beautiful, even angry as she was.
“It’s time for us to go our separate ways,” I rumbled, snapping my watch in place.
And with that, Pax and I disappeared into the underbrush, leaving our girl nude, beautiful, and alone in the forest … again.
CHAPTER TEN
Stacey
Tell me this: who takes a virgin and deserts them, in the middle of the woods no less, with her clothes in tatters and cream dripping from her body? It was downright shocking, but that’s what happened. I stumbled back to the parking lot and drove home, the whole time praying Pax and Peyton wouldn’t be there because I’d probably lose it if I saw them.
Fortunately, their room was silent, thank god. I stumbled upstairs, blasting the hot water against my skin until I was positively scalded, the hot water pounding against my sore muscles, relieving the ache that permeated my very bones … and one secret space.
I reached a finger down to touch, tentatively. Sure, I’ve experimented before, sometimes feeling myself, exploring, titillated at the wetness and soft flesh but a little scared of my own body all the same. It was the unknown and I’d always dreamt that my virginity would be taken in a big luxurious bed, a hot, handsome man covering my body with kisses, rose petals lying around, sweet music playing in the background.
But reality is just so different. Instead, I’d been out in the woods with two hot, hungry, alpha males pushing their way inside, doubly done, their massive dongs demanding. And I wanted to feel outraged, shocked, hurt, anything bad, but as my finger circled, a warm flood began gushing through my body again, my breathing growing harsh, raspy as I re-lived my outing in the woods.
And so I came again in the shower, my body sore, aching in fact, and yet dreaming of two men who had left me disturbingly satisfied, my breasts heaving as I sated myself, the cream gushing down my thighs. It was crazy I know, that I could still come after all that had happened, so wrong.
But perhaps it was already the beginning of the new me. I know I should have erased Pax and Peyton from my mind, purged them from my memory banks, bid adieu forever. But I didn’t. Instead, I packed my bags and got on a plane the next day to fly to my new life. What next? I wasn’t sure … but I wasn’t going back.
PART II
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stacey
Present day …
I’m now Stacey Light, Ana’s gone for good. It’s a play on my full name, Anastasia. Back then I was Ana, but Stacey suits me better now because I’ve transformed myself from gawky adolescent to sleek professional. After all, I used to be “The Bean,” a long-distance runner, gangly, legs windmilling, my arms like strings of rope.
But at college, a reality check was in order. I was no longer a star, the MVP of the track team. Instead,
I was positively slow compared to some of the other girls. Take my friend Kendada Niyembe, for example. We call her the Nigerian Breeze because she gave birth her sophomore year and then went on to Olympic trials eighteen months later, can you believe it? I’m so proud of her, and her baby’s the cutest to boot.
But next to Kendada, it was clear I didn’t have a career as a professional runner. So I re-made myself by focusing on school, majoring in journalism with a minor in kinesiology, to show potential employers that I was serious about being a sports reporter. Then there were the endless rounds of interviews coupled with relentless networking. I wish the world didn’t work this way, that you didn’t have to shake hands, press the flesh so that people remember you, but I guess it helps.
And at last I scored an agent, a professional to help me land contracts, who got me my first gig with KPIX out in Las Vegas. Stanley was upfront and realistic.
“Ana,” he said, “you’ve got to change your name and a couple other things.”
“Why?” I asked. I’d already mentally planning to re-brand myself as Stacey, but I wanted to hear a professional’s opinion.
“Ana is Hispanic-sounding and Las Vegas doesn’t have that kind of demographic,” he said shrugging. “Something more Anglo will play better in Vegas.”
Okay, that made sense. I would miss Ana, but it was okay, my close friends and family could still call me that.
“How about Stacey?” I asked tentatively. “Does that sound alright?”
Stanley nodded, looking at the ceiling thoughtfully.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. But Stacey,” he continued, “you need a look that compliments your new Stacey-ness.”
My new Stacey-ness? What did that mean? But my agent knew his stuff and didn’t hesitate to share.
“You need to brighten your hair, wear more make-up, wear better clothes, look cute the way people expect Staceys to look,” he explained. “You’re not ugly, you just need to do it up.”
“You mean like a FOX News anchor?” I asked dryly. The women on FOX always looked overdone, tight dresses and stilettos, heavy makeup for the camera.
“You laugh,” warned Stanley, “but those women are pulling in the big bucks. You think Megyn Kelly got to where she is by looking drab? She hit the big time through a combination of natural looks and image consultants.”
I sat back. Megyn was my hero, her insightful reporting and stinging questions a mix of sugar and spice. And you know what? I wanted to be like her.
So dutifully, I took myself off to the salon and came out with a headful of golden highlights, bouncy blonde hair balayaged to the max. I’d put on some weight since graduation and was now deliciously curvy, my tiny waist emphasized by swinging hips and a nice, jouncing ass. Plus, my boobs were still there, my saving grace even during the days of Bean-dom.
“Perfect,” said Stanley, eyeing me critically, looking me up and down. “Now go get ‘em,” he commanded, and I walked into my first interview spirits high, hopes up.
I didn’t get it. Nope, not that one, not the one after, not the one after that either. In fact, I freelanced for a while before finally getting a spot as part-time sportscaster.
But once I got my break, I played it for all it was worth, working night and day, learning the ropes, making sure I was the best sportscaster out of Vegas. And you know what? I think people appreciated it. I was knowledgeable about just every sport, football, soccer, swimming, various Olympic events, you name it. My days as a freelancer had served me well because I’d been forced to cover everything from high school cheer to women’s gymnastics and now my knowledge was positively encyclopedic.
So it was with a spring in my step that I headed to work at 4 a.m. that Monday morning. I’d just gotten back from my work trip to Atlanta, the one where I’d had fun with my two rubbery friends in the shower, and was looking forward to going over some clips, reviewing a reel with my editor.
Except when I got to the front door, my co-worker Karen came rushing out to meet me.
“Stacey,” she gasped. “Have you read today’s Enquirer?”
What? No, I was a sportscaster, ESPN and Sports Illustrated are our bibles, not gossip rags.
“No of course not, why?” I asked.
Her face remained a shocked mask.
“Because you’re in it Stacey. Someone videotaped you and they’ve posted a clip to their site. Don’t look on-line,” she rushed. “It’s not worth it, it’s not going to do you any good, go and talk to Walter, he said to tell you to come in as soon as you got in.”
I frowned. Walter was our Managing Editor and a really nice, easy-going middle-aged guy. It must have been serious if I had to report to his office first thing at 4 a.m.
But of course, I had to see the clip first, I couldn’t go in blind. I slunk to my desk, trying to draw as little attention. Fortunately this early in the morning, full staff isn’t in yet and it’s still a skeleton crew, just enough folks to transition the studio to day-time.
I flicked on my laptop and surfed to the Enquirer’s site. Annoyingly, an ad popped up and I clicked the X in the upper right corner right away. Why hadn’t my ad-blocker screened it? But almost immediately, I wished I hadn’t been so hasty because my face suddenly filled the screen.
Stacey Light Videotaped In the Shower Doing the Dirty! the headline screamed. What the? My jaw dropped open in shock and I could only sit in stunned silence for a moment. What was going on?
With numb hands, I reached for my headphones, fitting the cushions over my ears. Taking a deep breath, I pressed play, bracing for the worst, but it was even more terrible than expected.
Last Saturday night, after I’d come back from the Chargers game, I’d let myself into the hotel room for a warm steamy shower, and it was all on tape now. You saw me rushing over to turn off the A/C, my naked form scampering across the plush hotel suite to fiddle with the thermostat. And that done, I ran for the shower, pink bits still on display.
But that wasn’t all. Because believing myself to be alone, I’d pulled out Mr. Mongo and Mr. Wall Dildo, proceeding to put them in their respective places, in my pussy and mouth, and ride them to heaven, moaning and shrieking, water sluicing over my limbs, my face contorted in dazzling pleasure, my boobs heaving, my hips jerking up and down as the toys did their work.
And did this end after thirty seconds? No, the tape captured my entire sex session, three whole minutes of Stacey Light getting pounded, assets on display, a magnificent clip of female lust, delight, and satisfaction, conveniently on-line for your viewing pleasure.
Numb, I sat back, mouth agape. Oh shit, oh shit. I could barely think. Who had seen this? Who was behind this? What was there to do? Without even realizing it, tears began rolling down my cheeks, there went the end of my dignity, my sense of safety, my bold entry into womanhood, afraid of nothing, girl power ready to roll in the fast-lane.
Suddenly, I heard a soft knock on the wall of my cube and Walter poked his head over the side.
“Stacey,” he said, his eyes immediately taking in the tears and the footage on my screen. “Let’s go into my office, we’ll have more privacy,” he said quietly.
I got up and followed him into his corner office. Goddamn, but he had glass walls and the crew could see us, my tears, my slumped shoulders as I sat, defeated, in a chair.
“Wal- Walter,” I said, choking, “I’m not sure how they got this. How? Does the Enquirer have spies?”
Walter, a kindly middle-aged man, handed me a tissue.
“I’ve done some asking around, on the down-low of course,” he said. “It turns out that someone offered to sell a tape to the Enquirer. Someone planted a camera in your hotel room and videotaped you.”
“I see that,” I mumbled. “But how? How did they get a camera into my room? How is this possible?”
Walter only shook his head slowly, his eyes pitying.
“Stacey, we’re not sure yet but I’m doing everything I can to find out. You know I’ve been in this business a long tim
e, we’ll figure it out,” he promised.
“But how could the Enquirer have bought it?” I asked, the tears coming on even stronger now, my voice choked and garbled. “How could they go public with something like this? I’m a private citizen, my privacy has obviously been invaded, this isn’t right,” I shook my head. “How could they?” I asked, my shoulders heaving now, a hand covering my face. I wanted to disappear altogether, shrink into nothingness.
“I don’t know,” said Walter, coming around his desk to put a hand on my shoulder. “There’s been a ton of litigation about stuff like this recently, remember the Hulk Hogan sex tape scandal? Gawker put up a vid of the Hulk having sex with his best friend’s wife on their site without his knowledge.”
“I know you feel like this is the end of the world but it’s not,” he continued. “We’ll figure this out, I’ve already talked to the station’s lawyers. They’ll get the clip taken down asap,” he promised. “I’m sure not many people have seen it,” he added soothingly.
I wanted to believe him, but knew it wasn’t true. I’d seen the stats and over two million people had viewed the video already, with more than five thousand thumbs up. I hated modern technology all of a sudden, hated how with a single upload, my privacy was destroyed, my naked body for the world to see. I felt destroyed myself, limp, tired all of sudden, my limbs heavy and dead.
“I have to go,” I said listlessly.
“Take the day off,” soothed my manager. “Take a few days off actually,” he said. “We’ll call you with any updates.”
And like a zombie I got up, ignoring the stares of my colleagues, the pitying looks. Because life was over as I knew it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pax
Practice had been brutal as usual, sprints, tackles, blocks followed by two hours of weight-lifting. Exhausted, I walked into the locker room to the sound of loud laughter and hoots. That was nothing new. Our teammates were rough around the edges, a bunch of apes.
All the Best Men: An MFMM Menage Romance Page 37
