Contents
Copyright
EPISODE 5 Chapter 1 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 2 — Courtney Grayson
CHAPTER 3 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 4 — Courtney Grayson
CHAPTER 5 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 6 — Brad Hammer
EPISODE 6 CHAPTER 1 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 2 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 3 — Courtney Grayson
CHAPTER 4 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 5 — Courtney Grayson
CHAPTER 6 — Brad Hammer
EPISODE 7 CHAPTER 1 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 2 — Courtney Grayson
CHAPTER 3 — Courtney Grayson
CHAPTER 4 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 5 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 6 — Brad Hammer
EPISODE 8 CHAPTER 1 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 2 — Courtney Grayson
CHAPTER 3 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 4 — Courtney Grayson
CHAPTER 5 — Brad Hammer
CHAPTER 6 — Brad Hammer
Author's Note
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LEXI MAXWELL’S
The XXX Files
Season Two
(Episodes 5-8)
***WARNING***
This is a work of erotic fiction and contains GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF SEX, WHICH MAY OFFEND SOME AUDIENCES. This book is meant for MATURE AUDIENCES AGED 18 OR OLDER (or whatever the local laws are in your area). All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
First published by Lexi Maxxwell, 2013
All rights reserved under the international and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, without written permission from the publisher. Excerpts may be used for the purposes of review.
Copyright © Lexi Maxxwell 2013
Visit me at www.LexiMaxxwell.com
EPISODE 5
Chapter 1 — Brad Hammer
Brad Hammer stared at the clock, wondering just how long the fucking meeting was supposed to last. Courtney dropped him off at 9 p.m., and it felt like he’d been sitting in the hard plastic seat for approximately 47 hours. The clock on the wall had to be lying, insisting it was only 9:30.
He pulled the cell from his pocket and looked at the screen — his phone was in on the lie.
I knew I shouldn’t have come.
Courtney had forced his hand. “No, you don’t have to go to the meeting,” she said. “You don’t have to do anything on my account. Just like I didn’t have to forgive you for cheating on me. But if you want to rebuild our trust, Brad, then the meetings are non-negotiable.”
It had been a year since Courtney and Brad finally started dating, in the aftermath of the Willow Monroe case. Things were going great, at least until Brad got caught balls deep in the waitress from down the block.
He had to confess everything — Willow, their psychic connection, and his days of burying shit under litter like a good little kitty after the Red Breath turned him into some sort of sexual vampire who needed sex more than a four-cocked Zebotion.
Courtney thought he was full of shit at first, manufacturing lies to justify his bottomless appetite for pussy, like every celebrity who got caught putting it someplace they shouldn’t and had to stare into the camera, speak slowly into the microphone, and insist that they were suffering from sex addiction and desperately in need of treatment. That was bullshit. Brad knew it and so did Courtney. There was no such thing as a sex addict. Everyone loved to fuck. The difference between celebrities and everybody else was that when celebrity males wanted a new hole to shove their dick into, they usually had an omnipresent harem to pluck from, and the coin to buy silence.
Brad was different. He truly loved Courtney, and would have gladly kept fucking her until his pubes were all silver, if she — or any woman — could possibly keep up with his Red Breath-laced libido.
But Courtney, like any other human woman on the planet, not blessed — or cursed — with the Breath could never meet the needs of Brad’s constant craving.
Though it had taken him nearly three months of nocturnal activity, slipping out of their shared house each night to fuck an endless procession of prostitutes, nymphos, and soft jawed slotjobs, Brad had finally learned to master the curse of his vampiric nature. After three months he could easily fuck others without draining their lives. He could do it before that, but it took everything inside him to leave his partners breathing. The good man inside him would never allow anyone to die by his pleasure, but until he mastered it, mercy was as exhausting as it was difficult, and always left him empty of the pure pleasure he craved.
Now Brad could leave his partners alive, albeit slightly disoriented. Yet, in many ways this was worse, at least while Brad was trying to nurture his relationship with Courtney. He could control his fucking — from the speed of his thrusts to the velocity of his final shot — but still could do nothing to curb his cravings. With consequence-free cockjobs, and endless partners who would harbor no memories of his being inside them, Brad spiraled out of control, fucking everything in sight until he was stupid enough to nail the waitress in the yellow house three doors down from his and Courtney’s shared blue one. He had even parked his car in her driveway after making a last minute decision to stop on his way home — not too sharp for a federal agent, and Division 69’s best.
After his confession, Courtney tried getting Brad to quit his cunt hunting cold turkey, swearing she had to quell his craving. Brad honestly tried, and for the next several months had sex only with her, but it was proving harder than kicking heroin. Not that Brad had ever tried H, but at least that shit was mostly in your head and a little in your blood. Red Breath was in your head and blood, but also your cock, keeping your dick Viagra-thick with hard-ons lasting for hours and forcing your body into seeking relief. Brad had called in sick nine times in six months. Division was getting increasingly pissed and — according to Courtney — damn close to labeling him “unreliable.”
Finally, after Brad was using Courtney four times a day and leaving her chaffed as a nub of chalk, she suggested that Brad start attending meetings for Sex Addicts Anonymous.
“Oh, come on, Courtney, I hate that 12-step bullshit. The last thing I need is some group of horny fuck-ups preaching to me that I need to keep my dick in my pants. I don’t have an addiction. My issue is medical, caused by whatever the fuck was in that Red Breath.”
“Well if you won’t go to Division and tell them ... ”
“If I tell them there’s Red Breath in my blood, I’m fucked. We both are. You get that, right? Not only will they stick me in a lab like a goddamned rat, they’ll want to know how much you know, and how much we know about their secret little program. Five minutes after that, they’ll lock us away for good, Courtney. Or worse.”
“Fine,” she said. “But I still think you’re being paranoid about Division. Our bosses are too stupid to pull off a conspiracy like the one Willow was suggesting. But whatever. You need to do something or we can’t be together. I’m understanding, but too much of a girl for you not to be mine.”
So here he was, on a Wednesday night when he’d rather be plowing through seasons of “Fringe,” sitting in a hard, plastic chair with his legs crossed at the ankles, in a fucking college lecture hall, of all ironies, listening to people speak about their addictions to sex.
There were maybe 15 losers in the group. Brad couldn’t imagine a single one having sex, much less fi
nding people to frequently fuck, but hey, different strokes for different folks and all that shit.
He kept his mouth shut. No, he didn’t want to “share,” thank you very much. Courtney was lucky he didn’t just take a donut and wait in the hall for shit to get finished.
A door opened behind him. Brad turned to look, more out of bored curiosity than anything else, and was surprised if not altogether shocked to see a Victoria’s Secret-quality piece of ass sashaying through the doorway.
She was tall, but not too tall. And lithe, with tit-length, dirty, honey-colored hair. Her features were small, almost tiny, from eyes to nose, and mouth to tits — but each looked perfect. Despite her small breasts, she knew how to show them off, nudging her swollen B’s so closely together they looked like C’s spilling out of her top. Of course Brad was Brad, so Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting or not, he pictured himself fucking the flesh valley until he covered her porcelain face with a gallon of Breath-thickened gravy. Just looking at her, he would’ve bet the keys to his Lincoln that she was freshly shaved and soft as a pillow.
Brad’s knee started to bounce as he pictured his face buried in her crotch.
Victoria smiled at the room, then set her secret in a seat at the back of the room, one row up and six seats over from Brad — close enough to ogle, and ripe enough to smell.
Ever since Brad’s first puff of Red Breath, the scent of a woman in wanting nuzzled his nostrils like bread from an oven. Her faint, salty, almost tangy musk brushed Brad’s desire and sent his cock into a full salute.
Great. I come here to try and forget about sex, and now I’ve gotta look at this woman?
Think of Courtney, think of Courtney.
Brad thought of Courtney, and how well she worshiped his dick, especially since his confession. He had a never ending supply of loads, and her pussy was only so resilient, so Courtney had spent countless hours bringing his baby maker to fountains of buttermilk, not just with her pussy, but with her hands and mouth and tits and ass. The amazing thing was, Courtney never once acted as if she minded. She let Brad treat her like a whore because she knew that was what he wanted, or needed, yet here he was imagining slapping Victoria in the face with his dick, then using the charm that Red Breath made easy to get her begging for Brad to shove it inside her.
Courtney deserved better.
OK, I just won’t look at her. I’ll pay attention to the fat guy in the Jets jersey talking about his porn addiction. And how in the hell is a porn addiction a sex addiction? WTF? In that case, 98.2 percent of America was addicted to sex.
Ah, there we go, boner go bye-bye.
As Fat Porn Dude finished admitting to the depths of his depravity, starting with his MILF fetish which kept him guilty for days at a time, the old man hosting the gig stood in the front of the class.
“OK, does anyone else want to share?”
Victoria stood. “Hi, my name is Mandy,” she said. “And I’m a sex addict.”
Fuck. Me.
It was like wheeling in stacks of pizzas and boxes of donuts into an Overeater’s Anonymous meeting.
Mandy started speaking. Her voice was thick and light like a whispered purr, turning Brad’s cock harder by the word.
“I have a ridiculously high sex drive. But that’s not the problem.” Mandy’s eyes flitted down to the ground before returning to the room. “I think a high sex drive is a good thing, not bad. It’s what you do with it that matters. I started having sex early, earlier than most. I was 14. Back then I only wanted to be with guys because I was craving physical connection. My parents were going through a divorce, and things were pretty rough at home. I just wanted to be close to someone. It wasn’t about getting off, at least not then, even though I was rubbing myself into orgasms two, three, sometimes 10 times a day.”
Brad imagined Mandy’s fingers sloshing in and out of her sopping pussy, pink and puffy and perfect; pictured her twisting her nipples, stretching them out from her beautiful breasts while calling his name.
FUCK!
“Of course, when you’re in your teens and always wanting to have sex, it’s easy to get taken advantage of. And I did. Lots. I was never raped, but I was manipulated — not that I blame anyone other than myself. I had a self-destructive streak, and it seemed like I was looking for the bad guys to do awful stuff to me. I was so attracted to them it became almost impossible to say NO. I was 16 the first time I ever managed to shake my head in the right direction. I was with a guy who wanted me to have sex with him and four of his buddies. I was a little turned on by the suggestion but thought it was over the line, especially since I was already starting to change my behavior.” Mandy held her breath for a second, as if trying to keep her voice from cracking. She exhaled and continued.
“I held my ground for a few days, then went ahead and did it. By the end of high-school, I wasn’t just fucking my two male teachers for better grades, I was fucking them to get my friends’ friends better grades, too.”
He felt bad, mining enjoyment from Mandy’s obvious misery; picturing her getting passed from person to person in a sweaty circle. Brad was grateful for the Red Breath to blame his depravity on.
“It took me years to get everything under control, but I finally did. I made it through college and am now one year from graduating with an art history degree ... ” Mandy paused to acknowledge the smiles the smiling crowd. “ ... But I’ve recently started stripping, and doing some webcam stuff to pay my bills. I don’t feel bad, exactly. I actually like it. But now I’m worried I might be feeding my addiction. I don’t know,” she shook her head and stared at the carpet, “it would be like trying not to overeat while working at a pizza place that also sold donuts. I thought my worst impulses were finally buried, but lately I can’t look at any guy without wanting to have sex with him.”
I’m in love.
Brad stared at Mandy, his cock so hard he thought it might throb through the denim. He slipped his hand past the waistband of his jeans, straightened his dick, then stood from his hard plastic seat and practically sprinted into the bathroom.
He flew through the door, ran inside a stall, slapped his left hand on the tile wall, then freed his rager with the right, stroking his shaft as massive, heaving moans rippled up from his chest and poured from his mouth. He tried thinking of Courtney, but couldn’t. Instead he saw Mandy on her knees, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, ready to take his load.
Cum blasted from his cock. The first shot slammed into the tile, then the second bull’s-eyed the first, hitting it in the middle and splashing it into a rippling pool that oozed down in long lines on the wall. Shots three through nine rocked his body hard as Brad moved his left hand to the stall wall, gripping the top, while squeezing and aiming his broom handle with the other hand, trying to keep his cream from spraying in every direction.
Brad shuddered to a standstill, then wiped himself clean and tucked his dick back into his pants. He washed up and left the bathroom, just in time to see the addicts spilling from the finished meeting. Brad turned right instead of left, racing ahead of the crowd, out to the parking lot where Courtney was waiting in her car.
“So, how did the meeting go?”
“I think I’ll definitely have to go back,” he said. “A lot.”
He climbed inside the Lincoln and started the engine. As they drove off, he hoped Courtney hadn’t spotted Mandy as the yummy looking model headed to her car.
XXX
CHAPTER 2 — Courtney Grayson
“Jesus, what is this?” Courtney asked, staring at the dried white crust coating the girl’s locker room of Saint Ursula College like a drying layer of paint.
“Looks like cum,” Brad said smiling as the nun’s face bled crimson. “A whole lotta cum. I mean, Christ on a cross, Courtney,” he squinted, looking closer at the yellowing white scabs, crusted to the metal. “This guy is prolific!”
“Sir!” Sister Theresa said, probably giving Brad the same look she used to terrify hundreds of coeds per year.
“So
rry, Sister,” he said, his face suddenly redder than the nun’s, though for an entirely different reason. If Brad were a dog, his tail would be between his legs.
“So,” Courtney said, mashing her heel quietly but hard into Brad’s big toe and turning to the sister. “You’re saying there’s a ghost haunting the women’s locker room?”
“Yes,” the nun said, her annoyance drifting toward fury. “That’s why I called the police. Didn’t they fill you in? I thought they were supposed to share information with the feds.”
“You would think so,” Brad said, “But these fuckers, er, sorry, I mean, local cops really hate it when we step in and take their cases, especially when it’s fun stuff like this.” He squinted at the dried cum again, trying to hide his smile, though he knew it was twitching anyway. A jizz-squirting ghost — this they hadn’t seen before.
The nun’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “Fun? You call a ghost spying on our young women and doing God-only-knows-what to himself, and covering the locker room with his demonic seed fun?”
Courtney, knowing it was time for a woman’s touch, rather than Brad’s, which would probably have been more like a dozen horny men even without the Red Breath in his blood, pushed her partner to the side and took a step in front of him, again mashing her heel on his toe.
“What Agent Hammer means to say,” Courtney started, but didn’t finish as the Sister held up her hand.
“Enough! Just do your job and get rid of this thing. I don’t need, or want, to hear another word.” The sister turned on her spinster foot and left the agents alone with their investigation.
“Who does she think we are, the fucking Ghostbusters?” Brad said as soon as Sister Mary Uptight was out of earshot.
Courtney turned back to the lockers, which were almost uniformly painted — from one side of the locker room all the way to the other — in what looked like at least five gallons of ectoplasmic spunk. “So you think a 50-foot talking marshmallow did this?”
The XXX Files Season Two (Episodes 5-8) Page 1
