Big O Box Set

by Penny Wylder

  “Never tried this one, Dirty Girl?” he asks. He presses the second vibe, a small egg-shaped one, against the tight pucker of my ass.

  “You did find a fantasy I hadn’t thought up,” I admit. Then I gasp, forgetting about our banter, as he presses the vibrator into me, an inch at a time. I moan aloud at the pleasant, tight stretching sensation. When the egg finally pops into my ass, Caleb flicks it back on, both vibrators going now, and I can hardly catch my breath, the sensation is so intense. My toes curl and my mouth falls open, my hands clenching and unclenching around the cuffs.

  But Caleb isn’t done with me yet.

  He spins me around and presses me against the wall. I feel the tip of his cock rest against my ass, and I turn to catch his eye, breathing hard, my pussy tight with the thought of what’s coming.

  “I haven’t claimed this sexy ass yet,” he murmurs, tracing a palm over the curve of my ass longingly, before he slaps it once, just hard enough to sting.

  I moan. It’s hard to concentrate with both vibrators inside me at once, the one in my pussy pressed right against my G-spot.

  Then he leans his hips into me, and the tip of his cock presses into my ass, pushing the second vibrator deeper as he does.

  “Fuck, Caleb,” I manage to groan.

  “God you are so fucking sexy.” He grabs my hips with both hands now, slowly pushes his cock deeper into me. Between the slim vibrators and his thick, rock-hard cock, I already feel like I’m fuller than I’ve ever been.

  Caleb reaches up with one hand, cups my chin and pulls me into a hard kiss, his tongue invading my mouth as he thrusts one last time, pushing his cock all the way inside my ass. The vibrations and his dick are enough to push me over the edge. I moan as my orgasm sweeps through me, and he just deepens our kiss, drawing back slightly to thrust into me again, and again.

  By the time he starts to fuck my ass in earnest, the vibrator in my pussy pushes me into a second climax. I come screaming his name, and he locks eyes with me, fucking me faster, his muscles taut as his own pleasure starts to build.

  I come a third time before he grips my hips with both hands and thrusts into me, his teeth clenched.

  “I’m gonna come in your tight, perfect little ass, Dirty Girl.” He bucks harder, grips me tighter, and I thrust back against him, my voice lost. “I’m gonna come, fuck, Carmine…”

  A guttural moan escapes his throat as he comes, and I moan again at the hot rush of his cum inside my ass. He flicks off the vibrators and pulls out of me, reaching up to unhook my arms. Before I can move, he’s scooped me into his arms and carried me the few steps to the bed.

  We wind up tangled in the sheets, our legs entwined, both of us breathing hard, covered in sweat and sex, unable to wipe the smiles from our faces as we gaze at one another.

  “I am definitely falling for more than just your sexy mouth, Carmine,” he murmurs. Then he leans in to kiss me, softer, sweeter this time, even as his arms curl around me possessively.

  “I think I might be falling for more than just your accent, Caleb,” I admit. We grin at each other and he pulls me closer.

  As we drift off to sleep, I turn to peer up at him: the sexy, incredible man who just a few days ago was no more than an unbelievably hot photo on my computer screen.

  Who knew? Sometimes cheating the system and avoiding dating really does work. I grin and curl up against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat drums in my ear as I fall asleep.

  This time when I dream, it’s all fantasies that I know I can one day actually live out.

  I wake up to the scent of something delicious, mouth-watering. Bacon maybe?

  I find the bed beside me still warm, Caleb’s form missing. For a moment, my heart leaps into my throat. Then I hear the soft hum downstairs, his voice perfectly on key, and the soft sizzle of something. Not to mention the smell.

  I toss on his T-shirt, the first one I find discarded on the bedroom floor, and pad downstairs. When I reach the kitchen, Caleb has his back to me, dressed only in his boxers. I take a moment to admire him, this hulk of an Adonis who I’m sleeping with. This man’s man, who dominated the hell out of me last night, filled me in every way possible, satiated me in a way I never imagined I could be. He’s the only person who’s ever completely understood my kinks—not only understood, but also reciprocated them, loved them as much as I do.

  “Don’t just stand there,” he scolds, his back still turned. “Come get your breakfast.”

  I laugh and step into the kitchen. Cross to his side. Before I can see what he’s cooking, he sets down the spatula and grabs my face in both hands, kissing me, long and slow and deep. When we pull apart, I finally recognize the scent.

  “Pancakes?”

  He grins and turns back to the stove. “You aren’t the only one who can cook, you know.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I reply with a grin, nudging his shoulder with mine. “Those still need to stand up to my taste test.”

  “Don’t worry.” He casts me a sideways smirk. “I know how particular your tastes are. You’re a hard girl to please, Carmine. But every inch of me is up to the job.”

  For once in my life, I actually believe a man who’s telling me that. I grin back at him, and lean over to snatch a piece of bacon from the plate cooling at his elbow. “Oh, I know, Caleb. I’m counting on it.”

  Thank you for reading!

  Sext

  Copyright © 2017 Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.

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  1

  I take a deep breath and study myself in the mirror behind the bar. Okay, so he’s 30 minutes late already. That’s not necessarily a deal-breaker. The MTA has been a shitshow lately. Maybe his train got stuck. Maybe he got held up at work. Maybe…

  Maybe he’s not like every other asshole you’ve been out with this week?

  I sigh and pull out my phone to scroll through his profile again.

  “Rich, aka Dick,” I read, scrolling through his photos. There’s the obligatory bathroom mirror selfie, complete with chiseled abs (albeit a really bad choice since you can see the tile mold on the wall behind him from this angle), one of him and some friends, who all have the same buzz cut, so it’s honestly pretty hard to tell which one is even him, and then the usual headshot. In that one, he’s holding a pint of beer and grinning slyly at the camera, like he wants to fuck it.

  The profile itself isn’t exactly a winner. Gym, tan, and pay for someone else to do my laundry, it reads, with a little winking face.

  So, okay, maybe I only swiped right because of that grin. Sue me. This new app has been bringing in the same undateable guys as all the others I’ve tried—despite the fact that at least four of my coworkers raved about how different this one was, how the guys were such high quality. I figured if I had to go on another bad date, at least it could be with a hottie.

  But now karma’s being a bitch, and it looks like I’m about to get stood up. Again.

  I slide my drink across the bar and sigh at my reflection as the bartender refills my glass. I look smoking hot tonight. All that effort for nothing.

  I review my recent candidates. There was the programmer last month who told me in great detail about how he “games the game.” In this case, what he meant was he hacked the codes behind the app and programmed it to send him pictures of only the most popular chicks. I guess I should be flattered that I was included, but I was mostly creeped out by his obsession with algorithms and finding the hottest (mathematically proven, of course) girlfriend. “It’s why I always end up dating chicks way
out of my league,” he explained with a wink. Then he proceeded to show me photos of his most recent ex.

  “She is very hot,” I agreed, silently adding, and how on earth did she decide to sleep with you?

  After that date, there was the professional body-builder who spent most of the date trying to sell me into his protein-smoothie pyramid scheme. Did I mention said date was a happy hour for his protein-smoothie business? Then came the insurance salesman who got a little too detailed talking about life insurance schemes—Double Indemnity red flags, much?

  There was the finance bro who bought me one drink, then invited me back to his place… And when I declined, he complained so loudly about the expense of the drink he’d bought me that I frog-marched him to the nearest ATM, took out cash, and threw a twenty in his face. I mean, first of all, do I look like a hooker? And second of all, if I were a hooker, I would cost a lot more than one crappy martini at a Wall Street after-work bar.

  Which brings me here. Tonight. Waiting on yet another guy who will…

  “Miss?”

  I look up to find the bartender returning my card. “What’s wrong, was it declined?” Shit. I paid this one off last month. It definitely still has room on the balance.

  “No, miss. It’s just that the gentleman on the far end has covered your tab.”

  I glance down the bar to find Mr. Shirtless Bathroom Selfie himself lifting a glass in my direction.

  Okay, so maybe he’s not the worst. There could still be hope.

  I pick up my drink and head down the bar to meet him. “Rich?”

  He leans in for the cheek kiss/one-armed hug and I awkwardly shuffle my drink to avoid spilling it down his shirt front. “It’s Dick, actually. Rich was my dad’s name.”

  Probably should have stuck with it anyway, I think unfairly, as I take the bar stool beside him. “Dick. I’m Clove.” Not like I have room to talk anyway.

  “Also a family name?” He stays standing beside me, leaning against the counter. His knee brushes mine, in a not entirely unpleasant way. At least, at first.

  “Nope, one and only.” I lift my glass in a mocking toast.

  He taps his to mine, eyes sharp and zeroed in on me. “Oh, I can see that.”

  “Should we get a table or…?”

  He shrugs and leans on the back of my stool. He’s so up in my personal space that if I try to lean backward, I’ll land in the lap of the woman beside me. It’s hard to even lift my drink to take another sip because his chest is pressed against my whole right side. I switch hands and lean on the bar instead, trying to put some breathing room between us. His knee, meanwhile, is nearly crushing my leg.

  “I’m good here,” he says. He glances over my head at the selection. “Besides, not like we’ll be here long.”

  You could say that again. I clear my throat, resist the urge to bolt off of this stool here and now. There is no man hot enough to make up for the way his breath smells either, like stale beer and sour cream and onion potato chips. “Busy day at the office?” I ask, following his gaze mostly so I can turn away from him.

  He leans harder against my leg. My toes tingle, starting to go numb. “Huh? No, I had the day off. Just got back from the beach. Hey, bartender?” He snaps his fingers. Actually snaps them, until the bartender glances back at us and, with an apologetic glance in my direction, heads our way.

  “One more scotch on the rocks,” Dick says, and now I can see why he prefers this version of his name. It really suits him.

  That task done with, he turns to me and brushes my hair back over my shoulder. “So, Clove…”

  Realizing that I can’t keep staring at the bar forever, I turn to face him, trying on a smile.

  “Damn you’re gorgeous. You get that often?”

  “I, uh… Thanks, I guess.”

  “How about we get out of here, huh? Enough small talk for one night, am I right?” He winks at me.

  Enough small talk being what, all five sentences we’ve exchanged? I suck in a deep breath. Mm, l’eau onions. “Listen, Dick, you seem really nice and all…”

  “Of course, so let’s skip the boring part and head straight to my place.” He downs the second scotch he ordered in one large gulp, then catches my arm.

  “It’s been a really long day for me, actually—lot going on at work. I’m just going to head home.”

  “That’s cool, we can go to yours.” He leans in, brushes my hair back from my forehead, and we’re suddenly way too close, only inches between us.

  I execute a tricky side twist off the barstool to grab my purse. “I think I’m just going to head back alone. Thanks for the drink.”

  “Seriously?” His expression shifts now. I don’t know if it’s the drink or the rejection that’s injuring his frail masculine ego, but either way, I don’t like the look in his eye. “Wait, wait, wait, Clove.” He catches my hand in his. His grip is strong. Too strong. “We got off on the wrong foot. Let me make it up to you.” With a single tug, he pulls me closer and leans over me, eyes intent on my face. “It’s just, I didn’t expect you to be so… You know. Hot. From your profile, you sounded like a book nerd, so—”

  I wrench my hand from his with effort. “Dick, I have to be honest, I’m starting to understand why you prefer that nickname.” I shoulder my purse. “I’m leaving.”

  “Don’t be like that! Come on, we can have some fun.”

  “Goodbye, Dick.” I stride past him, out of the bar.

  Of course he jogs after me.

  “At least let me call you a cab,” he insists.

  “I’m fine on my own, seriously.” But he ignores this and jogs ahead of me to the corner. He flags down a tax, and I watch him lean in the window talking to the guy. God only knows what he’s saying.

  He opens the back door of the cab for me, but I hesitate, looking over my shoulder.

  “You take this one, I’ll call another,” I say. But a glance up and down the street shows there won’t be another cab for quite a while—Wall Street tends to be dead at this hour.

  “I insist.” Dick holds the door open a little wider.

  With a sigh, I climb in.

  He keeps the door open, blocking it with his thigh. “You know, if we go to mine, I can fuck you properly, Clove. It’s been a long time since anyone’s bent you over, hasn’t it?” He smirks.

  It has, actually, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Thanks for the offer.” I yank on the door handle, trying to close it. That proves futile with him in the way, but hey, it’s worth a shot.

  “You aren’t gonna get a better one.” He leans down and I get another strong whiff of onion breath. “A girl like you should be jumping at the chance to let a guy like me bone her.”

  I cast a glance at the front of the taxi, but the driver is studiously ignoring this conversation, deeply concentrating on the one in his own wireless headset. “Again, I said thank you but no thank you.” I tug on the door, hoping against hope that Dick will finally let this drop.

  Behind us, another taxi pulls up, and to my immense relief, Dick waves at it. It pulls over and he casts me one last long, dark look.

  “You’ll regret this,” he says as he steps away from the door.

  Regret what? Missing out on a total creepiest? I don’t think so.

  I slam the door closed between us without responding. I’ve learned by now that as fun as snappy retorts are, sometimes it’s better not to antagonize the crazy people.

  I lean up to tell the taxi driver my address, then collapse against the seat with a sound halfway between a groan and a sigh.

  Well. That was another unqualified disaster. I close my eyes for a minute, then pull out my phone to text my coworker.

  Halfway through typing a message about how she was so very wrong about this new app being better than the others, my phone begins to buzz.

  Crap. It’s Dick.

  I hit ignore, wait for it to go to voicemail, then keep typing.

  And now, on top of the last 5 disasters, I’ve got this creepy guy
who told me I’d “regret” not going home with him, who’s trying to call me.

  I hit send and my phone buzzes once more. Dick. Again.

  I hit ignore again, then, on second thought, shut my phone off completely. I’ll deal with figuring out how to block his number in the morning. Not like I haven’t already done that a few times for other creeps in the last couple years I’ve been trying this online dating crap.

  Sometimes, it doesn’t seem worth it. Sometimes, I think it’d be better to just continue my life without a guy in it. After all, everything else is going great for me. I just got another promotion at work—I’m only 29 and I’m a marketing manager with five people working below me. I work at publishing house where I’ve been since I graduated college and landed my dream job. I love my team, my boss, my coworkers. I love my job, promoting great literature to avid readers. I love that I get to travel, go to conferences where I meet cool authors whose books I love, and I get to help them make those books even more successful.

  Plus, I have my friends. They keep me going through it all.

  No, on the whole, my life is pretty great.

  So why does it still feel like something is missing?

  I shake my head. Ignore it. I don’t need a guy, especially not a guy like Dick. If it’s the choice between him and staying single forever, I’ll take the latter happily.

  The taxi pulls up outside my building and I pay the driver, then push the door open. For a second, I just lean back to gaze at my building.

  I was lucky as hell to score this place a couple years ago during a slow season and a market down-turn. I got it hella cheap; rent control, too. It’s the first time I’ve ever been able to afford a one-bedroom apartment by myself, and in a building with a doorman, no less.

  This is how I know I’m finally moving up in the world. Finally making something of myself. I love this building and everything that it stands for—the progress I’ve made in my life, the goals I’m achieving.