by Bijou Hunter
“Women are the worst.”
“You can’t know. My father is a nice guy. He kills people and shit, but who doesn’t?”
“No one I know.”
“But he’s kind to people, and they call him Boy Scout because he’s so nice. Since I look like him, people want me to be nice, but I don’t like people, and I don’t want women wiping their fricking snot on me.”
“You should know women are equal to men, so knocking them down is okay,” I say and pat his cheek. “I mean, would you let a man wipe snot on you? No, of fucking course not. You’d shove his slimy booger face onto the ground and probably kick him a few times. I know I would, so you really need to do that to women too,” I say and then add, “It’s about equality.”
“I don’t believe in equality. Men are better.”
“No, they really aren’t. They can’t even knock down women who wipe snot on them. Seems like a big fucking weakness to me.”
“Well, she’s my grandma!” Poet exclaims with bright blue eyes. “You can’t knock down your grandma!”
“I could. In fact, I once drop-kicked her ass across the room when she mouthed off.”
“Really?”
“No, but that would have been funny. My grandma has weak hips though, so she’d probably break them and end up in traction or some shit. Yeah, I’m glad I never drop-kicked her. She’s good people. You know for being a rich honky.”
Poet laughs hard, resting his head back against the wall. “I knew you came from money. You had a princess vibe to you.”
“I blame my parents. They raised me to be confident and emotionally healthy. It’s made me stuck-up.”
“Parents are the worst.”
“They are. Can you believe they would be against me fucking a stranger in a strange town?”
Poet cocks his eyebrow. “They lack imagination.”
“Yes, because they’re happily married and still fuck constantly so they can’t understand what it’s like to meet a hot man who has a bad mom and likes onions.”
I rest my hand on his thigh and slide it up until I reach a bulge I assume is meant for me. Poet doesn’t smirk or shirk. He barely reacts at all, but I know he knows I’m his for the taking. Unlike my parents, I do not lack imagination, and I have all kinds of fantasies about what’ll happen once this sexy fucker and I are alone in my hotel room. I just hope I don’t have to kill him in the morning.
POET
Dancing out of the bar, Cricket ignores the assholes she wrecked earlier. The one she sprayed rests his head on the table while the others give her dirty looks. She doesn’t see them, but I loudly crack my knuckles to let them know I won’t forget.
Before heading to her hotel across the street, we stop at a gas station.
“We’re packing the wrong kind of protection,” Cricket says and flashes the gun in her purse. “Pick a size and don’t lie just to impress me because I’ll know the truth soon enough.”
Reaching across her to reach the large Trojan box, I take the opportunity to inhale her wonderful scent. How can she smell like a fruit basket after spending the last hour in a noxious bar?
The clerk looks at the large box of condoms she sets on the counter and smirks at me.
“Someone’s gonna have fun tonight,” he says while she hands him a credit card.
“You have no idea,” Cricket replies. “I’m doing a train of guys back at my hotel room. I’d invite you, but no silly men allowed.”
The clerk might have blown off her comment if she said he was too ugly, fat, or old. The silly thing confuses him, and I bet he’ll wonder what makes him silly for a long fricking time.
Cricket hands me the box of condoms. “Let’s tear ass to the hotel because I have to pee.”
I enjoy how her hair bounces when she runs across the road and through the parking lot. We stroll quickly through the lobby to the elevator. Once inside, she slams into me and lifts her lips. My tongue tastes tequila, the mint she popped into her mouth at the store, and what can only be described as the most intoxicating heat imaginable. Like a black widow’s venom, her kiss steals away my will and leaves a slave.
The hotel room is ten degrees colder than the hallway and nearly chills my high-riding erection. When Cricket slides her shirt over her head and pops free from her bra, I don’t know if her rosy nipples are rock hard out of excitement or the room’s deep freeze.
I can’t ask because our frantic lips remain glued together. A wild dance occurs where we move around the room, removing clothes while still fighting to see who can suck at the other’s tongue. I manage to get my shirt off while her fingers make quick work of my jeans.
I lean her against the dresser only for her to move toward the chair. Then we’re dancing toward the wall or maybe the bed. Somehow, despite our drunken dance, we end up naked.
“You didn’t lie,” she purrs when her hand finds my cock. “Honesty is so fucking hot.”
Cricket ends up with her ass half on the bed. Her lips leave mine before latching onto my nipple. Sucking at the same pace as her hand strokes my cock, she milks me to a quick orgasm.
Pushing her shoulders back onto the bed, I pin her hands above her head. “Let me see.”
I reach over and switch on the light. My gaze focuses immediately on the shine of her inner thighs. I press her knees open and enjoy the sight of her pink pussy glistening with what proves to be the sweetest flavor.
Cricket exhales softly when my finger dips between her soft flesh. I can’t take my eyes off of her pussy until I suck my wet finger. My gaze lifts to study her face. She watches me with a relaxed face betrayed by her frantically aroused eyes. I study her appreciative reaction when I fill her with two fingers.
“Mmm...” she sighs and reaches instinctively for her rigid nipples.
My fingers remain knuckles-deep inside her as I lean forward and kiss her pouty lips. I feel her teasing my right nipple while her other hand continues to tug at her own flesh.
“You’re the most beautiful fucking woman I’ve ever fucking seen.”
“I see why they call you Poet.”
Grinning, I lower my lips to her nipple and give it a long, wet lick. Cricket wiggles and groans immediately, only growing more frenzied when my fingers thrust deeper inside her. Sucking and thrusting, I feel my dick swelling with the goal of taking my fingers’ place soon.
The knuckle of my thumb finds the sweet spot of her clit and Cricket goes wild. Holding my head against her tit, she angles her hips to apply the perfect pressure. I suck harder at her nipple, and I swear her orgasm reaches a new level.
When our lips meet again, she can’t stop smiling.
“I can’t wait to see what you can do what your dick,” she murmurs.
Studying her face, I suddenly worry she’s too drunk to agree to fucking. I stand straight and frown for a minute as my buzzed brain tries to connect dots.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting up and instantly stroking my cock.
“You’re drunk. Like maybe too drunk.”
Cricket nods and reaches for the side table. Never letting go of my cock, she uses her free hand to scribble something on paper. She then hands the hotel pad to me.
“It says, ‘I, Cricket Wilburn, of sound mind and horny body, fully agree to the pussy pounding promised to me by Poet Something or Other.’ Now, will you strap on a condom and let your cock get to pounding?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A minute later, I’m fucking Cricket hard enough for her to beg me to stop even while digging her heels into my ass to keep me from actually stopping.
This isn’t sex like I’ve known since I talked Trish Jones into lifting her skirt in the hayloft of her family’s barn when I was sixteen. This kind of fucking is raw, unhinged, and invigorating. The more we fuck, the hornier I get.
No woman’s ever tasted better, smiled more, felt so amazing. Hours of her bouncing on my cock makes me an addict, but she’s got it bad too. I see it on her face when she forces open her eyes so we can
fuck again. She doesn’t want it to end. When my dick is too exhausted to fuck, I make her come with my fingers or tongue. When her pussy is too exhausted to have another orgasm, she glues her sweaty body to mine and sucks softly at my tongue like a baby on a pacifier.
Exhaustion forces us to sleep.
Then I wake once around four with a painful erection soon deep in her swollen, wet pussy. Cricket rides me again, and I don’t know if my erection woke her up or it was the other way around. She somehow slides on a condom and straddles me before I’m fully awake.
We fuck hard for a long time, longer than I’ve ever fucked a woman. My dick won’t relent. When she grows fatigued from riding me, I roll her onto her back and shove myself back into her body. We don’t stop—can’t stop—until near dawn. Returning to sleep, I don’t think my dick will ever work again.
For the first time in my life, a woman manages to fuck me dry.
CRICKET
Waking up is never easy for me. I love sleeping and regularly nap during lazy days. Add booze to my usual sleep-fetish, and I’m like the walking fucking dead when the hotel room’s alarm goes off.
I think I reach for the squawking black box on the side table. In my mind, I see myself turning it off. Except the fucking thing keeps squawking.
I feel movement on the bed and pressure against my body. I open my eyes only a slit since I left the drapes open and the sun now painfully illuminates the room. Even with only one eye open, I go nearly blind from the brightness. Before losing my sight, I see Poet relaxing back on the bed after reaching over me to turn off the alarm.
“Thank you,” I say.
My mouth tastes like salty shit, and I roll out of bed without opening my eyes. Blind, half-asleep, and cursed with noodle legs, I stumble to the bathroom. Soon, my turd-flavored teeth taste minty fresh.
Next, my bladder needs my attention. I kick the door shut and flop onto the toilet.
For the first time, I realize I’m buck naked. I think to cover myself, but there’s no point. I need a shower, meaning nudity is required.
I sit in the tub for the first five minutes of the shower. Then I’m on my knees, begging for my legs to read their job description and earn their keep.
“Water, friend, my,” I babble into the shower’s stream. “Must stand now.”
I use the grab bar to lift my legs into a standing position. Now I can actually use the water to wash away the crud from my eyes.
What might be an hour later; I stumble out of the shower and dry off. I’m awake now. All is right with the world except for my mild hunger and major hangover.
I open the bathroom door before remembering how there’s a strange, naked man in my bed.
Shit, what’s his name?
After a horrifying moment where I struggle to remember the name of the man who fucked me silly last night, I reach for a towel.
Poet returned to sleep once he turned off the alarm. I ignore his pale ass beckoning to me and instead grab clothes from my suitcase. A few minutes later, I’ve packed my bar-whoring outfit and am ready to hit the road.
Oh, yeah, the naked guy is still here.
“Hey, buckaroo,” I say and tap him on the forehead.
His face remains slack, and I have to admit he’s a pretty motherfucker. I can’t remember much else about him. No, I think he said he has brothers. Or maybe I said I did. Man, the booze did a real number on my gray matter.
“Poet,” I say with a hint more force while also yanking ever-so-gently on his thick hair. “Rise and shine, shithead.”
I strongly suspect Poet is, in fact, awake at this point and is only pretending otherwise to fuck with me. Hence, my need to call him a shithead.
“I have to leave soon, or they’ll charge me for another day. So, yeah, get the fuck up.”
Poet doesn’t move. Despite his corpse routine, I know for a fucking fact he’s awake. Did I find this shit sexy last night? Yeah, probably. Now I’m hung-over with a five-hour drive ahead of me.
I’m normally pretty laid-back. Well, laid-back for the daughter of Angus and Candy Hayes anyway, but I’m panicking at how he’s naked and messing with me, and I might need to pee or puke soon.
Accordingly, I slap him on the ass, startling myself by how loud the sound is.
Poet refuses to be surprised. The sexy little fucker simply rolls over and gives me an eyeful of dick. Oh, and he smiles too as if we’re friends and I’m not a crazy chick slapping his sleeping ass.
“Grumpy, lovey?” he asks while wiping his eyes. “I have a real nice salve for such a problem.”
“Keep your fucking dick in the off position. I have to get the fuck out of here, and you’re cramping my style, beef fart.”
“You sure like that word, don’t you?” he says and sits up in too fast of a movement for me to escape. Now his arms wrap around me while his hands own my ass. “Why are you in such a rush?”
“I have a life that isn’t here,” I say, and the words come out in a whine. Covering my mouth, I’m shocked to hear me sound so pathetic. It must be the West Virginia air or possibly the banjos. “I just want to get home.”
“When can I see you again?” he asks.
Again, Poet moves in a smooth movement as if he hadn’t downed a kegger’s worth of tequila the night before. Dodging me, he strolls into the bathroom and chooses to take a piss with the door open. I really don’t fucking need to see his ass, but I also make no effort to shut the door and give him privacy.
“Did you ever tell me your real name?” I ask and hurry around the room to find his clothes.
“Did you?”
“Cricket is my real name.”
“That’s a sweet name too. I like a woman with some pizzazz. I bet your mama has quite the creative touch.”
“Stop talking,” I grumble and toss his jeans at him. “Get dressed and get out and stop talking.”
“What are you so afraid of?”
“I think that’d be obvious. I don’t want to end up back in bed and stay in this state any longer than necessary. I just want to go home and sleep in my bed and eat something that doesn’t include gravy.”
“Lots of food around here that don’t have a single drop of gravy in them,” he says, tugging his black boxers and jeans over his glorious ass and cock. “Why not stick around and try one or two of them? I know you said you don’t have a nine-to-five kind of job.”
“I never said that.”
“You most certainly did. I remember every word from last night.”
“I remember most of it too, but that doesn’t change how I need to leave.”
Poet gives me a little smile. “Let’s get a bite before you get on the road.”
“No.”
“Why?” he asks, giving me the chills when he brushes my hair back from both shoulders.
“We had an amazing night, but—"
“Be daring like the chick I met at The Shot Glass.”
“The what?” I balk, suddenly worried I’ve forgotten a weird sex moment from the night before.
“The bar we met at last night.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Would it really hurt to have a sober meal with the man who made you whimper and come last night?”
His words make my pussy clench wantonly. I glance at the bed and remember the brilliant sex. If I eat a meal with him, we’ll end up back here. Then what? Another meal and another great fuck. This isn’t my home, and I can’t get stuck in the cycle of meals and fucks. Soon, I’ll convince myself we’re dating—which technically we will be—and I’ll pretend we can make a long-distance relationship work. Except they never do even with the least selfish of people and I have never been called unselfish in my entire twenty-one years on the planet Earth.
“You are addictive,” I say and squeeze his hand. “Fucking you was fucking amazing, but this isn’t my town, and you can’t be my boyfriend or lover or occasional hookup. Fate dealt us this hand, and a non-gravy breakfast can’t change that fact.”
“When your
brain does that deep thinking, you get the prettiest look on your pretty face,” he says as his fingers trace my lips. “I bet you’re glorious when doing a math problem.”
“Get dressed and get out,” I mutter in my best bitch voice that doesn’t sound nearly bitchy enough. “Please.”
Poet leans forward and plants a kiss on my forehead. I fight the swoon rising up inside me. The guy’s lips are magic, but they live in West Virginia with the rest of him. I must stay focused.
Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I walk to the door and think of my home rather than the sexy man searching for his shirt. He finally discovers it behind the dresser. When Poet walks toward me, I struggle against a powerful urge to stay here with him a few more days and see how things turn out.
Turn out? Really? We live in two different states. No matter how much I like him, nothing will turn out well between us. I can’t stay here another minute, or I’ll want to stay here another day then another week. Eventually, my parents will send Chipper and my best friend, Bianca Bella, to drag me home. Will walking away later really be easier than doing it now when I don’t even know his real name?
Standing next to my pimped-out jeep after shoving the suitcase in the trunk, I force my brain to imagine my life back home—Bianca Bella and me eating popcorn and watching a movie while my dogs nap nearby, or Chipper and me enjoying lunch at the Snack N Shack. I want to see myself in White Horse, so I won’t imagine myself here with Poet.
I take his phone and text to my number. “This way, if I’m ever in this part of Honky-tonk Hell again, I can hit you up and see if you want to pound my pussy again.”
Poet doesn’t make a lewd comment. He only slides his phone into his back pocket and cups my face. The longest minute of my life passes as his gorgeous blue eyes memorize my face while I commit to memory his every feature. Poet lowers his lips and gives me one final heartbreaking kiss.
