The Wild Side

by Lilley, R. K.

  I’d probably lose my gym membership for this, but did I care?

  Not fucking likely.

  The door to the small room she pulled me into did not have a lock.

  That didn’t stop us.

  She moved to the table, her back to me. She tugged her shorts down, and leaned forward, elbows on the padded surface in front of her. “We need to be quick,” she said quietly.

  Fuck. My wallet (with a condom) was in the locker. It may as well have been an ocean away, with her ass pointed at me like that.

  “I don’t have anything on me. I need to go to my locker and get something.”

  “I’m clean and I have an IUD,” she said, straightening just long enough to unzip and shrug out of her itty-bitty sports bra.

  Well fuck.

  Apparently, even a lack of protection wouldn’t stop us.

  I wasn’t an idiot. Far from it. But I was just learning in that moment that I was as capable as your average mouth-breather of having an idiotic moment.

  I told myself that I could worry about it later.

  And that actually worked!

  I was surprising myself by the second.

  I stripped down, because she was, and I wanted to feel her back against my chest when I mounted her from behind.

  My hands covered her hands, and I shifted my hips until I felt her wet entrance teasing my tip. With a groan, I gripped one fleshy tit, and moved my other hand to guide myself home.

  I sank in a few perfect inches.

  I wasn’t gentle as I used her breasts like handles and began to thrust. She didn’t complain. No, not a bit. The sounds coming out of her were definitely moans of pleasure.

  I lost it and took her hard and fast. I embarrassed myself, being bare inside of her too much for me, and came before she did.

  I pulled out still coming, spurting against her ass. This was not going to be an easy cleanup, but I couldn’t make myself care. I needed to make her come. I needed to leave her satisfied enough to keep coming back for more.

  I turned her, lifting her up onto the table. She was so easy to handle, light as a feather.

  I pushed her until she was flat on her back, and began to work her with my fingers, bending down to draw on the hard peak of a nipple.

  I stopped when I thought she was close, because I was hard again, and whether or not I was capable of coming again, I wanted to be inside of her when she did.

  I turned her, wrenching her legs open, and stepping between, her hips at the edge of the table. She was sopping wet, and I eased in fast and hard, jolting out, then in again, my finger working her clit softly, my eyes all over her perfect body, her lovely face as she came, clenching on my cock.

  I didn’t stop, couldn’t, and embarrassed myself, yet again, by not lasting much more than a fucking minute.

  “I’m sorry,” I gasped out. “I’m not usually this fast.”

  She laughed. It was a shaky laugh, as she was obviously still recovering from her own pleasure.

  It was music to my ears. I loved that laugh.

  “Don’t apologize for that,” said Iris. “That was amazing. You’re the best lover. You have to know that.”

  I shook my head, dazed, my eyes on her splayed out, perfect tanned, perfect everything’d body.

  She sat up just enough to cup my jaw in her hand. “Seriously. The best.”

  I was suddenly weak, so tired I could barely stand. “I, um,” I started to pull out of her, and even exhausted, I watched my progress with careful adoration. Every inch that dragged out seemed to be caressed lovingly as it went.

  I felt shaky as I got dressed, but she seemed to bounce back with no problem. I reflected briefly on the beauty of being twenty-four and tireless. She could certainly run laps around me. Though I know that biologically sex tended to be more exhausting for men, the age difference had to be at least a bit of a factor.

  “I have a few hours before I need to be anywhere,” she told me, grabbing my hand. “Let’s go back to your place and take a nap.”

  I let her lead me to the car and didn’t even put up a fight when she decided to drive. She’d worn me out. I was pretty much putty in her hands.

  “Why don’t we go to your place this time?” I asked her as she started to drive.

  Her expression was pleasantly blank. It didn’t so much as twitch at my question. “Maybe next time. It’s a little messy at the moment.”

  “How do you get around? You don’t have a car, do you?”

  “I don’t,” she said, shrugging. “Which is fine. It’s not hard to get where you want in this town.”

  “Well, feel free to borrow one of mine. There are several in the garage. Take your pick.”

  Her face became even more blank and only slightly less pleasant. “I’m good, but thank you.”

  “I don’t mind, really.” It suddenly occurred to me that it would bring me immense relief if I knew she had safe transportation. How did she get around? And how could it possibly be safe for her to do so without a car?

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I am worried about it. Just pick a car and use it. It would make me feel better if you did.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not here to use you. I have a feeling you’ve had a bit too much of that in your life, Dair.”

  “You wouldn’t be using me. I’m offering, for me, because it would make me feel better to know you have a safe way to get around.”

  She patted my knee and didn’t say another word about it, no matter what I said. It was infuriating. She was as stubborn as she was sweet.

  Sweet and affectionate. Even as she drove, she kept reaching over to touch me, sweet touches, stroking my cheek, rubbing my shoulder, patting my hand.

  I was still tired, still sleepy, but I sat there like a stone, hands on my knees, while she did it.

  It feels nice to be touched, I mused.

  It was comforting, it occurred to me, and I was surprised by the thought.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I fell asleep the second I laid myself out on my bed and more than half-expected to wake up alone.

  But I didn’t, this time.

  I roused wrapped around her, her little blonde head burrowed under my chin, one of her arms thrown over my ribs, her blunt nails tracing soft patterns onto my back.

  It was still light out, so it couldn’t be that late. I was relieved. I wanted more of her and not tomorrow.

  Today.

  Now.

  My hand stroked over her soft hair, and she shifted back to look at me, her gaze very alert, as though she hadn’t slept at all.

  I took her face in both hands and started kissing. It was a slow, open-mouthed kiss. Wet and warm and perfect. I would have been happy just to stay in bed and keep kissing her like that, but she went limp, then started moaning, and I knew it wouldn’t be enough for long.

  My hands started wandering. She was wearing a white T-shirt, one of mine, I thought, but I quickly discovered that she wore nothing underneath.

  She’d showered while I slept, I could tell. Her hair was dry, but she smelled like my soap. My inner mouth-breather (the one that was just now coming forth) loved that, relished that it marked her as mine.

  I pulled away from her soft mouth with a gasp, buried my face in her neck, and took the deepest breath. This thing between us, this insane energy that took me over when she came near, didn’t seem to be fading the more I had her.

  It was the opposite.

  I really hoped she wasn’t going to disappear from my life anytime soon, but I was very aware that I had little to no control over that.

  She pulled away suddenly, shifted her body out from under mine, and moved away.

  I blinked, once, twice, trying to shift gears, attempting to keep up with whatever was going on, but my body was not cooperating.

  “We need to eat,” she told me, her face and voice unreadable. “We skipped lunch, and it’s time for dinner. I’m starving.�
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  I nodded my head, still trying to resurface from my lust haze. I wasn’t sure how she did it, but my brain was not functioning yet.

  “Do you mind if I poke around in your kitchen to see what there is to eat?” she asked, already moving off the bed.

  I was still throbbing, my eyes on her body, my mouth forming words that had almost no meaning to me. “Make yourself at home.”

  She strode from the room.

  My hand went to my cock and started stroking. I couldn’t shift gears that fast, and I needed relief. It wasn’t like I wasn’t used to hand jobs. And I had some delicious visuals in my head just from the last ten minutes alone.

  “Come keep me company!” I heard her call from the hallway, and I stopped jerking with a curse. If there was even a small chance I could get off with her, instead of just thinking of her, I had to take it.

  Who knew how long this little fling of ours would last? Certainly not me, and I needed to savor every luscious encounter.

  I slipped on a pair of gym shorts, and that was it. I was hoping to need as little clothing as possible again in the very near future.

  She was already setting food out on the counter nearest the stovetop when I joined her in the kitchen.

  I leaned back against the island, folding my arms over my chest, and watched her. I’d found the one place in the oversized room to stand that would crowd her. She didn’t complain.

  “I hope you don’t mind breakfast for dinner. I’m making French toast and bacon.”

  I heard her, I just didn’t really process her words, still watching her and throbbing in time to her every movement.

  “I can’t believe you have actual butter in your house. You even had a stick at room temperature. And powdered sugar. Do you bake?”

  The fact that she’d made the last bit a question was the only thing that had my mind catching up, and my mouth answering. “I don’t, no. The lady that does my grocery shopping and cleans the house likes to use my kitchen for baking when she’s here.”

  “Wow, do you ever do something crazy, and like eat a cookie?”

  I laughed, but she was reaching up into the cupboards to grab something, and my T-shirt rode up high on her thighs, then her ass, and the laugh cut off short.

  “Yes, sometimes I’ll eat a cookie.” I said it with a straight face, barely.

  “Well, that’s something. I won’t press my luck and ask you how you feel about butter.”

  I didn’t answer or react. Not for a long time. I just watched as she cooked, and when she had laid out five pieces of egg coated bread in a skillet on the range top, and was rinsing her hands while they sizzled and cooked, I moved in behind her, pressing the front of my body hard against the back of hers.

  I had to fight not to take her right there, right then, but something she’d said had stuck with me, and I was feeling adventurous. It freed something up inside of me to be with someone like her, someone that I knew wouldn’t tell me no.

  I lifted her, wet hands and all, the second she turned off the water. I turned her around and perched her on the counter.

  I grabbed the butter, cinnamon, and powdered sugar, lining them up near her hip, and wrenched her T-shirt over her head without a word.

  She didn’t protest, instead leaning back on her hands to watch me. She was utterly comfortable being nude, and I found that to be the biggest turn-on. Nothing seemed to disgust her or make her recoil. It was liberating to be with a woman like that. It was certainly nothing I’d experienced before.

  I dipped two fingers into the butter, and smeared it onto one nipple, and then the other, then did it again, greasing her lavishly.

  “So I take it you do like butter,” she said breathlessly, with just the sweetest smirk.

  I smiled and spread a generous amount of cinnamon over the butter, rubbing it in, twisting and pinching her breasts in the process. Each hard peak was quivering before I was finished. Next came the powdered sugar. It got everywhere, but so had the cinnamon. I was positive that neither of us cared about the mess.

  Not one bit.

  I pushed her thighs wide apart, and took the butter to her pussy, rubbing it over her lips, her little bush, her clit, even pushing inside. She squirmed as I covered her sex in the cinnamon, but swore it didn’t sting. It only tickled, and by the moisture pooling there, I could tell it was doing more. I patted an ample amount of powdered sugar on top, for good measure.

  I was hungry.

  I stood back and enjoyed my handiwork, drooling at the sight of her naked body coated and spread for my pleasure.

  It wasn’t long before I broke and set to work on licking her clean.

  I kneaded her breasts as I sucked at each nipple, lapping, nuzzling, licking. She arched her back and I could feel each restless shift of her hips as I sucked, and sucked, drawing hard at each ripe tip.

  I pulled back to admire her body again. Each perky breast was pink from the attention, clean of cinnamon now. My eyes moved down to her cunt, which still needed my ministrations.

  I moved away, pushing my shorts off impatiently.

  She groaned out a protest, shifting restlessly, spreading her thighs even wider. She knew what was coming. I’d already spoiled her with how much I loved to eat her out. But she could wait a few more minutes and indulge me.

  I dipped my fingers back in the butter, spreading a small amount onto the tip of my cock. I went sparing on the cinnamon and sugar, as well. For me more than her. I couldn’t have her sucking for too long, or I’d ruin all of my other plans.

  I leaned back against the edge of the counter, gripping the base of my cock hard.

  I didn’t have to say a word. She hopped down, got on her knees, licked my tip once, twice, then started sucking hard.

  I pulled her back by the hair when I was getting too close, lifted her back up into position, then moving to bend down low, I buried my face between her thighs. The position wasn’t exactly comfortable, but I barely felt it.

  I was thorough, seeking out every last bit of sweetness, making her come twice, two fingers shoved deep and moving hard as my mouth worked, before I was done.

  She was clutching the back of my head, still crying out, when I pulled back.

  I had to pry her fingers away to stand.

  I buried a hand in her hair and started kissing her, sucking at her mouth as my erection jabbed hard at her entrance.

  I broke loose of her lips just long enough to watch my hand guiding my cock home. I thrust roughly to the hilt and started fucking hard. She was so soft, always, but even softer now after so much attention from my busy mouth.

  I gripped her hair, sucked her tongue, and palmed her breast as I jerked in and out, enjoying the feel so much that I held off on coming for as long as I could stand.

  It wasn’t that long, but she didn’t complain.

  “God, I can’t believe I’m bare inside of you,” I gasped out, still twitching deep in her. “Feels so good, but I can’t believe I’m doing it.”

  She clenched around me hard, and milked another jerk of come out of me. “Me either,” she gasped back.

  The French toast was burnt. No surprise there. She made new.

  I was famished, and I ate two full plates of it. I swore up and down and meant it when I said it was the best meal of my life.

  “Who could have guessed what an innocent statement about butter would do?”

  I’d apparently recovered enough to turn that into a challenge. I had her giggling and spread out on the table, molested dish of butter in tow, before I quite knew what I planned.

  I climbed up and straddled her hips.

  I spread a generous amount of the creamy butter between her tits, and started playing with them with both hands, handling them gently at first, and then rougher as her nipples peaked into hard crests. I still couldn’t quite believe they were real, though they clearly were, but she was so tiny everywhere else, and her tits overflowed my big hands.

  She started moaning and gasping out encouragement. She was,
after all, the one that had given me the idea.

  I pushed the two ripe globes together, testing them, kneading firmly to be sure they could handle what I was planning. She didn’t flinch, didn’t wince, no, she keened and panted out her pleasure, and I took that to mean I could do what I wanted to her glorious chest.

  I swept a hand down, gathering extra moisture from her wet pussy. The butter was oily and more than enough, but I craved her wet heat. I rubbed it onto my cock, pumping at it until a few beads of pre-come dribbled out. I moved up her body, grabbing handfuls of her ample breasts and pushing them together so they hugged my cock.

  Gripping hard, I started to thrust, and thrust, fucking between her fleshy breasts in earnest, her delicate hands covering mine in encouragement.

  I titty fucked her.

  This was something I’d only ever seen done in porn. My ex-wife, even if she’d been willing, didn’t have enough going on up top to fuck like this.

  Iris had plenty up top, more than enough, and it was so soft and warm it was like I was fucking a cloud in my own wet dream.

  Her slender fingers cupped over my hands, one eventually slipping between us to cup at my scrotum, scratching lightly as I used her lush breasts hard.

  I lost my mind when I came, fisting my cock and spurting semen all over her chest, up onto her chin, crawling up until my cock was jutting into her cheekbone, and I’d marked a good portion of her pretty face.

  I apologized profusely for it, swore I had no idea why I’d done that, even while I moved back down her body and ground my still twitching cock against her abused chest, and finished thoroughly against that soft flesh, but she laughed it off, even while she couldn’t open her eyes until I’d gotten her a clean wet dish towel.

  It was one of those things I couldn’t believe I’d done after the fact, and the doing of it had felt like a blur of absolute, mindless pleasure.

  I washed her in the shower, couldn’t stop stroking and kissing her, and telling her how sweet she was, and of course apologizing several more times for coming all over her face.

  I’d never been like this before.

  Insatiable, smitten, and even sated beyond belief I still found myself hardening enough to rub against her back.