by Amy Brent
I pointed my toes and felt every muscle in my body swell as I blew my load deep inside her. She squealed and came with me, gushing hot juices from her cunt over my cock and balls like lava from the mouth of a volcano. It felt like she was pouring hot oil all over my groin. I could feel the burn. I could smell the pungent sent. I could almost taste her juices on the tip of my tongue. It just made me cum even harder.
“Yes… fuck… baby… that’s it… fill Bonita’s pussy up with your milky jizz…” Bonita moaned and sat up straight with her eyes toward the ceiling. She had small tits and big purple nipples. She ran her hands over her tits and squeezed her nipples between her fingers as the orgasm shuddered through her body.
“You’re fucking beautiful when you cum,” I said, arching my back, pushing my cock into her as far as it would go. Her hips slowed but her pussy was still milking my cock as if it were acting on its own. Bonita was only twenty-three and had the tightest pussy I’d ever had the pleasure to cum in. Bethany was a virgin when we met and her pussy was tight, but nothing like Bonita’s. I accused her of exercising the thing because her pussy could literally latch on to my cock and milk it like a machine, her inner walls rippling and down the shaft like a thousand magic fingers. It was the most amazing feeling. I envied the next guy who found his way into Bonita’s bed. Like I said, I’d sure miss her when I was gone.
“You okay, baby?” she asked, leaning down to press her lips to mine. She had a wide mouth and wonderfully full lips and a long tongue that was nothing short of magical. She rubbed the tip of her nose to mine and stared deeply into my eyes.
She asked, “What’s worrying you, Cap?”
“Nothing is worrying me,” I said, holding out my arms so she could lay down beside me and rest her head on my chest. Like most things in Mosul, the air conditioning in my room barely worked, so we were both covered in a film of oily sweat, which mixed with the scent of our juices, filling the little hotel room with a strong, pungent aroma that hung in the hot air like dense fog.
“You’re pretty good with that big thing,” she said as her long fingers traced circles around my hard nipples. “You have a nice cock for a white boy.”
“On behalf of white boys everywhere, I give thanks,” I said, sighing as my balls continued to tingle. “And you’ve got the tightest pussy in the Navy, Sergeant Anderson. I’m gonna put you in for a commendation. The Purple Pussy Heart. Well done, SEAL.”
She giggled and rolled on top of me and pressed her squishy pussy to my sticky, deflated cock. She brushed her lips to mine and smiled. “How about a shower and something to eat?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said as I playfully licked the sweat from her chin. I smacked my lips and nodded at the bathroom door. “You go first. I need to check in.”
“Fuck checking in,” she said, pushing herself off me to sit on the edge of the bed. She stretched out her long limbs and gave me a frown. “This is your day off, Ryder. I swear, you didn’t work this much when you were on active duty.”
“I wasn’t working with Major Dickhead back then,” I said, referring to Major Dan Dickerson, an Army liaison to the Iraqi government that I was assigned to protect. The Army used private contractors like me as bodyguards because if we got killed, or more likely, killed some Iraqi cocksucker, the shit wouldn’t hit the fan the way it would if an Army regular or Marine pulled the trigger. Dickerson was in meetings on the base all day with some ambassador, so I’d been given time off with the orders to check in every few hours in case Major Dickhead needed his ass kissed.
A knock on the door ended the debate. Bonita scooped up her uniform and boots and tiptoed into the tiny bathroom and closed the door. I heard her peeing and for some reason, the sound made me smile. Bonita pissed like a Russian racehorse after sex. Sometimes it lasted for several minutes. It was just another thing I’d miss about her. Silly, I know, the things you don’t think you’ll ever forget.
I threw my legs over the side of the bed and found my underwear and my khakis and pulled them on. I took the Glock 39 from the holster on the nightstand and let it dangle at my right side as I went to the door. I didn’t think I’d have to shoot anybody, but in Mosul you never knew who might be standing on the other side of a closed door.
“What is it?” I called, standing to the side of the door without putting my eye to the peephole. You never knew when there might be some asshole on the other side of the door with a long ice pick ready to take your eye out or a gun ready to send bullets through the door. Welcome to Mosul, motherfuckers.
“Captain Ryder, sir? I mean, Mr. Ryder?”
I smiled. Even though I’d mustered out of the SEALs months ago the regulars still called me Captain Ryder. I opened the door to find a young corporal named Yates standing there with a timid look on his face and his cap in his hand. He was Dickerson’s driver and gopher.
“What’s up, Corporal?” I asked, holding the pistol behind my back so I didn’t totally freak him out. Some of these young guys were so fucking jumpy I wondered what the hell they were doing in Iraq. Some of them would piss their pants if a gun was pointed at them. I wouldn’t trust them to have my back in a fucking food fight.
Yates said, “Sir, Major Dickerson needs you in his office right away.”
“Why didn’t you just call me?” I asked. “You didn’t have to drive over.”
“I tried, but your phone went straight to voicemail, sir,” he said. “So, the Major ordered me to come get you. You need to come with me, sir, right away.”
I frowned at him. “What’s up, Yates?”
“Not sure, sir,” he said, shaking his head. “Major Dickerson just said that you should come with me. Now.”
“Okay, hang on.” The fancy satellite phone the company had issued me was on the nightstand. I walked over and picked it up. It was turned off. What the hell? I never turned that fucking phone off. Then I heard the shower start and knew what happened. Bonita didn’t like to be disturbed when she was getting her rocks off. The world come be ending around her, but she would not stop fucking until she was through. She had switched off my sat-phone when I wasn’t looking. It was a good thing she did. She got really pissed when something interfered with her play time. She would have taken poor Yates’ head off and booted it out the window if he had shown up ten minutes earlier.
I tossed the sat-phone on the bed and picked up the black polo shirt that had the Blackstone Security logo on the left front chest. I sat on the bed to put on my socks and dessert boots while Yates stood in the doorway, stiff as a board, like he had a stick shoved up his ass.
I picked up the Kevlar vest from the chair beside the bed and stuck it over my head, then pulled the straps around my sides and velcroed them tight. I clipped the holster for the Glock to the right side of my belt and slid the Glock in.
“So, the major didn’t say what he needed?” I asked as I clipped a holder with two spare magazines to the left side of my belt.
“No sir, just that it was an emergency and you should come right away. The Jeep’s right out front.”
“Okay, hang on.” I went to the bathroom door and turned the knob. There was no lock, so I opened the door and stuck my head in. Bonita was in the shower with the water on high. I could see her dark form through the plastic shower curtain.
“I have to go,” I called out. “I’ll find you later.”
“You do that,” she said, pulling back the shower curtain to show me her beautiful body covered in lather. She slid her hands over her tits and down her flat stomach. She rolled a finger over her clit and gave me an evil smile.
“You’re gonna miss this pussy when you go home, Captain Ryder.”
“Hell, Sergeant Anderson,” I said with a sigh. “I fucking miss it already.”
Chapter Three: Lolita “Lolita” Carter
Arlington, Virginia
I had always been attracted to older men. Probably because they had always been attracted to me. Even when I was just an awkward teenager in junior high, the male teachers, co
aches, guidance counselors, the bus driver— even Mr. Holt, the seventy-year old principal who probably couldn’t get it up in a Viagra factory— gawked at me with their mouths hanging open, like they were imagining what it would be like to shove their nasty old cocks inside my tight young body. The boys looked at me then, too, of course, with lust in their hearts and peach fuzz erections in their pants, but I didn’t give them the time of day. Even now that I’m nineteen, boys my age are juvenile idiots who still haven’t grown up. No sir, I’ll take a handsome forty-year old any day over some twenty-year old hunk.
My mama always said that when you looked like she and I do it’s only natural that men would stop and stare, and think about all the filthy things they’d like to do us if they could get us alone. She said it was not our fault that God blessed us with natural beauty, flowing blonde hair, flawless olive skin, big titties and tight asses. And in her words, “Tight little pussies that could drive men wild.”
Mama knew what she was talking about when it came to men and her ability to attract more than her fair share of them. She was only thirty-five and still beautiful in what she called a “blonde country girl” sort of way.
She had lived off the good graces of her face and body since she was a teenage girl younger than me, and took full advantage of the things she could do with her body to get men to give her what she wanted or needed. Growing up, men were always coming and going through our little house on Primrose Street, some coming just once, some a few times, others for a few months or so. None of them ever stuck around for long after they got what they came for and mama wanted out of them.
Don’t misunderstand me. My mama wasn’t a whore or anything. She just knew that men would pay dearly to get in her pants and she used her sex appeal to get what she wanted. It was fair trade, in her mind.
Some men just bought her dinner and drinks, some bought her new clothes and jewelry, some helped with the rent and light bills, and some just gave her cash. She called them gifts, given out of the goodness of their hearts rather than in exchange for time spent in her mouth or pussy. Like I said, she was no whore, but she never turned down anything a man would offer her in exchange for a good time. And the bigger the gift, the better the good time.
I think it’s sad, really. I bet if you asked her today she wouldn’t be able to tell you the name of a single man—including my father, whoever he was—that she had sex with just for the sake of having sex. Sex was simply an act of commerce with mama. It was never about love or feelings. She always had an ulterior motive. Like I said. Sad, really.
One of her suitors (that’s what she called them), an older man named Homer Vance, even gave her a used Corvette to drive when I was in elementary school. I’ll never forget that car because it was so loud in every way. It was a candy-apple red Stingray convertible with shiny chrome wheels and a stereo that would jar your teeth and mufflers that would rattle the windows. I can still remember her dropping me off out front of the elementary school in that car. She’d barely give me time to slam the heavy door before revving the engine and speeding away. Then one day, she picked me up from school in her old gray Toyota Corolla. Seemed that Homer Vance had found a new sugar baby to drive his Corvette.
“His loss,” mama said with a carefree shrug as she ground the gearshift into first and tried to ignore the screeching sound of the worn belt beneath the hood. “His fucking loss.”
Most of the time things worked out the way she wanted, probably because she had very low expectations of the men she surrounded herself with.
She said that if we lived in Miami Beach or Beverly Hills or someplace like that she could catch us (not her) a rich man to take care of us for the rest of our lives. Pickings were slim in Arlington, she said.
Sometimes I thought she was just afraid of settling down with one man. She could have found a good man to take care of us (her) if she had really wanted one. There were a lot of good men in Arlington and DC just across the river, but none that interested her. Truth be told, I think mama enjoyed the hunt more than she enjoyed the catch. To her, it was all about control.
“The power of the pussy,” she liked to call it. “When you got the pussy, you got the power.”
And she had lots of pussy power, she said, because the good Lord had seen fit to endow her with a nice, tight one. It was pretty and pink, with a plump clit and perfect lips and wispy blonde curls. And it was one of the tightest, hottest, wettest holes in all of Arlington County. I guessed that claim had been made by a number of the men she’d been with who were qualified to make such a comparison. I could just picture mama handing a guy a comment card to fill out as he fucked her from behind in some dive bar restroom.
The power of the pussy… Why shouldn’t she use it to get what she wanted out of life? “If you’re smart,” she said, serious as a heart attack, “You’ll use it, too.”
I had not gotten into the habit of bringing strange men home for sex like mama still did on occasion, though less frequently than when I was younger. I think it might have something to do with me being all grown up now and looking the way I do. I look like a nineteen-year-old version of her, only with bigger tits and perfect teeth. I think she sees me as completion for some reason, probably because of the way her men friends ogle me when they see me running around the house in a string bikini or getting out of bed in the morning wearing just my panties and a t-shirt. Hey, it’s my house, too, and this is how I dress. If you didn’t like it, or even if you do, keep your hands and eyes to yourself.
Despite her “pussy power” advice, which she offered freely in front of half a dozen of my girlfriends and surrounding diners at Casa Mexicana on the night of my sixteenth birthday, I had yet to fully utilize the power of my pussy to fight evil or satisfy men.
I wasn’t sure that I would ever be as free with my pussy as she was because I really did believe in the power of love (wasn’t that a song?) and the concepts of monogamy and commitment. Oh sure, sometimes I’d see a handsome older man in a suit at work and think about asking his name. Or flirt with the DJ at the bar I went to sometimes with my girlfriends. Then there was my boss at Starbuck’s, Lennie, who looked like a thirty-five-year-old surfer dude. He’d fuck me at the drop of a cappuccino spoon if I’d let him. All I’d have to do was just bend over and wiggle my ass at him. He’d probably cream all over his green apron before he could even get his cock out.
Like mama, I do have a strong sex drive that seems to be getting stronger every day. I started getting little tingles in my cunt even before my blonde peach fuzz pubes started to sprout. I always rode the neighbor boy’s bike because I liked to rub my young cunt on the crossbar that my girl’s bike didn’t have. I could remember pressing my hairless cunt to the washing machine when I was eight years old, letting the spin cycle vibrations shudder through me, making me feel all tingly inside, even though at the time I had no idea what an orgasm was or what it felt like to have one. But I soon learned how things worked, thanks to older girls at school, the internet, and my mama’s willingness to talk frankly to me about sex and men.
Her version of the birds and the bees went something like this: the guy’s cock gets hard and he shoves it in your pussy and moves it around until you both cum. Any questions?”
Uh, yeah, lots…
She told me that it would hurt when I lost my virginity, but that pleasure would quickly replace the pain. She told me that if I gave up the pussy too quickly boys wouldn’t respect me, but sometimes respect was overrated.
“Use your pussy to get what you want, Lolita,” she told me when I was probably twelve or thirteen. “Men can’t resist a tight young pussy. They’ll do anything to fuck you. Just you wait and see. Trust me, I know. And if one of them tells you he loves you just to get in your pants, you tell him to fuck off!”
My friends were always shocked that mama talked to me this way. I wasn’t shocked. I was grateful. She was doing what she thought was best for me. Telling me what I needed to hear without beating around the bush. She did it because
of the mistakes she’d made when she was my age. She was a horny girl just like me, only she didn’t have someone like her to guide her along. Her mother, my grandmother, was a religious prude who said that sex was dirty and should only be used to procreate, not for pleasure.
“Sex is the devil’s tool,” grandma would say. “Let a man put his member inside you and no good can come of it.” I guess I was proof of that.
So, mama—Sandy Carter’s her name— was a horny kid who was left to her own devices when it came to learning about sex. She claimed that was why she lost her virginity at sixteen to an older man she met at her job at the Sonic Drive-In. It happened right there in the Sonic parking lot late one Saturday night. She remembered him as being an older man with salt and pepper hair to his shoulders and a scraggly beard, chunky fat, dressed in a white t-shirt with blue paint stains and a white painter’s cap pushed back on his head. He ordered two double cheeseburgers and tots, and when she came back to pick up his tray he gave her a five-dollar tip and invited her into the back of his windowless van for another five-dollars. Without hesitation, she climbed inside and wiggled out of her shorts and panties and he took her virginity, which she willingly offered, on a pile of old rags that smelled like gasoline and paint thinner. Five minutes later she stood in the parking lot with the tray between her hands and the ten dollars in her pocket, watching him drive away. She said she never saw him again. She didn’t even get his name. She just remembered that he wreaked of sweat and grunted like a fat hog when he came.
She said that lit her fuse and she couldn’t help herself. She started sleeping around and got pregnant at sixteen, and became a single mom at seventeen. To this day, she claims that she has no idea who my father is. I’ll probably never know and I guess I’m okay with that. She said it was a good thing I didn’t know who he was. Now, I was free to imagine that my daddy was a great man who did great things and not some asshole she had fucked in the backseat of a car after a high school football game.
