Carver & Harlow First Time Sex
The corrugated iron shed smells of diesel and dust, the afternoon heat pressing against the walls like a held breath.
Harlow stands in the doorway, her black boots scuffing the concrete where engine oil has stained permanent shadows.
She wears ripped fishnets under a denim skirt too short for this place, her collarbone glinting with a silver chain that catches the slanted light.
Her hair, dyed the colour of a lush plum, sticks to her neck.
She hates that she sweats here.
Hates that everything about her screams city, screams stepdaughter in a house where that word tastes like bush.
Yeah, Harlow keeps her pussy shaved smooth.
Though for whom?
Her own fingers!
Carver works on the Yamaha quad with his back to her, shoulders broad beneath a navy singlet faded from a hundred washes.
His hands grip a wrench, knuckles tight, the muscles in his forearms shifting as he tautens something she can't see.
He doesn't turn.
Not for this bitch who infiltrated his world.
He heard her boots on the gravel seconds ago, tracked her hesitation at the door.
"You lost?" he asks. The words hit the corrugated walls and flatten.
"Your dad said the mail came."
She doesn't move from the opening.
"Wanted to know if anything's mine."
"Nothing with Harlow on it."
He still doesn't turn.
"Plenty for the station. None of its yours. Like did you leave a guy in Sydney? Go back to him."
She steps inside.
The concrete radiates heat upward through her soles.
"And who is your Bush Barbie?
He sets the wrench down with a clatter that makes her flinch.
When he turns, his jaw carries a day's stubble, his eyes the colour of dried creek beds.
Nineteen, same as her, but the sun has baked him older.
"Mum's dead two years, Dad marries your mother six months ago, now you're here tracking your bullshit through everything."
"Fuck you," she says flat, practised, the way she said it to boys in alleyways behind clubs who bought her cigarettes and told her she looked dangerous.
She had a nose stud then.
Carver laughs, one sharp note.
"You would, wouldn't you? That's your whole thing. Black lipstick and fuck-me eyes. Enjoy reverse cowgirl at the recent rodeo?"
He steps closer, and she smells him—sweat, leather, something alkaline from the batteries charging in the corner.
"How many? Three? A dozen? You look like the type who'd let anyone."
Harlow's throat tightens.
She thinks of the one boy, Marcus, who got her bra off in his mother's Camry before she pushed his hand away. Thinks of the lies she's told, the performance of experience, the way she learned to say cock without blushing.
"More than you've had," she shoots back.
"Farm boy. Rooting pump country tarts. Still on your first hand."
His hand moves fast, inches from her face—she flinches —but gripping the doorframe beside her head.
The metal groans.
He's close enough now that she sees the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the white scar splitting his left eyebrow.
"I've had plenty of sweet pussy," he lies, and she hears it, the same overcompensation she uses, the same desperate architecture of false confidence.
"Country girls know what they're doing out by the weir. Not like youse city sluts all talk and pretending."
"Then why are you so angry?"
She tilts her chin up, black lipstick cracking in the heat.
"If you're so experienced, why do you care that a girl like me is here?"
They breathe the same air.
Diesel and dust and a hint of youthful lust.
His gaze drops to her throat, to the chain there, to the sweat pooling in the hollow.
She watches his jaw work.
"Because you're in my space," he says, but his voice has dropped, lost its edge.
"Because you don't belong."
"Neither do you," she whispers. "Not really. You're faking it."
"You bitch, try this for fakery."
His mouth crashes against hers.
It's not kissing.
It's collision, teeth clicking as he angles his head to dominate the pressure.
Harlow's hands fly to his chest, meaning to push but finding instead the damp cotton of his singlet, the heat of him beneath.
He tastes of the lemonade he drank at lunch, of something like blood where he bit his lip earlier.
She bites back, hard, and he growls into her mouth, one hand leaving the doorframe to grip her hip, fingers digging through the denim.
Fuck they are feral.
Two uninitiated novices.
Engaged in a flesh mush with no starting rules.
They stumble backward, his boot catching on a coil of rope, and they hit the workbench hard enough to rattle the socket set.
His hands are everywhere—her waist, the small of her back, sliding up under her skirt to find the tear in her fishnets and push through.
Fuck, fingers never got under underwear quicker.
She arches when his fingers meet bare skin, the inside of her thigh, and she hates that she moans, hates that her body responds to this boy, this enemy, this liar same as her.
Fuck, Harlow never believed in instant wetness.
Her pussy is leaking like a crack in a dam wall.
God damn near flooding in a nano second.
"Virgin," he breathes against her neck, stating the cocky prick.
"Fuck you," she says again, but she's pulling his singlet up, nails dragging down his ribs, and he's helping her, stripping it off to reveal the torso the sun has carved—lean muscle, a farmer's strength, a trail of dark hair disappearing into his belt.
"Prove it," he challenges, and she doesn't know what he means—prove she's not, prove she is—but she's dropping to her knees on the concrete, the rough surface biting through her tights, and she's fumbling with his buckle while he watches with that dried-creek-bed stare.
His cock springs free, and she stalls.
She's seen them in porn, hurried and furtive on her phone in bathroom stalls, but never like this—never thick and veined and real, curving slightly upward, the head flushed dark and already wet at the slit.
It smells of him, stronger here, musk and salt, and she realises she's been staring too long when he laughs, cruel and breathless.
"Never seen one, have you? City girl with her ten fake lovers."
Harlow glares up at him, black-rimmed eyes narrowing.
She grips him at the base, her fingers not meeting, and opens her mouth.
The first touch is tentative, her tongue flicking the slit, tasting the bitterness there, and she hears him suck in air through his teeth.
His thighs shake.
She thinks, fuck he's a bloody liar too!
Emboldened, she takes him deeper, her lips stretching around the girth, and she's immediately wrong—too much teeth, her rhythm uncertain, saliva pooling awkwardly.
Her eyes bulge.
Gag, gag, gurgle, gug, gug, gag!
Holy Fuck!
She pulls back to adjust, but his hand finds the back of her head, not forcing, and she lets him in again.
She takes him deeper, the head bumping her palate, and she gags, eyes watering, mascara surely running.
She tries to pull back, but he holds her there, just for a moment, just long enough that her throat convulses around him and he groans like she's killing him.
When he releases her, she gasps, spit connecting her lips to his cock in a suspension bridge string, and she hates him, hates this, hates that she's wet from it.
Hates that she wants his cock.
Fuckin' hates she loved it, even as she gagged.
Still, he looks damn happy that his cock was in her mouth.
She launches again, aggressive now, taking him as deep as she can, which isn't deep enough—he hits her throat, and she gags, retching slightly, tears streaming down her face in black rivers.
She pulls back, coughs, spits on him for lubrication, and tries again.
This time she finds a rhythm, bobbing her head, her hand working what she can't take, and she watches his face through her ruined makeup, watches his composure crack, his hips begin to thrust slightly against his will.
"Fuck," he grits out, head falling back, tendons standing in his neck.
"Fuck, you—"
He stops, can't finish, and she feels powerful for the first time, this boy who hates her coming undone in her mouth.
Male putty in her fem-mouth and hands.
She gags again, deliberately now, the sound wet and strangely acceptable, and he shudders, his hand tightening in her hair until her scalp burns.
She looks up at his eyes.
He could let her suck him forever.
She thinks porn.
What the fuck next!
Let him fuck her.
She moves fast.
His cock needs a hole.
He stalls, not in control.
She stands.
Her legs unsteady, her skirt twisted around her hips.
He reacts without ceremony once she bends over the workbench, her cheek pressed to cold metal scattered with washers and a forgotten spark plug.
His hands tear at her fishnets, the ripping sound loud in the shed's stillness, and then her underwear—cheap black cotton, embarrassingly wet—is dragged down to her knees.
She expects him to fuck her.
Tries to recall what a dogging looks like in porn.
Buttock wobble, legs spread, pussy clenching pecker.
She waits for it, tense and terrified and wanting.
Instead, he drops to his own knees behind her, and she feels his breath against her exposed cunt, his hands grip her thighs, holding her open.
His tongue is on her, broad and wet and shockingly intimate.
"Oohh! Yes! Fuck! Uh-uh! Jesus! Fuck! Yes! Oohh! Oohh!"
She cries out, the sounds escaping before she can swallow them, her hands scrambling for purchase on the workbench.
He licks her like she'd bloody lick herself, if that was possible, like he's punishing her, long stripes from her entrance upward that stop just short of where she needs him.
He's seen porn. He's in the general territory.
No idea she has a clit.
But fuck, it's good.
Fuck it is very good.
She can feel her clit throbbing, ignored, desperate, and she tries to angle her hips to direct him, but he holds her still, his tongue working everywhere but there.
Her dot with the lot isn't fucking minuscule.
It's a frickin cute pink pearl when her fingers circle it.
She gets her finger in the zone with his tongue.
"See the fuckin bulb, hit it with your tongue."
His frickin' eyes are shut.
"Fuck you, you're a virgin," she starts.
Then he gets beginner's luck.
Not her sweet pea, but he spears his tongue inside her slit, and her words dissolve into a moan that echoes off the tin walls.
Jesus Christ!
Holy sweetness!
Absa-fucking-girly mussy bliss!
It's not her clit, but it's a delicious new sensation, and she grinds back against his face, desperate for friction, for more.
He laps like a parched dog on a summer day.
She coos in pleasure.
Until she needs more.
"Dog the Be-Jesus out of me," she pleads.
She raises a leg to the bench.
Fuck she is spread.
He hits her centre with a long, hard, piercing thrust.
"Ooff! Orrghh!" from her.
"Wow! Aahh! Aahh!" from him.
The pleasure and a wincey stretch make her nails gouge the workbench's metal surface.
Two virgin liars exposed to remorseless, compelling biological intimacy.
Pussy grip.
Cock thrust.
Slit clench.
Pecker prod.
It all fuckin' moves, and two virgin bodies join the movement.
He learns quickly to withdraw slightly, then thrust deeper, and she screams, the sound swallowed by the shed's emptiness.
He finds a rhythm, brutal and fast, the workbench scraping against the concrete with each stroke.
She learns to envelope as he slides in.
She understands to move backwards as he withdraws.
Genital coupling consumes two.
Pleasure builds and builds.
The craved release dominates the conjoined friction.
She thought she loathed him, cocky country boy.
He thought he detested her, punk, goth, city girl.
Two bodies win.
Her fem-slash throbs around his stiffy, and she pushes back to meet his thrusts, their bodies slamming together with wet, hedonistic sounds.
The quad bike looms beside them, and she grabs its handlebar for leverage, her other hand braced on the seat, and he uses this new position to pound her harder, the machine's suspension creaking in sympathy.
She pants in appreciation.
She's shagged flippin' good.
He groans in boyish gratitude.
Her sweet pussy, a juiced tight canal for his man-meat.
"Fuck, are you bitch on heat?" he says.
"Is this your favourite position?"
"Shut up, and do your regular stuff, stud."
All bravado and bluff in words.
First time for both of them.
Hard, relentless, shameless fucking.
Together they naturally seek more.
Spinning over, she spreads her legs wide and high on the workbench.
A screwdriver spins to the shed floor.
He steps between her legs, hauling them around his waist.
He enters her again, and this angle is different, deeper, and she cries out, oversensitive, writhing as he resumes his brutal pace.
Two sets of virgin eyes lock low where the parts join.
She pervs with natural curiosity.
Watches herself get thoroughly, indecently fucked.
Sees his cock, glistening, as it jolts in and out of her.
No longer pretending they have done this beyond counted times.
Eyes meet fresh.
This time the revelation.
Jeez, she's a frickin virgin!
Whoa! He's a newbie too!
That knowledge amps the pleasure.
Raises the push to the mutual craved release.
He spends with a shout that sounds like her name.
"Hnnghh! Aahh! Harl..! Aahh!"
She races to a girly-high as he grinds out the remains of his jizz.
"Orrghh! Carv…! Oohh! Fuck! Oohh!"
He eases forward, his forehead dropping to her collarbone, his breath hot and desperate against her skin.
They stay like that, joined and shaking, the shed's heat wrapping around them.
The sun beats on corrugated iron.
Hell, these two just burst the temperature gauge.
He slides out of her.
Her slick and his cream seep out too.
They dress in silence, the air between them changed, charged, dangerous.
She finds a roll your own in her pocket—crushed—and lights it with hands that only shake slightly.
He watches her, his expression unreadable.
She passes the durry for a shared puff.
"Billabong," he says.
"What?"
"North paddock. Water's deep this time of year."
He exhales smoke through his nose, looking suddenly younger, suddenly as uncertain as she feels.
"The bikes," she gestures to the quads.
He finishes the smoke in three long drags, crushes it under his boot.
Two engines rev.
Two minds separately race ahead.
The prospect of outdoor sex.