Need This
Oh, I got excited.
The nearly wet my knickers type.
No, I haven't shagged the quarterback yet.
I hear he's packin' the goodies.
I enjoyed blowing off the wide receiver at the lookout carpark last night.
Oh, the knickers moment.
Wendy in pottery elective.
She fessed, she blushed, so shy, so virginal, despite eighteen summers; she humps her pink elephant thinking of Clay.
I invite her home. I help her make out with Clay in the games room.
Arm in arm, we enter the so-called man-cave.
I'll get that oversized, boob-hiding sweater off Wendy soon.
"You dirty, dirty prick, Clay!" I say.
Wendy sort of covers her eyes but secretly peeks.
Our gaze finds Clay, with an obvious tent in his gym shorts.
One hand in his pants.
The other scrolling porn on his phone.
The audio made that obvious.
"Oohh! Lick my pussy! Yes, yes, just like that! Spit on my pussy!"
I have to drag Wendy to the sofa.
Squeeze her between Clay and me.
Wendy offers, "I should go."
I offer, "Not until you relieve Clay."
She twists a strand of hair.
"Christ! Girl! On your knees!"
Smart, that one, her automatic chapel reflex.
No cross for her eyes to behold.
I drop Clay's dacks and grip his cock like a gear stick.
I spit on his stiffy and shove it into overdrive between Wendy's paused lips.
Best if shy girls don't get a chance to think with thick, knobby, veiny male snakes' mere inches from their face.
Evolution or environment or fellow girly urging, who cares, she quaffed her first lump of man meat.
Okay, I was cradling her head, assisting her in the art of skull fucking.
Clay was doing that male thing; maybe it's guys at nineteen, like they think a lass's mouth is just a goddamn second pussy slot.
Poor girl, she stuffed.
Breathless.
Eyes rolling.
Gug, gug, gag, gag, gagging, gug!
Oh Christ! We'll need EMS!
"Honey, lick his balls."
I spit on Clay's boner and take him throat deep.
Wendy is a happy tartlette in the making, sucking his nuts.
Cute.
"Wendy, Babes. Drive your man insane, rim his crack."
Well, I had to find her limit.
Damn, the shy quiet choir girl was up to the task.
Hell, she was giving local trail trash a run for their services.
She liked licking arse.
Clay, the smutty sod, enjoyed it too.
Okay, she didn't gape him, spit into his rills or shove a finger where it could be useful, but it was a fine start.
I swapped jobs.
Hell, I wanted to see his fuckin eyes roll when I shoved a finger in his clacker.
Poor Wendy, she half-chokes and drools.
That bastard Clay doesn't care.
He treats her mouth like a frickin plastic sex-sleeve.
Pocket pussy.
Fleshlight in the shape of his fav porn star.
Geez, the shy girl has been manful.
"Sit on his dick, sweetie, rest your jaw."
I'm sitting on the arsehole's face.
My pussy pressed against his spreading mouth.
Canal meets chute.
A fuckin sloppy, slick, slippery combination.
Geez, the Sunday school teacher is a natural rider.
She has the rodeo, bronco-bucking hip gyrations.
She's a Goddamn natural at rising, tugging his pecker with her, and then sinking, sinking into the glorious fem-grinding crush.
Clit to pubic bone.
Clay would groan.
But I smother his face with my pussy folds.
The desperate bastard's tongue finds my clitty.
Internal male radar.
I grind down hard, smearing myself across his face, using his nose and chin and tongue while Wendy bounces on his cock.
Holy Hell.
She bounces.
Fuckin' lady springs like a jack-in-the-box.
I'm fuckin' jealous.
Wendy is a cowgirl extraordinaire at her first male outing.
She's sobbing.
Tears of absa-fuckin joy.
Her face tenses.
God, her eyes roll back inside her head.
Fuck!
She spurts!
She cries out, "OrRGH!"
A frickin fem-gush that makes Old Faithful look like a bird bath.
Holy Moly!
It's like the rec room has been flooded.
Jesus Christ! All the Saints! I forget the need for my own orgasm.
That's a first.
Wendy! Wendy! Wendy!
Eat your own fannies, Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, and Juliet.
Wendy soared, peaking beyond the pinball's highest score, above a perfect dart play, outside a maximum snooker break.
Clay, a mere male, they cum in any pussy situation.
He follows seconds later, his hips bucking up into Wendy.
Christ! The sofa is a goddamn mess.
"Kylie?" Frances's voice floats down the stairs, accompanied by the smell of fresh-baked cookies and hot chocolate.
"Clay? Wendy, dear, are you down there too? I have snacks!"
Three college students are stuffed.
Somewhere we find the energy to look half-presentable.
By the time Frances's footsteps reach the bottom step, we're arranged on the cracked vinyl sofa like students: Wendy with her canvas tote in her lap, me with a textbook I don't remember picking up, Clay with his phone conspicuously displaying a calculator app.
"Homework?" Frances asks, setting her tray on the scarred oak bar.
Her smile is warm, oblivious. "How wonderful! Bonding over schoolwork. I knew you three would get along."
"Yeah," I say, and my voice is steady despite everything.
"We're learning a lot from each other."
Funny, as Francis leaves, we demolish that tray of cookies.
Sex creates an appetite.
Or cookies as fuel for the next round.