Short Smut(15)

He gasped an obscene word and tried to get away—too much sensation maybe. Welcome to my world, Frenchman! I held him inside me with my fingernails in his ass, like a threat if he dared to pull away.

The dick in my mouth affected me like it affected him. For a moment I was nothing but throat. Girls can go into a blow-job trance if they’re not careful, and I felt it beckoning me. I loved being in the zone. Heat, saliva, rhythm—I could come before the man did if I wasn’t careful. I told myself to stay professional.

The Frenchman filled me without any extra space. The whole man was inside me: this lean, handsome ex-solider from France, who had no backstory, but was overly modest about nudity and had epic bedroom eyes. I laved the root of his cock, and he thrashed against the door. I felt connected to his every movement down to the smallest shiver. I could fucking read his mind through his cock.

I must be the best whore ever. Cock Whisperer.

Eventually, of course, I had to breathe.

I pulled off and gasped, but he plunged forward again. I wasn’t expecting this and choked a little—which he liked. Time for his revenge. He grabbed my head and pumped my face—hard. His flat, veined stomach slid in front of my vision like it was on hydraulics. I choked and tried to clear my throat, and that made me gag. I saw his bedroom eyes light up at my discomfort, and then I didn’t mind it so much. He was digging me.

“Putain!” he gasped, staring down at me. Whore.

I knew that word in most languages.

I watched him for signals through teary eyes. When he decided to switch, I was ready. He pulled out and I stood up, coughing. He spun me around and held my hips with strong fingers that seemed to sink into my womb. He lifted me high, until my toes left the floor and I hung off the top of the stall with a precarious grip. I waited…

“Moment,” he said. He dropped me.

Fucking condoms.

His cock was sheathed in about eight seconds but that was about a century past my preferred deadline. He finally plunged himself into my sex, and it was like I had tripped into a hot-tub. Heat and lust exploded through me like I was hit by a libido bomb. I cried out and heard Jack step forward on the other side of the stall. Then he detected the pleasure in my next moan and dropped out of angry pimp mode (but it was nice to know he was there).

The Frenchman’s hands shifted and I actually screamed. Somehow he had found the precise position I needed. His cock rubbed a new location in my canal, and everything I had thought was sensation snuffed out like a candle in a forest fire.

“Oui,” my Frenchman gasped, sounding smug. He clenched his hands to freeze my torso and pounded me from the new angle. “Le point G, putain. Le petite zone vaginale.”

It sounded damn sexy to me, whatever he said. I was all about my building orgasm, which was now a self-feeding maelstrom of desire and heat that laid waste to my language centers. Who knew? Maybe I’d speak French by the end of this.

I forgot to hold myself up and simply flopped against the wall. It was a bus depot so it wasn’t the cleanest surface: I didn’t care. I breathed against it with a wide-open mouth, my teeth clattering against the “for a good time call…” graffiti each time my Frenchman plunged into my sex. I would have licked the entire bathroom clean if he’d demanded it—I was delirious with growing sensation and not thinking straight.

The Frenchman felt it too. His movements turned jangly in a way I recognized from all men. He was building to his own explosion, and just the knowledge that he was using me for this sent me over the edge.

My last cry sounded sexy even to me—a throaty squeal, then a high whine that ran out of air… Lights exploded in my eyes.

My horrible, dirty new job.

This disgusting stall in a men’s room.

The stranger using my body to get himself off.

I was fabulously lewd. I was easy and available, and deeply in love with whatever man was closest. In real life I was a good girl, but now I had this new thing I could do. I could become a cheap, low-life whore whenever I wanted.

These thoughts combined with the hands on my pelvis and the unflinching, friction-hot cock battering my pussy from behind. My body went cold, and the orgasm bloomed like a time-lapse flower between my legs. Sensation after sensation peeled out of me and refracted through my body. The surges built like a storm system that hit my mental coastline and wiped out all thought.

I must have died for a second. I didn’t feel like I had a body. I was nothing but that ring of flesh around the Frenchman’s cock. I squeezed it as hard as I could, being a brain-damaged whore, and felt his shaft swell. I was the Cock Whisperer! I felt the deliveries spurt up his shaft. I was a receptacle for his cum.