Lana
When he kisses me, I forget about everything for a second.
All my life, there have been certain emotions swirling around inside of me, even if they often become background noise. I will be walking from the bus stop to the Twin Peaks or serving a customer or just watching TV and my mind will be replaying Dad’s ranting and drug-taking and Mom’s absolute submission to defeat, her groans and her occasional sighs as she sips from her hipflask, or I will be thinking about how I am a failure and don’t even have enough money yet to move to Seattle. All these depressing, anxious feelings.
But when Kade kisses me, I forget.
He presses his lips firmly into mine, so firmly I feel the solid touch of our teeth through the flesh of our lips, passion making the pain quiet, easy to ignore. I fall into him, laying my body against his jacket, feeling my breasts press against the mass of his muscular body. Then I break the kiss off and look up at him, in his embrace.
“Let’s go,” I say.
He nods, takes my hand, and we leave the bar.
I meant it when I told him I’m not that kind of girl. I have never been that kind of girl. I’ve had partners, of course, but I’ve never thrown myself around. I’ve never felt like I owed men anything, and so I have never given them more than I wanted to. But now, with Kade, my lust overrides everything; this has never happened to me before. It’s like my lust is a separate entity inside of me, driving me forward. I want it. I want it bad. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted it before. Kade hails a cab and tells the driver the address of the motel. We don’t touch in the car, but lust rises like a scent between us, animals waiting for the pesky eyes of the cab driver to be gone so we can fall upon each other.
He pays the driver, and we walk quickly across the motel parking lot, past old cars and over the gum-plastered concrete and then into Room 45 on the bottom floor, a window view of the muddy-water pool. Kade kicks the door open, drags me inside, and then slams it behind me. The motel room is simple, with a double bed, a bedside table and lamp, an old TV set with the door to the bathroom just behind it. What interests me more is what is resting next to the TV set: a handgun in a holster and scattered bullets.
“You just leave them lying around?”
“The owner of the motel knows me,” he says. “Knows how to work the law, too. They’d never get in here in time to see it.”
“You’re careless and dangerous,” I say. We stand next to the bed, staring at each other. Careless and dangerous . . . and hotter than any man I’ve ever seen. I stare into those bright blue eyes and I feel my body thrum with lust, thrum with the power of it, my toes already curling, my heart pounding, my head heavy and foggy with desire.
“Yes,” he says, and he closes the distance between us. “I am.”
His eyes hold a thousand feelings, all of them variations of lust, all of them aimed directly at me with animal ferocity.
He leans down and kisses me again, this time harder, and then we begin tearing at each other’s clothes. I pull off his jacket and drop it to the floor, grab at the front of his pants. He’s hard. Fuck, he’s hard. He’s so hard I can feel the outline of his cock through the denim, rock-fucking-hard. He’s huge, too. I undo his belt and rip his button out of the hole and then pull his pants and underwear down. At the same time, he removes my coat and tears my clothes free, until I am standing there in my bikini. His cock springs up. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It must be eleven inches, and thick, too. I grab it and my hand doesn’t even go around the base.
“Oh my god,” I moan, as Kade reaches down and pushes his fingers against my clit through the fabric of my bikini. “Oh my fucking god.”
His hand is powerful, pushing against my clit with such force that I have to stand on my tiptoes; he almost lifts me off my feet. He rubs it in small circles, hard, fierce small circles that send twisting pleasure all the way up into my sweet spot and beyond, making my belly warm, making my nipples harder than they are even on a cool spring morning at the Twin Peaks. He breaks off the kiss, groaning as I grip his cock in pleasure.
“Come for me, Lana,” he says, and hearing my name said in that husky biker’s voice is almost too much to handle. “Come for me.”
He slides down my underwear. I let it fall, liking the feel of the fabric rustling against my skin, down to my ankles, and then Kade slides two fingers into my tight pussy. I feel my lips stretch for those fingers. Then I can’t feel any individual sensation. He slides his fingers all the way to that burning spot inside of me and fucking teases it. I don’t jerk him, I can’t, I’m too caught up in the scorching pleasure inside of me. But as spasms rock through my body, my arm shifts, my hand shifts, and Kade groans and moves his fingers quicker inside of me.
“Come for me,” he says, and when I look up at him all I see are two stern azure eyes, commanding me.
“Come for me, now.”
As he moves his fingers inside of me, I think about all the things those fingers have been involved in. I think about the way those fingers were part of the hand which slammed that neo-Nazi back at the bar, I think about those fingers pulling the clutch on his roaring motorbike, I think about those fingers pulling the trigger of a gun. All bad things, and yet—fuck, yes, yes, fuck. I can’t help but want them. Want him. Want him and all the bad things he’s done. He moves his fingers almost brutally now, slamming around inside of me.
Heat builds, builds. I moan—I think I moan. Everything shimmers and shifts until I can’t focus. I close my eyes and fall forward into him, bracing my hands on his chest, which is pure muscle all the way through.
“I’m going to—”
I stop, drawing in a gasping breath. Everything stops. Time stops. All thought is an echo. All feeling except for the explosive release inside of me is numb. All I can feel is the eruption deep in my pussy, an eruption that is triggered from the ends of his fingertips. I close my legs around his hand, sit down on it. He holds me up with one arm and swivels his fingers around that super-sensitive spot. Yes, yes, yes. Jesus fucking Christ. Yes. I can’t—I can’t do anything but feel—feel. I close my eyes and see red, like sunlight on my eyelids, as the orgasm really strikes me. I feel like I’m floating. Floating atop his fingers. Euphoria courses through every part of me, touching ever nerve, every simmering inch of skin. My toes curl so hard I think they might snap. I collapse forward, biting down on his chest, tasting the sweaty, oily fabric of his shirt. I bite down as wave after wave of the orgasm surges through me.
And then, as if waking from a deep sleep, I open my stuck-together eyes.
Kade is staring down at me with so much passion for a second it makes me afraid, like looking into the eyes of a wolf on the hunt.
“I fuckin’ need you,” he says, voice huskier than ever. “I need you fuckin’ now.”
Without waiting for a reply—he can see I need him too; he must be able to—he lifts me up by my armpits and throws me onto the bed. As soon as I land, I open my legs, opening myself for him. It feels good to lift and part my legs and look up at him through my bent knees with my toes pointing, beckoning him. My pussy aches for it. The creature of lust inside me screams for it. I want it; I want it so fucking badly I can barely think. The universe has reduced down to this room, this moment. Never before in my life have I felt so much captured pleasure.
He takes off his top, revealing a torso which is muscular and marked with scars here and there: a few old stab wounds and a line across his bulging pectoral. He climbs onto the bed, naked and hard, and leans over me. There is no doubt now, no hesitation, no confusion. For one of the rare times in my life, I am one-hundred certain about how I feel.
“I need you, baby,” I moan.
Kade props his hand on the bed, near my head. I reach up and grab his muscles, his biceps and triceps, both of them well-defined and bulging out of his skin, muscles as hard as his massive cock. With his other hand he reaches down and grabs his cock, guiding it toward my pussy. The tip brushes against my hole, and then he pushes in with his shaft. He’s bigger than any man I’ve ever fucked, much bigger. My pussy sends urgent signals at me, urgent and mixed, pain and pleasure intermingling. Then the pain abates and my lust takes over. I widen for him. I welcome him. I open my legs and I draw him into me.
He pushes right up to his balls. The tip of his cock slams into my hot spot.
It’s warm and fucking unbearable. I reach up and grab his back and dig my fingernails into his skin. I feel my nails prick skin, but he doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t even grunt. I know all he can feel is the pleasure, just like me. He stares down at my breasts, and then glances at my face, holding still inside of me.
“Tell me you can fuckin’ take it hard,” he moans.
“I can—”
As soon as I say the words, he starts pounding into me, his cock like a jackhammer. I am so ready for him that I fall into the rhythm at once. We fuck like we know each other’s bodies, our rhythms matching straightaway, the biker’s massive thick cock pounding into my pussy at the exact right angle to smash into my sweet spot, to send fiery pleasure spreading through me in tendrils which reach every part of me. I keep thinking to myself: This is the leader of a bike gang. This is a tough fucking man. This is a man who could beat up anybody. This is a fierce, tough, scary man. It drives me wild. I dig my fingernails harder into his back and sit on his cock, over and over, sweat soaking into the sheets.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I scream, not caring if the whole world hears.
He buries his face in my neck, biting my skin, his breath as hot as his cock, everything hot, too-hot, hotter than I’ve ever felt. He pounds into me for five, ten, twenty minutes. Time warps and I have no clue. I bounce on his cock, up and down, up and down, taking every inch of it. Each time the tip strikes that perfect spot, I feel an orgasm getting closer, closer.
“I’m going to—I’m almost—oh, fuck.”
He pounds into me like a machine, teeth biting my neck, hands next to my head, every muscle in his body tight and honed.
“I can’t—I can’t—Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
I’m being fucked by a biker. A biker who stood up to men in a bar when he was outnumbered. A biker who rescued me from Chester. A biker with muscles and a huge cock and the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. I repeat these words to myself, over and over, his cock jackhammering into me. And then my pussy goes tight around his cock, so tight he has to grunt and push hard to get inside of me, and then—
There is a fire deep inside of me, a blazing fire. Not that it feels like a fire. No, as I lie here, Kade’s huge cock drilling into me, I feel a flickering fire deep in my pussy, a fire whose flames spit out throughout my body, a fire which causes me to squeeze my hands so tight I draw blood from the skin on his back, a fire which makes my pussy go the tightest it has ever been. I wrap my hands around his neck and squeeze tight, pulling him into me, as the orgasm’s flames send ecstasy spitting through me. I shift my hips, desperate to have his cock linger on my hot spot, and drive down with all the force I can muster. His cock pushes through my tightening pussy and hits the spot. I moan: “Hold it—there—baby.” Kade drives in deeper, and then holds it. Crashing, spitting pleasure captures me. I am sitting atop a blazing fire and nothing will put it out. I feel my pussy get even tighter around his cock, and then, oh fuck, and then everything just releases, my come spilling down his cock.
I lay back, panting, and Kade grunts. Grunts again. Louder. Comes inside of me and rolls aside.
“Fuck,” he says.
“Fuck,” I agree.
Both of us lie there for a long time, drawing in ragged breaths. His come pools around my pussy, on my thigh, but I’m too tired to move.
“Fuck,” he repeats.
“Fuck,” I agree again.
“Come here, you fuckin’ nympho,” he says, pulling me into him.
I rest my head on his chest, and no sooner do I close my eyes than I fall asleep.