Stranger Sex Erotica
"With Extra Sausage" a sex story by Aaron Diaz Hoel
She hung up on him. She missed the days when a girl could slam a phone down, hear its black body ring with anger, much like her white body was ringing with anger now.
Another week alone. He'd been gone three weeks on business and now he was staying in New York another week, leaving her alone. You could only have so many nights out with the girls before you wanted a little male attention, before you were tempted by those wonderful, sweet male bodies, their generous blue eyes, their angular jaws, cheeks with sandpaper beard stubble, wolfish smiles, big hands that could wrap around your arms and then some. . .
Getting herself worked up wasn't going to solve anything, it was only going to make her angrier, hornier, and make her feel more neglected.
Jess stood before the mirror. The red silk teddy he'd bought her (just because) shimmered over her breasts and belly. She wore the stupid white thigh highs he liked so much, the black heels that drove him crazy, her blond hair in soft cascading ringlets around her bare shoulders, her pretty blue eyes sparkling with desire and resentment. She was the prettiest flower in the garden, but god dammit she needed watering; she needed attention. She was dying on the vine.
The doorbell snapped her from her trance.
"Shit." She had completely forgotten the pizza she had ordered. She scrambled for her robe, thudding like a horse across the carpeted bedroom, click-clacking across the tiled bathroom.
Another mirror caught her image, looking surprised, feeling foolish, holding her big, pink, comfy bathrobe.
What if she didn't put it on? What if she answered the door wearing nothing but her lingerie? She grinned at herself. That would certainly get her some attention, wouldn't it? No, she couldn't do that. Well, she could, but she shouldn't.
Hesitant, indecisive, she was lost in the curious blue eyes of her reflection.
The doorbell startled her. Again.
"Goddammit, I'll be right there!" She tossed the robe onto her bed.
She couldn't do this. What if it wasn’t the pizza delivery person, but someone she knew? What if it was someone she worked with…but why would they be here? She'd taken the day off just for him, and he'd disappointed her. Again.
She fell against the front door and used the peephole. Through the fisheye lens, she saw a Giordiano's Pizza logo on a baseball cap.
So, that settled it: it wasn't someone she knew. She felt the instinctive need to gather her robe close around her, but, of course, she wasn't wearing it. She felt a little silly, like she'd shown up at a party in costume only to discover it was formal dress. She wasn't sexy. She looked stupid. She felt stupid. Nothing was worse than a girl who was trying to be sexy and just wasn't.
She fussed at herself. "Stop it, Jess. Men are strange, horny creatures that make no sense."
She shook her head, her mouth dry, her tongue like a soft foreign object between her teeth, her throat swallowing incessantly, a slight tremble in her knees. This was such a mistake. He was going to laugh at her. No, he wasn't. He was going to go back and tell all his buddies about the girl in the silky teddy that answered the door, about her tits, about her legs, about her pretty painted lips, and her gorgeous blue eyes. He was going to dream about her. He might even stalk her. He and every other pimply-faced pizza boy were going to get in fist-fights anytime her address popped up on their pizza sauce-stained computer screens.
She unlatched the chain and opened the door.
They were both caught off guard: staring, open mouthed, pale faced.
His eyes weren't blue; they were green, and they were fixed on her cleavage, on the soft dents her nipples made in the red silk of her teddy. His face had not a single pimple, nor was it young and baby soft. It was hard, angular, a little worn, and it lit a fire somewhere down below her baby soft belly. This was no boy; this was a man. A very startled man who had clearly forgotten how to breathe.
She no longer felt silly, no longer felt foolish. Her heart swelled and burned and rolled in her chest like the sun, warming her cheeks, warming her nipples, growing just for him. She felt like a goddess, and if he wasn't worshiping her with his eyes, she didn't know anything about anything.
She cleared her throat.
His eyes flicked up; a slow grin began on his face.
"Did you order extra sausage?"
She laughed. She couldn't help herself. Her dreamy romantic moment had just become a bad porn film.
"It was for him, actually," she admitted.
He nodded, his grin now a smirk. "Lucky him."
She always did this – when she should be in command, strutting her stuff, she always ended up feeling like an awkward, gangly, teenage girl. Softly, she replied, "Thank you . . . but he's . . . not coming."
Her "thank you" was loaded with more meaning than she'd intended. Thank you for being a typical man; thank you for ogling my breasts and making me feel beautiful; thank you for watering the most beautiful flower in the garden.
For a long time, they just stared and blushed and smiled at each other.
She was just realizing how tall he was or how short she was. It was easy to forget such things; anger made one tall, even if it was only inside.
"So, that'll be $21.99."
Her hand reached for her purse, still caught in the spotlight of his appreciative gaze. Those pretty green eyes were filled with something she'd seen before and liked: hunger, the stark, starving predatory glint of the wolf.
"Oh," she said, realizing she not only didn't have her purse, she didn't have anything that even resembled a pocket. Well, she did have one thing that resembled a pocket – it was full of lint and needed filling. She shook her head and fussed at herself. Cut it out, Jess, or you're going to get yourself in serious trouble.
"I – I have to get the money." She left him for a moment to get her purse.
He nodded. He chuckled. "And here I was, just thinking I should be paying you."
She turned back to him, half way across a living room littered with scented vanilla candles. "Huh?"
His eyes were fixed and dreamy, watching the gentle, hurried shift of her ass swaying beneath her shimmering teddy. He shook his head. "Nothing."
She stopped short of the couch. This was so wrong. She should not do this, but every part of her was swelling with pride, blossoming. His attention was so warm, so enticing. Her purse was on the couch. She should just teeter around on her heels and get it, but instead, she leaned over the couch, bent over it, feeling her teddy ride up, exposing her black thong, exposing both cheeks as she stretched, reaching for her purse.
She drew the big, black leather behemoth to her and fished around inside, looking for her wallet. She was only slightly unaware of how her movements were making her ass and legs shake and shift, dimple, stretch. Her wallet fell into her hands and she unsnapped it, feeling it pop open, overstuffed with coupons, receipts, notes to herself –
Two warm hands fell upon her, one on each cheek.
She stiffened, uncertain. This would be her fault; she'd teased him. If he couldn't take no for an answer, if he –
He swept her teddy up over her back and placed a soft kiss on the small of her back, running his wet tongue down her cheek, down her leg, kissing his way inward to her soft inner thigh, his thumb pressing hard into her leg, commanding it to open. Her legs obeyed before she could stop them.
She forgot the purse. She should stop this, but she was suddenly aware of her position, half naked, draped over the back of the couch, his mouth between her legs. She swallowed, and gathered up enough courage to give rise to her voice. She had to sound strong, had to sound certain, couldn't give him any more mixed signals.
"Um. . . ."
That was anything but strong and certain.
His hand was in her hair, fingers twisting, tangling her blonde curls into a fist, pulling her head back, sharp needles of pain penetrating her scalp. She gasped, started to complain, but he was pressing into her, the rough material of his jeans like sandpaper on her soft ass, on her soft legs. He pressed into her and began to move, began to simulate fucking, began to push her and pull her, and her body followed because it was too tense, too needy, too aroused not to. She lost herself in their little erotic ballet for a moment, her head still jerked back, exposing her tender throat, her nipples suddenly sensitive and rubbing on the silky inside of her teddy which rubbed against the soft cloth of the couch.
She would stop it now. This was fun, but it was time to stop it now.
He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her up, his rough hands bruising her tender flesh, jerking her back against him, his mouth suddenly on the back of her neck, his teeth suddenly biting, working their malicious way up under her hairline, scattering chills across her naked shoulders, down her bare arms. He was smothered by her perfume, by her blonde curls, by her femaleness – he was in heaven and moaning.
"Jesus." It was not the commanding "that's enough, now!" she'd hoped for. If ever there was a gasp that said "fuck me," that was it.
She couldn't do this. It didn't matter how angry, how hurt she was at–at– She couldn't force his name back into her mind. It was there, she only had to –
His teeth were on her neck, on her shoulder, biting, leaving marks.
She panicked. "No, don't–"
–don't leave marks.
He twisted her around to face him and took control of her lips. She was wet at both ends. She was on the verge of tears. What in the hell was wrong with her? It just felt so good, to be wanted, to be needed, to be the sole object of lust, of desire. She wanted to be taken; she couldn't help it, it was too much.
If he noticed the tear making its way down her cheek, trickling down her neck, pooling in the cup of her collarbone, he didn't show it.
She heard the sudden furious rustle of clothing, the quick short whip of his zipper like a striking match.
His hands were on her ribs. His hands were on her ass, pulling on her thong. His hands were on her hips, whipping her around again, facing her away from him. His hands were on her pelvis, jerking her back against him. His hands were on her back, forcing her forward over the couch. His hands were on her breasts, her nipples caught between the cruel pinch of his fingers. His hands were everywhere, and she was nowhere.
She was exposed in the only way a woman can truly be exposed. The air felt like ice on her swollen, wet lips, and his cock slid between her legs, nestling close, feeling molten hot by contrast, nestling, sliding, but not penetrating, not giving her what she wanted most. She was no longer in control of her body. She was on automatic-pilot now, letting her body do what it knew best, what it was good at, what a million years of evolution, of caveman and hunters and sailors, had conditioned it to do.
She gripped the couch and moaned, happy to be lost again, happy to so close to heaven again, happy to be of use again.
He wouldn't make it easy, wouldn't let her stay lost, wouldn't give her an excuse, but whispered soft and hoarse, "Tell me you want it."
She didn't hear him. She heard him, but didn't; she was busy, his cock was hard and wonderful and sliding back and forth, teasing her and she needed it to get busy, needed it to correct its aim.
He swept up her blonde curls and jerked her head back again, enjoying the gasp that fell from her lips, the smear of lipstick across her cheek making him harder, though he'd assumed such a thing was impossible. He was too hard already, ready to split in two, ready to split her in two. His whisper took on the tone of seething steam. "Tell me what you want or I'll leave."
Her heart rushed forward. She only wanted to dissolve into little girl sobs, but he was being so cruel, making her think, making her beg, the bastard. "I–I want it."
He wrapped her hair around his fist, drew her up, pulled up from the couch with her whining and complaining the entire way. He pulled her back against him, reaching around her soft hip and catching his cock on the other side, pressing it up and between her wet slick lips, knowing he was now rubbing hard against her sweetest part. "Not good enough. Make me believe it."
She could barely hear him over the rush of blood in her ears, the dull thudding of her heartbeat, which might as well have been the pulsing of her clit. She turned her face to him, catching the contagion of his hunger, reaching with a pitiful whimper for his mouth. "Please. . . ."
She made her last mistake then, but it couldn't be helped: she let her long, mascaraed lashes flit upward, let her blue eyes meet his green eyes. The fierceness of his expression, the dire need, the need of the rapist, the need of the cock, the need of his bloodlust, the sheer determination in his eyes melted the last of her resistance.
"Please what?" he whispered, refusing to agree, refusing to give in, refusing to give her lips what they needed.
The loud wet clack of her swallowing throat was the final trigger. He was already pulling away, positioning himself before she managed her reply, "Please . . . anything."
He jerked away from the couch, manhandled her to the table, whipped her around, off balanced and unstable on her tall "fuck me" heels, losing her thong somewhere on the way. She felt the undergarment drop down between her thighs, catching on her knees, slipping with the most fleeting of caresses down her shins, landing soft and light over her feet. Then she was pushed ruthlessly back on to the table, hearing the crunch of cardboard, overwhelmed suddenly by the heavy smells of tomato and garlic and cheese.
"Wait," she started to say, the pizza!
He pulled her to him, forcing her legs up and open, her back sliding across the hot grease. He drove his cock into her, all the way.
They were statues again for a moment, a heart-stopping, soul rending moment, as pleasure filled their bodies from head to toe. Then their bodies began. They began to dance: he, bucking into her, barely holding on to her crazy, twisting, moaning, squirming body; she, slipping and sliding on the greasy table, doing her best to be open more for him, to let him all the way in, feeling full and happy, then empty and lost, digging her nails into his arm.
The pizza was scalding her back, but somehow the pain only added to all the joy between her legs, driving her over and over into more need, more desire.
He pulled her teddy down, watched the shake and shiver of her breasts, jolting with each thrust, mesmerized by her hard rusty-brown nipples, feeling compelled to launch himself over her body and have at them, grabbing handfuls of soft flesh, drawing her nipple into his mouth, sucking, twisting, biting until she let out a squeal.
He shoved himself as deep into her as he could and began a slow, deep fuck, pressing his pelvic bone against her clitoris and moving just so, feeling her wetness become a flood, feeling her body respond, her back arching, her hands in his hair, her nails on his back, her hands on his arms. . . Her hands everywhere.
He pulled out.
Her eyes flicked open, the complaint visible on her face. "No . . . don't stop!"
He flipped her over easy and rough. Her knees slid in the pizza sauce, her breasts and belly coated with grease and cheese. He pulled her against him and filled her again, somehow deeper than before, connecting with her in a way she hadn't thought possible.
"Oh God!" She heard the echo of her moaning, of his grunting, of her pleading, of her pitiful whining as he thrust into her, each time deeper, impossibly deep, penetrating more than her body.
He brought her to a slow boil, feeling her tension rise, enjoying the smell of her sweat, her pits, her skin. Her thighs trembled and she let out a sound like a moaning hummingbird, getting close.
He pulled out.
She groaned, felt his rough hands on her again, pulling her off the table, to her feet, hoisting her up, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. They landed against the wall hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. For a long moment, she couldn't catch her breath. It was trapped in a sealed bubble down deep, refusing to rise. She panted, her eyes reeling, then he was deep inside her again and her breath released with an overwhelming rush, coming out as a scream of euphoria.
It came out of nowhere, the flood, the earth-shaking spasm.
His mouth clamped down tight on her neck as he thrust into her again, caught between her powerful legs, wrenched between them, jerked to and away. He was no longer fucking her; she was fucking herself with his cock, knowing what she needed, knowing how she needed it and using him. All he could do was hold on, and enjoy the ride.
She twisted and shrieked and laughed and felt another wave of orgasms cresting, building, speeding like a freight train loaded to capacity. She wasn't fucking him any more; her body was fucking itself, knowing what it needed and how. She thought, Oh God, it's gonna be a big one! and tensed, waiting, fucking, feeling his mouth on hers, but unable to respond, unable to breathe, her eyes rolling up.
It hit. It washed over her and shook her by the scruff of the neck, killing her senses, overloading everything with blinding white fireworks. She was dimly aware of his cry, of his body fighting hers momentarily, rushing into her, dimly aware of something hot and wonderful filling her.
She was still convulsing, the spasms slowing, her breathing returning, her consciousness returning. He was still inside her, but she was back on the table. He was licking her like a loveable tomcat, moaning as he lapped the garlic tomato sauce from her breasts. He kissed her and felt her lips slow to respond, but they did respond, kissing him back, her tongue in pizza heaven as she tasted the cheese and the sauce and the extra flavor of sausage.
He gave her a long kiss, patted her ass softly, bit a nipple and pulled himself away, his shirt stained with tomato sauce, his face stained with sauce and lipstick. He was still catching his breath as he pulled up his pants.
She blinked and sighed, her legs too loose and wobbly to risk standing just yet. Her throat was dry, and barely worked. "How much . . . do I owe you?"
He paused in mid-zip and grinned, his pretty green eyes flashing. "You don't. We have a guarantee, remember?"
She sighed again and sat up on the greasy table, her dinner ruined, her breasts greasy and causing sparks of desire in his eyes again. She smirked at him. "Guarantee?"
"Well," he replied, retreating, his gaze settling again on her pizza-stained breasts, wanting her all over again, "it's free if it takes longer than thirty minutes."
She laughed. "Is that what that means?"
There was a speck of pizza sauce above her lips that demanded kissing, but he resisted, grinning. "It does today."
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Copyright January 2009, Aaron Diaz Hoel
Published with permission from author on OystersandChocolate.com. Copying or reprinting this work in part or in whole without permission is illegal.