Ruby pushed herself upright, shaking uncontrollably. She scooped up some of the butter with her fingers, smeared it onto Ted’s cock.
“Christ!” he groaned, getting to his feet, getting greased from balls to hood, his erection coursing out full-length in Ruby’s rubbing hand.
“Now punish me with your cock!” she rasped.
She climbed onto the bed and positioned herself on all fours, like an animal. Her blistered rump stuck up into the air. Ted crawled in behind her, on his knees, clutching his slippery cock and staring at her bum.
“You’re sure—”
“Fuck me!”
He bit his lip and poked his gleaming cap in between Ruby’s battered cheeks, pressed against her sensitive asshole. Ruby flung her hands back and grabbed onto her buttocks and tore them apart, baring her pucker to the man. Her knuckles blazed white on the coal-black flesh of her ass.
Ted grunted, pushing forward as Ruby pushed back.
His hood burst through her ring and sank into her anus, followed by inches and inches of swollen, shining shaft. Ruby moaned like an animal, Ted’s cock stuffing her full of strange, wicked feelings, bloating her bottom and dizzying her head.
He went in all the way, burying his cock in her chute. The heat, the tightness, was incredible. He was gripped deep, his balls pressing up against her cheeks. He grasped her thin waist and pumped his hips, fucking her ass.
Ruby let go of her bum and clutched the bedspread, rocking with the rhythm of Ted’s cock driving back and forth in her anus. Her mouth hung open, her pretty face twisted with raw, exquisite emotion. It felt so weird, so wild, so wonderful—a man fucking her ass.
Ted’s thighs shivered against Ruby’s buttocks as he pumped faster and faster. He knew he wouldn’t, couldn’t, last long under the suffocating, sucking pressure, so he wanted to get in every hard pounding stroke that he could. The crack of damp, heated flesh against flesh filled the gasping room again, along with the hot hiss of air steaming out of rigidly set mouths and flared nostrils.
Ruby, hair flying, body shunted violently to and fro, tore a hand off the bedspread and shoved it between her legs, onto her pussy. “Oh, God, have mercy!” she screamed, instantly jolted by orgasm, her clit engorged beyond belief. She spasmed the full length of her cock-racked body, again and again and again.
Ted growled, thrusting in a frenzy, smashing into Ruby’s bum, reaming her chute. He threw his head back and roared, exploding inside her. His hot cum filled her trembling ass, as she came on the end of his spurting cock.
• • •
He pillow-talked the information out of her later on: the approximate time and date and place that Machine Gun Murray, midwestern bank robber, murderer, and local folk hero, would finally be stealing back into his home state to visit his lonely, abandoned wife. The overheated car had been a swell ruse, the hot-blooded woman’s own desires used to success where all else had failed.
Ted dozed off in Ruby’s arms, in Machine Gun’s bed, intending to sneak out at dawn and report his findings.
Ruby watched the sleeping man, the smile of pure contentment on his face matching the one on hers. Then she slipped out of bed and picked up Ted’s suit jacket and pants off the floor. She carried them out to the parlor, intent on ironing them for him before he woke up.
Something fell out of a jacket pocket—a leather billfold. She picked it up, flipped it open, stared at the gold badge inside: FBI.
From a distance, the small, white farmhouse appeared peaceful, slumbering in the warmth of the gray early dawn. But then, suddenly, a flash of white light lit up the bedroom window of the house. Followed quickly by another flash, and another. Then the sound of gunfire, thundering over the flat, barren, hostile land.
Dirty
Carla S. Pennington
I had avoided Preston long enough. He couldn’t understand why, especially after I was the one who had pursued him. We’d gone out on a few dates in the two months since I’d approached him in the auto shop where we both were getting the oil changed in our cars. I’d taken a chance and stepped to him after we’d made eye contact a few times. His light, deep-set eyes tried to roam away from me, but they didn’t stay away for long. My skinny jeans were fitting nice and tight on my perfectly round ass and I made sure that he saw it every time he glanced in my direction. The jeans were tucked snugly inside my black, thigh-high, four-inch Jessica Simpson boots that added a few extra inches to my short frame. My shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair was freshly relaxed so the slanted bob I was rocking swayed with every step I took. I was a five-star chick and he recognized it.
On his last glance at me, his eyes stayed locked. It was do or die and I did. I wasn’t the type of woman who sat back and waited for a man to make the first move. I went after what I wanted and, as it usually did, my first move paid off.
I had my reasons for avoiding him, though. He was so damn sexy and I was trying to stop jumping in guys’ beds soon after I met them. I figured that was the reason for always catching Mr. Right Now instead of Mr. Right. I had a high sex drive that I was trying to control, but Preston wouldn’t let me. It definitely didn’t help that he sounded like the singer Tank. I would imagine him singing “Sex Music” while stroking inside me. My numerous sex toys were beginning to play out. I needed the real thing, so when Preston asked me out again, I prayed, gave myself a pep talk, and then agreed to the date.
“Corrine, you can’t grip the cue that hard, sweetie.” Preston laughed as he adjusted the pool stick in my hand and between my fingers.
“Stop laughing.” I pouted. “I’m doing the best I can. I’m not a pro at this like you are.”
“Just relax.” He laughed again. “Do you need me to help you?” he asked as he stepped behind me. Preston and I had been dating for nearly two months and hadn’t gotten past first base, but the feel of his body against mine was quickly moving us to second. “Sweetie, you have to hold it like this,” he instructed as he placed his hand over mine.
At that moment, I didn’t give a damn about that pool stick or that solid yellow number seven ball that I was trying to hit, but I kept my grip on the stick, wishing that it was the one inside his lightly starched jeans. I quickly shook those naughty thoughts out of my head and turned my focus back to the table.
“Preston, I can’t hit that ball,” I whined as I glanced around the table, searching for the perfect position to strike.