Crazy B – Installment 4

Greg followed so closely on his motorcycle I was afraid he’d bump into my car at every stop.  I thought of the dog, and whether she’d be cool with having a stranger in the house.  Then I told myself to shut up because my dog wasn’t the one in charge.

Greg waited on his bike for me to shut off my car and re-apply some lip balm when we’d pulled into my driveway, then seemed to realize suddenly that he’d be able to further impress on me the perfectness of his manhood if he opened my door before I did.  He saw me reaching for the handle; I saw him seeing me (though I’m sure he didn’t see me seeing him seeing me), and so I knew that when he tripped over himself and darted to my side of the car, it was only in the semi-conscious vein of a marathon runner glimpsing a runaway pinwheel – any stunning turning thing was reason enough to hurry.  Of course he was too late, but that didn’t stop him from extending his hand to help me walk around the open door and then slamming it shut.  He fell into step behind me after that, as I jangled my keys snarkily against my outer thigh.

My living room came first, through the front door.  The kitchen was beyond it; rooms were wings on either side.  I turned to face Greg, steps inside the doorway, and he shut the door, then moved toward me – remembering my instructions, to his credit, and not wasting my time with pretense.  It was a similar rush to the one I’d had at the bar when it was Walt storming toward me with the wild aroma of ice and cayenne pepper rising in a cloud against his bristled skin.  Greg’s arms went around me, steady and strong, and his eyes bore down into mine with less rage but no less intensity.  He also had feelings there in his face – tender ones of love and honesty.  I slapped his face so he’d get the point that that’s not what this was about, and he moved me against the wall, grunting through his nose, but not feeling bad.  He even let his eyes close when he leaned forward, pressing his nose to my neck and inhaling – and inhaling.  His mouth opened up on my neck, but still he was only breathing in, and his tongue in his mouth made a sound like he was tasting me just from the scent.  I wanted to scream for impatience – this breathy touch was giving me unsteady longing.  I could feel through his jaw the movement of his tongue, reaching out just too, too slowly.  All the air in the cave of my breath would be satiated by his temperature and his vapor and in the instant before his tongue was there my skin forgot it didn’t belong to his mouth.  There was his mouth then, closing around me, his tongue hungry and his teeth clamping down, and all I wanted was for him to finish the job and swallow the part of my neck where I felt my heart throb.  His hands on my back had found their way under my shirt, and unhooking my bra from behind had just stayed, feeling my skin.  I couldn’t comprehend why he should leave my bra hanging loose in front and neglected, and the mystery of what he wanted had me shuddering forward into his chest.  His palms were rough but moved as if to savor.  Incomprehensible, why calloused skin like his should linger and feel and whatever he felt he was loving and feeling again – a space between my shoulder blades and down to the plain, normal space of my back that no one ever had told anyone before was sexy, hands on either side of my spine not squeezing, just holding.  That’s when my first, gushing wave of pleasure made its way into my panties, and I let out my moan.

“You like that?”  Greg grunted in my ears, and dropped his hands, excited.  He went to his knees and dove under my skirt, abruptly bringing down my under-linen.  He was too excited to wait another second – his mouth went seeking out my clit, his tongue smothering – warm, but boring.  In his excitement, he’d totally lost his handle on the slow, devastating sensuality I’d instructed him to have and thought for a second he did.  I heard my own groan of disgruntlement, which Greg might almost certainly have taken for pleasure, but a skeptical snort surprised me.  It turned out to only be Martha, head on her paws in the kitchen as she judgmentally watched.

“Ha!”  I said, and Greg stopped.


“It tickles.”

“Oh.  Sorry.  Want me to – ”

“Carry me into the bedroom now.”

He grinned and stood, flipping me into his arms, which was fun and which I wished he would do now over and over and not even bother with sex anymore.  He pushed open the door to my bedroom when I pointed it out and, ignoring the piles of paper strewn over my floor, laid me down on the bed.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Greg whispered.  I slapped his face to get that stupid look out of his eyes, but it was too late –he was acting all in love.  He moaned against the sting of my palm, his lips working upward and tenderness blaring all over his face, but then seemed to register the feeling as a command to hurry up and not have foreplay.  He pulled off my skirt, my wet panties, and tried to get my blouse off by himself but I smacked his hand away before he could yank off any of those little buttons and undid them, one by one, myself.  When my shirt was off he shoved aside my floppy bra and leaned in, catching a nipple with his teeth and sucking air past it, slapping with the wet side of his tongue, then backed his mouth away.  Then he set his whole mouth like a hoover down around that buoyant tit and sucked, and kept sucking while he pulled a crinkled condom out of his pocket and yanked off his pants and his boxers.  He stopped the mouthwork for long enough to squint as if confused at the condom in his hand, then peel it out of the wrapper and roll it down over his dong.  He pushed his dick in without further ado, and I sighed away what remained of those first high expectations.  I could feel that he had a plan to impress me, consisting mainly of going too fast and having loud celebratory grunts, and some bored part of me considered using my hips to flip the man over to do the work myself.  I hypothesized his face would shift from excited focus to bewildered apprehension.

Greg caught his breath, suddenly, picking up my sarcastic inner dialogue by the smile I’d let slip.  I pressed my lips against his and torqued open his mouth to let my tongue slither in.  That made him forget that I was thinking things.  Greg went back to thrusting way too fast, and I focused my body around his, waiting on his every pulsing plunge, swelling with pleasure at my brain’s command in reward of pattern recognition.  Some snatch of song went through my mind, some fleeting impression of crushing fun chaos.  Then, Greg stopped.  I could feel by the place in my throat that normally breathed the beat of my heart caught in the middle, and in my vagina the dashing of already-meagre expectation.  Greg started again, slower than before, and I gave up my breath to the air, feeling around his shoving in the hope of finding some sustainable rhythm.  No such luck, and Greg stopped again, for no reason.

“What’s wrong?”  I hissed.  The condom was beginning to stick.

“Nothing,” he said, trying to stroke my forehead, as if that would make me forget.

“Never mind!”  I snarled, jerking my head away from his hand.  “Do your job!”

“What?”  Greg gasped, trying not to laugh.

I smiled, privately calculating how many times I’d be able to slap him before it became offensive.  “Hurry, up!”  I pushed my pelvis into his.  That seemed to catch him off-guard, as I’d suspected.  Greg pushed into me, deeply again, and I tried to pull him in by his butt, but it was a saggy butt and I couldn’t gain much leverage.  I remembered the pounding-rubbing karate exercises, and found a spark of my own pleasure to work with.  I could feel myself getting ready to come.  We went on about ten minutes like that, with Greg stopping suddenly for no reason no matter what I tried to get him acting properly.  My powers of self-persuasion were no match for his suckiness; every time he stopped I’d have to convince my body to gear up for a new rhythm, and every time he broke the rhythm the pleasure was harder to draw out.   I’m better at sex than this.  I can come waterfalls with any mediocre partner.  Now all my fluid seemed to have retracted back into deep, buried wells, never more to burble up in the presence of this doof.  Greg moaned suddenly, and paused; I stifled a disgruntled huff and took his hips in my hand, intent on pulling him in and keeping what little momentum I’d managed to build up to that point, but at the apex of my tug, Greg came.

It wasn’t the way that normal men come; he yelped out loud and his eyes bulged out of his head.  I only knew he’d come because of the way I could feel his heart beating in the head of his cock inside of me; if it weren’t for that, his reaction might have made me think he’d had some type of heart attack.  It wasn’t until I heard the snort that I peeked over Greg’s shoulder and understood; his scream was because of Martha.  She was leaning on the bed, her forepaws resting on Greg’s thighs and her great teeth buried in his ass.

“Martha!”  I gasped.  She cocked her head innocently to the side, still with her teeth in Greg, which just struck me as really terribly funny.  Greg let out a terrified whimper, and I went to comfort him, but then his popping eyes and open mouth of horror got to me and I couldn’t keep myself from laughing.  I couldn’t hide it, either, because we were naked and our bodies were pressed together, including his dick being still inside of me – then my body responded to the titters and the bizarity by suddenly letting loose my pent-up come, and I paused in the laughter to pleasantly moan.  Greg saw that I was not as concerned as he was about my growling dog with her teeth in his butt, and so he made a high-pitched whine and started trying to wiggle himself free of her grasp, his shrinking cock flopping gingerly inside its condom pocket.  That tickled; I laughed again.

“Stop,” I tried to say three times.  “Your squirming tickles me!”

Greg didn’t talk, just kept wiggling with his eyes all wide and his mouth making shrieky sounds while I started one of those giggling fits where trying to stop only makes it worse.  It didn’t help that his dick was flaccid as a pollywog and making the latex skim over my juicy nerves as gingerly as ribbons in the wind.


Greg at last managed to free himself from Martha’s grasp, his withered dick dropping coldly out of my body, and rolled out of me and out of bed onto the crumpled up drafts of my latest fantasy against the wall.  His eyes kept welling with betrayal and apprehension and the condom no longer swaddled his cock but was chocking half his shaft, with flesh muffining over the rim, and halfway to falling off, the seamen-weighted end swaying to and fro as he positioned his body one way and another, unsure of where to step with the dog on the bed looking down at him and his clothes on the other side of the room.

I put my arms around Martha’s neck to give Greg a chance to escape, but I could tell by the shock in his eyes that he’d misunderstood my intention – maybe because I still had a smile and was laughing just a bit.  He stomped to where his clothes were across the floor and went out of the room, slamming my bedroom door and holding it shut (it sounded like) while he put his clothes back on.

“Please, Greg – don’t be sad,” I called through the door.  “We can try it again, all right?”

There were angry inarticulate noises in response.  I became a bit indignant, because it was my house and he was holding the door and he didn’t even consider the fact that my vagina was chaffed from having bad sex.  “You did come, you know!”  I reminded him.  Then he shouted some things that were rude and could have been referring to me or to my dog, and because Martha knew sass when she heard it she bounded across the room and wound up with her front paws on the door, barking a deep thundering bark at Greg, who stopped making noises and probably ran away.  In a minute I heard his motorcycle kick into life outside and then hum away down the street.

Martha looked at me when we heard that and wagged her tail, evidently expecting a treat.  I gave it to her.  I didn’t know how she got the idea that when a man is bad in bed it’s good to bite him in the butt, but I was sure her intentions were pure.  I wondered if it had something to do with the day I’d tried to teach her to attack people on command.  Maybe Greg or me had used one of the safewords I’d forgotten.

One thought on “Crazy B – Installment 4

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s