Текст книги "Indecent Cravings"

Copyright 2015 D2Rev Publishing / S.K. Cross

First Edition

July 9, 2015

Editing: Missy Borucki (missyborucki.com)

Cover design: Letitia Hasser at Romantic Book Affairs (designs.romanticbookaffairs.com)

Promotion: Julia Summers PA at Nook Books and More Blog (https://www.facebook.com/summersnookbooks)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Dear Readers

This is the first part of an ongoing series, an experiment in organic storytelling.

Part One is short and inexpensive to kick things off.

Beginning with Part Two, each book will be approximately 125 pages and priced at $2.99, a new “episode” released approximately every three weeks.

Here’s the deal: This is YOUR story. YOU have control. I’ll start it, but I want YOU to tell me where to go.

So, sit back, pour yourself a delicious beverage of your choice, check your lube and battery supply, kick your shoes off and get comfy, and then read on.

Once you’re done, shoot me an email at:

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visit my Facebook Page:

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. . . and tell me what YOU would like to see happen next.

Also, make sure to get on my VIP list:

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where I will be posting Top Secret updates, as well as having contests with prize giveaways.

Chapter 1

Yep, that’s definitely his cock. I can see the outline through the black jeans. Oooh, that has to be an eight-incher. Maybe even nine. So glad he moved in his seat just as I glanced over. Now, I have better girth perception.

Oh fuck, who am I kidding? It wasn’t just a glance. I’ve been fucking staring at this god of a man in seat 24C for the entire flight to Miami, imagining him on top of me. His wavy, dark brown hair, steely eyes looking down at me, hammering away inside me.

Not that I can see his eyes. He hasn’t removed those goddamned Ray-Bans since arriving in the terminal. They just lie there on his perfectly carved face. Fuck, I know there are gorgeous eyes beneath them. I just know it! I squirm in my coach seat, a power plant of wet heat throbbing between my thighs.

Great. Just fucking great. I had to wear my new tight white pants for this trip, didn’t I?

I bite my nail and brush my blonde hair aside. I force myself to look out the window at the coastline far below, hoping the aroma of horny desperately-needs-to-be-fucked-with-raw-abandon girl hasn’t completely filled the cabin yet. I look over at the lady with her husband in the row to the left of me. She meets my eyes with a disapproving look. She senses my dirty thoughts, doesn’t she? Reminds me of my mom. I consider giving her the finger but think better of it. Fucking prude.

C’ mon, Miami! Goddammit, can’t they fly this hollow aluminum tube any faster?

I uncross and re-cross my legs. At least I’m alone in this row. It’s not a crowded flight.

I glance over again at Mr. Ray-Ban. Dark wavy hair, professional hairstyle with little wispy ends that go this way and that. A white shirt with woven designs, one of those Florida-style ones with the open cuffs. Tight black jeans and expensive black shoes. His hand is dangling into the aisle as he sleeps. What if I got up and brushed past it with my leg? I’m considering it.

So fucking hot. Smooth fingers, long but not skinny, tanned taut skin. I first saw him back at Logan Airport before boarding, absorbed in his iPad sitting in the departure area. That’s when the fantasies started. I was so focused on him that I forgot to take out my boarding pass and had to fumble for it when the gate agent asked me for it.

When I saw his seat was one ahead of me to the left on the aisle, I was both ecstatic and devastated at the same time. I tried reading, texting, listening to music, meditation, watching the latest episode of Scandal season four. But nothing works. Nothing is as fascinating as watching this perfect man as he sleeps, imagining my tongue pressing hard into the base of his erect cock right above his balls.

No, I’ve never been normal.

I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, reminding myself of why I’m going to Miami.

This is the summer before my final year at Wellesley. I’ve been horribly unsatisfied with my life over the last three years, but I’ve sucked it up because I’m very grateful for the gifts I’ve been given . . . even if there’s a gnawing emptiness within me. A hollowness that makes it hard to get out of bed some days.

Things came to a head recently when my boyfriend, Chad, and I had a huge fight and he took off for a summer internship at a big law firm in New York before returning to Harvard Law School in the fall. We’re “on a break” right now, whatever that means. I can’t say I’m that bothered by it.

Then Zander. Poor Zander. That sent me over the edge. I haven’t been able to face it fully. Every time he pops in my head, I push the image away. I can’t deal with it yet. I couldn’t get why my sisters and my mom did what they did, and then acted so aloof and distant about it.

Yesterday, I confronted Ashley and she confirmed my worst fears. I was so mad that I went online and booked this trip immediately.

Nobody knows I’m on this plane, except for my Facebook friend, Karissa, who’s picking me up at the airport.

 I’m so happy to be traveling at five hundred miles an hour away from all that prissy, stuck-up Concord snobbery. Strike me dead if it ever infects me, please.

Oh, did I mention that’s where I’m from?

Yeah, that Concord. Massachusetts. You know the one. Travels with Lexington. Cradle of the American Revolution. Shot heard round the world, blah-blah-blah. What you probably don’t know is that Concord is World Headquarters of pretentious Miss Prisses.

Lots of colonial china. Lots of good liberal causes triggered by the guilt of being so wealthy. Wistfully blonde “good” girls and varsity sweater-wearing “proper” boys headed to Philips Exeter and then Harvard.

I was bred to be one of them. And yes, I use that term on purpose because there’s nothing that lilywhite, marble-mouthed old money loves more than another generation of lilywhite, marble-mouthed old money.

Not for me, thanks. I never got with the fucking program.

I didn’t even pick Wellesley. It was chosen for me, just like everything else in my life. Once I arrived, I could only think about one word:

Escape!

I dreamed of it, plotted it, imagined it, visualized it. And here I am doing it.

I’m scared but excited. A little smile forms on my face when they all realize I’m fifteen hundred miles away.

Seriously . . . did they all think that I would ever be like them?

My two older sisters, Addison and Ashley, have already done the prim-and-proper thing to perfection. Hiking on the weekends, fashionable save-the-world hash-tag campaigns that accomplish nothing but make them feel good about themselves while not having to put in any real effort, gluten– and GMO-free diets to impress their peer groups. Not to mention the right grades, the right degrees, the right husbands, now the right babies with the right upper-crust names . . . Braddock Elton and Mary Althorp.

I know, right?

I, on the other hand, have been fantasizing about one thing since I was twelve. Maybe even before.

Dick.

When I saw my first penis, I knew my destiny. People all around me talked about all the things they wanted, all the places they wanted to go, all the music and movies they wanted to see.

Yeah, I found all that boring as shit. Music, fashion, movies, food . . . it’s all nice, but a firm solid cock is the only thing that truly sends me there.

You know there? Yeah, you do. We all have a there. It’s that place and time when we’re completely fulfilled, when we’re in a state of . . . what do they call it? Flow? Bliss? Some shit like that.

Whatever it is, nothing has ever got me there better or faster than a thick hard rod in my mouth. Or my pussy. Or my ass. Well, okay, I don’t know about that last one . . . yet.

Not that I’m a big slut or anything, don’t get me wrong. So far, it’s just my thoughts that are sluts. I’ve only had three boyfriends and only had sex with two. There was Brian in high school, then Todd who was my first, and then Chad in college.

(Oh yeah, and there was the incident with Trevor. Not sure if that counts, though.)

Chad is supposedly the perfect boyfriend. Everybody keeps telling me so. Looks like a goddamned Kennedy with tousled prep-school hair. Handsome. Smart. My mom fucking loves him.

Well, why don’t you fucking marry him then, Ma?

I did enjoy Chad’s seven thick inches and how he shot sweet cum down my throat like a geyser. Only reason I stayed with him for so long. Otherwise, he was meh on the manly scale. He let me lead everywhere we went. Always asked my opinion before making a decision.

I fucking hate that.

I still haven’t found a man who is able to control me, to dominate me, to command me. A man who will make me do very dirty, nasty things. And I’m talking really fucking dirty and really fucking nasty . . . the stuff that most women will never admit turns them on.

I went through a phase where I was addicted to those kinky porn sites . . . the really dirty ones with the girls tied up in refurbished armories getting whipped and fucked while begging for more. I had to stop because they made me too horny, only to realize that there’s nobody around to fulfill my submissive fantasies.

Chad, the perfect boyfriend, wouldn’t do anything even remotely un-vanilla. Not even anal, which I practically begged for. I mean, come on! What guy doesn’t want anal? Jeez.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate Chad. He’s a good guy, really.

But I don’t know anymore if I can ever be that girl, the homespun, baby-making cookie-baking wife he wants. Someone who wants to clean house, plant a tomato garden, and host wine parties while he practices law and eventually runs for political office . . . yuck! The very thought sends me into a panic.

Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m just a slut, right? A whore. Well, fuck it, I’m going to Miami to find out. I so need to experience new things.

My official plan is to spend a month with my Facebook friend—soon to be real-life friend—Karissa at her apartment. My unofficial plan is to find a job and stay longer. I pat my purse, inside of which is a secret debit card with my own money. Well, sort of my own money, anyway.

I look over at Mr. Ray-Ban again, wondering if he’d do dirty, nasty, filthy things to me. Bet he would. He’d tie me up, blindfold me, gag me, spank me, invade me every way possible.

God, I bet his eyes are killer under those Ray-Bans. I think he’s asleep. Do you think anyone would notice if I went over and sucked on the fingers of that dangling hand? Yeah, probably.

I look back out the window at the coastline of . . .  what? . . . North Carolina? South Carolina? Where the fuck are we right now?

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, holding it for a count of seven. Then I let it out slowly for a count of fourteen. I can feel the low hum of the airplane sending ripples of energy up my thighs and into my crotch. It morphs into a rare blind courage.

Fuck, I’ve got to do something!

I adjust my pants so my ass crack shows. I adjust my tight T-shirt, fully exposing my tummy and lower back.

I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but suddenly power and confidence charge through me.

Gingerly, I get up out of my seat and into the aisle, avoiding the holier-than-thou stare of the old prude. On purpose, I smash into Mr. Ray-Ban’s dangling hand with my left leg.

As if God himself was trying to help me in my quest . . . although it’s probably the other guy . . . turbulence hits the plane and we shake violently. I trip and fall to my left, landing right on top of him, crotch splayed on his thigh.

Just as quickly as it started, the turbulence is over. Thank you, up there . . . or down there. Whoever. Just thank you.

He wakes with a start, his dangling hand absentmindedly moving up to my ass as he looks up at me, my fiery wetness now only three thin layers of fabric removed from his muscular thigh.

“Sorry,” I say as I attempt to get back up. I look directly at his expressionless face. Damn, I can’t see anything behind those fucking Ray-Bans.

“It’s okay,” he says in a voice that penetrates me with its power, an even but rough tone with a hint of evil, his hand still on my ass. He squeezes.

Oh God, I’m so on the edge I might blow!

As I move upward to climb off him, his hand glides to the top of my white pants, snaking a finger over them and into the top of my ass crack where he presses hard on my tailbone. He pulls me back downward, forcing my spread legs down firmly onto his thigh. Then he slides me forward a little.

Like he and God have a deal, the plane shakes massively again, gyrating me both up-and-down and forwards-and-backwards on his steely leg. At the same moment, he lowers the Ray-Bans and hits my soul with the most beautiful, glowing, light sapphire eyes I’ve ever seen.

I try not to scream as I come.

Yep, it happens. I actually come.

I shake a little, the orgasm passing through my body.

I told you I’m not normal. Weren’t you reading? I’m horny like a fourteen-year old boy, what can I say? I can’t control it. Yes, it’s that easy with me.

He looks up at me and smiles a tiny flash of perfectly white teeth in the middle of thick but masculine lips surrounded by day-old stubble. Then he raises the Ray-Bans back into place and lets go, his hand returning to its pointless dangle.

I consider biting his chin, but we’ve already attracted enough attention. God, I hope people couldn’t tell.

“Some turbulence,” I say.

“I know,” he says in that goddamned evil steady tone that puts another orgasm on deck.

I’d better get up fast before I launch again.

I climb back into the aisle and catch the eye of the woman sitting behind him. If looks could kill. Uptight bitch.

Shit, could everyone see that? I didn’t yelp or anything. He knew, though. He knew he made me come.

“Well, thanks,” I say, realizing how stupid that sounds. Thanks for the orgasm, have a nice day.

He just continues to lightly smile, his face unmoving. Fuck, he could be back asleep again for all I know.

I turn and walk deliberately to the bathroom, swinging my hips slightly in case he’s looking. Once inside with the door locked, I rub my clit and come again.

Nope, definitely not normal.

Chapter 2

Dammit, I had it all planned. Where did he go?

The airline napkin is still scrunched in my hand, my name and number scribbled on it with motley ink from a pen I found in my purse.

But he’s gone.

He’s just fucking gone.

Where the fuck did he go?

I didn’t even see him get up because the lady across the aisle caused a ruckus after one of her earrings fell off when the plane landed somewhat roughly. She enlisted everyone around her to help find it, which she did.

I shouldn’t have helped because I hate her, but I’m not that evil a person.

Then I looked up and he was gone!

So I grabbed my carry-on and raced into the airport, a blast of heat hitting me in the face on the jetway unlike anything I’ve ever known.

In the terminal, I looked everywhere for that flowing white shirt, black jeans, and black shoes.

But nothing.

Gone. Just gone.

Whatever. He probably would have laughed at me anyway. He’s older, probably twenty-eight, maybe even thirty. I’ll be twenty-two in January. That’s probably why he didn’t push it any further. Probably why he found it so amusing, too. Stupid little girl sits on his leg for one goddamned second and gets off like a female two-pump chump. God, I’m going to be the laughingstock of his next party.

“Abigail!” calls a pseudo-female voice.

I turn to see Karissa for the first time in person.

“Karissa!”

I run to her, drop my carry-on, and give her a big hug.

Karissa is the only person I know in Miami. We became Facebook friends a year ago and have had a million fun conversations ever since. I feel like I know her even though I’ve never met her in person. In many ways, she’s become my best friend.

She’s even better looking in person. She wears a tight coral dress that highlights her stunning and silky-smooth dark skin, a unique shade between light mocha and dark amber. Thick lips, dimpled cheeks, giant gorgeous brown eyes, barely-there breasts, and a big round ass under a tight waist complete the picture. I’m instantly jealous. She’s a male-to-female transgender, but she’s just curvy enough . . . even though she has boy shoulders and straight collar bones. She likes to call herself a “well-hung, hot bitch.”

She’s been egging me on for months, telling me about how much happier I’ll be down here.

“You are so gorgeous!” she says in a practiced girly voice that betrays her genetic gender.

“You too!”

“Carousel is downstairs to get your case.”

“Oh, I don’t have one. This is it.”

“That little carry-on?”

I pat my purse with its secret debit card. “I . . . uh . . . plan on buying some new stuff here.”

“Okay, let’s go then.”

She leads me to the parking garage. The heat is un-fucking-believable. I feel like I’m in a saucepan simmering on low. We reach her red 1997 VW Jetta. Well, it’s kinda red, anyway. There are splotches of orange here and there . . . and one door that’s solid black. Two tires are missing hubcaps.

“Don’t look at my car!” she says. “I’m saving up for a new one. This one only cost me one night of tips.”

“Okay.” I get in.

“AC doesn’t work, but I don’t live too far away. Besides, you got to get tempered.”

“Oh, I’m already tempered, thanks. I think my sweat is sweating.”

“Welcome to South Florida in July, babycakes.”

We get on I-95, the same I-95 that passes by Concord, Massachusetts but totally unlike that I-95. This one is several hundred lanes wide with more cars than I’ve ever seen in one place, all nearly stopped except for the ones way over to the left in the Express Lanes.

“This will clear up soon,” says Karissa.

“Okay.” Not holding my breath, though.

“How was your flight?”

I feel a tug inside my white pants as my clit remembers the firm friction of Mr. Ray-Ban’s thigh. “Um . . . interesting. There was this guy . . .”

“Oh, girl! Don’t tell me you’ve joined the Mile-High Club!”

Oh wow, I hadn’t thought about that. Does it count? “Not really.”

“What did he look like?” A gray, low-slung Acura pounding out bass beats cuts us off. Karissa honks the horn and shoves her middle finger out the window. “Maldito cabron! Mamame la Ñema!” The driver flips her off and shouts back something in Spanish. She turns back to me like nothing happened. “So?”

I realize I’m holding my breath. “So?”

“So what did this man you fucked on the plane look like?”

“I didn’t fuck him. Well, not really. I sort of fell on him and in doing so I, uh . . . came.”

“You came? What, did he at least finger you?”

“Not even. I just fell on his thigh and pffft!”

Karissa smiles a big smile at me. “Girl, you been stuck up in that cold hell zone for too long. You got some fire in you to let out.”

“Yeah, you may be right.”

Five hundred years and ten gallons of sweat later, we pull up to Karissa’s building. She gets out. I’m not sure if it’s me or my clothes that have chemically bonded with the old leather seat. I peel myself out carefully. There isn’t a part of me that’s not soaked.

“What’s that smell?” I say.

“What smell?”

“I don’t know. It’s everywhere. At the airport. Here. It’s kind of like mildew or jasmine. Jasmine-y mildew.”

Karissa sniffs. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Huh.”

Carissa lives in a second-floor apartment a few blocks west of US-1 in an old cinderblock complex made up of two, two-story, rectangular, gray buildings with a courtyard in the center. It looks like in better days, it was a rundown motel. The name stenciled on the rotting, second floor, outdoor walkway connecting the two buildings reads Clarion Towers.

Towers? Since when does two stories make a tower? Kids’ toys and rusting barbecue grills are scattered in the courtyard, which is filled with spotty grass.

Hm.

This is where I’m going to be staying, huh? Shit, I should have done a Street View on Google Maps before agreeing to stay here.

I make a mental note to find another place fast, even though Karissa said I could stay as long as I want.

“Don’t worry,” she says, “it’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Yeah, you also said the traffic would clear up fast.”

“And I was right!”

“Oh.”

The heat hits me again as we walk to the stairs. It’s like a steamy whack in the face that never stops slapping you. Wow. I can’t wait for it to cool down once the sun sets.

“Does it cool down when the sun sets?” I say.

“No, honey. It cools down in December.”

“Oh.”

Karissa’s place is on the second floor toward the back. An old man with a white beard and a big stomach over what looks like a towel stares up at me from his cheap plastic white chair.

“Don’t mind him,” says Karissa. “He never moves. Be there all day. You could go up and poke him and he wouldn’t get up. Swear he doesn’t even eat.”

Once inside in the air conditioning, I take a deep breath. Oh God, that feels good. But the smell is still thick. It’s not unpleasant, just different. What the fuck is it? And why can’t Karissa smell it?

Karissa’s place is surprisingly neat and clean, thank God. If I saw stuff strewn all over, I think I may have run to a hotel.

The countertop and cabinets in the kitchen are cheap, but new. A round, white plastic table with two matching chairs graces the dining spot. The couch is a black fold-out that I expect my lower back to hate. There is a black, plastic coffee table and a flat-screen TV on a black, plastic stand.

Hm.

“I know it’s small,” she continues. “And I know it ain’t Palm Beach, but I’m working on it, honey. I’m going to be rich, you know. This ass of mine is going to make me money.”

She shakes her butt at me and places her hands on her hips. I chuckle.

“Mind if I shower before I do anything else?” I say.

“Wash off the taste of your airplane man?”

“Something like that.”

The shower is old, but not rotting. By the time I emerge in my panties, it’s nearly three in the afternoon. Too early for dinner, even though I’m ravenously hungry.

“Oooh, baby,” says Karissa as she gazes at my chunky thighs and nowhere-near flat tummy. My hands go up to cover myself as I move toward my suitcase to grab a pair of shorts and a top.

“Yeah, right,” I say. “I have to get into a gym and out into the sun. Look at this whiter than white flabby skin.”

“Un-uh, girl, you sexy. You just don’t see it. And you a natural blonde, too. Mmm-mmm.”

For a split second, I see the genetic male in Karissa. The look she’s giving me is horny teenage boy.

I can’t help it. A nudge of intensity flushes through me, causing my clit to wake up, yawn, and stretch. My girl’s cock-detector has gone off, even if the cock in question hides under a coral dress. I gotta admit, there’s something incredibly hot about Karissa. I’ve never had sex with a girl. Not that Karissa is a girl. But she is. And yet she’s not. I don’t know. Me and my pussy are confused. And intrigued.

But yeah, in that moment I realize I’d like to try a girl. Like Karissa. A girl with a cock. Fucking me.

God, maybe I am just a slut.

I get my clothes on and turn to Karissa. “So what’s on the agenda?”

“Mojitos!” she says.

“But it’s only three in the afternoon.”

“Girl, you on vacation. It’s always time for a drink on vacation!”

Now, this part I could get used to.