The Good Kind
When they pulled up in front of his house, James took the keys from the truck’s ignition and turned toward the girl beside him. She’d offered no name, and he hadn’t asked. But she was nestled into the space between the seat and her door, one leg up on the seat—long white legs and red boots—her denim skirt hitched up around her waist, running two fingers up and down the length of her cunt in a slow and deliberate rhythm.
James watched for a long moment. Her fingers were long and slender, nails cut short, dark red polish chipped and worn, and her pussy was swollen and glistening, the folds framed by a shock of black hair. She wore a black leather jacket, cut short, open in the front, the snaps of her red blouse open almost to the navel, showing her tits, pale and shapely in the cab’s half-light. Her face was shadowed by the brim of her cowboy hat, pulled down low.
“Jesus,” James whispered, wiping a hand across his mouth. “I’ve gotta get you in my bed now.”
She tilted her chin up, looking at him from under the hat’s brim, smiled.
“Not now,” she said. Her voice was low and smokey. “Get over here.”
She reached with her free hand and pulled him by the sleeve. He fell across the seat and she grabbed him by the hair at the back of his neck.
“Eat me,” she commanded, pulling him closer.
James didn’t hesitate but buried his face in the wetness of her cunt. She was hot and sweet, and her clit was swollen and stiff against the flat of his tongue. She wrapped the fingers of both hands in his hair and began to grind against his open mouth.
She lifted her foot up onto the back of the seat and lifted her other leg onto the dash, raising her hips up to meet his mouth.
“I need your fingers in me,” she said. He started to pull away, but she pulled tighter on his hair. “Don’t stop that.”
James ran his tongue up the length of her pussy, sucked at her clit, and slid a finger into her.
“More,” she said immediately. “More.”
He slipped another finger in, felt the pull at the back of his neck and slipped in a third. He turned his palm upward and began to slowly fuck her with his fingers curling up inside her, rubbing the smooth wall of her cunt.
“More,” she said again, and he looked up. Lightning quick her hand flashed across his face in a sharp slap. “Don’t stop,” she said, lacing her fingers back into his hair.
“I want your whole fist in me,” she growled.
James slipped his pinky inside, her pussy sucking tight around his hand up to his thumb. He pressed for a moment against her clit with the flat of the thumb and then returned to licking it before she could become angry again.
He was suddenly aware of his own cock hard in his jeans, almost painful. He slipped his fingers almost all the way out of her, tucked his thumb between his hot, sticky fingers, and then pushed the whole hand up into her.
He let out a little gasp at the sensation of his hand being swallowed up inside of her, the warmth and the pressure, the surreal vision of his hand vanished, the suck of the swollen lips against his wrist. He just leaned back and stared, unable to process how beautiful he found the scene.
She let his hair go and began to massage her clit with her fingers. James began to thrust back and forth slowly, watching carefully as his hand disappeared and reappeared, feeling the muscles inside her constrict around his fist.
“Harder,” she said, her teeth clenched and her fingers moving in ever swifter circles around the swollen pink of her clit.
James leaned into it, thrusting his fist deep into her, pulling it almost all of the way out until just the knuckles emerged, slick with her juice, and then thrust it back in. He matched the speed of his thrusts to the speed of her fingers circling her clit.
He was totally absorbed in his work, lost in the perfect rhythm, beginning to feel the burn in his shoulder, watching her intently: her fingers, her nipples poking out of her open shirt, the tendons of her neck standing out as she arched her back, chin up, fingers frantic at her pussy now.
“Out!” she shouted, and James looked at her, puzzled, but she pushed at his arm, slapping and clawing until he finally understood and slid his hand finally free of her pussy. That final movement, that passage of his knuckles across the tight opening seemed to send a charge through her. She slapped her hands against her pussy, pulling the flesh upward to expose the inner folds of her cunt, her ass well up off the seat. She groaned: a long, low animal sound, and flung her head from side to side. Her hat rolled off onto the floor of the cab. Her straight dark hair was plastered to her sweating cheeks, a strand caught up in her open mouth.
And then the sound in her throat rose to a shriek and the hot fluid came in a sudden rush, spilling out across the seat and arcing out into James’ lap.
And she collapsed, her boots falling to the seat, slapping in the puddle of her salty ejaculate, her whole body seeming to crumple in on itself.
James was still, kneeling there on the seat of his truck, soaked in her juices, cock hard in his wet jeans.
She wiped the hair away from her face, tucked her legs under her, looked across the cab at him, trying to gauge his reaction. For the first time she seemed something other than perfectly confident and in perfect control.
James sat up.
“What’s your name?” James asked.
“Sadie,” she said.
“Well, Sadie, will you tell me something? It’s important.”
“Sure,” she said, biting her knuckle.
“Can you do that again?”