Friday, December 20, 2013

The Night She Met Her Cowboy

 (Book Cover Image removed to comply with Google restrictions on nudity)

Spent most of my morning trying out new color schemes and styles for this blog. Still haven't made any final decisions, but this is it for now. Lest I not forget the point of what I'm doing, I do have this steamy scene to take us into the weekend. 

May your holiday celebrations be filled with joy and lots of kinky fun! 

From the novel: Poor Little Rich Slut

Feeling the tempestuous night close in around me, I shivered in fear as I walked from my car to the sidewalk. All was black and starless. Clouds swarmed overhead like an angry sea. I didn’t realize that the frenzied wind and turbulent air were merely a backdrop for some godly declaration. It was a bold stroke of genius when, through a sudden opening in that stormy commotion, the full moon appeared like a heavenly emissary and shone brightly into my startled eyes. Was it a blessing or a curse? I couldn’t say. The effect was both beautiful and frightening. Seconds later, the clouds closed in around that brilliant moon, enshrouding the orb inside their gloom again. My body felt something horrific pass through it, then the feeling disappeared as quickly as it came, as quick as that brief glimpse of moon.

    I do believe I had been warned.

    Regardless of my apprehensions, I moved through the inky night to the chain-link fence where the gate stood ajar, my invitation to enter into the eerie world of carnival lights and blinking neon. A gust of air danced loose trash across my path. It swirled then fell to the ground again as soon as the air settled. I stopped to let it pass, then ventured deeper into the amusement park. While ignoring the steady internal dialogue, about why the hell I’d be risking myself in this dilapidated world, the rest of me moved eagerly toward the Carousel where Casey Ingram said he’d meet me. We’d made the date the week before, when I felt particularly reckless and in need of a change.

    I’d taken off on my own that night, after having abandoned my agreement with Garrison Tate—a shameless scoundrel who was both my co-worker and sexual mentor. In a similarly seedy neighborhood as this wretched Carnival one, I popped into a bar, sitting my leather-clad behind on a vinyl barstool and ordered a martini. Was I sleazy enough for the place? I immediately wondered, as I gazed around at my fellow clientele, who sat at the bar and tables, clutching with grimy fingers their bottles of Bud and Pabst Blue Ribbon. They ate stale popcorn by the handful, made wisecracking remarks, then laughed in boisterous gales. Afterwards they settled back to glowering until something gave them cause to regale the bar with laughter again.

    I gave the skuzzy men something to look at for thirty dreadful seconds, during which I deliberately adjusted myself on the stool, wiggling my derriere to attract, not repel their attention. I liked their eyes on me and imagined I could read their thoughts—where scenes of hard-fucking ass-sex seemed to reign among the other dirty things they’d do to me. Pantiless, I felt a quotient of female juices leaking out against my thighs as the effect of that image trickled down through my body. Wiggling my ass again, merely as a way of grinding my pussy deeper into the vinyl stool, I felt a spasm of pure pleasure make my entire crotch heat.

    I probably should have ordered a beer not a martini. But then that made me more watchable, which was exactly what I was after.

    Some moments later, Casey Ingram entered, wearing cowboy boots, roughed-up jeans and a scowl to rival the rest of those I’d grown accustomed to in the previous ten minutes. There was something especially appealing about this guy. I liked his swagger, and behind the facial hair, the scruffy beard and the dark mustache, I made out a handsome face.

    My cowboy sat down a seat away from me at the bar and hovered over a double-shot of whiskey, which he finally downed in one gulp before slamming the glass against the bar. After a big sigh, he turned his head toward me, smiling.

    “Casey Ingram,” he said, his introduction, “and you are?”

    I’m the heiress Eleanor Hutton Rule to the rest of the world. To Casey Ingram, I’m Ellie Barnes.

    “Ellie,” I spat out. “Ellie Barnes.” First time I’d ever used an alias and I rather liked the way it sounded. I liked being someone else.

    “You’re here alone, Ellie Barnes?”

    “That’s right.”

    His eyes combed my body head to toe, seeing the sleek, kittenish look I carefully crafted before leaving home. My hair was smooth, in a blunt pageboy no longer than my shoulders; my lashes were thick with mascara. I wore too much lipstick, too much blush, too much shadow over my eyes—he was certain to think me cheap and easy. I should have worn denim rather than leather to make my seedy look more authentic, I thought in a moment of self-doubt. But then, I don’t think my cowboy noticed that the leather skirt was designer chic, not off the rack. His eyes rested on my chest, settling in for a while to imagine what might be under the tightly stretched, low-cut sweater. I moved toward him invitingly, my cleavage cooperating with the seduction as the flesh jiggled enough to keep the cowboy’s eyes fixed a few more seconds. Finally, his gaze shifted downward, noting the way my hiked-up skirt showed off the lace tops of my stockings and the attaching garters.

    “So, you must be meeting someone?” He finally looked into my eyes.

    “No,” I shook my head.

    “This ain’t the kinda place you just stumble into.”

    “No, I don’t suppose it is. But I needed a drink and it was close.”

    Had I said enough, telegraphed the message sufficiently? Did he have the guts to pick me up? One look at his crotch and I could see that his cock was getting firm.

    He moved to the seat beside me, like he could be intimate now. Then he toyed with a lock of my brunette pageboy and whispered, “You don’t suppose that leaving with me could be what you’re after?”

    I smiled. “I suppose it could be.”

    His snigger played out all over his face, in his eyes and the way his breathing changed, dropping deeper into his crotch, which was what this was all about—two hungry crotches.

    Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a wad of bills and threw a few on the bar, nodding to the bartender. The man polishing shot glasses stared at me judgmentally; he knew what I was doing. Then my cowboy slithered off the seat in my direction, putting his arm around me in one smooth motion. Once on our feet, we moved to the back of the bar and out the steel door into the night.

    The air beyond was fresh, a hint of the salty ocean stinging the nostrils. I picked up the scent of frying food and asphalt and exhaust fumes from a diesel truck.

    I’ll give him credit; he was bluntly honest, asking before he acted: “Do I take the time to court, Ellie, or can we make this quick?”

    “Long as it’s raunchy, quick is fine with me,” I said.

    He smiled, chuckling under his breath, rolling his head a little in amazement. “You know, it’s like a guy doesn’t get it any better than this.”

    “So?” I was waiting, wanting him to make a move, a real move, like slap me against the cement wall, push me flat against the cold surface and fuck me hard, real hard, from behind. But once he got over his amazement, he gathered me to his side again and we hustled through the streets and alleys, taking a maze of twists and turns. Finally, as if he was working up the courage, he stopped on a bridge, an old bridge connecting the industrial neighborhood we just left with the residential slums. He pushed me against the rail and I looked down on the street below, seeing cars and trucks and one big motor home breeze on into the night.

    Moving in behind me with a warm crotch and chest, his hand reached inside my stretchy top and grabbed a tit, two fingers finding a nipple and squeezing hard enough that I let out a little shriek.

    “Might be wise to be quiet here, huh?” he whispered in my ear.

    “You’re right,” I whispered back.

    With his right hand on my breast, the left hand went under my leather skirt, raising it high, showing off the garterbelt and the naked flesh beneath. It might have been quite a sight to see the exhibition, but the night around us was lonely and deserted. “You do smell like something special, Ellie Barnes. Like expensive perfume,” he murmured. His nose nuzzled my neck; his tongue tasted my skin; his lips bit down on my flesh and produced an urgent spasm in my belly.

    Hum… and he could tell expensive perfume from cheap? I noted with a delicate sigh, just before I started to grind my ass back against his groin.

    “I’m wet,” I informed him.

    His hand moved to the succulent valley between my thighs, seeking the entrance to my pussy.

    “You sure are,” he drawled. Such happy admiration!

    His member throbbed against the back of my thigh, and when it was freed from inside his pants, I felt the raw fervent muscle against my naked ass. It started to prod, moving into the cleft between my cheeks, hitting my asshole first—which doesn’t easily give—then searching deeper, lower, for the pulse of my wet pussy.

    Our warm pheromones clashed in the steamy air. It was a night fit for groveling.

    Sliding in, he sighed. I sighed in return, being grateful and happy to have him, happy to know I’d scored a raunchy ride on a night like this—on a night when I needed anonymous more than I needed the merciless probing eyes and cock and heart of Garrison Tate.

    Damn Garrison Tate, anyway! My pestered mind screeched… when the thought of him interrupted the moment. Damn him for meeting me here on this bridge, for finding my mind with his. For getting inside, as if I still wanted him telling me what to do.

    Dammit, Garrison Tate, I’m going to fuck my cowboy,
I silently screamed.

    “Oh, yes baby,” I vented in a quiet voice.    

    “Yeah, you gonna cum, baby,” Casey answered, his voice a breathless growl.

    “Oh, yes, I’m gonna cum. Yes! Fuck me!” I was getting too loud. I knew that.

    But my cowboy didn’t care. His warm breath was at my neck, my ear. His wet lips kissed the side of my throat. His hands, his strong, firm, muscled hands squeezed my naked ass cheeks, and his cock worked wonders, rubbing places that make me squeal, make me hot. Yes! He made me need to cum.  

    I started to sweat. Another waft of sexual odors greeted my nostrils. I ground a little harder back against him, grunting now and seething under my breath, “Fuck me, baby, fuck me, fuck me, YES YES HARDER!” More intense, heavier breathing. He was getting into his rhythm and was ready for the explosive end. He gave me one last hard thrust and held my ass to his groin, shooting spasm after spasm after spasm into my quivering hole. Amazingly, he reached around and teased my clitty just enough to trigger the finish in me.

    YES YES YES!  I was screaming—to myself, I think. Although I’m not sure I didn’t announce it to the world.

    Yet no one came running. No sounds echoed off the building and all was quiet once
we stopped. Even the street below the bridge was empty of all traffic.

    I felt negligent afterwards. No Tate to upbraid me for being bad. No punishment. No sweet refuge in the startling pain of a physical rebuke. Something was missing after we righted ourselves and I wiped my crotch on his handkerchief and straightened my clothes. I felt free and sad and guilty, all at the same time. Something was missing, something lost, but these were all silent thoughts I’d never share with an anonymous lover.

    Casey made himself presentable, while both of us filled the awkward moment with a compendium of wistful sighs until we couldn’t sigh anymore. Someone had to say something.

    He spoke first. “You do this often?”

    I stared at him a moment, not knowing what to say. “No, no, not really.” I had my first flustered, self-conscious moment.

    “Any special reason?”

    “Just a bad breakup,” I managed, wishing we didn’t have to make small talk.

    “I see.” He seemed as ready to move on as I was, but added, much to my surprise, “So, I suppose it’s too much to think you’d want to go at it again, huh?”

    Go at it. How quaint, I thought, while I was trying to figure out how to respond.

    “I don’t know. Could it be better than this?” I wondered aloud.

    “Maybe.” He smiled a crooked, charming smile. “I run the machinery at the amusement park and live in the Carousel building. Some women like the added thrill of a wild ride, if you know what I mean?”

    I didn’t know what he meant, not exactly. But the thought of amusement parks and carnival rides, cotton candy and stale popcorn tend to feed the girl in me with unseemly desires. If this Casey Ingram could fulfill my seedy fantasies, then he wasn’t just my cowboy fuck for an evening; he was a man of minor miracles, able to lift me out of my sexual impoverishment like a bold knight.

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