2ColtHome sweet fucking home, I think, as soon as I walk up to the intersection and press the pedestrian walk button. Just a couple more blocks to the house.
California’s so fucking hot; it's like walking through an oven. Even my balls are sweating. How do people walk through this shit?
I guess I could've called a cab, but the house isn't far from the Amtrak station, so I took a train, and now I'm walking. I figured I'd take it all in. And for the most part, I've been soaking it all in for the first time in a long time.
I knew I was getting close when those nuclear tits came into view off the I-5. If you've never seen them, you should. They're nuclear reactors that power the area, sitting right along the coast, and the guy who designed them must've had some fucking sense of humor because they look like a perfect pair of tits.
I feel a thin line of sweat run down my face, and another bead of sweat trickle down the contours of my abs. I stop and take a drink of water and survey my old neighborhood. If I'm being fucking honest, I wish that I didn’t even have to go home. I could be hitting the beach right now, working on my tan, surfing the T-Street break, and picking up the girls clamoring for a taste of the dudes brave enough to ride San Clemente's most consistent waves..
“Hey, hottie!” someone shouts.
I barely hear the voice from the convertible at the intersection. I’m lost in my thoughts about my stepdad Daniel asking me to come home. It's my fucking summer break and I thought I'd chill with the guys before we all hop on a plane to Bali. But those plans got derailed quicker than I can get in a girl's fucking skirt. Poof. Those plans detonated pretty fucking fast.
But yeah, there’s a girl calling out to me.
I mean, I’m not surprised she’s impressed enough to call out. If you see me, you know what I’m working with. My fucking 8 pack abs that you can see through my tight shirt. My ripped body. My tattoos.
My fucking face that’s cut and and deep, soulful eyes.
But more than anything, my giant fucking cock. She can probably tell what this cock does.
Hell, she can probably tell my entire body was designed to fuck.
That’s right, Colt Morgan was built to have sex.
“How may I be of service?” I ask the dark-haired girl in the convertible next to me at the stoplight. I play it casual. There’s one thing about San Clemente girls. They never fucking fail to surprise me.
“In more ways than you can think,” she purrs.
Holy shit!
Sure, the girl’s got wavy dark tresses. But she’s got a slutty vibe in her face that I’m fucking familiar with. This is a SoCal chick. One of those who’s driving that car on Daddy’s money. She’d probably drive a jalopy if it meant he’d pay more attention to her.
But he doesn’t. So she’s out. Trolling for guys.
The girl knows she’s got a limited window of time to impress me if she wants me to fuck her. She doesn’t waste time as she starts to lower her top, flashing her big boobs. No doubt they’re fake. They’re fucking huge—symmetrical and extra perky—just the way I like them. I bet they'd fit nicely in my hands. They look like two big melons squashed into her thin vest. I’m so tempted to follow her home as she lowers her top further, leaving nothing to the imagination.
I can hardly speak; I feel as if I’ve got one of those big melons stuffed right in my fucking mouth. I'm not kidding when I say that I can practically fucking taste her.
I blink to bring myself back to reality. “Those,” I point to them, my fingers aching to touch her because I’m getting so fucking hard, “could stop traffic!”
She laughs, “I think that they’ve already done that. So, big boy? Are you going to follow me home or are you going to sit there and look at them all day long?” She's chewing gum, and I watch as her moist lips open and close seductively. If I'm fucking honest, I can already imagine something else between those lips.
Like I said, I know these girls and what they’re all about.
Underneath that perfectly coiffed Neiman Marcus look, she’s a nasty fucking slut ready to spread her legs and let any dude with a dick defile the shit out of her.
I could do things to her that would make you raise your eyebrows.
But I’m so over it. It’s not new.
I’m just about to answer her but from the look on my face I know she can tell she’s going to be shot down. That’s why when the light turns green and she drives off without a word. For a minute I think about following her—maybe jotting down her license plate, getting in a car and finding her, but then my phone rings and I see it's Daniel calling. I guess I need to take a rain check. I can’t get distracted; I’m only here for a couple of days. Besides, there'll be plenty of girls like her in Bali.