“Good one.” And then, louder, “Yeah, I want your cock in me so bad. Give it to me hard.” He almost sounded like he meant it too, which should not have affected me as much as it was doing. I thought maybe the air conditioning was broken up in the Lair because I felt unnecessarily hot. I reminded myself to have Charlie look into it.
“You moan like a wanton whore,” I said. “You want to be my whore?”
Wanton whore? he mouthed at me, looking seriously confused.
I shrugged because I had no idea what I was doing. I liked fucking. I liked getting fucked. I did both very well. I did not know how to dirty talk. If asked by an employer what my three biggest weaknesses are, I would have to say I care too much, I work too hard, and I cannot credibly dirty talk without sounding like I’m reading a script from Hot Ass 6: Get in Dat Ass.
“Yeah,” he groaned. “I’ll be your whore. I’ll be your little bottom bitch.”
I had to put my fist in my mouth to keep from braying out really unladylike laughter.
He was grinning too, covering his mouth with his hands, eyes crinkled at the sides.
“There we go,” I managed to say. “I’m going to stick my dick in you now. You feel that? You feel me opening you up with my fat dick?”
“Yeah,” he moaned. “Oh, it’s slightly bigger than average and feels so good.”
“Slightly bigger?” I hissed at him.
“We have to be realistic,” he whispered back. “Not everyone has got a monster cock.”
“And how do you know I don’t?”
He arched an eyebrow at me.
“Okay, fair point, shut up.” I raised my voice. “Wow. I didn’t need to do much prep work because your ass is so loose already. You know, from all the bottoming you do. Like a slut. I bet when you walk, it sounds like wind blowing over the entrance to a cave.”
He glared at me.
I glared right back.
“Do you even know what you’re doing back there?” he called out, practically shouting it down from the balcony.
“You bet your fucking ass I do,” I said. “Trust me, you ain’t been fucked until you’ve been fucked by me.”
“Wow,” he said, voice deadpan. “That really does it for me.”
“Good,” I said. “Because you’re going to have to make up for the both of us, seeing as how I’m getting slightly turned off by your back hair.”
“Fuck you, I don’t have back hair,” he hissed.
I shrugged. “Everyone listening thinks you do now.”
“Wow, Helena,” he said, raising his voice again. “I like the au naturel thing you’ve got going on. Your pubes look like Bob Ross painted your happy little bush.”
“I am going to murder you,” I promised him in a low voice. Then, “Now, boy. Spread those legs wide and let me fuck you up real good.”
“Boy?”
“I don’t know, just go with it.”
“Should I call you Sir? Or Master?”
“Oh my fucking god, Darren, shut the fuck up. When I tell you, start clapping your hands so it sounds like skin smacking together.”
“It is skin smacking together. That’s what clapping is.”
“Just do it!”