Can't Get Enough (8 page)

He was covered in mud, up to his elbows in it, the front of his clothes stained, thighs darkened, face splattered. And that rope, pressing into his shoulders and one coarse strand cutting across his face as he looked back toward me. He loved rope. Loved to be tied up tight while I used his body roughly. I thought I was already riding an adrenaline high, but a special injection of chemical energy shot straight to the base of my cock at the sight of him.

I ducked under the net and slithered and crawled along. It was pulled too low and too tight for me to stay on hands and knees and I found myself on my stomach, clawing my way through foot-deep filth. It stank of mold and sulfur.

“What's wrong?” I shouted, as I slid toward him.

He just stared at me over his shoulder with his mouth open and a dark look in his eyes. He was muddier than necessary, really. As if he'd deliberately writhed in it. I reached him and placed a hand on his arm. “What's up? Are you hurt?”

“No. Not hurt. But I feel incredibly fucking horny and I want your cock inside me.”

“What, here? I can't fuck you here. And what about the race? Let's finish, then fuck.”

“I can't wait. It's the mud, the rope, the stench, everything. I need you. I need you on top of me, in me.”

His words made the blood rush into my shaft. My cock strained inside my tight shorts. “I'll fuck you,” I said. Dean groaned. “But we do it in those bushes. If only to avoid being trampled. And then we finish the race.”

“Yes,” he said. “Let's go.”

He commando-crawled the remaining length of the net. I followed closely, watching the flex and bunch of his muscles, the splatter of mud farther up his body, as I struggled, out of breath, to keep up. Dean ran through gorse and nettles to the stand of thick shrubs off to the side. I hoped no one was watching us. Maybe they'd think we were taking a piss stop. But together? I realized I didn't really care.

Thorns scratched at my shins and nettles prickled the reddened skin. I pushed through to where the bushes hid us from the track and Dean grabbed me and pressed his lips to mine. He held the back of my head tight in one hand and grabbed my butt with the other, pulling my crotch into his, hard cocks colliding through the constricting fabric. I pulled away with difficulty against the strength of his arm. “Shorts down and on your fucking knees,” I ordered. “Now.”

He pushed the shorts right off, showing a patch of white between the mud on his thighs and that on his belly, and dropped to the earth, facing me. His cock was fully hard. I pushed my shorts down to let him see mine spring out, pulsing bigger as it was freed. “Turn around and get your face to the ground,” I said, not letting him taste my cock although I would have enjoyed it. I wanted to fuck him, but I also wanted to finish the race. And not in last place.

I knelt at his butt, feeling cold grass crushed under my knees, and let a string of saliva fall from my mouth to his crack. I rubbed it downward with the tip of my cock and he moaned, rocking his hips against me and pushing his ass muscles out
hungrily. He had his hands braced on the ground and his forehead pressed to the damp earth. Knowing that he wanted me this badly made my throat tighten.

I mouthed my palm, moistening it and then transferring the wetness to my shaft. I pressed the tip of my cock against his dark hole, giving him only a second to relax before I pushed in farther. I slid my shaft in relentlessly until my pelvis hit his cheeks and I began to pound him. Dry skin dragged, my hurried attempt at lubrication not entirely effective.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “I need this so badly. I need you. To fuck me hard.”

“I know.”

I gave him exactly what he needed, driving into him fast and deep. In a flash of inspiration, I grabbed his shorts from the ground, wrapped my hand in them and tore off a handful of nettles from beside us.

He sensed my rhythm changing and twisted his neck to see what I was doing. “Eyes down, slut,” I said. He began to groan continuously. He probably wanted to take his own cock in his hand but would wait until I gave permission. If I gave permission. I pushed his T-shirt up his back, bunching it at the nape of his neck, and brushed the nettles across his shoulders. His ass clenched tight around me as he gave a strangled cry of pain. “Open your hole, slut,” I said, moving the nettles to his ass and brushing them over his right hip and buttcheek, watching red bumps rise on his skin. He shuddered as he fought to keep himself open. I grasped his left hip and pumped him faster while I played the nettles over his back with my other hand. Just once I caught the stinging leaves on my thigh and yelped at the sudden stab of poisonous pain.

Hyped up as I was on the adrenaline of the race, my climax started to build quickly, balls tightening and cock thickening to
split Dean's hole wider. I slowed a little. “You can wank yourself now,” I said. “And make it quick because I'm going to come soon and if you don't catch up you'll have to wait until after the finish line.”

He shifted his weight onto one forearm and took his cock in the other hand. I grasped him with both hands, the nettles dancing over the tender side of his belly and ribs, and pulled him back onto me as I fucked him with long, measured thrusts to give him time to get close. But I was desperate to fill him with my spunk. The thought of it dribbling from his ass as he crossed the finish line had me right on the edge.

“I'm going to come,” I groaned. I felt him speed up his hand, guttural sounds coming from his throat with every fast breath. The come surged into my shaft and I pumped him with hard, juddering thrusts as it spurted along my length and out inside him. He came onto the earth with one long moan.

I slipped slowly out and rose, pulling up my shorts. Dean stayed on hands and knees panting. Waiting.

“Rub your face in it,” I said. He shuffled back and bent his head to the pool of white on the soil. He pressed one cheek into it, then the other, and rose to show me. Come mingled obscenely with mud and sweat. “Now put your shorts on and let's go. We have time to make up.”

I ran off, leaving him to catch up with me. He was soon beside me, easing to my pace as we ran to the next obstacle, narrow pipes we had to crawl through for an agonizing, muscle-cramping three hundred feet of dark claustrophobia. It was one we hadn't really been able to prepare for. We didn't know how far back in the field we now were, although a quick glance showed there were still some people limping along behind us.

We stayed together, Dean waiting for me to emerge from the pipes and then slowing his pace to match mine. My fitness
had come a long way since our first marathon and we gradually edged up the field, eventually passing the main mass of competitors on the second to last obstacle. We launched ourselves at the electric fence hurdles without pausing to consider the pain to come. It was impossible to clear them without getting zapped—inner thighs, butt, balls.

We crossed the finish line and were handed medals and bottles of water. A screen flashed up our time and position. We'd come in 67 and 68 out of a total of 470. The winner was only twelve minutes faster. I realized we could have won, but I wouldn't have missed our detour for the world.

As we applauded at the awards ceremony, I grabbed the ribbon holding Dean's medal around his neck, twisting it tight and pulling him toward me. He gasped in that desperate and endearing way of his. All the competitors were filthy and sweaty, but come had dried to a flaky film on his cheeks alongside the dried mud. “I think you got off lightly in the electric fences because you're taller than me,” I whispered. “When we get back to my place, I'm going to lock your balls in the humbler while I have a nice, hot shower. When I'm done, I'm going to hook you up to the battery and sit back with a beer until you beg for mercy.”

“Let's go now,” he said.

THOSE DAMNED COBBLES

Tamsin Flowers

T
oward the end of the afternoon, you send me a text. I'm in the office and as I surreptitiously check my cell beneath the cover of my desk, your words set the heat rising within me.

Home already
,
waiting for you. But I can't wait….

I know what that means. You've come home early; you're lying on our bed, with your cock in your hand, your clothes strewn around the room, hurriedly discarded. For me, now the race is on. I've got to get back to you in time. Sometimes you can hold off long enough, but sometimes I'm simply too late. It's a game we play and if I get home fast enough, sex is my reward.

I text you back.

I'll be there.

I glance up at the clock; I'm contracted to sit in this chair for another fifteen minutes. I save the document I'm working on and power down my computer. Hoping no one will notice what I'm doing, I change my high heels for flats and get my bag ready
to leave. My boss walks by my desk so I pretend to have my head down, reading an important paper. Thankfully he doesn't stop to talk to me.

As soon as the minute hand reaches the vertical, I'm out of my chair and pulling on my jacket.

“Night all,” I call, as I hurry through the open-plan office toward the door.

Down in the parking garage I fumble with the combination lock on my bicycle. More haste, less speed—twice I get the numbers in the wrong order. But then the lock's off and I strap my bag to the rack on the back. If only I had decided to bring the car this morning, I would have had a better chance of getting to you in time. Now I'm faced with a twenty-minute cycle ride, and I don't want to be too exhausted at the other end for what you have planned.

I have to stand on the pedals to make it up the steep slope out of the office garage. I duck around the end of the barrier, waving at the security guard in his little box. Once I'm out on the street, it's a downward slope and I'm able to settle back on the saddle to catch my breath. I love this old bike, but it's hardly a racer. Several times you've offered to buy me something more aerodynamic, with a comfortable gel saddle and god knows how many gears, but I'm not interested. When I'd had this bike for a while, I christened it Barry. I've ridden miles sitting on Barry's shiny leather saddle, which has been polished to a chestnut patina by the pumping action of my buttocks. And when I'm thinking of you as I ride, the hard, slippery saddle pushing up between my legs only adds to my anticipation.

The traffic's heavy, but with the slight downward gradient I'm able to pick up speed. After seven blocks of rhythmic pumping on the pedals, I start to raise a sweat. I know the route like the back of my hand and I practically cycle on autopilot, so
my thoughts turn to you, waiting for me at home. By the time I get back to the house it will be more than half an hour since you sent the text. I know you can wait that long if you want to; but sometimes you get bored and start without me. In my mind's eye I watch you slowly moving your hand up and down your cock with the lightest of touches. Your eyes are closed and you're totally relaxed as you lie there, savoring the sensations.

When this happens I try to creep into the room silently, listening to the small grunts and moans that you make as your grasp becomes firmer. It really turns me on to see you touching yourself, and I pedal even faster at the thought of it. Now I'm swooping across the sidewalk and through the park gates; there are no cars here and very few pedestrians, so I can really put my foot down on the pedals. I lift myself a little from the seat and my frantic peddling makes Barry lurch from side to side, the hard leather slapping against the inside of my thighs. I'm really flying now and the burning sensation between my legs is in direct contrast to the cold air streaming through my hair and blasting my face.

The path is flat around the lake and for several hundred yards beyond, but then I reach the steep hill that falls away to the other side of the park. As I go over the edge my speed increases; now I must stop peddling and start to use the brakes. I sit back hard on the saddle, pushing down with my hips, wondering whether I will be home in time for you. As I go even faster, I tuck forward, bending low over the handlebars. This makes Barry's saddle push farther forward between my legs. I'm wearing a skirt today that hangs around my legs and the seat, rather than being tucked up underneath me; now, through the thin silk of my panties, I can feel the hard leather tip nudging against my clit. I'm still thinking of you, waiting for me in all your naked glory. I'm thinking of what I want to do to you
when I get home. I want to take your huge, rock-solid cock into my mouth and suck on it as hard as I can. For as long as it takes, though that won't be long as you've probably been playing with yourself for the last half hour. A shimmer of desire flutters through me, making me catch my breath and grip the handlebars more tightly.

At the bottom of the hill I grind my hips in a side-to-side motion as the path swerves through a series of curves. I imagine I'm riding you like I'm riding this bicycle: straddling you and guiding your cock between my legs, rising up and down as you buck and swerve underneath me. I love to be on top and you love it, too. Can you wait long enough for that? Can you hold off for something better than just your hand? I bite my bottom lip, willing you to give me just a few more moments to reach you.

I fly through the park gates, nearly flattening a woman with a buggy as I cross the sidewalk. Thinking about you and what we're going to do together is not conducive to safe cycling. The woman shouts swear words after me, but I'm long gone and I don't care. I'm on a mission to get back to you.