FMBO by Val Capone
photos by Laura Roberts
I type, “come over and fuck my brains out,” into my phone and press Send. I need his cock to rock me with its depth charges. I need him to obey my text messages the way he obeys the sound of my voice. I need to be fucked roughly by a real man.
“Be there in 5,” he replies, not three seconds later. His hands are more nimble than mine. Typing is an excellent way to limber up those muscles for sex; he is almost as good as a musician. I picture his fingers gliding over my skin and purr in anticipation.
The bell sounds and I buzz him in. As I unlock the door he forces it open, pins me to the wall with a lizard’s kiss that searches my throat for weapons. I am unarmed, except for my slutty lingerie. My tits rise and fall, perched on their lace balcony, as he fingers my nipples.
“This is hot,” he murmurs. “Too bad it’s going to get destroyed.”
“There will always be others,” I say. He smiles and presses a small knife against the center of the bra, slicing downward with calculated violence. The bra falls to the floor, my tits point directly at their aggressor, nipples stiff with longing.
He ignores their cry for attention, bending instead to slash the strings of my bikini. Slipping the knife back into his pocket, he slides a finger toward my cunt. I sigh softly, hoping he won’t hear, knowing he will. His finger withdraws – he loves to torment me.
He wanders off toward the living room, removing his jacket and tie as he goes. I follow him and straddle his body when he sits on the couch.
“Fuck me, darling.” I unbutton his shirt.
“Later, perhaps,” he says, feigning distraction. The television is on, but the sound is off. A girl in tight jeans and a tube top writhes in the sand. He licks his lips.
“Surely you don’t find her as interesting as me.” I pretend to be offended.
He shrugs off his shirt, slips a hand into his pants in response.
I grab the remote and shut off the TV. He laughs and removes his hand from his pants, placing it on my smooth stomach and sliding it slowly towards my cunt.
“I love it when you’re angry. The sex is so much hotter.” He caresses my slippery lips.
“You just like to be in control.” I swirl my hips to force his fingers deeper.
“I just like to see you squirm.” He slides his other hand back into his pants. I loosen his belt and unzip his fly as he plays with both of us, pausing briefly to move to one side and pull his pants down completely. He is sunk deep in my couch, wearing only his boxers and his pants in a heap around his smart Italian loafers. I stand, bend to remove his shoes, facing away from him.
And that’s when he slides his fingers deep into my willing cunt and pleasures me gently. I fumble his laces and finally get his shoes and pants off, knees wobbling.
“You like that, don’t you?” he whispers, twisting and turning his fingers inside me, pumping his cock beneath his boxers, slowly pulling it out of the fabric. I can see its pink head between my Jell-o legs.
“God, yeah,” I whisper hoarsely.
“Slut,” he hisses, enjoying every minute.
“Tease,” I hiss back.
He takes his cue, withdrawing his finger and slapping my ass. I stand quickly, the blood rushing to my head, as he gets to his feet and slides off his boxers in one swift movement. And in a flash he has my tits to the wall, legs spread, his cock pressing deep within.
“You love it, don’t you?” he breathes into my ear. “You love it when I nail you to the wall.”
“I love it more when you tie me up.” I moan softly as his cock glides in and out, in and out. He pinches my nipples and I cry out.
“Say it,” he commands.
“Fuck me harder,” I breathe.
“Say it!”
“Fuck my brains out!”
And he does.
