Alpha Male Laborer Of Lust! Page 3

  And he did.

  He sank his cock deep inside her.

  Rilke moaned hard with the first rush of ecstasy that hit her as his meaty dick entered her ravenous pussy. The utter flood of stimulation of having a real live penis inside her, after so long a time of doing without, shocked her taut body with a vaginal spasm. It felt like a wrenching climax without the pleasurable satisfaction of an out-and-out orgasm.

  He reached up and grabbed a handful of Rilke’s hair—the universal signal that rough sex is about to begin. Rilke braced for the satisfying slam of long hard cock but it didn’t happen. He gave her a half-hearted thrust that barely teased her pussy. She was starting to go slightly insane.

  Sir was being cautious not to injure Rilke. He feared bashing his hips into her tender red-bruised ass. Rilke didn’t buy it. She wanted slamming cock and plenty of it. She violently threw her ass toward his weak thrust. He countered by wrapping his huge fist around the middle of his cock to block her sore cheeks from plowing into his hip bones.

  In reality, the only thing it accomplished was further frustrating Rilke.

  This infuriated her to no end. She viciously swung her elbow behind her to knock Sir’s block off—forgetting about her restraints. Amazingly the stocking that tethered her wrist to the bed came free. He hadn’t tied the loose end to anything at all. He simply tucked it under the mattress. The stocking-bonds were just a costume prop. Rilke had liked the idea of being tied up so much she hadn’t attempted to get free.

  The whole thing caught Sir off balance. Rilke scrambled to turn the tables to her advantage. The next thing he knew he was flat on his back in bed with Rilke on top.

  His cock had slipped out of her pussy and Rilke quickly fix that. She reached between her legs and grasped his mammoth hardon—which seemed even harder than before if that’s possible—and triumphantly guided it into her slit, sneering down in Sir’s face all the while.

  She wriggled her ass in the air, with the head of his erect penis just inside her pussy and leaned over him. Looking him square in the face she entwined her fingers in his and grasped his hands pinning him to the mattress.

  He called her a dirty slut.

  “’Fraid not, Bitch!” Rilke told him, “I’m riding the Slut.”

  Then she jutted her chin out and gritted her teeth and slammed her ass downwards with all her weight and tight-sleeved the entire length of his enormous cock into her foaming hot pussy and commenced some real power-fucking. “Yes!” she screamed with a satisfying shout.

  Sir threw back his head and arched his back as if he’d just been shocked with paddles from a defib cart. He was overcome with Rilke’s passionate expertise as she treated him like her own personal fuck-toy.

  She rode his shaft hard like a woman possessed.

  Rilke fervently strove toward victorious climax.

  With eyes closed and her mouth opened slackly, she gathered herself for the final downward thrust that would propel her sex-starved body over the edge into a thundering waterfall of orgasm—when Sir suddenly leaped up off the bed and flung Rilke up against the wall by her arms.

  He held her there, by their entwined fingers, and pinned her high against the wall with her arms flung out from her shoulders.

  He was no longer inside her.

  Rilke screamed like a demented arch-villainess who suddenly realizes the hard-fought vengeance she sought over her superhero rival—which only a moment ago seemed so assured—was hereby denied. Foiled again!

  “In my entire life I’ve never let a woman top me in bed,” he stated, looking up at her face, “and I ain’t gonna start now!”

  “Fuck!” Rilke exclaimed, stuck to wall. She felt like a helpless bug caught in a web.

  Sir had Rilke’s navel right in his face. He licked it and she moaned—woefully. God, she hated his guts! He’d done it again! He’d gotten her all revved up then left her hanging–literally!

  Now, once again, he worked his magic. Licking her belly button, nibbling her abs, nuzzling her cleavage, kissing her breasts—Oh my! —Rilke was slowly being lowered down the wall as Sir gradually controlled her descent and obliquely teased her body with his teeth, tongue and lips.

  He tongued her nipples just as the lips of her dripping pussy surrounded the tip of his fully engorged cockhead. Rilke trembled in mid-air. Pinned to the wall by Sir’s strong arms, and tender parts, she was putty in his hands.

  This sadistic motherfucker was going to finish her off this time for sure. She was hell-bent on getting well and truly fucked or she’d die trying. Either way she was going to kill this man with her bare hands if she ever got the chance.

  Sir lowered her onto his throbbing manhood as he kissed her neck. Rilke lifted her chin high and held it away from him avoiding his attempts to put his mouth on hers. He kissed under her chin and let her down another inch on his shaft.

  Rilke gasped involuntarily as Sir twitched hard as his cock slowly welled-up inside her. Their faces were now aligned and she could no longer deny him putting his mouth on hers. She gave up trying. She waited for it. She longed for it. She wanted the taste of his tongue in her mouth. She wanted to feel him probing her slick tongue with forceful urgency while firmly pressing his mouth to her lips—that’s what she wanted now.

  But that’s not what happened.

  Sir peppered Rilke with sweet little kisses but steered clear of her mouth. Was he deliberately being affectionate ironically? Fuck that!

  Rilke clamped her mouth on his and shoved her tongue down his throat. She wrapped her long legs around his lean hips and locked her ankles behind his back—forcing him to feed her needy pussy all of his lust-nourishing cock. She curled her butt away from the wall, as though she were mimicking stomach crunches, hungrily devouring every inch of his dick with fervent machine-like thrusts.

  Rilke had to admit, if she were being honest with herself, that she loved every bit of his Alpha-Male persona. But, as she said before, he played his redneck games too far. As her vengeful cunt made figurative mincemeat out of his raging hard-on, one way or another—despite the fact they were both actually vertical–this Alpha-Male was sure as hell getting topped!

  They each drove their hips hard into each other while sucking face like maniacs. They finally parted to come up for air and stayed nose to nose, eyes inches apart, defiantly staring each other down.

  Rilke was schooling this motherfucking stud muffin not to mess with a sex-starved female. She set her jaw, and narrowed her eyes, and looked so far into his soul she could see his Inner Bitch; that tiny miniscule part of his unadulterated masculinity that secretly wanted to be topped—just once—to set the mark.

  If his limits were never tested how could they know he wasn’t just an infantile asshole with a pathological need for total control? Rilke could well be the ‘exception that proved the rule’ as she topped him and thus seal their fate as soulmates forever.

  She was positively fucking his brains out.

  Rilke didn’t blink as she ferociously rocked her hips onto his. She suddenly came like thunder, drenching his crotch with a G-Spot gusher, but she wasn’t done yet. He lost his pudding inside her and sank to his knees on the floor, taking Rilke with him as she slid down the wall.

  Rilke kept bucking her hips into his with a scissors-sister twist, churning out ‘O’s’ like she was rolling a hoop, with Sir’s big spent dick mindlessly twitching inside her vagina.

  Brock was too much of an Alpha-Male to openly admit he’d gotten topped, but, as Rilke got her last few orgasms, they both knew she’d gotten the best of him—in every way imaginable.

  Brock wrapped his arms around Rilke’s fine body and held her close and kissed her the way she had longed to be kissed as he picked her up and laid her on the bed and tenderly made out with her until his cock was once again hard. Then he made love to her the old fashion way. Slow and easy. Like he meant it. And Rilke was sure he did.

  Rilke didn’t want to think too deeply about what had happened between them—the whole thing jus
t felt right. She’d only known this lowly laborer a few hours—and what she did know of him had ‘Trouble’ written all over it—but in her heart of hearts she knew she was hopelessly in love. Damn these Alpha-Males!

  Brock got dressed and said he had to finish his job digging in the backyard or Rilke’s landlord would be fit to be tied. Then he told her to, ”get your lazy ass out of bed and into that kitchen. Fix your man something to eat.”

  Rilke didn’t mind the idea of cooking for ‘her man’—and she told him so—but she wanted to soak in a warm bath for a few minutes and soothe her aching butt first.

  “Stop thinking about yourself all the time,” he told her. “The time to worry about your sore ass was when you were getting spanked. I let you call the shots. You let stubbornness get the best of you when you should’ve just ended it. Deal with it. Now do as I say, right now, and get your ass into that kitchen.”

  Rilke felt herself getting turned on all over again. “Yes, Sir,” she said. She threw on an oversized T-shirt, which barely covered her ass, over her naked body and went out to the kitchen.

  Brock told her, “And another thing… you can stop this whole ‘Sir’ business. I got my point across. I’m the Boss of you. You will do as I say, when I say it, and you’ll smile without giving me any lip.”

  “Yes, Brock,” Rilke told him. She couldn’t believe it herself but she loved the sound of his stern voice when he ordered her around.

  Brock softened up at her obvious compliance. “After you’ve fed me, I’ll bathe you myself,” he told her. “Your ass is mine now and I take good care of what’s mine. But my needs come first. Get busy fixing my grub.” He gave her a deep kiss to tide her over and went outside.

  Not long ago Rilke had loved to cook. That’s how she met her Ex. They were both chefs. They’d gotten married and opened a restaurant together. Her Ex ran the kitchen as the head chef and Rilke got shuffled aside. She had a lot to keep her busy dealing with the wait staff and suppliers and finances, etc., and she rarely cooked after that.

  When the business collapsed, because of her husband’s thieving ways, he ruined her reputation by blaming their failure on her poor cooking skills and fiscal incompetence. Then he ran off with her best friend and they opened another restaurant and left her holding the bag. Rilke never wanted to see the inside of a kitchen ever again.

  Rilke hadn’t felt like cooking at all after that. She barely cooked anything for herself nowadays as she kept to a strict health-food diet.

  The desire to please Brock revitalized her chef’s sensibilities. She wanted to knock his socks off with an amazing culinary creation. The only problem was she had next to nothing in her pantry. She couldn’t very well feed him egg whites and whey protein isolate, which was about all she had on hand.

  Rilke paused to consider her meager options when suddenly her landline phone rang.

  “Shit!” She thought. “That’s going to be the office bitching me out for missing the walk-through.” Rilke was already angry with herself. If she lost her job she’d be screwed. It was just her luck to fall head over heels in love with a guy that dug ditches for a living, on the very same day she blew a million-dollar sale. “Shit!”

  “Hello,” she said into the receiver. But it wasn’t her boss calling. It was her friend Stella.

  Stella had Rilke’s cell phone. Rilke had accidentally left it with Damone after he used it to call the towing company.

  “I’d have come over to your house and dropped off the phone,” Stella said. “But I’ve been busy saving your ass.”

  It turns out that Rilke had accidentally speed-dialed Stella’s number right after the car accident. Stella called Rilke’s cell when she saw her listed as a ‘missed call’ and Damone answered. Stella went straight to where Damone and his crew were waiting for the cops to arrive because he planned to file ‘hit and run’ charges on Rilke after the run-in with Brock.

  Stella talked him out of it by agreeing to gangbang the entire crew. Stella loved sex—and especially sex with well-built black men. The gangbang was her idea. She had to talk Damone into it. He didn’t take part himself but his crew loved the idea of banging the buff, blonde, Stella. Damone agreed to Stella’s arrangement and dropped the charges.

  Obviously, after one look at Damone’s homemade trailer, Stella knew his accident complaint would get thrown out of court. That rattletrap of a trailer wasn’t street-legal. He was lucky no one got hurt or he’d have been held liable. Anyway, it was a good excuse for Stella to get laid with a bunch of handsome, studly, black men.

  “Do you have any idea who that crazy fucker you’re carrying on with is?” Stella asked Rilke. Meaning Brock, of course.

  “Who says we’re carrying on?”

  “You went down on the guy on a busy city street in broad daylight,” Stella said. “You’ll be lucky if it’s not on U-TOOB. The entire ghetto says you’re carrying on, that’s who.”

  “Shit!” Rilke said.

  “Damone got the number off the side of his truck and I called it to try to get a hold of you,” Stella said. “Guess who he is?”

  The first thing that occurred to Rilke had been that Brock was a famous porn star. He sure fucked like one. But it seemed unlikely Stella would find that out by calling the phone number from the side of his company pickup truck. “I’m stumped,” Rilke admitted.

  “B&B Infra-Construction,” Stella told her.

  “Yeah, well I know he contracts for them,” Rilke said. “He’s doing some work for my landlord. I thought you meant he was an escaped convict that stole the truck or something. What’s the big deal?”

  “No,” Stella said. “He doesn’t just work for B&B he is B&B Infra-Construction. He owns the company.”

  “What?” Rilke was stunned. B&B was a huge outfit. They built strip malls and condos all over the state. That meant Brock was rich.

  The secretary Stella talked to said that Brock liked to get out in the field and do manual labor. He believed it was a better workout than you got in a gym.

  Rilke decided to invite Stella and her traveling sex show over for a barbecue. On their way they could stop and purchase the food items for her to cook. In the meantime Rilke was going to have that badly needed bath.

  Brock had finished digging before Stella and the gang made it over with the groceries. Rilke was still soaking in the tub when he walked in on her.

  “I knew you were a stubborn Diva,” Brock said. “But I won’t stand for you directly disobeying my word. What part of ‘get in that kitchen and fix my grub’ did you not understand?”

  Before she could answer, Brock reached down and grabbed her by the hair and dragged her screaming into the kitchen.

  “Get busy!” He released her with a shove and she slid across the ceramic tile on wet feet and bumped against the fridge.

  “You bastard!” She cursed him out. She went around the kitchen opening the fridge and cabinet doors showing him her lack of food on hand. “I don’t have so much as a loaf of bread or a jar of peanut butter, you asshole!” Rilke went on to explain about Stella bringing the food. She stood there, wet, naked, and humiliated, in front of the glaring eyes of Brock. She would have been turned-on if she wasn’t so pissed.

  Brock’s expression changed from anger to understanding and Rilke realized that, actually, she was a little turned-on.

  “Woman, you better learn to communicate what’s on your mind,” Brock said, approaching her. “I had a half-a-mind to take you out back and horsewhip your uppity ass for defying me like that.” He put his arms around her and gave her a hug. “You could’ve stuck your head out back and told me you were waiting on Stella.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rilke said, contritely.

  “Your ’Sorry’ don’t fill my belly,” Brock said. “Lucky for you you’ve got my favorite appetizer ready to go.” He swept her up in a full embrace and kissed Rilke full on the lips, probing her wanton mouth with his pleasuring tongue. It would become even more pleasuring as he sat Rilke down on the kitchen count
er and went down on her tasty pussy.

  Rilke’s ass hurt as it met the unforgiving hardwood surface but its pain was soon forgotten as Brock worked his expert tongue over her welcoming clit.

  “Oh My God!” Rilke thought, as her Alpha-Man went down on her, “Is there anything as incredible as an Alpha-Man that prides himself on eating pussy!” She felt like the luckiest girl in the world. Something about the fact that Brock was eating her pussy more for his own satisfaction than for hers made her climax more easily, and more forcefully, than she’d ever climaxed before from having a guy go down on her.

  She rode his face like she was surfing an endless wave of orgasms. Brock gave her clit one final torrential flourish that split her orgasm wide open and had Rilke cumming like a tsunami in his face.

  “The great thing about pussy,” Brock whispered in her ear in the midst of an afterglow of kisses, “is it makes as good a dessert as it does an appetizer.”

  “Hmm,” Rilke responded, “in that case I’ll have to make sure you don’t fill up on dinner.”

  “I always save room for pussy,” he assured her.

  Rilke could feel Brock’s giant erection through his pants and said, “On that note, let’s head to the bedroom for a quickie.”

  Rilke was amazed at the way Brock could evoke ferocity in the midst of tenderness as he fucked her kindly. The man was incapable of a timid movement yet he could be so sweet that she wanted to cry. And it was obvious to Rilke that when he was with her, like this, so quietly, he really wanted to please her more than anything else in the world.

  Rilke was the kind of woman Brock could open up to without diminishing himself in any way. In her presence he wasn’t some cartoon superhero alpha-male—he was a man of many parts. All of which were life affirming in their own triumphant way. Her femininity alloyed with his toughness. It was just the thing he needed to complement his transcendent masculinity. She acceded to his manifest arrogance because she understood him through and through. He ruled.

  And Rilke obeyed.

  And it felt so right—so very, very, right.