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I feel his breath on my ear. “I wanna fuck you, baby. You good with that?” he asks.
Oh God yes, I want to scream. Fuck me to the moon and never bring me back, that’s how badly I want him.
But I can’t manage to speak, so I just grunt and shake my head yes.
Behind me I hear his blue jeans drop to the ground and then his hands are on my ass. In one swift movement, he slides all the way inside me.
I lose my mind.
With my head in his lap, I hang on to Matthew, squealing at the stretch of Thomas’s dick deep inside me. I feel him to the ends of my fingertips, that’s how sensitive I am, and when I’ve adjusted to the stretch, I move my hips in time to his thrusts.
“Yeah, fuck her, man,” Matthew says. I glance up to see his eyes dark as he watches me take his friend’s cock.
“Hell yeah,” I hear John say from my right, where he’s watching my pussy take a beating.
“Oh, oh, oh,” I cry, desperately trying to keep my voice down as shudders take over my body.
It’s a good thing I’m basically sandwiched between Matthew and Thomas, because I’m pretty sure my shaking legs are no longer capable of holding me up.
I hold tighter as my pussy clenches and contracts and an orgasm washes over me. Thomas keeps fucking me and I come again several times, leaving me delirious and babbling like an idiot.
I barely notice when he’s done, although I do hear some grunts over the blood rushing around my head. Either he or John pull my jeans back up and then one of them—I’m not sure who because my eyes are only slits at this point—lowers me onto his lap where he’s sitting in a chair.
I finally look up to see John’s arms around me and when I give him a weak little smile, he holds me tighter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
My phone vibrates with a call from my mother. I consider letting it go to voicemail, but swipe it open anyway. I haven’t spoken to her in a couple weeks.
Been kind of busy, yo.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Well, there’s my oldest daughter,” she sings. “It’s been so long. So long.”
I don’t respond and after she realizes I’m not taking her bait, she continues. “Honey, I was wondering if you could come home this weekend. Your father and I have a church thing Saturday night and we need you to babysit your sister.”
Nice try.
I’ve been at college for almost three years now, and my mother has always managed to find sitters for my sister, who’s now eleven, and can probably stay by herself for a few hours, anyway. I don’t even bother asking why she needs me this one time rather than calling the teenage girls in our neighborhood who are available and dying to make some money.
“Can’t do it, Mom. I have too much work to do.”
And other things.
She huffs. Another ploy to interfere with my studies. “You know, I don’t ask much of you—”
This is where I tune her out, the lecture I’ve heard all my life about everything she does for me and how I don’t do anything for her in return.
Classic. Predictable. Sad.
“Mom,” I interrupt, “I am swamped, like almost drowning here in school work. This is the worst possible time of year to pull me away from my studies. Can’t you understand that?”
Why am I asking a question I already know the answer to? She doesn’t understand because she doesn’t want to.
Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care.
On the other hand, for a moment, I actually consider that a break from this place might be nice. The old weekend trip home. Give me some time to clear my head. Stop thinking about the guys.
