I firmly believe the only reason a man contemplates committing suicide is he thinks he’ll never, ever get pussy again. Or, in the case of suicide bombers, it’s the only way they ever will get pussy.
In either case, it still comes down to a man’s need to stick his cock in the almighty babymakin’ diva between a lady’s thighs. You can take any reason for a man’s suicide and whittle away at it until you get to the core, and you will find the heart of the matter is actually the pussy of the matter.
This is what I hollered at the guy clinging to the huge concrete pylon on the Talmedge Bridge as the worst thunderstorm in Palmer County’s history pounded us good.
“Jesus Christ, lady!” he yelled into the gale force wind. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He glanced beneath him at the churning brown waves and pressed his face hard against the pylon, grimacing through his chattering teeth. The Lamina River is not what one would call clean; it’s almost too polluted to call dirty. One more bowel movement and it would be pure evil. I sure wouldn’t want my last drink of water to be the brown sludge comprised of two thousand different kinds of filth from the intestines of our local citizens.
“Whatever’s troublin’ you,” I yelled back, “is really nothing more than a terrible fear of never getting anymore pussy.”
He looked at me like I was crazy. Maybe I was. Suddenly, he collapsed against the pylon and sobbed.
“Oh God,” he wept, “I’m a fucking monster.”
Ah ha! Now we were getting somewhere. My nipples hardened. The sooner he saved himself, the sooner I could bathe my tang machine in the warmth of his cum instead of the cold of this blasted unseasonable rain.
“Go on,” I urged, my pussy throbbing and the cold rain stinging my skin.
“I-I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, you know?”
He pleaded for understanding. I nodded.
“But my dad was so sick and we didn’t have any money ... ” he broke into a sob, his tears mixing with the rain.
His pain touched me. I’d seen it before. I caressed my breasts, my desire heightened by my empathy for a kindred, tortured soul.
I stepped toward him, slowly. I’d worn my white camp shirt sans bra hoping the rain would soak me, turning the brilliant white cloth translucent. I was not disappointed, and, from the intensity of his gaze, he wasn’t either.
“What’s your name?” I questioned him, although I already knew it. I edged closer.
“Jacob,” he said over the roar of the rain.
“I’m Mitzi,” I shouted.
Jacob had a nice build, including strong arms that held him to the pylon and a nice ass covered in wet, heavy jeans. I could see the bulge in the front of his pants, even in the pouring rain. I wanted to beg him to remove the restrictive clothing and fuck me senseless, but first things first.
“I know what you’re dealing with,” I ventured carefully, hoping reminding him of his misery wouldn’t push him over the edge. His expression changed. Fear and self-loathing replaced the modicum of hope I’d seen just moments before.
“I’m a monster,” he repeated what he’d said earlier. Clearly, he believed it.
He cringed and leaned back, the pull of his demons momentarily stronger than the lure of my breasts covered in wet cloth. He took a deep breath and hugged the pylon.
A burst of wetness coated my thighs. I hugged myself, more to tame my need than to protect myself from the damp chill incited by the rain’s steady assault. I leaned into the railing, my knees weak. I couldn’t take much more.
Without ceremony, I disrobed.
Jacob squinted and his mouth fell open, as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. He scrambled along the edge of the bridge to where I stood.
My hair plastered against my face, I bent over.
Seconds later, I felt his hands knead my hips as his erection poked me in the ass. He struggled to maintain his grip on my wet flesh as I wiggled back against him, rubbing my scent on his scratchy denim crotch. To my surprise, thick fingers invaded the space between my legs, stretching me to accommodate his hard prick.
Nice gesture. I knew he was a nice guy.
The rain fell harder now. I couldn’t see, and I didn’t want to. I wanted to feel. I leaned into his fingers, riding them gently. He moved them to my hardened clit, stroking me while his cock, now free from his jeans, slid between my swollen folds. His breathing quickened.
He entered me with a groan, filling me as I gasped through my smile. He was big. I like big. I inched my thighs apart so he could ride me hard.
He started slowly at first, pushing into my tight pussy and pulling out in slow, uneven strokes. Quickly, he settled into a steady, pleasing rhythm. His balls slapped against my ass as he pounded into me, his grunts mixing with the pounding of the rain to create a special kind of music. A kind of music I could dance to all night long.
Finally, he exploded. His cum bathed my cunt in a delightful heat. As he rode his orgasm to its natural finish, I reached between my legs and fondled myself. I thrust back and forth between his rapidly deflating cock and my finger until an overload of sensation flooded my brain.
His arm around my waist, he leaned back against the bridge. I rested against him as my orgasm ebbed. I decided I would wait until the rain stopped to show him my badge. I knew it would upset him again, and I really didn’t want that. I wanted the rain to cleanse us both of our sins.
And, somehow, as he kissed my temple and held me close, it did.
Copyright © 2008 by Annabella Usher. All rights reserved.
Annabella Usher is the nom de plume of the pseudonym for an author who can’t possibly write wildly weird erotica under her pen name. “Life Saver” is actually the basis for a series of erotic novels she is currently working on. Her other published work, including novellas and short stories, has appeared online and in print under other names; in fact, you may have already read her work somewhere else. Annabella loves to hear from readers and other erotica writers, so why don’t you stop by and visit her website, http://www.annabellausher.com (under construction), or check her out on Facebook?
This is the very first writing contest she’s ever placed in, under any moniker, and she’s absolutely thrilled about it. When she’s not writing, you’ll catch her enjoying stories at Cleansheets, Lucrezia Magazine, and Ruthie’s Club.
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