Monica's Wet Hot Revenge

"Mo," he said, setting the bags aside, "what a pleasant surprise. But, I hate to tell you, you missed the old flotilla. They pushed off maybe an hour ago."

"That's okay," she said, wanting to stand closer but sensing it was too soon, "I, um. I actually came to see you."

"Oh. Well. I figured you might—hell, I kind of hoped you would, to be honest. I heard what happened, of course. I hope you're wearing those just because it's a bright day and not because that little shit gave you a shiner."

With great delicacy, so his eyes could savor her every move, she reached up and slid the sunglasses from her face. She asked him how she looked.

"Overall, you look great. In the brow area...maybe a little like Rocky."

"That's what a girl wants to hear," she said, fishing for him to go further.

"Just the brow area," he said, stepping closer, removing his own sunglasses, "the rest of your face is still just as stunning as ever. If that's not too bold of me."

"Actually, it's not quite bold enough."

"Ye—wha—huh? What's that?"

"Look, Mr. Sullivan. I'm just going to be honest here. Declan and I are over. That's...how it is. I guess I figured I could either wallow in it as something sad or choose to look for the silver lining. I mean, the positive way to look at losing your job is supposed to be that it's a perfect opportunity to try something new, right?"

"Sure, I've heard that."

"Maybe not just new. Maybe something...a little bigger. Something that's going to challenge you in new and unexpected ways."

She looked him up and down, thinking once again that they just didn't make men like this anymore. She made a mental note that whether or not this all worked out as planned, she needed to look at jobs in Texas. She didn't have a cowboy fetish per say, but presented with this visual feast, she understood at once why the rugged frontiersman was a stock romance character. It almost felt like seeing Batman or Indiana Jones in real life—two of her earliest crushes, incidentally.

"Yeah, I don't understand why he'd...or how...I mean, he's a smart kid, but some of his choices I just will never understand. You've seen the frosted tips pictures from middle school, right? This is like that times a thousand. Anyway. Goddamn, it is another soupy one out here, huh? I don't know about you, but I think we'd better continue this talk inside. I'm pretty sure one of those knuckleheads brought lemonade."

"Sure, thanks. I couldn't have said it any better myself, it's so, so, so hot out here." She said, holding his eyes until he turned and beckoned her to follow him.

He handed her the lemonade and drained off his glass in a gulp. She watched the workings of his throat, wanting to feel its scratch and hear its sandpapery hiss along her thigh. He regarded her for a moment as he set his glass on the counter behind him.

"So," he said, toweling off his face, avoiding her eyes, obviously a little uncomfortable, "reckon I should get a shirt, then."

Her hand shot to his forearm as he moved. It was warm and sticky, his hairs exquisite and ticklish against her palm.

"Or...not." She said, stepping close to him.

"Mo, are you...what are you doing?" he asked, not turning toward her but not moving to avoid her either, "what's going on here?"

"I'm not here to talk, Mr. Sullivan. As much as I love talking to you. I'm here because this is the last chance we're ever going to have to do what we both know we've wanted to do all along. After today, I might never see you again. And you were always so sweet, so helpful and funny and charming. I guess...in a way, you're everything I wish Declan was."

She pressed her breasts into the meat of his arm, her brain fluttering at the contact. She became aware of a sudden, though still vague, throbbing alertness between her thighs.

"Look, Mo, I don't know if this is really something—"

"Mr. Sullivan," she said, amazed at her own calmness, at that uncanny sense of inevitability, "here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to pull down your pants. I'm going to kneel down right here and play with your cock until it gets big and hard. And then I'm going to put it between these lips," she leaned up to his ear to whisper, "right here, and I'm going to suck it until it gets even bigger and harder and slicker. And then..."

"No, this is...what would Declan think, I mean—"

"Oh my god, Mr. Sullivan. You're getting harder already. Feel my hand there? It's like your trying to push it away with your dick. But I don't really think that's what you want to do. Declan cheated on me. He lost this. He doesn't get to have this anymore. But you...you're a good person. You take amazing care of yourself. You deserve my body. You deserve to feel what I can do with it. When I'm feeling extra...creative...and motivated...like I am right now."

He pushed past her and stood by the refrigerator, his mouth a small circle of disbelief. He tossed his cowboy hat on the table and looked to her. He started to say something, then stopped. After a moment, he seemed to collect himself. His eyes moved up her and down her again.

"All right," he said, nodding profusely, "all right. I'm a sweaty mess, Mo. While your offer is more than generous...I can't exactly...just...hell, I don't know. I'm gonna take a shower."

With that he turned and disappeared through the doorway. Mo leaned over the island Mr. Sullivan had built in the kitchen as the shower sputtered to life. The island, built the previous summer, still had that sweet new wood smell. She wished she could gasp it in as he took her in those huge, irresistible hands and pressed against her and fucked her from behind. Maybe this was going to be more difficult than she thought. Maybe she had made a mistake after all. Maybe this wasn't fair to do to Mr. Sullivan—she'd never even taken his feelings into account. Maybe—

"Mo," he said, peering around the doorframe, "you coming in or what?"

-4-

In the humid cabin (she'd long ago learned that Air Conditioning wasn't 'a thing' in these parts), the shower's steam had already filled the bathroom, creating the sensation a warm but oddly refreshing cloud. Monica began to undress, allowing the grin she could no longer suppress to take form in the rolling cloud cover. She had been in this bathroom so many times—in truth, she had even masturbated in this very shower to the thought of taking a shower with Mr. Sullivan—yet in this context it felt alien and dreamlike and gloriously unpredictable. She had no sooner slid away her shorts than a large unseen hand took hers and guided her toward the hot, pounding water.

Mr. Sullivan had opened the window accessible from the shower, giving the steam an escape hatch that enhanced visibility, but only a bit. His broad, imposing form towered over her, powerful and irresistible in a way Declan could never be. This was the first time, she realized, that she could honestly say she felt like she was naked not with a boy pretending to be a man but with a real man. Her eyes slipped again and again between his legs but the thin veneer of steam prevented her from getting a good sense of whether the stories were true.

"Funny how good a hot shower feels on a hot day, isn't it?" he said.

"Especially when you have someone to share it with," she said, moving to him and, with a small but audible moan, allowing her fingers to explore the body they had ached for so long to know.

"This is so crazy," he said, his voice conspiratorial and gritty and, Monica thought, hungry.

"Crazy is supposed to be like one step from genius, isn't it? Or...maybe it's more like one thrust?" she said, and on her tiptoes she kissed him.

The first kiss felt stolen, rushed, like submerging in a cold pool just to get the shock of it over with. His thumbs came to rest on her shoulders, slid up to her jawline, lifted her face to his like handfuls of water discovered in a barren, sunburnt landscape. They twisted together, teeth clicking to keep the rhythm of their long-imprisoned desire's rough urgency. That was how he kissed, rough, then gentle, then rough again, and she relished the sensation of being in the grip of a massive and inescapable animal toying with a morsel of exceedingly delicious prey.

Monica fought the urge to reach for the fat appendage she knew must be there, waiting for her, to be all hers, for an entire afternoon. If this was only going to happen once, she wanted to savor it as much as she could, so she busied her hands with kneading his wide back and round, muscular ass. Large hands brushed her water-laden hair from her neck and his lips were on her earlobe, then a teasing pinch of teeth. He made his way down her neck and before she knew it he was latched to one nipple and then the other, his hands passing the length of her back and gripping her waist with a firmness that brought immediate engorgement to everything between her legs.

Everything from her pussy lips to her ovaries seemed to light up as if a switch had been tripped. With real concern, she realized he hadn't even so much as brushed her clit yet. She knew then that she would not be able to hold back long, and that meant she had to brace herself for a day of repeated and uncontrollable eruptions of pleasure.

He spun her so the water beat on her back as he kissed his way down her ribs, lingering on the curve of her hip, then down the outside of her left leg, until he was on all fours kissing her foot. She laughed and lost her hands in his shaggy brown and gray hair as his lips and tongue crept up the inside of her left leg, slowing their advance as they reached her mid-thigh.

"Oh, fuck, Mr. Sullivan," she whined as he made only a glancing pass over her freshly-trimmed mound and made his way down her right leg.

This time, just as he kissed the inside ball of her ankle, he returned to a kneeling position and with shocking strength, his hands took the backs of her thighs and lifted her so that she straddled the tub, one foot planted against the wall and the other against the sliding glass door, spreading her legs wide in the process. Her gasp turned into a loud, low, quavering moan, a sound she thought she may have only heard before in guitar solos, as he held her back against the wall beneath the showerhead, his brilliant cerulean eyes finding hers through the ribbons and plumes of sticky vapor as his lower lip, then his top, then his tongue introduced themselves to the slick bubblegum pebble splayed through its famished pink draperies before him.

She watched, her jaw locked forward, her fingernails rooting in his hair as his eyes disappeared beneath and the next sign of him was his wide tongue and wonderful, scalding breath tracing a zig-zag path up the length of her electrified twat. She braced her hands against the wall and shower door, pressing into them so she wouldn't pitch forward, pinched her eyes shut and threw her face up to the rushing water, loving the feel of it down her collarbones and flexed stomach as his head popped back into view and the firm tip of his tongue worshipped her needful bud in authoritative, circular passes before criss-crossing her folds back down to press up into her opening.

Big guy, big tongue, Monica figured, her toes squeaking on the edges of the tub as they furled and unfurled with his masterful feasting. She wasn't sure how much longer she could stand such a comprehensive and confident oral survey of her desperate cunt. She swore and twitched and writhed against the walls and pounded her small fist against the shower door as he lathed her again and again, all the while holding her in his gentle but powerful grip, the sight and delicious sensation of his thumbs pressing her thighs apart bringing her near to the edge of release.

Then he was standing before her, his eyes narrow and glassy, his angular jaw flexing as he surveyed his quarry, one hand instructing her chin to kiss him while the other hand continued massaging the edges of her tingling gash. When he released her lips she hurried to get the words out.

"I need to suck your cock," she said, loving that every word was true.

"Okay," he whispered, smiling at the sight of her working jaw and eyebrows, her facial muscles conducted by his deft and hungry (yet tortuously patient) touch, "Monica, you have the most beautiful little pussy I've ever seen in my life. You even taste beautiful. You know that?"

Her answer was to push him away and feast the flesh of her palms and fingertips on the twin pillars of his legs. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes.

"Holy fucking fuck," was all she could say.

"Yeah, that's a common reaction. Just...take your time. We have all day, after all."

Monica's family had once visited the Grand Canyon. Her sister had insisted they go out on the sky-walk, a clear glass floor looking straight down thousands of feet into the majestically hewn stone below. Mr. Sullivan's dick now tied that vista as the most frightening and beautiful thing she'd ever seen. The enormity of both was beyond her mind's grasp. Beholding such a penis was like trying to think about the concept of infinite. The more she hesitated, the more daunting the task before her seemed. So, with a quick crack of her neck and swivel of her jaw from side to side, she took his half-erect rolling pin in her hand and began to apply slow, twisting strokes. She actually had to slide further back from him as he came to full attention, and to her wonderment she realized that she could fit both of her hands—pinky-over-thumb—between his tight purple scrotum and his oozing purple knob.

The low rumble of his groans caused his abs to flex and vibrate, coaxing another wave of pleasure from what Monica suspected was her very core, the indefinable point at which flesh and soul cannot be distinguished. In spite of herself she giggled a little, feeling dwarfed by such a gigantic male organ. She felt drunk on the power to coax involuntary sounds and spasms from such a huge, imposing man, a man with the physique and effortless confidence of some ancient warrior. She was pretty sure she'd jumped off diving boards with the dimensions and springiness of Mr. Sullivan's infamous cock.

She remembered with a dizzying rush the entire reason she was doing this. It was true, in a way, that she was using Mr. Sullivan, and she did not like that. But they were both in for one of the most unforgettable afternoons of their lives, the fuck-train had left the station and there was no retreating now. The huge dick calmly and matter-of-factly fucking her mouth in the shower helped reattach her to reality, to stop marveling in awe of her own deviousness and unimpeachable sex goddess status, but also to remember that she wanted to focus on the moment. She was almost positive she could not possibly take his entire length into her mouth at one time. Yet, all at once, glancing way up at his tight expression of satisfaction, seeing his jaw work the way she knew hers had just reacted to his skillful mouth, seeing the flex of every striation of muscle and the pop of every vein in his fine-tuned stallion body, she found she had to know if it was possible.

The feeling of him slipping over her tongue and the roof of her mouth at the same time sent a fresh cascade through her pelvic region, lighting her up like an airfield at night—and in her mouth he felt not unlike a wingless jumbo jet. She watched his eyes flutter shut as his tip passed over the back of her tongue and filled her face with hot, hard dick. She took him as far down as she could manage, gagging and sputtering as she swiveled her head and drew a sharp grunt from his tree trunk torso. Her fingernails raked down the slabs of his stomach as she dislodged him from her throat, and he hauled her to her feet as she wiped away reflexive tears. He kissed her again, and whispered that they'd better fuck soon or he was going to cum right in her mouth. She told him not to lose that thought, but agreed that it was time to get down to the main course of this feast of illicit ecstasies.

She killed the shower and he carried her across his arms, like he was the monster in an old horror movie, into the hallway. Her eye swept past Declan's room, the room where just two days before he had dumped her, had told her that he was fucking her friend, that he had been fucking her behind Monica's back for quite some time, and she remembered that this was, after all, about revenge. By design, of course, it was a revenge in which she had and would continue to push the limits of pleasure. She knew exactly what she wanted to do next.

"Mr. Sullivan, I've always had a fantasy about you fucking me on the kitchen table," she said, and before she could finish the sentence he was stomping across the room with such urgency the coffee mugs rattled in the cabinet over the sink.

"Get it off, just swipe it," he said, holding her at the perfect height to knock everything clattering to the floor.

She giggled, feeling like she was in a love scene from some cheesy '90s flick. She cooed as the cool wood kissed her ass, her shoulders, and then she was wrapping her legs around his hulking shoulders (possibly tying the eyes as her favorite of his features...well, maybe tying for second place) as he knelt to ensure she was as lubricated as possible to accept the silky skin-wrapped sequoia tree between his legs. Monica squeezed the edges of the table, the unfinished underside rough and splintery under her fingertips, presenting a glorious contrast to the scalding wetness Mr. Sullivan tortured with his tongue and tugged at with his lips. She looked up at the lazy pattern of the ceiling fan, its wind covering her dripping body in goosebumps and turning her nipples into pinched pink electrodes with which she occupied her fingers.

Then Mr. Sullivan was standing over her, positioning her hips over the edge of the table, belting her waist with his big, coarse hands, laying the underbelly of his massiveness along her slit and grunting softly as he slipped up and down in her wetness, patting her raging clit with his heavy, weeping tip. He left his cock lying on her and it crept hot and slick up to her navel as he leaned forward and sucked her into another savage kiss.

"I'll go slow," he promised, pushing up and chambering his hips.

She held his eyes as the pressure came at her sopping hole. She sucked the humid air between her teeth as the tip breached her, her fingers shooting to the exquisite topography of his upper back, locking her ankles around his waist and giving subtle pressure, encouraging him to proceed deeper. She had never put anything in her pussy to cause such unknown stretching, and the sensation was both aching and delicious. She allowed her eyes to close and her head to lie back on the table. He stopped.

"Wow," she managed, "you're really, really big."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm...more than okay, just..."

"I'll go slow, and maybe this...would be a good idea," he said, making artful circles on her clit with his thumb.

"Oh, fuck, Mr. Sullivan," she said.

"That's...that's a little over half," he said, "let's just...ease in..."

He withdrew almost completely, then reentered her gradually. The sensation of fullness reached all the way up into her abdomen, and his size was such that pleasure and pain became indistinguishable. By and by, he quickened his thrusts and through her moans and the steady clack of the table against the wall, she adjusted to him, until the pressure inside her began to undulate around its edges into a new kind of pleasure. His dick was too much and yet not enough. She held fast to his shoulders, his neck, clawed at his flexing chest, kissed him as hard and rough as she wanted him to fuck her.

Soon both were panting and moaning with total abandon, lost in the wonders of one another's bodies. He looked so happy—she could tell he was trying his best to give a great performance, and she had to bite back the natural instinct toward a fresh depth of affection for her unbridled stallion. She could not afford to feel with her emotions, only with her nerves, and soon she didn't need to hold this thought in her head because she could hold no thoughts in her head. Everything was rising and tightening and gearing up to...