The Firefighter's Ball

She would drive herself down on him with a rhythm like a jungle drum, and he could see her quiver with each thrust. She would reach the base, their pubic hair would mingle, and she would grind herself against him. She began to breathe rapidly in a series of short, high gasps in and uneven sighs out. He reached back and kneaded her buttocks, which little more than filled his big, rough hands.

She was relentless. He felt like there was nothing he could do to resist this onslaught, and she was completely in control. He was being fucked! And he wasn't sure if he liked it or not. And God, she was fierce. She rode his cock up and down with a wild, intense look in her eyes, and it was as if she were in another world, a world of crazy animal rutting, as if she had never had anything else in mind to do but fuck and fuck and fuck.

And she had an amazing ability to squeeze him inside her. Unbelievable, he thought. It's like she's giving a blow job with her other lips. Aside from the exquisite pleasure she was giving him, he felt a sensation growing in his nether regions he'd never felt before. It was a kind of vibration, a warm tickle that surged along his rod. It was like the electricity that buzzed and crackled up and down the apparatus in Frankenstein's laboratory. He was on the verge of a monstrous orgasm.

"OH!! GOD!! BABY!!" he bellowed.

"GOD DAMN IT!!" she snarled back at him. "CALL ME MA'AM!!"

16.

There was a forgotten towel behind the shed that housed the pool supplies, and he dried himself off as best he could. The people whose pool it was had no reaction to his splashing and cursing and the barking of that damn dog. He had dived under when he spotted the Rottweiler, and had swum under him towards the ladder, then clambered out and up onto the shed roof. His shuriken was in that pool, he realized. It's not going well, he told himself. But I'm close. Soon the interloper will face the wrath of Norbert Puffer. She will see who is worthy of her, and then - then, she will be mine. Oh, yes, she will be mine!

He let the damn dog bark its head off and used the pool shed to climb up on the roof of the house. It was an easy jump to the roof next door, and he landed like a cat. He began a search for the best way down to the ground, or perhaps a skylight. Sadly, his wet shoes could get no purchase on the steep roof and, arms windmilling, he slid inexorably toward the edge and dropped into a hedge.

Painfully, he extricated himself from the sharply-manicured hedge, and looked around for the dog. Nowhere. And it had stopped barking. Fine. Now to get into the house. He unbuttoned his back pocket and pulled out his lock-picking kit. The back door, I think. Heh heh heh. Oh, yes, she will be mine...

17.

He had passed out. He remembered watching her consume him over and over and over, heard her begin to utter a stream of the filthiest observations and suggestions and promises he'd ever heard, even in the Boy Scouts, had felt the impending orgasm of cataclysmic proportions that would soon, he knew, come crashing down come rippling, radiating out in waves of warmth from his balls to envelop and wrack his whole body with spasms of an exquisite agony of indescribable pleasure, actually felt the kickback from the explosive white-hot surge that rocketed from his throbbing cock, saw her, with every millimeter of him buried inside her, freeze for a moment with a look of delighted smugness on her face that said she knew what she had done to him. Then she had begun the endgame.

Up and down she slammed herself, faster now but at a steady pace, thrusting, pounding, driving, impaling herself again and again. He matched her rhythm; he clutched her thighs, her hips, her ass; he passed his hands across her belly, her bouncing breasts; he fingered her perineum. By now the best that she could manage was "fuh... fuh... fuh... fuh... fuh..." and she grabbed her nipples and pinched them.

He raised his hips about six inches off the bed. A paroxysm shook her, from tilted-back head to curled toes, her eyes fluttered closed, and a feral scream, low, guttural, like a tigress, tore loose from her throat. Tears of ecstasy welled up in her eyes, and a torrent of wetness gushed down his penis and soaked his groin and hips. "NEVER... STOP... FUCKING... ME!!" she demanded, in a voice like the little girl in The Exorcist.

Despite his best efforts, however, his penis felt that it had done its bit and now, wanting a nap, it had started to go soft. But this she-beast was having none of it. She slid herself up and down him a few more times, and she seemed to be giving every iota of her focus to the squeezing and releasing action. She was grunting and growling and making gorilla noises. She was entirely unwilling to let it go. He could see her labia prolapsing around his cock. Oh Christ, he realized. It's like she's milking it! That's about the time that the white area had begun to crowd into his peripheral vision and rush to fill his field of view.

* * * * * * *

He woke up to her face above his, and he smiled to see the look of grave concern there. "Are you okay?" she asked, and dabbed at his forehead with a damp washcloth. She made him sit up and put his head down.

He grinned sheepishly. "I passed out? Huh. Well, no wonder. God, you're incredible. How do you do that? That squeezy thing?"

Her tough persona returned. "Oh yeah, you like that, don't you, you little slut?!" she answered, and pinched his nipples hard. "Say it!"

"I like it! (Ow.) But how --?"

"I do my Kegels every day."

"Who's Mike Eggles?"

She was overcome with harp glissandos. It's not that it was particularly funny, or that she was laughing at his mistake. It was the look on his face; he so sincerely wanted to kick Mike Eggles' ass. She explained it to him, and then her face lit up like an angel as she said, "Hey, let's go for a swim. My neighbors won't mind; they're out of town. Come on. We'll go thru the back."

18.

He must have gotten turned around, disoriented somehow, in his run for the tree, losing his sense of which house was hers. So that wasn't her house whose roof he'd leapt to. So it belonged to the insomniac redneck who was cleaning his shotgun. Look, anybody could make a mistake. He limped a bit now that the buckshot had peppered his thigh. He was going to need a new pair of Dockers. But he was nearly there.

Still no sign of the dog. And for the love of Pete, the front door wasn't even locked.

He silently opened and shut the door, limped in, and stood for a long moment in the dark, every nerve alert. They must be sleeping together, he deduced. Well, soon he'll rue the day. They'll both rue the day, he decided. Nobody pulls this kind of betrayal on a Puffer. He pulled the collapsible baton out of his sock. A Shawn Eckhardt Special, he thought grimly, referring to the guy who'd used a similar model to whack Nancy Kerrigan across the knees on behalf of Tonya Harding. Norbert suspected that it was a hatchet job by the liberal media, but had learned not to say so.

His eyes having adjusted to the dark, he thought, he crept on cat-feet across the carpet and searched for the bedroom. He found a guestroom, but the bed was covered with Christmas crap. Negative.

Uh-huh. Linen closet.

Okay, no, that's the bathroom. Really wet in here.

Must be in here.

He extended the baton. Target acquired.

He flung the door open and sprang into the room. There! He raised the baton above his head and brought it down with all his strength. It made a satisfying thwump. He slammed it into the bed again and again, laughing maniacally. Then he thought of something. In all the mercenary magazines and RPGs, this makes a 'sickening, wet sound.' Not 'thwump.' Never 'thwump.' He stopped. He crossed back to the door. He flipped on the light.

No one. Disheveled bedclothes, discarded undergarments, a wet washcloth. He said "poop" under his breath and, in a fit of pique, hurled the baton away. It spun under the bed. He realized a ninja could leave no evidence behind, and besides, it cost him 80 bucks. He said "poop" out loud and got down on his knees to reach under the bed. It was then that he heard, from behind him, the low, deep, angry growl of the extremely territorial Mr. Pemberton.

19.

She had brought a cold bottle of cheap champagne out with them, and he popped the cork as they snuggled in the neighbors' hot tub. He sat above the main bubble jets, and she sat in front of him, and they collided softly as they drifted about. With one arm behind her, she played with his dick, which obligingly stirred and stiffened. He poured two glasses, handed her one, and resumed exploring the periphery of her areolae.

He stopped.

"Who told you to stop, Cowboy?"

"Sh, sh. Listen a second. Do you hear a dog?"

THE END