Mount The Bitch

Most guys go through their entire lives dreaming of sluts that didn't really exist, Lois knew. The porn stars on magazines and television, the stories about the total nymphomaniacs that were in heat and just had to have it—pubescent fantasies. Real women weren't sluts. They had periods, boyfriends, struggled with their weight, forgot to shave...porn star sex didn't just happen. Especially not to skinny little goths like Rat, who could spend an entire night at a bar getting some plump woman with way too much eyeliner shitfaced enough to let him dumbly hump her for a few minutes.

Lois waved her pussy at his raging erection, almost daring him to accept the challenge...and she wondered what it must be like for him. She looked back over her shoulder, and the light in his eyes was like a little kid on Christmas morning. All those presents under the tree... and then she watched the light fade, as something came over him. like the person that was Rat just clocked out.

His hands reached out and grabbed her roughly by the hips. He lined up his raging hard-on with her sopping tunnel and plunged it forward in a single swift slam of his hips, burying the entire length of himself in her right up to the base.

Lois muffled a scream, biting her hand at the sudden intrusion. Too much, too fast, even as wet as she was. She hoped she wouldn't tear. More, and this worried her a little...

She hoped he wouldn't stop.

Rat drew himself back until only the head was still inside of her, leaving Lois aching at the sudden absence, then slammed it home again. The **** of it made her hips creak and her knees burn, and Lois barely had time to catch her breath before she felt him pull out—and slam his rod back home again, balls flying forward to slap against her vagina.

WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP. Lois couldn't even moan, fucked breathless as the relentless pounding fuck battered her pussy into quivering jelly. The resounding **** of the thrusts drove her across the floor, knees scraping on the bare concrete. Her legs were going numb, the flesh of her hips pinched where he held onto her with a vise-like grip, an the worst part of it was that incessant burning fire at her core that hadn't yet been quenched.

She wanted his cum. Needed it. The raging, mechanical pounding fuck was scraping at her insides, and she clenched her cunt around the pistoning invader, trying to milk the steel-hard shaft as it drove into her again and again with a mindless, passionless mechanical need. They were past dirty talk, past foreplay and trying to make each other feel good; they were two parts of a biological machine, locked together by a biological programming that overrode their conscious minds. They weren't making love, they were fucking.

Lois had seen that before, when she was a little girl. A bitch in heat had waved her tail at a boy-dog, and his thing had come out, bright pink and pointed. He had mounted his bitch swiftly, surely, locking her to him with his paws, and she had yelped and cried beneath him but didn't stop—not until he was finished with his task, when he held her long and hard and shuddered... and Lois had wanted that. Still wanted that.

The reporter turned her head over her shoulder, looking at the face of the man ruthlessly pounding away at her burning snatch. Ready to plead, to beg, to **** him to cum...

Only the whites of Rat's eyes showed. Mouth hung slack, tongue out, a bit of froth at the edges.