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Plaything - Chapter 5

Book By: jjenkinsbooks

J. C. is tired of being used by his girlfried who complains he does not satisfy her. He executes a plan to give her exactly what she\'s been longing for.

Submitted:Dec 16, 2010    Reads: 420    Comments: 1    Likes: 2   

Plaything - Chapter Five

When I first offered up this challenge, Sting's 'If You Love Somebody Set Them Free', had been billowing into the room. I'd hoped to give my Boo the message that my feelings for her made me strong enough to give her everything she needed to be sexually satisfied, endless companions having fantasies to live out. She hadn't noticed. Now that my Killer Kittens, hard-ass girls who'd do everything to ensure my safety and happiness, have tried entertaining me, Hannah won't look my way. She's totally focused on fucking with a vengeance and the things she's done boggle the mind.

Rarely, have I taken my eyes off her. Not even when one of the girls had been busily jogging her head up-and-down in my lap, after swallowing a mouthful of crème de menthe, had my gaze wavered, my cock remaining rigid. So baby kitten had lubed up her palms and latched on to my pole, grasping the underside at the base with one hand and had pulled her way up, until her hold slipped past the head. Immediately, she'd alternated hands and resumed her tugging, tighter and faster. She'd kept on rope climbing, changing the tautness and momentum of the grips until her palms had grown flushed from the friction. I still hadn't blasted. So she'd given up good-naturedly.

When the girls had come in, as part of this orchestrated plan, and I'd tenderized my meat between my main kitten's teeth, it had been to get Hannah ready to go postal and it's worked. My Boo is using her fury to shoot down, no, vaporize Messalina's record. In six hours, she's busted out twenty-four men and hasn't broken a sweat. They'd been mostly the standard, missionary fucks, but a few standout in my mind for various reasons.

The first young guy, the only son of a major Hollywood Executive, had been an easy triumph, ready to jizz just staring at her burning bush, which partially concealed the dewy, pink petals of her wild orchid. His being hung like John Holmes, had apparently given Hannah the ammunition she'd needed to slay him. Most men want to hear they're huge and feel initial resistance when they come calling. That was no big to-do for Hannah since she can tighten up so much the Jaws of Life would break trying to pry open her doors. The reason he remained in my thoughts was that he'd been prepared to loose his livelihood for violating one of the maxims outlined to those selected for this tournament: no kissing, no oral, no anal.

The initial bull in the ring and he'd underscored a time old, masculine problem, the rise of Willie the witless thinker. Apparently totally wasted on Hannah's premium conchita, he'd tried to lock lips with her. I'll have to deal with him or come off looking like a punk-ass chump and before I knew it, fools worldwide would be thinking they could hustle me, bend me over for a fast fuck anytime they pleased. They'd be dead wrong. Only Hannah makes me weak, and he definitely wasn't my Boo. In a few days I'll sic the kittens on him and when they've finished repeatedly subjecting him to their specialized member's only bounce and some hardcore behind the scene direction, he won't know his ass from a hole in the ground. Having been paired up with my four main players, when I needed to know what was going on at his dad's studio, he'd readily give up the goods.

With contestant two, a high ranking DEA official, closely resembling T. D. from 'Private Practice' Hannah had curled into the fetal position so he could admire and examine her everlasting wound before he'd situated his head south to her north, scissoring his legs around hers. He'd started cutting in to her, their thatches scratching, occasionally elevating her upper leg so he'd see his blade carving her out. He'd been facing my direction so I witnessed his O, O, O, O, oh baby expressions, of an intensity, which revealed that he'd castrate himself if he thought he'd never have another chance with her and for that privilege, he'd turn a blind eye if ever a certain someone's shipments showed up on DEA radar.

A gold-medal gymnast, the son of two Senators, had Hannah doing a complicated floor routine. He'd lifted her up into his arms with her hands around his neck and legs encircling his hips. Skillfully getting his Trojan uniformed cock into her Coliseum, he'd instructed her to let go of his neck and arch backwards until her hands rested on the floor. She'd done so and her legs had unlocked from around his ass. He'd immediately started hammering her, thrusting and plowing, the force of his motions making the muscles in her arms visibly tremble, the ends of her hair sweeping the floor like a broom, as he worked her rigorously to cries of, "Keep your legs lifted. Now give me a single handstand, while I push into you, pump it in, push and pump until I come." He had, to a loud round of applause from the Kittens and when Hannah had gotten right side up, she'd treated him to a double backwards flip with a double twist. That nut had buttered again, getting so weak for wanting another workout with her that he'd begged and pleaded until my Blonde Kitten had helped him the hell out of the room. Score three more for me, him and his bill passing parents.

For a Mormon Bishop, Hannah had positioned herself between two of the room's eight architectural columns, hands encircling one pillar as she stuck her hips out seductively in the direction of the other so he could raise his post into her temple. He'd positioned himself between her straddled legs, stroking her arched back, before grasping her hips to shove roughly into her, demanding, "Baby, tell daddy you've been a dirty little bitch." She'd told him she was his naughty, nasty whore, who loved to suck cock and swallow cum until she choked on the sour spunk, and like that, his shaft had shot forth its own man-juice before it came crashing down. Meth in Utah was a magic carpet ride for a mess of Mormons and the Bishop wouldn't mean-mouth the dope as long as Hannah helped him channel his incestuous lust.

The next performer, who'd stood out, had done so, not because of a near violation, but because of his animalistic desire and the way Hannah had managed him, which highlights why I'm stuck on her. For me a plaything can be either something easily disposed of, rarely enjoyed or a treasure you invite others to delight in because of its prized value and unique functionality. My Hannah, like the kittens, ranks high in the last category, a beautiful, sex driven commodity. Additionally, her ability to speed read men, before they'd even sampled from her snackbar, makes me cherish her above all others, which brings me back to guy number eight. He'd been a boyish, brown-haired, five-six jockey, weighing about a buck twenty-five. Walking over to where she'd been sitting on the chaise, without a word, he'd started rubbing his nose all around hers, then over her face. This behavior progressed to his nipping at her ears and neck, before he'd toppled her backwards. They'd wrestled around wildly, until she'd escaped from beneath him, racing over to one of the ladder-back chairs.

Positioning herself there, Hannah had looked over her shoulder, winking and wiggling her naked ass, at which point he'd let out a roar and charged her. She'd given forth a couple of high-pitched squeals and I swear, what sounded like an actual whinny, before dashing off, making him chase her around the room to the lounge, where he roughly tackled her, flipping her on her stomach. At that point, I'd reached beneath the chaise for my Glock and the kittens, ready to pounce, had gotten to their feet.

He'd straddled Hannah's hips, then leaned forward, nipping and biting at her neck, breathing heavily through his nose, snorting and neighing. Then Saddle-up Sam had jockeyed his horse's handbrake against her three times, as she'd repeatedly lifted her buttocks, before he'd gotten into the allowed lane. I'd finally taken my hand from beneath my seat, but the kittens had stayed poised to strike.

Racing at a dead heat and rounding the stretch, Hannah had made more of those wild mare sounds as he'd bitten at her shoulders and neck. When she'd begun bucking beneath him, he'd started riding her hard and I mean backbreaking brutal. Pump, thrust, buck, then whinny, roar, neigh, pump, thrust, buck and on it went, with the lounge lurching beneath the force of his passion. So focused was he on winning the race that within fifteen seconds he'd thrown back his head, letting out a shrill squeal, while pushing her down into the cushion, leaving her equine goal unfulfilled. Falling forward, he'd bitten at her neck, his glutes visibly aquiver at his realized vision.

After he'd pulled out and climbed off, he'd sniffed at her buttocks, nipping each one in turn, before leaning down to rub noses with her. Then he'd finally spoken in a cocksure tone, inviting her to his Kentucky farm for an indefinite stay. Hannah's response had been a final wink and he'd galloped out with a twenty-million dollar smile. I'd made a mental note to take her to Churchill Downs where we'd bet on him. For her, he'd set a new winning record, netting me a stable full of Franklins, easy money for a game well organized and enacted. When a star player was sprung on my Boo, there was nothing he wouldn't do. Hell, I'm living proof of that truism.

Being a media mogul and manufacturer of a superior recreational product, I remain standing because of the dynamic company I keep. With Hannah finally at my side, I'll never topple from my thrones. For added security, a Vice Admiral had been her nineteenth challenge. If the shit ever hit the fan I wouldn't be relying on trigger happy, coked up kids with more bullets than sense, nor would I be cut down in a hail of gunfire a la Tony Montana. I'd have military strength surrounding my flanks, the U. S. Commander In Chief on speed dial.

In a war I wanted the very best, the most cutthroat at my back and there was no mistaking that the flag officer that had come to dock in Hannah's harbor, was an authoritative force to steer clear of. The erect carriage and high stakes player's stare commanded attention and respect. His powerfully athletic physique resembled a much younger man's and that body and bearing, combined with a thick thatch of silver hair and maritime blue eyes had made the kittens ogle him with interest.

My Boo hadn't been immune to his appeal either. All the other men before him had been made to approach her, but one look at him and she'd regally gotten to her feet, naked as the day she was born, showing him her gold stars, and the pleasure craft she had at her disposal for his enjoyment. Marching up to him, she'd taken each of his hands in turn, first kissing their backs, then rotating them to worship his palms. When she'd finished, Hannah had knelt, slowly pulling his white boxers down his muscled legs to the floor, and old Popeye had sprang forth, standing at attention, ready for battle. She'd stroked and played with his sailor's cap until he was thrusting into her palm, then she'd dutifully lifted each of his feet free of the garment, before rising with shorts in hand, folding, then neatly carrying them as he'd led her to a ladder back chair. There he'd taken a seat, removing the fabric parcel from her and placing it aside, before he'd reverently said, "Ocean Queen, I've been adrift for awhile. May I come aboard your vessel and take refuge within your cockpit?"

She'd reached out and caressed his dimpled cheek, asking with a smile, "Admiral, shall I accommodate you ahead or astern?"

"Astern, Empress. I'll set our course and act as Helmsperson, while having your winches at hand for manipulation, as the storm rages," he'd commanded, cupping and stroking her breast, before trailing his hand down her flat stomach. Encircling her waist, he'd drawn her belly to his lips, licking around the navel, before spiraling his tongue into its center. His free hand had run up the curve of her hip to her rounded buttock, squeezing and massaging the firm flesh.

She'd given a shudder of pleasure, holding his head close and stroking his hair. "Aye aye Admiral," she'd whispered, lowering her lips to the top of his head, cradling his body against hers.

I'd been mesmerized. Though close with Jockey Sam, Hannah hadn't once given up an O during this competition but for the Admiral, she'd awarded me a glimpse of something greater: genuine affection. My plaything was getting into the game, trying to mind fuck me, the way she'd done with every Tom in her life, every Dick that had entered this room, every Harry who didn't possess enough common sense to realize that in order to win Hannah, they'd have to break her first.

The Admiral, her obvious weakness, would be her pawn and mine. I'd determined having him associated with her would benefit my enterprise. She'd decided that being real with a powerful man, who could easily have me erased from the planet, might push my buttons. She'd been right and wrong. Right, seeing them together had depressed a control that had made me hard as a damn brick, erecting into maximum readiness my I only want to fuck Hannah missile. Wrong, their being together would never irritate me. I wanted them to enjoy each other so I'd score points each way. I plan to make her mine forever and as long as I have her, I'll have him.

Nestled snugly against the sensually addictive curves of my Boo's body, it had taken the Admiral several seconds to compose himself, and when he had, he'd unwrapped his arms from around her to sheath his sword. Helping her climb astride his lap, facing away from him, he'd outstretched his legs, wrapping his hands around her wrists, and she his, so she'd had leverage to draw the balls of her feet back to rest on the seat's edge. Leaning the full weight of her upper body forward, Hannah had become the sail, mast and helm of his craft and he'd precisely propelled himself into her cockpit, while pulling back on her arms, controlling her buoyancy as she bobbled up and down.

Initially the trip had been calm, with the two of them effortlessly gliding along with the Admiral occasionally calling out admiringly, "You handle beautifully." Pulling her back, until her head had rested against his muscled shoulder, he'd released her wrists and clutched her breasts in his big hands, first palming, and then tweaking her erect nipples. "Such superbly designed winches, so easy to crank and adjust," he'd complimented her.

Hannah had turned her face into his neck, declaring, "I was specially constructed for your seafaring pleasure." She'd pressed her lips to the sturdy column of his throat, all the while stroking her fingers down his side, to the curve of his muscled hip.

This play had made the kittens frisky and since I was useless to them, they'd started in on each other. The older two, who sat nearest me, my blond and brunet, had tongued each other, Raven's hands overflowing with a treasure trove of her fuck-buddy's tits. The blonde had sent her fingers swimming in her shipmate's ocean for a bit of pearl diving, judging by the whimpers and sighs coming from my dark Kitten's throat. Baby Kitty Kat, sitting a short distance away, had been left to play by herself, stroking and cupping one breast while her other hand had been busy beneath her skirt. The whole time her eyes had remained fixed on the Admiral.

While I'd been checking out the nearby naughtiness, he'd gotten Hannah back into her sailing position, taking up more of a turbulent swaying motion, his powerful pumping, growing frenzied as he'd called out, "Ocean Queen, we're heading into rough waters. I'll make sure you come to no harm."

Hannah had been bouncing around on his cock, head whipping from side to side, back bowed with her arms still being pulled by her Navy Man. "Oh yes Admiral, steer me to the end of this fantastic voyage. I trust you within the heart of my vessel," she'd professed, gripping his thighs with her own and the Admiral had suddenly stopped moving, gripping her hands tighter in obvious concern. Hannah had shot him a sexy stare from beneath sultrily lowered lashes, announcing passionately, "Oh no, it appears you're locked in the steering compartment. If you adjust my knobs, I'm sure you'll get free to complete our trip."

The Admiral had released her wrists and sat up. Cupping her breasts, he'd fitted himself tightly against her back, rotating his hands across her globes. Hannah had smiled over her shoulder at him, saying, "Autopilot is engaged, sit back and enjoy the ride."

She'd started pounding down on his lap, her cockpit latching on to him in a manner of which he'd apparently never experienced before, because he'd buried his face against her back, clutching her to him tightly, giving a muffled shout of, "Sweet Lord, how are you doing that."

Hannah had kept on bouncing her treasure chest on his key, panting out, "Sailor, you haven't felt anything yet." Grinding her hips down on his battle sword, the sucking noises her sea grotto made had caught and held everyone's attention. The Admiral had gibbered and groaned, goddamn gurgled at one point before finally gushing out his come, crying out his complete satisfaction with his Ocean Queen. Palming her breasts, he'd held her in place as he reined kisses across her back, the corded muscles of his hips and thighs convulsing in the aftermath. Hannah had melted into his embrace, murmuring worshipfully to him until the Admiral, casting a guarded look in my direction, had reluctantly released her.

Helping her from his lap, he'd sat caressing the top of her head, while she'd redressed him. Then hand-in-hand they'd walked to the door where he'd asked if she'd see him the next time he was landlocked. Without hesitation, my Boo, had said she would, raising her lips to his invitingly. Being a Man of Honor, he'd looked my way for permission to proceed and I'd given a nod to what I thought would've been a quick peck. No, siree, those two had looked longingly into each other's eyes, with the Admiral cupping her face in his big hands, as Hannah had rested her palms on his bare, muscled chest, their lips moving together slowly, mouths opening for some flirtatious French action that had Baby Kitten sighing in desire.

When they'd finally ended the embrace, the Admiral had left the room with an uncommon stoop to his shoulders. Baby Kitten had looked ready to chase after him and offer up her own brand of Cutty Sark. But as with all my crew, work came first, so in her seat she'd stayed, looking longingly at My Boo, who stood for a time with her fingers raised to her lips in wonder, her eyes dreamy.

I'd known she hadn't only been thinking of him. Her reflections had been dominated by the one man who'd made her meeting the Admiral possible, and I was that lucky buck. Winning tournament Hannah Hardcastle wasn't going to be effortless or peaceful, but a little more of this combined with a bit more of that out of this world sex stuff that she craved and I'd have her, game, set, match. I smelled victory in the air and the pending success held the faint coconut fragrance of her enchanting pussy willow.

So here I sit, stone-cold sober, getting ready to watch her take down player twenty-five. He's a Cuban Conan, buffed-up, badass, packing a little smokie sized boneroni, whose been trying to hustle in on my Cali ice capades, but of course he doesn't know it. He's been boldly dipping his mini bent stick where it doesn't belong and now it's time he's melted. He won't even feel the initial heat before he's already dissolving in a puddle at my feet. Hannah's hotbox, her Messalina fantasy and her customary domination of me will be the torch of his dissolution. She may have a slight idea that in this sex laced fiction of hers; she's my submissive, serving up whom I say and what I allow to be dished out. But she doesn't know that by Monday I'll be declaring 'Checkmate' on her fine, nut-crunching behind. In the time we've been together, she's yet to fully figure me out and she never will. Hannah can read most, but I'm written in a language she's yet to master.

To all but my dedicated crew, I'm more mysterious than Keyser Soze. Verbal telling Rabin in 'The Usual Suspects', "The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist. And like that… he's gone," sums up the way I roll. Even though my sweet Boo has my banjo string so knotted up only she can strum it, she doesn't grasp what I'm capable of, because before, she'd only been treated to a snippet of my odyssey. After this weekend though, she'll have a better idea.

For three years I've been living out my fantasy with her, having a ball wracking broad lay some hard rock maple wood to my ass, and it's felt damn good. Without the discipline, the debasement, I run the risk of getting too conceited, thinking my shit don't stank, and oops, before I know it, I'll end up mugging for a rich idiot downfall of the year photo. I'll never go out like that, skating on my own glass, having some chatty-Cathy, cathouse, hedge-creeper, gabbing my business to the tabloids because I won't leave my wife for her. Even worse, have the woman who's vowed to stand by me, serve my filberts up, with a Connecticut Suckfest Martini on the side, to the divorce lawyers, because I occasionally take my dog for a run in a different park.

Hannah is my solution. I'll give her what her heart and snatch desire. In return, she'll absolutely give herself to me, along with a bit of O, a bra full of tit-for-tat, and any man or woman I need on my winning team. She'll deliver what I need. She always has, because she loves me, although she tries to hide her feelings.

By now, her senses have already told her I can't stand this Cuban chocolate-chimney sweep. To her, the why isn't important. The fact that he never intended to adhere to my guidelines and that he only ever gets off one of two ways has also been added to her sexual assassin's kit. Combined with the other knowledge, she can't help but realize he's high, been cracking the ice, smoking meth immediately followed by crack, for so long that he stinks of that shit, sweat pouring off him like rain coming down in the Congo. If he's slept in the last seventy-two hours I'll blow my own bazooka and I sure as hell not leaning forward. On the slim and short chance that he's able to get an erection, she knows making him come will be a tedious chore. Well what was Hardhearted Hannah to do? Try to play me of course, with a partner who was speed skating on a thawing lake, an opportune accident just waiting to happen, a prelude to the next segment of Hannah Give Me An O, when she'll physically become my plaything.


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