G The Hollowest Girl of Them All

The Hollowest Girl of Them All

Steven: The Challenge (Part 2)

Steven turned onto his back and squirmed a bit to get comfortable.  He was already beyond ready, his cock angry and red, leaking a bit on his hard stomach.

"Am I allowed to talk through it?" He asked, still grinning.

"Mmmm…. Lets see if you can manage without." I said, kissing him on the forehead. "Mmkay, dear. Tally-ho."

Steven stretched first. He flexed his arches, pointing his toes, and rolled his broad shoulders. He tossed some of his hair over his shoulders so the ends could brush against his already sensitive skin.  Then he closed his eyes.

It took a while.

But slowly, a brilliant soft flush rose up his chest to settle on his cheeks. He bit his lip and strained his head back, the long white column of his neck like an offering to a hungry god. As he pushed himself further into his fantasy, his hips shifted uncomfortably and his nipples rose, dark and pebbled from his chest.

I just watched in awe. He was really doing it.

He tossed his head from side to side, as he gripped the sheets tight in his fists and gave a breathy moan.  He oozed more furtively now, dripping down over the side of his thigh, the evidence of his desire glimmering wetly in the light from my bedside lamp.

Steven gasped and arched his back again. He breathed hard, then whimpered. Goosebumps spread up his arms and he shuddered.  Then, without warning, he reached up and pulled his hair, yanking his head back even further. He clenched his teeth so hard. So very hard.

But touching his hair was touching himself, so I reached over to pry his hands out of his hair, annoyed that he wasn’t following the rules.
      The instant I touched him, he screamed and came hard. 
He wrapped his arms around himself, like he was desperate for someone to hold him, and quaked with the force of it.

When Steven finally settled down, he didn’t say anything. He just scrambled into my arms, still dripping, and hid his face in the curve of my neck.

(part 1)

Steven: The Challenge. (part 1)

It has been three days of dryness for him. He was strung tight as a bow and the heat rolled off his skin in waves. He bit down on the pillow and clenched his eyes closed in pain.

Steven was demanding and petulant, like a spoiled child; and as much as it annoyed, I liked that part of him. Particularly when it was coupled with his nakedness.

I had asked him to try going without sex for a week, and it was only Wednesday. It didn’t bode well for him to be this far gone in such little time…

It was an experiment. From it, I learned the true meaning of addiction, and he learned how he could outsmart his body with his mind if things got terribly dire.

We’d laugh about it months later. But for now, he was glaring at me, from under swathes of his silken hair like I had murdered his best friend.

"But,you don’t know what its like.” He bit out

I’d already heard that one several times before Tuesday. It wasn’t going to work.


He looked up at me and scowled.

To this day, I still  think he was the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. But that wasn’t going to get him off the hook at all, and he knew it. Steven harrumphed and clutched the pillow again tightly, the muscles bunching deliciously in his arms.

"I’ll give you a loophole." I said finally. "If you can make yourself come without touching yourself, or touching me, on your back without help from anyone else…. it doesn’t count."

He grinned.

(Part 2)

Once Upon a Time, I dated a guy who liked me to write for him.

One day, he requested that I make him an erotic fiction piece and this is what I came up with. Don’t laugh. Its not really my forte. I’m more into sensuality than sexuality when it comes to words. Or maybe I’m just a crap writer. Fuck knows.

He was a beautiful man. Not the best I’d ever seen, but he sure gave the rest a run for their money.  And yes, I knew he was cocky, but his arrogance was a surprising turn on. It was that self assured confidence bred from years of success that lingered on blue bloods and middle-aged businessmen that had somehow found itself smeared all over a broke art student.

I would have chuckled at the irony, but my mouth was full of cock.
I loved this. Just fucking loved it.

He grabbed my hair and he tasted too good and I could ride him forever. You know that saying “size matters”? Or the defensive one “ It doesn’t matter how big, if they know how to work it.”? Both are utter bullshit. I believe there is a Goldilocks Zone. A Goldilocks Zone of cock, somewhere between too big and slightly below average where the closer you get to the middle the more perfect everything is….

But unfortunately, my pseudo-scientific mental ramblings were cut short by him roughly wrenching me off him.
“ Stop. I don’t want it to end like this.”

 I pulled forward against his grip and licked the tip with the end of my tongue. Just to show him how much I wanted it. He shuddered. I stood and cupped his face in my hands. I kissed his temple softly, then pushed him back onto the futon.

I like to use this mixture of softness and wantonness with him. It would be easy to  haul off and just writhe on him like a slut, but he’d probably expect it. No matter how much I’d love to do just that. But there was something enjoyable about hitting him with sweetness when he didn’t expect it. Kissing his dick before I sucked it. Looking at him in surprised ecstasy as he fucked me hard. Saying ‘please’ in a quiet voice before he came.

I bit each of his nipples hard then kissed the middle of his chest and stroked his sides softly with my finger tips. He grasped my hips roughly, kneading his thumbs into my joints. I arched back and pushed my tits into his face. God, its cute how much he loves that.

I combed my fingers through his hair roughly so it stuck up in spikes.

“As you ready?” I asked.


I lowered myself onto him and moaned loudly, the fullness, Oh the fullness. He arched up and hissed as I took him all the way in.
His roommate banged on the wall in annoyance and we both laughed and he banged back. I rolled  my hips cheekily and covered my mouth in mock embarrassment. He smirked and offered me his hands. We laced fingers and I began to ride him.

Usually we have more time than today, so it will have to be quick. I started slow, just enjoying the feeling; teasing him, by squeezing him inside on the down-stroke and swiveling enticingly. I tossed my hair back and gasped. It was nice, but I really had to get back to work in twenty minutes so I sped up, bouncing on his dick wantonly. 

He bit his lip and thrust up  for a  while before getting tired of the pace and flipping me abruptly. Not expecting it, I shrieked in surprise, and bounced up from the mattress. We brutally collided foreheads.  Both of us groaned in agony and he covered his eyes.

His roommate banged on the wall even harder.

“Would you guys shut the fuck up?!”

It was so absurd and awful and hilarious that I just started laughing.

He raised an eyebrow,  then kissed me playfully and scraped my face with his stubble with a vengeance.

“I know you’ve gotta go, so lets make this quick.”

He reached down and fucked me slowly playing with my clit. I wrapped my legs around his back and arched up towards him in encouragement. I could feel myself getting closer, so I rushed forward towards it, pinching my own nipples and leaning up to be kissed.

I gasped and came hard, clutching his shoulders. I tried to be quiet, because really, his roommate is a very nice guy. Law student. And it was finals week.

My art student, however didn’t give a fuck. He moaned loudly as he finished, collapsing heavily onto my chest.

3-2-1 Obligatory cuddling. Then I wiggled out from underneath him and starting throwing my clothes back on. He watched me as I got dressed. Pulled up my stockings and tied up my hair.

“Don’t forget the midterm today.” I said, putting my glasses back on and throwing my purse over my shoulder.

“Is it hard?” he asked, partially muffled by the sheets.

I laughed then patted him on the cheek. “For you, dear,  it doesn’t matter.”

He blushed

The next time we saw each other.

But he directed the guitar class like nothing had happened, so  I dutifully played terribly like nothing had happened.

Afterwards, I left quickly and went to go wait for my dad in the parkhouse lobby with the rest of the kids.

One by one, everyone got picked up until I was the only one left.

After about an hour, I got up to go to the bathroom, and practically ran into him as I turned around the corner in the hallway.

"Oh!" he said, in horrified surprise, when he realized it was me. "I’m so sorry, I’ll just…" Then he started to walk away.

But I called his name and he stopped. He kept his back to me, shoulders high with agitation.

"Its okay." I said, gently. Not needing to tell him what I was speaking about.

"That’s never happened to me before." He said, shoulders lowering slowly with resignation. "And no. Its not okay. I don’t think I can have you in my class anymore, Kayla.”

"Well, what am I supposed to tell my dad?"

"I DON’T KNOW." He bit out harshly. "Tell him you stopped liking playing, or you got tired of it or something."

Then, he pushed through the front doors of the park, like he was running from the devil himself, and slammed them hard behind him.


And that’s the story of why I have a $300 guitar and no fucking idea how to play it.

(Part 1)

F sharp.

I was 13 years old.

I was taking guitar lessons at a park district. My teacher was a lanky man in his mid 30’s. He had crinkles around his eyes and dark brown hair that flopped inelegantly over his forehead. He wore his T-shirts too tight and his jeans hugged his hips and thighs.

I was terrible at guitar. He’s spend hours teaching me where to place my fingers, and what to do with them, but it was just something I couldn’t grasp. No matter how many examples or challenges he gave me.

One day he just threw his hands up in exasperation and shouted “Why do you even want to learn?”

"So I can accompany myself when I sing."

He stared at me.

"Do it, then. Let me hear your voice."

"Take me somewhere with more echo."

He lead me upstairs to a room I’d never been in before. It was circular large and empty, with wood floors. The sun lit the air through the windows catching on the specks of dust to make them specks of gold.

He stood across from me, arms crossed.

"Do it."

So I did. 

My voice is crisp. I have absolute pitch; my notes are always clear, like a violin’s. All of the women in my mother’s line are born with this skill. It meant nothing to me at the time. I simply didn’t know any thing different.

My guitar teacher tightened his arms around his chest and stared past me; out the window, at the floor, anywhere but at my face.
After several minutes, something snapped. He walked towards me, and I stopped, surprised.

"Go on. Don’t stop." He said. his voice low. "Your voice…. its… It almost hurts.”

He reached out and pressed his fingers against my neck to feel the vibrations.

I sang through it, my attention completely focused on the warmth of his hand on my throat.

As I hit a high note, his eyes slipped closed.  I looked him up and down.

He was hard.

I finished the song, then stepped away from him. I kept stepping backwards until I was practically tripping over my feet to get away from him.

He was still standing in the middle of the room, looking shattered and bereft.

I turned and ran.

Zach: The sensualist

You’ve all seen Zach, and you’ve all seen me.

I’m not a thin woman. Actually, I’m quite lumpy and stretch marky, and unashamedly overweight. But I think, of all then men I’ve been with, he made me feel the sexiest.

He used to gaze at my face with something akin to wonder, and stroke the sharpness of my cheekbones. The first time he saw me naked, he looked at me like someone would look at a goddess, and just said. “Wow. You…. wow.”

Once while we were riding the train during rush hour, he told me my eyes were incredible. He said that they were how he imagined Cleopatra’s to look: dark and hooded and …. guarded. A woman behind him raised an eyebrow at us, and I just smiled back.

Zach was no flatterer though, he always said everything very matter of factly, like he was commenting on the weather.

Zach twined himself around me like a vine in public places, daring anyone to comment with his stare.

 He was just… magnificent looking. His body was kind of like a swimmer’s. All lean lines and symmetry. He was just so compact and graceful and flexible. His feet and hands were so perfect, like they’d been carved from marble by a master sculptor.

He kissed with playful enthusiasm,and snuck his hands places    like he thought he wouldn’t be allowed. I was a precious object to him. Lord, knows why.

Zach was like a selfish little prince. Demanding, and lofty, beautiful and gifted.

He had a habit of making me  paper cranes when his heart was too full, and presenting them to me like tokens of his favor.

I accepted them and kissed every one.

After Emerita, I just went wild.

It wasn’t in my capacity to care anymore.

I had a new pattern and I stuck to it:  Trick them into loving me, get bored as their feelings crest the threshold, then disappear without a trace.

It was almost like a hobby. And worse, I was good at it.

The first was a teacher. (Not my teacher, mind you.) He was kind and bearded and I was way too pretty for him. He called me over and over after I left, but I never returned any of his calls. He was too old for me, I think. 32, maybe.

The second was a musician. He was in a band. Like, a real band that toured and everything. He had groupies and press conferences and everything. He was always so nervous that someone was going to find out he was with a 17 year old. One day, I gave him a hand job for the first time and he cried after he came. That annoyed me, so I disappeared.

The next was a lawyer. Mid forties and already married. He kissed me like he was going to die if he couldn’t. But the lies he told to his wife and family made me uncomfortable, so I snatched my self away from him like candy from a child.

Then there was Christopher, who tasted like flowers. Beautiful and dark haired. Selfish. A poly-amorous piano player with a hankering for interesting women. He had a girlfriend too; and after I found out that it wasn’t me, I never looked back.

Some gangly thin boy I can barely remember. He was golden though, with a crooked smile.

Justin the Red, a ginger with sleeve tattoos of roses up his arms. He was a writer too, and lent me books. I enjoyed him the most because he was imaginative.

An Englishman with a love like obsession, who emailed me over 50 times. Short and lost inside himself. Stuck in the shreds of memories from his youth.

I went through them fast. and I didn’t really like any of them. I was just… Honestly, I don’t know what it was that I thought I was doing. Just racking up notches on my proverbial bedpost. Tasting different flavors of men, like they were chocolates.

I was teaching myself that I was a commodity. Something with inherent value that could be given and taken away. I would find something that they desperately needed, like a mother figure or a sister figure or someone to lean on,  and I would give it to them. Then, when they couldn’t breathe without me, I would leave. Why?

     Just because.

For example, I got in the habit of singing one man to sleep every night. Simple pretty songs until his breathing evened out, nothing special.

After I left him, he couldn’t sleep properly for weeks.

Kept calling me and asking if I could maybe…. please?

I laughed and said No.

Steven: His Thirst Was Incredible

He was insatiable. A creature of pure feeling and lust.  He needed the slickness of skin on his; that connection between him and another person made him feel alive.

Sex was such a huge part of his life, and it wasn’t a part of mine. I was only 14, a virgin, and quite content with that, thank you very much.

But his need was so great, that even though I loved him dearly, I understood that he had to have something I just couldn’t give him.

So I let him have it.

He fucked men. I wasn’t comfortable with letting him see other women, but men? They were no competition. Besides, It was… compulsory.

I was alarmingly liberal minded and understanding for being such a child. It makes me laugh now.

I got so comfortable with anything he did because his devotion to me was so intense.

Sometimes I would come over to his place and there’d be another man in his bed. Steven would toss the poor man out onto the street immediately.

But Cor, he was lovely after a fuck.

All loose boned and compliant, his brilliant mind slowing to a stop as he curled around me. So soft. Technically, he was gay, but I guess I was an exception.

It  worked for him,

And it worked for me.

No matter how mortified my parents would have been if they knew; I was happy.

Ryan: Heat

Everything about our relationship was sexual.

Even though we barely touched. and never fucked.

It was in the way he walked when he was with me. How he sat between my legs and ran his fingertips ever so lightly down my shins.

And he was always too close. Reaching over me to grab something on a shelf, such that my mouth was directly in front of his nipple. Stretching back his arms, so his shirt rode up just so. Lying next to me, painfully hard, but not doing anything or asking anything of me. Just looking with eyes as deep as pits; warm in their buttery brownness. I let him suffer.

His lips were always dry. He’d lick them for effect, I think.

He’d push his hand through his hair and lick,

Drink coffee, sigh with deep pleasure at the taste, then lick.

Moan in boredom, then lick quick back and forth with extreme suggestiveness, in an absent minded kind of way. He liked to seduce strangers like this.

and, if he was in a particularly randy mood, he’d bite instead.

He was one of those boys with teeth that were crooked in such a way that it made nearly every smile a naughty one.

But the best part was that he liked my brownness. Some girls at his school teased him for dating a black girl and he set them straight. Later, he came to tell me about it. He touched the skin right at the sharpest part of my jaw and his eyes flickered up to mine.

I don’t care. Fuck you.” I said" He said.

He was proud of me. and that was the sexiest thing of all.

Instead of the proverbial notches on my bedpost, I decided to write about them instead. My loves. My experiences. I've definitely had enough of them to entertain someone out there.
"Cento" Copyright © Andrew Brinker 2011.