The Choking of a Beautiful Girl by the Bastard George Clooney Read online

  Americo snakes his hand between her legs from behind. She instinctively pulls her hips in, then lowers her body, trying to squirm away from his touch. His hand follows her, rubbing between her legs. He is right behind her, whispering softly in her ear. She squeezes her thighs together, his hand jammed between her legs, fingers rubbing where all the seams run together. The cock in her mouth is thick and wet, its owner humping her face.

  Soon she realizes Americo's hand feels good, better than her own, so she relaxes her thighs, opening her legs. Before long his other hand is on her breasts.

  She rocks her hips, surrendering her bottom to his touch. It is not impossible that George Clooney is in Mexico. It's unlikely, she knows, but not out of the realm of possibilities. He has to be somewhere. Why not here? She presses her face into the hole, and George Clooney jacks off into her mouth, his fist brushing her lips.

  Americo stands, his hand still between her legs. He lifts her by the crotch and she squirms against his hand. She finds she must rise from her knees to keep his hand in the right spot. It's awkward and unwieldy, especially with George Clooney's cock in her mouth.

  She does it. She has to put both hands on the wall, but she does it.

  Her hips are higher than her shoulders and her weight is against the wall when she comes. She squeezes her thighs together and moans with the cock in her mouth. George Clooney comes in her mouth. A thick rush of semen hits the back of her throat and she gasps and swallows. She chokes and swallows, struggling to retreat from the wall, the cock firing into her mouth. Americo has his hand between her legs, his other hand on her hip.

  He sees she is in trouble and pulls his hand away. She bends over coughing, then falls to her knees, her eyes filling with tears. The crotch of her jeans is wet and she feels the afterglow from her orgasm, but her throat burns and the acrid taste of cum fills her mouth.

  Her cheeks burn with shame.

  Americo grins, touching himself between the legs. His cock makes a visible outline in his pants.

  "Well done, Natasha," he laughs. "Well done."

  She pushes the hair from her face and finds a strand of semen lodged in her hair. She tries to remove it with her hand. Americo finds a stool and moves it near Natasha's hole. From inside his vest, he pulls a small silver flask. "I am going to enjoy this night immensely," he says with glee.

  She lifts her shirt to wipe the semen from her face.

  Another cock comes through the wall.

  It's long, black. Hard.

  Americo sips from the flask, then points to the wall. "Denzel," he says.

  Leaning forward, Americo offers her the flask. The whiskey burns going down. She winces and wipes her mouth. She takes another long pull.

  The girl with the round face and dark hair approaches, saying something in Spanish. Americo listens with a bemused look. She points to Natasha and says something else. Looking at the cock in the wall, the Mexican girl puts something in her mouth.

  "Ja, ja, ja," she says, pointing her finger at Americo, her words garbled by whatever she put in her mouth.

  She leans down and takes Denzel in her mouth, her silky black hair glowing in the soft light. In seconds she stands, puts her hands on her hips, and leans toward Americo. "Ja, ja, ja," she says. Whatever was in her mouth is gone.

  She glances at Natasha and smiles, then retreats back into the room.

  Americo sips from his flask.

  "Denzel," he says flatly.

  She puts the cock in her mouth and discovers it is covered in a condom.

  Inspecting his cock, she sees it's just half a condom, the open end jagged, as if it had been used before, rescued, and then pressed back into service. The tip covering his cockhead is whole, though, and unbroken. Natasha looks at the Mexican girl. She has a cock in her mouth. She takes the cock from her mouth and grins, sticking her tongue out, and making a face.

  Natasha puts Denzel back into her mouth.

  The small piece of latex is such a comfort. Finding a better position, she moves her head, uses her hand. It's a relief she'd like to believe she would have offered the Mexican girl in similar situation, where their roles reversed.

  Natasha's jaw aches and she takes the cock from her mouth.

  Her head is woozy from the whiskey and she looks down the line. The Mexican girl works on the cock in front of her, her hand buried between her legs. Natasha sighs. She looks at the black cock jutting from the hole. It's not Denzel. It wasn't George Clooney. Not Brad Pitt.

  It's just a bunch of Mexicans.

  She returns the cock to her mouth. If their positions had been reversed, it's not something she could have done for the brown girl. It's not something she would have done for any girl. Her cheeks burn hot. She throws herself into the task before her.

  But it could be, she thinks. Maybe it could be.

  A Small Favor

  Don Manley pulls his car over where she wants to get out and leaves the motor running, the wipers beating the windshield. She is cute, young. Thin blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, a worn jean jacket. Thirty days sober. He can’t remember her name.

  He smiles at her, waits for her to slip out.

  She reaches for the door handle, then stops. “Do you want to come up?” she says.

  Her face is turned from him, looking into the street.

  He’s surprised, speechless. His wife knows when the meeting ends but is usually asleep by the time he gets home. He reminds himself that he’s been sober for as long as this young lady has been alive.

  “Sure,” he says. “You got coffee?”

  Looking him in the eye, she grins. Her smile lights up her face. “Tea,” she says.

  He feels his cock swell, his breath quicken. She is one attractive girl. A small upturned nose, clear blue eyes. High cheekbones dusted with faint acne scars.

  She’s never been in Carnal before this month.

  Don parks the car and they run to her door. She has a room over Leo’s Bar and Grill, near the main entrance to the mill. Don stands in the rain as she fumbles in her purse, and then with the lock. He keeps lookout for familiar cars, but the street remains mercifully empty. By the time they’re inside, Don is soaked.

  It’s dark.

  She grabs for his hand and leads him down a corridor, up some stairs. He can hear the sound of a television, a baby crying. Someone is having a conversation in Spanish in another room. She pulls him through a door. Another dark room.

  “Hold on,” she says.

  She lets go his hand, but he can sense her body is still close by. A cord pulls, the space lights. She opens her arms, as if to present the room. A narrow mattress on the floor, clothes stacked in piles. A tall mirror leaning against the wall.

  “Tea?” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  Don smiles.

  She goes to the sink and runs water. Don crosses the room, peeks through the blinds that hang in the window. He hears the chime of buttons on a microwave. Watches a long flatbed semi navigate a turn through the intersection, inching its way into the mill.

  She pulls off her jacket then sits on the mattress, patting the area next to her.

  “Sit,” she says.

  Taking off his jacket, Don sits.

  He feels awkward. Wonders if he should leave.

  She busies herself, tugging off her boots.

  “Stay . . .” she says, as if she can read his mind.

  She leans over him, reaching for something on the other side of the bed. Her warm body presses against his chest. She smells like lavender and cigarette smoke.

  “I'm sorry,” she sighs. “Excuse me.”

  He places his hand on her hip and she twists her body and then his hand ends up on her bottom. She laughs and looks back over her shoulder. She was reaching for a towel, which she now has in her hands. Slipping off the mattress, she kneels in front of him. Mops her face and chest with the towel, tilting her head down, a waterfall of blonde hair.

  “I should go,” Don says.

  “Don�
��t leave,” she whispers.

  The microwave makes a loud noise but she ignores it. Raking her fingertips over the wet denim on his thigh, she looks like she is going to speak, but her voice catches.

  She bites her lip.

  They are going to do this little dance of theirs. He is sure of it now.

  She is lonely, he is weak.

  Don leans forward. Their dry lips meet.

  It's brief, perfunctory kissing, all lips and closed eyes, the kind of kissing reserved for johns.

  He tilts her chin up.

  “Can you—” he pauses, not sure how to present it. “Do me a favor,” he finally asks.

  His cock strains against his wet pants.

  She grins. Nods her head, silently acquiescing.

  Don runs his hands between her legs, along the insides of her thighs. Such a tight, athletic body. His hand roams over her hips and tummy. Damp cotton, wet denim.

  She closes her eyes. Mewls softly. He watches her face, looks at her scars. So young.

  Her breathing is getting rhythmic, deeper.

  Don stands. Opens his pants, unzips his fly, and fishes out his cock.

  She rises on her knees, looks up at him.

  She’s just a baby, really, but then she takes him in both her hands, and her warm mouth is on him, and around him, and making those sloppy, wet sounds.

  She uses her fists and tongue.

  Her teeth.

  Don positions himself so that he can watch her in the mirror. Raising his shirt, he watches his slick cock disappear in her mouth. He puts his hand on her head, takes his dick in his fist. Pumping into her mouth, he can feel his scrotum contract.

  She pushes back suddenly, his cock spilling from her mouth.

  Wiping her chin and mouth with the back of her hand, she says, “Please don't come in my mouth.” Her lips are puffy, her voice thick with sex. Don is mildly surprised. There is a beat of quiet where he doesn't say anything.

  “Please,” she repeats.

  He suddenly realizes he doesn't care if she takes him back in her mouth or not. Ninety percent of what he needed, he got from her when she said “Please” in that husky voice.

  “No, no,” he finally mumbles, finding his voice.

  She nods. Pauses.

  “I won't,” he says. He means it.

  She lowers her head and goes back to work.

  Don feels her wet fist slide and pump. He watches her in the mirror, her face hidden by her long golden hair. He enjoys seeing her head softly bob. Likes the idea of taking her without removing her clothes or even learning her name. He watches a little longer and then decides that he is going to finish in her mouth.

  Don understands that by filling her mouth with his semen he is disrespecting her. He doesn't mean to treat her so poorly, but he can't help himself. He feels his cock thicken, rise.

  He takes her head in both his hands.

  Perhaps at the very end she will realize. Try to resist. Press her palms against his thighs, or arch her neck and shoulders. But he has the superior position. At some point she will have to surrender, accept what he has to offer. As the cum jets into her mouth, he will groan. Hold her head tightly. Whisper that he’s sorry.

  Weak.

  She stops again.

  “Okay,” she says, wiping her mouth with her free hand.

  He lets go her head, but she does not look up.

  “You can come in my mouth.” She is speaking into his cock as if it were a microphone, her hand slowly stroking him.

  “Okay?” Don asks.

  He is genuinely surprised.

  Looking up, she says: “You're just going to anyhow.”

  Don snorts out a soft laugh.

  He can see a fine bead of sweat on her brow.

  She looks in his face.

  He grins, but she doesn’t smile.

  She returns him to her mouth. He can feel the blood pumping in his ears. No one says anything for a few minutes.

  “Wait,” he says. He sounds exasperated.

  He takes her head in his hands again. Strokes her thin hair, then holds her head still. Pulling his hips back, his wet cock falls from her mouth.

  “Wait—” he repeats.

  She gives him such a look. The scars glow pink on both her cheeks.

  “These are wet,” he says, holding the waistband of his jeans. “Let me get these off.”

  She looks at him doubtfully. Goes to her haunches.

  She looks like she might cry.

  He sits on her mattress.

  Removes his boots. His jeans.

  He strips down to his boxers and then takes a thin cotton spread from the mattress. He drapes the spread over his shoulders. She watches him like a cat, from the middle of the room. He fixes the tea she has prepared for them.

  He pulls the cord on the light.

  The room goes dark.

  The mugs of tea warm his hands. He scoots to a sit against the far wall. Setting the drinks on the floor, he opens the blind.

  “Come,” he says. “Let’s watch the rain fall.”

  She sits for a bit without moving. He watches the wet night in silence.

  Sips his drink.

  She crawls toward him.

  Raising his arm, he invites her under the blanket.

  She slips off her wet pants. Scoots her pantied-hip next to him. Her cool skin melts against his chest. She shivers. Holds her mug to her lips.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Natasha.”

  He cuts his eyes at her. “Really?” he asks.

  The sound of air brakes from the intersection below. The hum of a diesel engine.

  “Lisa,” she whispers.

  He smiles. “What do you want me to call you?”

  He can feel her warm thigh against his own.

  “Lisa,” she says.

  He tells Lisa how attractive he finds her. He tells her how he has failed his wife. He tells her about growing up in Carnal.

  She sips her tea and listens.

  When they finish their drinks, the sun is lighting a purple sky.

  She removes her shirt. Her bra. She takes him back into her mouth. They make love on the thin mattress. When it is finished, she calls out his name, claws at his back. He holds her hip as he fills her womb with his juice.

  “Lisa,” he whispers. “Lisa.”

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