Free Untamed : An Erotic Romance Story by Lucy Scott Page A

look, which, when you consider it, isn't that much of a stretch, and, though the first wife got half his cash, he's still flush enough to support her idle days cruising Mag Mile stores and she rewards him with little silk and satin surprises from Victoria's Secret.
     
    I don't have any patience for fast-talking guys, shooting every angle they can, even though I'm growing weary of Caleb's tongue and furtive, vibratory manipulations. I spend my free time roaming book stores, coffee houses, and geeky events, like Comic Con, where all I have to do is wave my hand to get anyone I want, and wave it back to toss him aside, merely to satisfy my ego, as in mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all ?
     
    But no matter how well my ego's served, it does nothing to satisfy my famished id and need for love.  The exception in my coterie of geeks having been Antoine, who may have lived the lifestyle, but never looked the part. Just thinking his name draws a moist response between my Irish thighs, Antoine, six feet of African American male with Bob Marley locks. Antoine with a lean, agile body. Antoine with his sonorous voice, who could rattle off facts from all three comic book ages, Golden, Silver, and Bronze, discuss sci-fi writers from H. G. Wells to Philip K. Dick, and fix anything with a microchip. His lips tasted like costly English toffee and his cock was like an end-of-summer cucumber. Can you sense that I'm dripping wet at the memory of his body against mine? Can you tell that I like to write?
     
    I write for $33,000 a year, as an editor for EJE & Sons Publishing, specializing in industrial publications like Contemporary Metal Forming , Today's Fasteners , and Metal Shaping Digest . I have a three wall cubicle in the company's offices on east Superior Street, taking the Brown line to and fro, from my Southport studio condo, bought with my parent's help at the height of the bubble and am left with a mortgage that is so upside down it makes me nauseous to dwell on it. "Honey, it's a condo on the North Side. It's like owning gold," my father's words, which turned out to be true, since gold has declined just as much in value too.
     
    But all that detracts from Antoine's cock, which filled me so well for an entire fall of Saturday afternoons and evenings on into Sunday mornings. He had the kind of cock Bridget Jones wouldn't dare mention and Lena Dunham has yet to fuck, at least as Hannah on her show, the kind of cock that so many women secretly dream of, but are too uptight to try, the kind of cock that stood so firm and straight as I rode it, sucked it, worshipped it, as his soothing, sonorous voice told me what a dirty little slut I was, his large hands slapping my pale pink ass, and, the truth be told, had the thin veneer of latex ever failed us, I would have born his child, without any doubt, that's how sick, crazy in love I was.
     
    That memorable fall was two years ago, a rare, warm fall, walking north together, hand in hand along Southport, the street looking like a forties movie set with its art deco architecture, terra cotta fascia, and quaint storefront shops, snacking on macaroni and cheese at the Noodle  Shop, Irish coffee at the Mystic Celt, and classic black and white films at the Music Box, which set the tone for the entanglement our bodies would become. His black cock buried so deep in my pink fleshy soul. I remember every shuddering, squishy orgasm, having had to change my sheets twice a week-end to keep up with the relentless, juiciness of our passion.
     
    I still tingle each year in the late spring, when I, dressed in my Wonder Woman finery, encounter him, as an eye patch-clad Nick Fury strolling through Comic Con's aisles, me wanting to fuck him right there on McCormick Place's terrazzo floors, my pale body and pink nipples pressed against his umber flesh, he so alive inside of me, producing a living tableaux of our very own graphic novel. But, it's a more subdued encounter instead, with the