Free The Bridge by Allistar Parker Page B

thigh on its way to my
sexual center. Again, my pubic hairs cringed, not from cold, but
the anticipation of his thick cock sliding into my cunt. Thick,
large and dripping with pre-cum, his dick rubbed my lips with just
enough pressure to part them. I gasped slightly as he pushed his
penis all the way down.
    “Give it to me, honey.”
    He rolled his hips, continuing his pressure
on my entire body. Stroke after stroke pounded my pussy so that my
juices pumped out of my cunt and drooled down over my ass. The
sound of his balls slapping against my skin darkened echoed through
the house. His grunts became more pronounced and guttural. The
color of his face ripened with each stroke of his cock. I knew he
was coming soon.
    A loud moan and several gasping breaths
seeped from his mouth. With orgasm inevitable, my love pulled his
dick from my hole and jabbed it in my face. Through my gritted
teeth, he sent mouthfuls of semen over my lips as I fought to be
released. I hated that. I wanted nothing in my mouth. Spitting and
coughing the fluid from my lips, I struggled to free myself from
his impalement.
    “You dirty bitch! You take my seed wherever I
say.”
    “Not there. Please not there.” I wiped my
lips with my arm.
    “All whores drink my cum. You included. If
you can’t, leave.”
    I stared at his face without understanding.
Surely my lover wanted what was good for me. I wanted him, but I
couldn’t, I just couldn’t bring myself to drink his seed. I begged
for mercy as he dragged me to the door. I cried out in pain as he
shoved me off the porch. I wailed as the door slammed behind him. I
was out and he was gone.

Chapter Two
     
     
    A lifetime past and no one found me their
lover. The droning loss of my well being settled into the blue fog
of lost love and detrimental hope in the return of my passion.
    Down by the river, in the brackish waters, a
bridge crossed over to the neighboring town. There, among the salt
marches, I spied a lowly drifter, dank and dirty, sleeping under
the bridge as if he was a troll, ready at any moment to demand a
toll for crossing over.
    He agreed to kill me, thank God. The offer to
have sex with me was a bonus, a kindness he needn’t do. I smiled,
knowing that sex would seal the deal and he would not be able to
back out. With our pact, I began to feel, again.
    I stopped to kiss him just to make sure I
wasn’t dreaming. After all, a bum for a murderer was so cliché that
I might have concocted the story in my own mind only to awake to
the dreadful pain of life in the morning. The alcohol rich aroma in
his mouth dulled the stench of his breath, yet I delighted in the
knowledge of what the solid kiss and the physical groping meant as
we slumped into the concrete.
    Ending my life this way seemed so moral, so
intensely prudent. This bum was the perfect solution. No one was
going to mourn over me at my death, nor would anyone know to look
for him. If I should die alone, he would be safe from society’s
wrath for a poor man destined to help a desolate woman die. If I
should take him with me, who would come looking for him?
    The roguish feel of the cold wind upon my
face hastened the walk to the concrete slab beneath the bridge. The
angular slope offered some comfort from the ground, but kept that
damp feeling running through me.
    We talked. Someone else might have rushed to
sex, but he knew I needed death more than sex, although I think his
motives were more to stop my death than to hasten it.
    Cold chills rolled down my spine when he
licked my ear. I usually hated that, but his tongue was so
preciously soft, I couldn’t help but love what he was doing. The
slow rush of his breath on the dampness ignited a small flame in my
passionate zone. Rolling a few sweet words in my ear was all he had
to do to make me collapse onto my back, pulling him down with me.
Curling my fingers in his hair, I found myself too involved to care
what happened next.
    Smoother than ice cream, he slid his hand
under my shirt. I