Flipp knelt up on all fours, thrusting her sore, hot bottom out in brazen invitation.
Rocky, shuffling behind her, dipped as many fingers as he could cram into her slippery lips and cunt, getting them shiny-wet before using Flipp’s own juices to lubricate her arsehole. So copious were they that it was a matter of a few minutes before his fingers were gliding in with ease, spreading and stretching that private place, preparing it for its impending use.
“Ready?” he whispered, shucking off his lower garments and lining the head of his cock up with Flipp’s slippery rear entrance.
Flipp, jelly-legged and locked into a strange place of submission, could only whimper her assent. Her bottom cheeks felt tight and tender, and their heat throbbed through her, distracting her only slightly from the nudging cock tip between them.
She winced and puffed through his slow push forward, grateful for the hands on her hips that prevented her from flopping or bucking away, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for that worst moment of splitting-in-twoness to be over.
A cry, then a deep breath, and he was in all the way, ready to ride her, ready to thrust up against her strapped bottom, reawakening the soreness and heat and adding it to the sum of sensation. A heady stew, a bitch’s brew, swirling away with its epicentre at her cunt, simmering, simmering until the surface began to bubble and pop and then…
Flipp came hard, so much harder than through regular penetration, trying not to wake the campsite but finding it impossible to mute her animal howl. Rocky poured in, hissing victoriously, then sinking his teeth into her shoulder, reminding her that she was owned, possessed, marked.
That night the creaking guy ropes did not keep Flipp awake too long.
She woke up, nestled in Rocky?
??s arms, her eyes sticky and body cold with last night’s sweat, to beaming sunshine bleaching the canvas above her.
“Rocky. Wake up.” She elbowed him in the ribs and he was galvanised into action, sitting bolt upright, clutching at his head and staring wildly around him.
“What? Fuck, Flipp, don’t do that. I thought you were Cordwainer. Was having a dream.”
“Sorry.” Flipp bit her lip. “But you’d sleep all day if I let you. Can you get me the shampoo and shower gel from your backpack? Got to shower. Feel like I could win the Olympic gold medal for ickiness. Thanks. Oh yeah, toothbrush and toothpaste too, please.”
Later, in the small on-site supermarket, Rocky was frowning at a shelf of mouthwash and disposable razors.
“No lubricant,” he muttered. “Call this a holiday camp?”
Flipp laughed gaily from the opposite shelves. “Will this do?” She held up a catering-sized bottle of cooking oil.
“I don’t think so. Wasn’t planning to deep-fry you.”
“There’s always butter. Ever seen Last Tango in Paris? You be Marlon, I’ll be Maria.”
Rocky smirked over at her, his eyes transmitting waves of love and amusement. Flipp flushed and reached out for his fingers, curling her own around them.
“We won’t be here long anyway, will we?” she whispered. “You’re going to see your mate about that boat today, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Meant to be meeting him at the harbour at twelve-thirty.”
They squeezed hands, leaving the mutual hope for their future unspoken, and walked together around to the next aisle.
A woman was selecting cheeses and cold meats from the refrigerator, bending down to compare prices and ingredients. Flipp thought she looked a little bit familiar.
Rocky’s fingers tensed around hers and he made to yank her back around the corner, but before they could disappear from the woman’s sight she had straightened up and looked directly at them.
She half screamed and dropped her packages of cheese and bacon, making a dash for the exit.
“Michelle.” Rocky called after her, pulling Flipp along behind him until they were outside the supermarket, in a small car park between it and the pool area. “Stop.”
Reluctantly, seeing that she had nowhere to run and no way of eluding Rocky’s long, long legs, Michelle halted and turned to him, her face defiantly set.
“Sent you after me, has he?” She looked around, noticing a small clutch of breakfast-bound holidaymakers stopping to rubberneck. She raised her voice, deliberately appealing to them. “Well, if you’re going to take me down, you’ll have to do it here, in public. Take note,” she shouted to the tourists. “My name’s Michelle Roberts. This is Rocky Anderson. If you read a Missing Persons report in the paper with a picture of me, you know what name to give the police, right? Rocky Anderson. Professional heavy. That’s him.”
“Michelle, please,” Rocky hissed in an appeal for calm.
Flipp wondered if he was going to take Michelle by the arm and drag her somewhere less public. She looked around, fearing intervention from onlookers or camp staff.