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we’d been with. I wondered how long our little minx had been
active. Couldn’t have been long. She was so fucking tight.
    Chris was definitely going to enjoy this.
    I pushed those two fingers inside her deeper.
She moaned, groaned, sounded like she was near crying, but it was
the kind of cry that I didn’t mind hearing, that I knew meant that
what she was feeling was almost too good. Went in deeper and felt
that little suction she had. Felt the layout of her honey pot. Felt
that wondrous soft wet tight little cave that straight men craved
to fuck, craved to slam until they came, craved to bury their
shafts in until they blew their loads. Inside her.
    My fingers were in a place where I knew so
many men had wanted to invade before I had. I was feeling what
they’d wanted to feel. I was in a special place that I knew not
many had been invited before.
    I kissed her again. Hope she got that it
wasn’t just lust I was kissing her for, but gratitude. I was
grateful for the invitation. And with the amount of juices she was
producing, she was grateful for my appearance.
    “Harder,” she said the word to me in her
sweet voice, but that word had come out forcefully.
    She was wet. She needed to be fucked. She
needed to cum.
    I stopped playing nice. I stopped acting like
the place where I was stroking was delicate just because of the way
her face looked. The little hole I was working with my fingers
stretched and accommodated for a reason; she was pleading with me
to go harder for a reason. She could take it.
    I stopped going slow. Sped up the pace. Moved
my fingers in and out so fast I could hear her juices lapping up in
my hand. My hands were soaking. Her wetness was covering my palm as
if I’d dipped it in some kind of liquid and had held it there.
    Ginuwine finished up his song and gave way to
Kelly Rowland. Her lyrics were all about motivation. Motivation,
stimulation, reciprocation. That was the world of rules we were
abiding by in the back of a sleek black almost brand new BMW that
belonged to none of us, but was ours all the same. Possession is
nine tenths of the law, after all.
    That made Candice mine. Or maybe I was hers
since her tight little kitty cat was owning my fingers, those soft
strong walls enclosed around two of my digits, pulling me in deeper
one second, trying to push me out the next.
    Frustrating, stimulating, intoxicating.
    That’s what sex is. That’s what passion is.
That’s what we were all about.
    I went in as deep as I could. Put another
finger insider her, a third one. Felt her struggle to make room for
me, felt her little hole get bigger, but barely.
    Candice had her back against the backseat,
her head thrown back, her eyes rolling in the back of her head, her
mouth open as she screamed and breathed heavily and moaned a
beautiful song of ecstasy as her twin tits bounced, as my thrusts
became harder, went deeper, as I pushed those three of my fingers
inside her up to my knuckles over and over again.
    I could feel how serious my face was as I
worked her. Her top was still on her even though it had been pulled
down and then slid the rest of the way to her mid section. Those
tits of hers. They were bouncing. I wanted to suck them again. I
wanted them in my mouth. So fat and juicy, they were.
    Her legs were spread across the seat as I
fucked her with my fingers even harder than Chris had finger fucked
me not too long ago in the private parking garage right outside of
Oasis.
    Then she started riding my fingers as if my
hand were a cock.
    She needed to be punished for it, and I was a
punisher. She had no idea.
    Didn’t matter if it seemed her little sweet
spot had just barely taken three of my fingers. I took those out,
curled them all around one another, added my pinky finger to the
mix and went back inside of her. I was nearly fisting her, though
the fingers inside of her could barely fit. She stopped slamming
against me then, begged for mercy. I was in a merciful mood.
    I went back to two fingers and