Trouble

Laura Mitchell was eighteen and had a body that stopped men mid-stride. Great big tits that turned every summer dress into a crime, a waist a fella could get both hands round, and hips that swung out wide and filthy. And between her legs, a thick dark blonde minge she'd never once shaved. Bushy as anything, and proud of it.

She'd been a virgin on paper only. In her head she'd been shagged rotten a hundred different ways. Every weekday morning the house emptied out, Mum and Dad off to work, the kids off to school, and she had the gaff to herself. Clothes off, dad's box of old smut. Warped copies of Fiesta glued shut with damp and God knows what, a Debbie Does Dallas tape that smelled like the inside of a wardrobe. Then to her room and the bedpost, or a pillow crushed between her thighs, or three fingers up her pussy while her thumb worked her clit in tight fast circles till her legs gave out and her eyes went blank. Two, three times before dinner. She'd lay there with her fingers pruned and sticky and the sheets reeking of her own minge, aching for the real thing. A fella's weight, a fella's smell, a hard cock jammed up inside her till she forgot her own name.

She'd found her dad's stash by accident, kicking a box loose in the shed. Pages crusted shut with the dried proof of what he did with them. Now she did the same, only filthier. She nicked the lot and spent her nights behind a locked door learning how fucking worked off the telly, the rhythm, the angles, till her body knew the moves by heart. She could feel a good hard shag coming before it landed.

She wanted it exactly like that. Loud. Wet. No apologies. She wanted in.

She was having a fag when she clocked him, stood side on against the house so the hydrangea bush kept her off the kitchen window's radar. She'd nicked the pack off her mum and was eking it out, one a day, only when the house was empty.

He was backing a chopped Harley into the drive three doors down, the house empty since the Hendersons got done for benefit fraud. Rough was the word. Hair dragged back, jaw unshaven, shoulders filling a washed grey t-shirt, forearms corded and veined. Jeans worn white at the thigh and clinging to heavy muscle, steel-toed boots that had met concrete and knuckles both.

Wrong side of the tracks. Exactly the sort her mum warned her about, the sort that takes what it wants and never says sorry.

He caught her looking. She didn't flinch. Drew on the fag and let the smoke spill out slow, eyes locked on his.

"That'll kill you," he said, smirking, his own fag hanging off his lip.

"Then we're both brown bread."

He laughed, a surprised crack of it. "Matthew. Just moved in."

"Laura."

"Right then, Laura." He swung off the bike and came at her, boots grinding the gravel. "Trouble it is."

"Am I."

"Definitely trouble."

Trouble stuck. Three weeks of it. Every time he surfaced she found a reason to drift past, and he'd call her Trouble, hand her a cold can of Coke, and they'd have a natter. He was thirty-six, divorced, on the tools in Slough, hands hard as boards. She was unemployed and into Wham!, which was a lie. What he didn't know was that she'd never had a fella in her life. Didn't know she got herself off every night to his rough hands. Didn't know she woke with her fingers already buried in her pussy and his name in her throat.

She'd waited long enough.

Her sister Diana was round her boyfriend's, so Laura went through her wardrobe like a thief. A red halter that dived to her navel and barely held her tits, and a black leather mini so short one bend and it was all on show. No knickers. She was already wet pulling it on, the leather sliding over bare hips, cool air on her minge, the insides of her thighs shining.

She looked in the mirror. She looked like the girls in her dad's magazines. Ready. Available. Asking for it.

Matthew was on his step when she reached the path. His eyes came down her and dragged back up, jaw ticking, gaze snagging on the hem.

"Christ. Where are you off to?"

"Thought you might want company and a drink." Her voice held while her heart went mad.

She stepped in close enough to smell him. Oil, tobacco, sweat. "Go on. One drink."

He chewed it over, duty scraping with hunger. Then he stubbed his fag out and tipped his head at the door. "One drink. Then home and dressed."

The gaff was bare. A dying settee, a telly with rabbit ears, a fridge groaning in the corner. Laura sat, the leather sliding straight up, crossed her legs, uncrossed them, let them fall apart. Just a touch.

"A coke? Or something stronger?"

"Something stronger, please."

He came back through with two glasses and stopped dead in the doorway. The glass shook.

Laura had slid to the middle of the settee, spine on the cushions, knees wide open. The skirt had climbed right up and there it was, the fat hairy lips of her pussy split open and gleaming in the daylight, blonde hair dark and soaked at the middle, her clit fat and poking clear of the hood. She'd never been so bare in front of anyone. She'd never felt so powerful. Her smell was coming off her into the room and she watched him breathe it in.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he said, barely audible.

"like what you see?" Her voice had gone low and husky. She hooked her top aside and her tits fell out, heavy, pale, nipples stiff and stinging, red seams pressed into the skin. "I want you. I want you so bad. And you want me too."

He set the glasses down, hand unsteady. "Laura. You're just a kid. You're, this is, fuck, look at you."

"I'm eighteen." She reached down and touched herself, one finger through the wet, parting the hair, finding her clit and circling, and her hips jumped. "And I'm not a kid. I've been gagging for it for ages. Look how wet I am."

He made a sound like going under. Crossed in three strides, dropped to his knees, hauled her thighs wide till she felt the pull in her groin. And then he just looked at her, breathing hard, at the wet pink meat of her, open and shining and stinking of sex.

"Fuck. You've no idea what you're asking for. What I want to do to you."

"Show me."

He put his mouth on her.

His tongue came up rough and hot, dragged the whole length of her, found her hole and lapped at the slick pouring out, then climbed to her clit and flicked it fast. Laura yelped and fisted his hair, ground up into his face. He ate her like a starving man, groaning into her, tongue fucking in and out of her pussy and then sucking her clit into his mouth and working it. Two thick fingers slid up inside her and curled, and that was it, she came on his face, a hot flood into his palm, her pussy grabbing and milking him while she writhed and swore.

He surfaced, chin soaked. "You taste like heaven. Like fucking honey. You'll be the death of me."

He stood, went at his belt, and got his cock out. Thick, veined, heavy in his fist, the head dark and shining with pre-cum, veins standing up the shaft. Bigger than she'd pictured. Bigger than three fingers, bigger than the bedpost. Filthy, and he smelled of salt and heat.

"Last chance to go home."

"I don't want to go home." She slid her fingers down and pulled herself wide, "fuck me, Matthew. I need you in me."

He pushed in.

The stretch tore a cry out of her and she clawed his shoulders. He pressed his forehead to hers, shaking, sweat standing on him, only halfway in and already buried in tight wet heat. "So fucking tight. Christ. So hot. Fuck, Laura, you feel..."

He drove the rest of the way till his hips were flush and he was in to the root, every hard inch of him packed inside her, twitching. So full it almost hurt. Best thing she'd ever felt.

"Don't stop. Don't you dare. Fuck me. fuck me hard."

He moved. Long slow drags, nearly all the way out and back, then faster, hips slapping, the settee complaining, wet skin cracking on wet skin, the filthy noise of her. The drag of his cock on her raw walls, splitting her on every stroke, his weight pinning her, his balls slapping her arse. She was whimpering, begging, nails raking red down his back.

"Harder. Go on. fuck me harder."

He fucked her like a punishment, hammering her wet hairy pussy, her tits bouncing, breath punched out of her. The cushions slid and they went off the edge onto the floor, and he had her on the scratchy brown carpet with her legs flung wide and her hair spread and her pussy stuffed and dripping.

She came first, screaming his name, her virgin pussy clamping down in long rolling waves, gripping and milking, back arched, toes curled. He buried to the root of her and exploded into her, hot and thick and bare, jet after jet, and she squeezed every drop out of him.

They lay tangled, thick with sex and whisky, his cock still twitching inside her, the two of them leaking out around him into her pussy hair.

But she wasn't done.

She shoved his chest, rolled him flat, climbed aboard. He was still half up, soaked with the both of them, and she sank down onto him with a moan, a new angle, deeper, the head of him butting something high inside that lit her up behind the eyes.

"Again. fuck me again. Come in me again. I want more."

His hands came up and took her tits, kneading, thumbs dragging her nipples, while she bounced on him for everything she had, her wet hair dragging his belly, her clit chasing the grind off his pelvis, her pussy squelching round his shaft. She came again like that, working herself off on his cock while he watched with black eyes, fluttering and gripping till his spunk ran down over his balls.

The second time he finished she was on all fours and he was behind her, hands clamped on her hips, driving in like an animal, hips slapping off her arse, tits swinging. He got a fist in her hair, pulled her into an arch, roared her name and emptied into her again, spunk flooding her full pussy and spilling down her thighs in ropes.

They fell in a heap, slick and finished, his cock softening out of her with a wet sound, a fat glob chasing it onto the floor.

The third time went slow, almost tender. He carried her to his narrow bed and laid her down like she might break. Went over her body with his mouth, sucked her nipples till they ached, kissed down her belly, and buried his face in her unshaven bush one last time to taste the both of them together, tongue working the mess out of her used hole while she held his head and squirmed.

When he got in her that time it was face to face, her legs hooked round him, deep slow rolling strokes, grinding the base of his cock on her clit every pass. They kissed, wet open-mouthed kissing tasting of fags and sex, tongues sliding. Another one built, slower and sweeter, and when it broke she leaked tears she didn't understand, shaking, her pussy pulsing soft round him.

He went with her, groaning into her neck, a third load pumped deep, filling her past full, marked right through.

After, they lay there in the afternoon sun, his cock still parked in her, soft and warm. She drew patterns in the hair on his chest, her thighs tacky, her whole body aching.

"Still think I'm just a young girl?"

He laughed, rumbling under her ear. "You'll be the death of me, Trouble. The absolute fucking death of me. And I don't even care."

Laura shut her eyes and smiled, already wet again at the thought of tomorrow.