Gun Moll: A Short Sex Adventure Erotica!
Joe Brewster
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Joe Brewster/transgressivefiction
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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ooOOOoo
She looked like a 1930's gun moll or something. Sitting alone in the bar like that. Decked out in vintage clothes with her retro hairstyle; smoking her cigarette; wearing a cloche beret.
A post-modern look, I guess.
I’m seeing more and more women do that. Wear a mix of styles from the past. They usually go with a Bettie Page Pin-up style, or a Punk/Goth/Burlesque look. Most have more gall than they know what to do with. I say that because they don’t have the body to pull it off--- or the attitude. They end up looking like something that ought to be sipping cans of PBR at the local Hipster Halloween Party.
But this wasn't a hipster joint. And those other types usually cover it up with irony so thick it makes you cringe.
This chick was playing it straight. She was sexy, tough and sophisticated. She had the chops--- and the body --- to carry it off without the crutch of irony.
Like I said, she looked like a million bucks.
I had to laugh when I thought about it. I could just see myself walking up to her and asking, 'Anyone ever tell you you look like a gun moll?' Young as she was, she might think I called her a 'Gun Mall'. Like a place to shop for guns or something.
It was a stupid line anyway.
Leave it to me to screw up a fantasy. What did it matter? As if I had the balls to sweet-talk her and try to pick her up. She was a little young for me anyway, couldn’t be more than twenty-one, tops. So I had about ten years on her--- not that it meant anything. She’d still eat me alive, I’ll bet.
That didn’t keep my eyes from wandering her way every few seconds. She didn't care. She was used to having guys paw her over with their eyes.
She had that cynical look; sort of jaded. Or maybe she just didn't see anything to get excited about. That would make her a realist.
I'm a realist, too; a practical guy. I take what I can get. I had about a snowball’s chance in Hell of picking her up but that didn’t mean I couldn’t get a closer look at her. I could buy her a drink, couldn’t I?
I wouldn’t have to say a word. Just take it over and set it down. What's the worst that could happen? What's she gonna do? Pull a gun from her vintage handbag and shoot me?
So that’s what I did. I asked the bartender what she was drinking, he mixed it and I took it over to her; simple as that.
She wasn't as tough as I thought. I don't know what gave it away but I could see it.
She probably hung with a tough crowd and acted tougher than she was to blend in and not get taken advantage of. Some of it rubbed off but that wasn't really her. She wasn't that hard.
I set the drink down.
I figured the best I could hope for was a 'Thanks, now scram.'.
That would be cool.
Better yet: if she held my gaze for half a heartbeat and paused--- then blew smoke in my face. Maybe she’d blow smoke rings. That would be cool. Then she could finish me off with a back-handed wave of her hand.
That seemed like the perfect film-noir B-movie send off. Something I could keep in the back of my mind and conjure up at odd moments to smile about.
I guess that makes me a failed romantic.
"I bought you a drink," I said. I was planning to keep my mouth shut but I had to say something.
She gave me a look that held complete boredom and zero interest. She picked up the drink and looked-off; showing me the back of her head. I was dismissed.
I walked away feeling good about myself. So what if I didn't pick her up? What I'd really wanted, I guess, was to see her in action. Even if that action was blowing me off.
She walked out a few minutes later. I finished my drink and called it a night myself.
When I got to the parking lot she was standing next to my car.
"Waiting for someone?" I asked.
"You."
"ME?"
"Yeah,” she assured me. “This is your car isn't it?"
"How'd you know?" I asked.
"It's the only 20 year old Volvo in the lot," she said. "I'll bet it runs like a top. Let's get in."
We got in and sat there. She leaned back against the passenger side door and kicked off her heels and put her feet on my lap.
"You can rub my feet if you'd like," she said. I was so anxious I couldn’t move. "Or not...” she continued, “but for gosh sakes quit strangling the poor steering wheel. What'd it ever do to you?” She paused and purred, softly with Hollywood cool, “Just relax."
I let go of the wheel and let my hands fall across her legs. I slid one up her shin and palmed her kneecap. The other cupped the heel of her foot. Suddenly, I was relaxed. She made it easy.
"Hmm, a little excited now I feel, eh?" She rubbed her foot lightly against the bulge in my pants.
I just sat there staring at her. Not believing my eyes. My mind blanked out--- but in a good way.
"Don't get too eager, Sweetheart," she cautioned. "I'm not gonna jump you're bones or anything. I just like your style. You approached my table even though you were obviously scared shitless. That took guts. You were shaking like a leaf but you didn't panic.
“It might not have been the smoothest move ever recorded,” she continued, “but you took your lumps and left without making an ass of yourself. In my book that puts you ahead of 99.9 percent of the male population."
"Thanks, I guess."
"You're welcome," she said and held up a cigarette, looking at me for a light. I didn't have a lighter on me or in my car. I don't smoke.
"Reach in my purse and grab my lighter," she said.
I reached across her and grabbed her handbag off the floor. Damn it was heavy. I fished around and found the lighter--- and a gun.
She had a pistol in there.
"Expecting trouble?" I asked as I lit her cig. I felt like a psychic. She was a gun moll.
"Oh, I've got trouble,” she said. “I'm just not sure how much at this point. I was hoping to meet some people and straighten things out. They didn't show."
"Not yet, you mean,” I said. “That's why we're sitting here, right? Keeping an eye on things?"
"Sure,” she said. “But my car's right over there. The BMW. I could be waiting there if I wanted. If you're thinking I'm using you or something.
“I think you're an interesting kid,” she said. (She’s calling me kid? That’s a laugh.) “I thought we could hang out and keep each other company while I sort things out."
"Two birds, one stone?" I said.
"Yeah, you could say that,” she said. “I really do like you. If you sat where I do every night you’d understand why. If you were a chick like me with guys coming up and hitting on you all night---and I mean all kinds --- geeks, creeps, rich, poor, ugly, handsome--- you name it --- all shapes and sizes and every one an asshole right on down the line--- then you'd understand what a rare kind of guy you are."
"Is that good?"
"Yeah, it's good. Would I be sitting here if it wasn't?" She looked me straight in the eye when she said it. I believed her.
"Then why didn't you let me sit down?" I asked.
"I didn't stop you," she said.
"Yeah you did."
She thought it over a moment, "I guess you're right." She took a drag on her cigarette. "The thing is I didn't know until you walked away that you were really all right. Such is life. I guess that's why I'm always going out with assholes."
That seemed messed up to me but it also sounded like, if I played my cards right, I had a shot at going out with her. That made me smile.
"Jeezus!" She slunked down in the car and said, "That’s why they didn't show." She was watching a couple of thugs enter the bar. "The bastards! They knew it was a setup and they didn't warn me."
"The people you were supposed to meet?"
"Yeah,” she said. “These guys here aren't Boy Scouts. The people I was meeting must've gotten wind of this and laid low. The bastards probably set me up. I'm fucked."
By now she was crouched down on the floor peering over the dash.
"Let's get out of here," she said as soon as the mob guys were inside.
"What about your car?"
"Leave it," she said. "Just get the hell out of here. NOW."
I got us out of there quick.
"I better hide out at your place for now," she said, without asking. I guess she knew I wouldn't mind. "You don't hang out with a track crowd, do you?"
"A what?"
"Racetrackers. Are you a horseplayer?" she asked as she sat back in the passenger seat.
"No. I never gamble. Is that what this is about? Gambling?"
"It's not gambling they way I play," she lit another cigarette. "Doesn't mean it's safe but as far as bets go I don’t lose. Seems like everyone hates a winner nowadays. I better lay low till the heat dies down. It looks like you got yourself a roommate for a few days, what do you think?”
I guess it was pretty obvious from what I’d done in the bar, buying her a drink and all, that I was single and unattached.
“Sure,” I was flying high. “I can put you up for a few days.”
Hell, talk about the heat dying down, I could put her up till Hell freezes over if she wants.
In two minutes we were at my place.
“You want a beer or something to drink?” I asked when we got inside.
“Beer’s fine,” she said as she followed me into the kitchen.
I turned away from the fridge with a beer in each hand and she was right there. In my face. Standing right up against me.
She laid a big kiss on me as her strong arms wrapped around me and she pulled herself into me.
I had my hands out at my sides still holding the beers as she forced me back against the fridge and laid into me. Pressing her firm full chest against mine. Planting her lips hard. Pushing her bourbon and Coke™ flavored tongue in me. Swapping sweet spit. Exploring my mouth.
I hadn’t had time to react. I pulled away to catch my breath. I was light-headed.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, just surprised.”
I put the beers on the counter.
“Doesn’t take much to get you going,” she said, rubbing her hand on my crotch. “You’re hard enough to use as a jack handle,” she chuckled.
I stood there blushing like a schoolboy; embarrassed as hell.
She leaned back against the butcher block counter and pulled me to her again and kissed me. Just a peck this time.
“You’re sweet. A real sweet guy.” She paused and with her head tilted back and eyes half-lidded, looked at me, very sultry-like, and said “I haven’t had a real sweet guy go down on me for a long time now.”
She paused.
My eyes widened as her words registered.
“Too long,” she whispered huskily.
She knew by the drool on my chin I was ready and it was on.
She kicked her heels off and slipped out of her skirt and panties and got on the counter and spread ‘em wide; still wearing her thigh high stockings.
Her silky soft bush glistened in dim light. I dropped to my knees and went down on her.
Her sex was liquid as sin and tasty as hell.
God, her legs were smooth and strong!
She put her hands on top on my head like she was a gymnast balancing on a saddle horn, nearly lifting herself off the countertop.
She leveraged her ass in a tight circle and worked her wet pussy into my face six ways to Sunday. My main job was to hold still and keep my tongue out. She did all the work.
She got wetter and wetter until the liquid got creamy.
She’d rub her clit on the tip of my nose now and then making my face a thick sopping mess of heavenly scented girl goo.
She was moaning low and I’d have masturbated myself if I hadn’t needed my hands to keep steady by clinging to the wooden countertop.
In the end it didn’t matter. She let out a whoop and came all over me like a burst hydrant and I creamed my drawers without touching myself I got so excited. God, she was terrific. The whole thing was unreal.
I stood up and we kissed and made-out for a while so she could get a taste of herself. I don’t blame her she tasted like bottled Nirvana. Before I knew it she had me stiff and ready. I was in for more than I ever dreamed possible. She actually wanted to fuck me.
She pulled me unto the big butcher block countertop and put me flat on my back and mounted me. She used me like a saddle. She mounted my cock and rode the Hell out of me. Right there in the middle of my kitchen.
I’ve never felt such power and such passion from a woman as when she drove her hips down onto me and twisted and flexed her pussy this-way-and-that while pumping her ass up and down. She had total muscle control.
I put my hands about her waist and marveled at the coordinated network of muscles she put to use. At random intervals I felt her obliques contract hard and instantly relax, both in my hands and on my cock. It felt tremendous having her ride me.
She put her hands down flat on the counter just outside my shoulders and rode my cock on all fours. I had her magnificent breasts in my face and that got my dick even harder and she tossed her head back and growled and then gritted her teeth and bent to it; fucking my brains out with all her might until I thought she’d rip my dick off.
I was lucky I’d gotten off once already or I’d never have lasted so long. From the way she was going at it I think she would’ve torn my head off if I went limp before she’d gotten her fill of riding my cock.
I felt her climax gush like warm pee rushing over my dick; so fucking wet and electric that we both blasted out a climax at the same time. She stayed stock-still on all fours for about a millisecond when, with eyes closed and mouth wide open, four strong jolts shook her body. She looked like a dumb animal getting Tazed—a very, very beautiful animal but totally wild. The sounds she made were inhuman. Then she collapsed and fell into my arms on top of me. She’d fucked us both out of our minds.
After that she was pretty beat. I carried her to bed and gave her shoulders and back a quick massage and rubbed skin lotion on her reddened knees. Her stockings were shredded. She’d given herself a hell of a work-out.
oooOOOooo
The next day I put my web design project on hold and I went to work at the track to get info about the mess Traci was in. Traci is the Gun Moll’s real name.
When I got back to my house that afternoon I heard a tussle going on. Traci and someone were wrestling around.
“Hold still,” I heard a girl say. “Now get on your knees and eat my pussy or I’ll blow your fucking head off.
I tiptoed to the bedroom doorway and peeked in.
A muscular girl had Traci grabbed from behind. One arm was wrapped around Traci’s neck and the other held the gun pressed to her head. The typical robber-takes-a-hostage stance.
“Don’t!” I yelled, as I charged into the room. The girl turned the pistol on me and shot—a stream of water hit me right between the eyes.
“We heard you come in,” Traci said, with a laughing smile. “Hope you didn’t pee your pants.”
“That’s not funny,” I said. I was not at all amused. “Is that the gun you had in your bag?” I asked.
“Sure,” Traci answered, “you didn’t think it was real, did you?”
The girl with the squirt gun shot me again in the face, ”We were practicing taking squirts in the face without blinking. Traci needs to get used to that. She’s got a big weekend ahead of her. She’s got a date with about 50 guys that’ll be shooting cum in her face all at the same time. Should be fun, right Trace?”
“Fuck off, Carla,” Traci told her friend.
“What’s all this about?” I asked her.
“You go first,” she told me, “how did you like your first day walking hots? Did you get any info?”
‘Walking Hots’ is racetrack jargon for cooling down a horse after it’s had a workout. You walk the animal around the barn for twenty minutes or so. I liked it. But apparently most people considered it such a shitty job that anyone willing to do it could show up and get hired on the spot.
I had access to all the barns at the track and the track kitchen. I found out what Traci wanted to know.
“I had fun,” I told her. “I met a lot of people. The word on the backstretch is you gave the wrong guy a betting tip.”
“Looks like your story checks-out,” she said to Carla.
“I told you it would,” Carla said, gruffly. “I also told you not give out tips to every swinging dick with a sad story. But you wouldn’t listen.”
Traci’s landlord had cried to her about having money troubles because of his wife’s illness and Traci gave him a horse to bet that was a ‘sure thing’.
She gave him strict instructions not to bet more than $50 to win and to split the rest of Traci’s rent money between place and show bets. Traci was so confident the horse would win-- or at least finish no worse than 2nd --that she let him use her rent payment as betting money. He was free to keep all the winnings from the bet. If there were no winnings Traci would eat the loss.
The landlord was supposed to place the bet at an off-track betting parlor. Instead he went to the track. He also failed to follow her betting instructions about win, place and show. He put the whole bundle on the nose—to win!
Of course, everything that could go wrong did go wrong. The horse fell on his face coming out of the starting gate. The jock got flung onto the horse’s neck but he was able to regain control but not before he’d spotted the field a dozen lengths.
Ordinarily the jock would have given up and just cantered around the track to save the horse for its next race. But the owner had bet a lot of money in this particular race on this horse to win. They had been setting it up for weeks. He had to try his best to win or the owner would be furious.
Traci had all the inside information because of her connections and knew the horse was much better than the competition. That’s why she knew it was a sure thing. But the owner had forbidden her from betting on this race. He gave her tips now and then but this one he wanted all to himself. That’s why she limited the landlord’s win bet to $50.
Anyway, as it turned out, the jockey tried hard but fell short. His arm nearly fell off from whipping the animal so desperately but at the finish he lost by a nose.
As the jockey dismounted, and the official order of finish was announced, the owner and trainer huddled up and wanted to know what the hell happened out there. Just then the landlord ran up and jumped on the fence near where the jockey, trainer and owner stood on the track and screamed, “That fucking Bitch lied! She said you couldn’t lose! I had over a grand on you, you fucking cheating jockey! You stiffed me! You owe me $1000!” and other choice words.
Needless to say they figured out who the ‘Fucking Bitch’ was that gave him the tip.
Traci wasn’t worried. She had thought the owner was pissed about something else even more serious.
“You heard what Carla said about 50 guys cumming in my face?” she asked.
“Yeah,” I said, “that’s why she was shooting you with the fake gun. To get you used to it. I got that. And, by the way, I know that is not the same gun that was in your handbag last night. I know a real gun when I hold it in my hand, okay?”
Traci snuggled up to me and sighed, “I know, but an understanding boyfriend is supposed to go along with his girlfriend’s con and pretend--that’s what understanding boyfriends do—I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of Gun Moll, understand?”
She was looking directly into my eyes when she said that and I almost popped a rod she looked so sexy. Me? Her boyfriend? Oh My God!
“I guess so,” I stammered.
“Awww, that’s so sweet,” Carla said, then, after changing her tone, added, “I think I’m gonna puke.”
“Carla’s full of shit, as usual,” Traci said while flipping Carla the bird. “No way are 50 guys going to jack-off in my face. The owner is going to want me to dance at one of his clubs and then give him all my tips for the night but I’m a dance legend not a ‘Porn-Party Girl’. Some slut like Carla would be forced to fuck a horse if she crossed him like that but not me. I’m a class act.”
“Fuck you, Bitch,” Carla said, not upset at all, just saying it.
“When you say ‘Dance’ do you mean topless?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Traci said, “those goons we saw last night are also his drivers. They were probably going to give me a lift to one of his strip clubs.”
“You’re okay with doing that?” I asked, a little bewildered.
“Sure, I did it for years, since I was 16, I said I’m a legend,” she said, wrapping herself around me again, “he’ll expect a private dance afterward when I give him all my money and Carla’s right about one thing—I’ll have to let one guy cum on my face: the owner. I have to go down on him. I’ll have to suck his dick nice and slow and let him shoot off in my face and then make-out with him. He’s a butake-snowball freak.”
“That’s crazy,” I said, freaking-out a little.
“I know it is,” she said soothingly, “but it beats getting my legs broken or being forced to have sex with a horse. I don’t expect you to like it. But if you want to be my boyfriend you’ll have to understand.”
Before I could say anything she and Carla started taking my clothes off and kissing me and massaging my cock. All three of us were naked in less than a minute.
We lay on the bed and the girls made-out while I fondled Traci’s breasts and she fondled my cock.
Carla had acted like a crabby little bitch while we had talked but when things turned sexual she became a totally different person. She was devoted to pleasuring Traci and treated me nicely, too.
Traci lay back and Carla went down on her while Traci and I kissed. Then I sucked Traci’s nipples while she pumped my cock with her hand.
Both girls’ bodies were rock hard. They were exercise riders. They rode horses during morning work-outs.
When Traci laid flat her tummy rippled with muscles; it felt amazing to run my hand across.
I got down and kissed her belly. I can’t tell you how sexy it felt. I tongued her belly button and kept kissing her lower and lower until I nearly bumped heads with Carla as she ate Traci out.
I licked Traci’s clit while Carla slid her tongue between the soft folds of Traci’s pink and wet pussy lips and into heat of her vagina.
The way Traci moaned was incredible. I had my hand on her tummy and the vibrations were strong and passionate—like a plea for relief.
Carla and I did a tongue-tussle with Traci’s clit. Wrestling tongue-against-tongue to be ‘King of the Clit’. Traci arched her back and yelped like a wounded coot just as she hit her orgasm and splashed us pussy-licking-bitches with a manic gush of G-force girl jism.
Carla’s face was dripping with it. I licked some off her face and we started making-out—which was weird because I really kind of didn’t like her at all just a few minutes before this and now I was kissing on her like I just got out of prison or something. That was mainly because she had Traci’s pussy juice all over her but still it was weird.
Needless to say my cock was hard as a rock.
Traci threw me on my back and mounted me. Her wet and relaxed pussy slid down on my cock like silk heaven. Carla sat on my face and she and Traci were licking each other’s tits and kissing and stuff.
Honest to God my cock was numb or something. I let Traci have her fun sitting on it and concentrated on licking Carla’s fantastic pussy. She sat on my face like she was riding a pony. I practically drank her pussy juice like it was coming out of a fountain she got so wet.
Traci sat still on my cock and kept a mellow glow happening in her pussy. I could hear her and Carla’s kissy sounds and lip-smacking moans from heavily trading tongues with each other and copping feels of one another’s bodies.
Carla slid her clit against my tongue in a quick burst of short thrusts and came like thunder. Traci racked up another orgasm riding my cock and I nearly drowned trying to catch my breath through all Carla’s juices as I got my nut off in Traci’s pussy.
Later, after Carla left, Traci and I fucked some more—with me on top for the first time.
“You’re pretty studley for a web designing computer geek,” Traci said.
“I guess you could say I’ve been saving up,” I said. “This last 24 hours is the most sex I’ve had in the last 5 years. The greatest sex ever.”
“You’d never know it by me,” she said. “I mean, about how little experience you’ve had. You did the threesome thing like a champ. You should build us a web site and go live with pay-per-view sex stuff.”
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Sure, I made massive bucks from stripping but a live web cam would make that look like chump change,” Traci said. “If it weren’t for the creeps and drunks and late nights I’d have stuck with the life but I found a good thing at the track instead.”
“You want to give that up?” I asked.
“I won’t have to,” she said. “The thing about a web cam is just whether you are cool with it or not. I’d have done it before but I never knew anybody with the computer skills that I trusted enough to do it with. We could crush the fuck out of some live sex shows.”
And that’s what we did.
The End