Jimi Ch. 01

In pain, Martha disposed his boyfriend's cock away, grabbed her own wrist and flexed the numbed fingers with a sick grimace. How come could he stand it? She felt enormous relief when the oxygenated blood flowed through the engorged veins in the fore of her hand once again. Sitting on her heels, installed between his full stretched legs and bent above his pelvis she had been delivering the whack of her life to that gnarled prick, investing every ounce of her healthy teen body, every trick of her naughty-fairy book. The old mattress, which had caressed her whole childhood and witnessed her mighty physical development throughout puberty, noisily complained as she shifted her upper body weight from one arm to the other, leaving the tracks of her hand heel curved in his thighs, whilst her free hand traded tougher and tighter grips on the immortal hard-on.

The warmth fuming from her clenched fist could feed the heating of the whole block.

With a furtive glance to the on-shelf clock resembling the face of Peggy, her favourite starlette from the Muppet's show, she checked out how long had been pumping. The fantastic figure bumped inside her head. Jimi read her eyes and shrunk his shoulders, coiling himself around the messy bedding from which the purple skinned, poolball-hard prong jutted out and rocked heavily.

-You see –he exhaled- mind control. That's what it's all about. You don't go around pissing your pants, do you? That's cos your brains can voluntarily shut your sphincters. I can do the same with this buddy here. Those freaks in India can put their hands at two different temperatures or change their heart beat rate as they lie on the dust.

Bending over, accurately spitted on the suffocated head, that stubbornly swung around like a sinewy boxer that refused to collapse after a fabulous battering. Hit a moving target with his spit, that was yet another of the unique exploits which explained why she, a brilliant, attractive and successful student, was so mad about him, such a dead loss dude. It had to be that.

-You shouldn't make a face, you can tell by heart the fifteen major rivers of Southern Africa, you. Why? Because of your brains. I can use them as well.

Calmly examining her sore fingers Martha, arguably the most gorgeous blonde of Britton High, replied bitterly.

-Too early to claim victory, there are 20 min left before mum leaves work.

Having said that she dived into the bedding mess head first, made a firm grip on one of Jimi's thighs under her armpit and strangled it just below its head with her free hand.

How come did he managed. Her former boyfriend Anthony, 8 years her senior, spat with much throat display after a dozen of her precise, demolishing strokes. Or was she in her anger recalling it wrong. She exchanged confidences with her mates, sought for details trespassing the over-18 section of the library, renting specialised porno at her cousin's shop, and boy, believe me, definitely, that thing of Jimi, it's unreal. She was not dumb at it either. It is not that she had the experience of a call girl, but she was able to put him hard in a couple of vigorous manoeuvres, made him gasp in the blink of an eye, and broke in cold sweat with just some foul play on his ponderous yet somewhat girlish tits. It is not that she lacked the skills to deliver enough pleasure to make a big man faint, it wouldn't matter if she could knock down a mammoth. Simply that lovely arsewhole, that son of a bitch, the iron-pricked lad, somehow managed to stay on the safe side without crossing the verge for ages, no matter how many new grips, changes of rhythm or ear-muttered filthy constructions she tried. He resisted. He was so eager for pleasure didn't allow reaching an end. It had to be that.

It is not that he had any trouble with his jizum either. Evenings there were when they went for numbers. Meaning number of cums. He knelt down on the blanket undoing the zip, and she rushed to the kitchen for a bowl, and there they go, mission up-to-the-brim. She motorcycles him back home and when they arrive she can't unclasp him off her back. He'd fallen asleep. Pages and pages of encyclopaedic volumes she cruises, taking notes of figures to challenge her private champion, her adorable gun-machine.

With her famous determination and demolishing systematic method she built up reliable hand job statistics fed on 90% of the male members of Britton High, a half the sexually active machos of her village and a significant sample of the hunks in the whole nation. Should a sociology cabinet be aware of her enquires they would turn up with enough data to complete a full PhD. Factual info: her boyfriend was a containment rarity, an unprecedented defy to well-known physiological limits, an extremely unlikely multi-spitting event. Her boyfriend is a monster, a hyper-strange creature, galactic-far away above average in every Willie-involved discipline.

Being of such a competitive nature, a new hunger grew inside Martha next to learning the 12 main tributaries of every African river, beat him down. One way or another she daydreamed about reducing his extraordinary pole to doughy pulp inside her fist. Running up the stairs, heading for each evening session in the lengthy interval between the end of classes and the end of mum's late job, she sets new challenges that he contemptuously accept, as though bearing so much power in that endowed feature of his otherwise miserable body was a punishment, a curse he got used to live with. Are they wasting the best years of their lives with these daily pounding sessions? She has worked out the hours spent jerking Jimi in one month, and then 3, and then 10. Not displacements, no food, no lavatory, only the time while her clenched fingers are set in motion. Now she extrapolates to a full year and contemplates tasks that could be finished in a half that time. She does much thinking about it. But as he makes it again, that short instant after yet another feat, still in contact by her fist, while a glistening thread joining his tip and her forefinger twinkle, and their numbed heads tilt at once for an eye-lock of mutual reverence, then all makes sense. The remaining of their existence is preparation for that joyful shot. And a second later she is angry with herself again, and ready for a second round where she have to, no way for other option, beat him down.