Karnal Combat

Spring was a time of great change for me. I'd just moved into a sweet, little apartment in an up-and-coming neighborhood not yet taxed by gentrification. I was on extended leave, with full workmen's comp, and without any truly worrisome injury. And, I was having the greatest secret sex with Denise, the woman who bullied me throughout our shared childhood. It's really just a haze: one minute, I'm sitting round the apartment, nursing a bruise that didn't even show anymore, but did raise holy hooplah in the legal department of the company where I work shipping and handling; the next minute, I'm buzzing up Denise, who I haven't seen for about seven years, who'd heard, through her father who's friends with my uncle, about my circumstances.

"You came to see how I was doing?"

"I came because I'm bored, and everybody else works," she replied, brushing past my attempted friendly embrace.

Denise was free in the daytime because she'd just recently left some high-level Sacramento job. Returning to our hometown of Chicago, she was taking it easy while multiple career offers hounded her.

"So, what've you been doing?" she asked.

"This week? playing Mortal Kombat, trying to get through to the end with every character."

"Wow. Feeling nostalgic?"

"Naw. I got it out the parentals' attic. I was thinking to donate it, or something."

"To who? a time machine operator, so he can send it back to 1990?"

"You're still so funny—looking."

With Denise settled on the sofa, I made us vodka-tonics, then re-seated myself in the chair closest to the TV. I asked if she cared to play, but she declined, preferring to sigh heavily, and criticize the game's violence.

"You get that big playing video games?" she asked, referring to the blue-collar muscle surrounding my t-shirt.

"... Yes."

Glancing at her, Denise was sexy. At six feet, and at every stage of our acquaintance, she was two inches taller than I. Her limbs were long, her legs, coming out linen shorts, so toned and shapely. I could just perceive the lacy bra beneath the white blouse she wore. But, most noticeable was her chest. Stretching the blouse, pulling out and away from her body as if by reverse magnetism, I don't know why the buttons didn't pop. Glancing at her expression, a perpetual frown since adolescence, she was mean as a snake, totally unaware of her looks, and uncompromising like a feminist. I was afraid to stand and further raise any potential ire by the expanding bulge in my sweatpants. Damned if yesterday wasn't the last day of clean boxer-briefs!

"C'mon, how you gonna learn if you don't play? And, you'll just be bored, sitting there. We could play for money. I'll even use characters I'm not so good with."

"Brian, I'm not gonna just fork over money to you."

"We could play ... strip Mortal Kombat."

Awaiting the customary cursing out, my cock almost burst through the fabric covering it as Denise made a pshaw sound, then said, "Okay."

This was no true contest between seasoned warriors. Although I ended up lopping off her characters' heads, I did throw every other fight, just to keep her interested, just to give her a glimpse of what I'd matured into. And, when Denise lost, she lost like a kid, by saying "Aw". But, she honored our bet without complaint. At her very first loss, she removed her shorts, just kicking them off without fully standing, revealing simple white panties, and smoothly muscular thighs. On her second loss, she removed her K-Swiss; and, wriggling her toes, dug them into the rug. Next, came the blouse—and, barely contained in the bra, she exposed the two most flawless baubles ever beheld. Then, she removed her panties, and moved to the floor, but sat knees folded on her side, farthest from me. I could just detect a red tuft of hair surrounded by a canvas of flesh.

Winning our final battle, I leapt up, cheering. As I did so, my heavy dick, already full of cheer, bounced against my sweats, so easily on display for my visitor. Falling back into the chair, I slumped down, anticipating a champion's reward.

"You done?" asked Denise, sitting up on her knees. She removed her bra, leaving such swollen tits to slump not much more than a fraction. Each nipple was golden brown, perfectly round. She sat still, though wrapping the bra round her hands. "I think you cheated."

I could only grin, and stupidly, I'm sure.

Denise then sashayed over, on her knees, her full meaty breasts barely moving throughout the exertion, the slightest sound of manipulated velcro down past her navel. She cupped the waist of my sweats in either hand, yanking them down, revealing my favorite joystick, finally free to stretch out fully.

"Aw, shit! where'd that come from?" she exclaimed, expecting, I guess, the same image of me at nine, when she'd cruelly pulled down my swim trunks at the Y.

Anyway, from shock to determination, my bully engulfed me with her brooding, beautiful mouth. She engaged her duties steadily, her head bobbing, circling round that sickly boner I thought would be bleeding through its skin. Humming the game's music, she knew how to relax her stimulation without ending it, without ending me. Her tongue riding round such engorged veins, she removed my sweats, then strapped my hands under hers, preventing my massage through her hair.

Eventually, I pulled her up, by the shoulders, desperate to palm those creamy cakes mashed against my knees, insane to have her sink onto my polished pole. Grunting along the way, Denise settled down cautiously, facing me, at first doing controlled squats, her shaved triangle pulling at parts of my kinky pubes. She slid me in smoothly, the slippery lubricant of her nature like camphor. But, when she raised up, there was a suction which tugged my tender member along, drawing everything with her—my hairs, balls, my sanity.

Her arms secured across my shoulders, I finally took her fat rack in my hands, swirling them clockwise and counter-, so puffed and weighty, but still springy and strong enough to remain forever suspended upwards and onwards. On closer inspection, her nipples were like marbles, firm and smooth, hot and slick in the mouth. My juggling such giants, and nibbling those nipples, Denise emitted the first of many unrestrained groans, her hands rubbing my shoulder blades raw.

Legs quivering with fatigue, she kicked the right one over my shoulder, while setting her palm against my knee. Taking her muscular ass in my hands, I drove the rest of the way. My fingers sank round a rump hard like ungiving Playdoh. I wrenched Denise up and down, creating a V pattern, banging myself against the insides of that lacquered twat, all faster and more ferocious than she'd dared. I had the veins in Denise's neck throbbing, her face reddening in a permanent grimace, and her growling half-intelligible variations of "fuck" through breathless shudders till she could only gasp gurgles.

Finally, I pulled her up, and turned her round. At first, I sat her back atop me, still plugging away at that snarling, juicy pussy. She lay back against me, the both of us captivated, marvelling over the visual of me fucking her—drilling deep, steering my dick with my hips one way, and shifting her slit by tugging her tits the other way. Whenever Denise appeared too complacent—absently licking my ear, muttering "shit" with sweetly nonsensical euphoria—I pinched her nipples sharply, stretching those balloons till they popped loose. Then, I pushed her forward, onto her knees, and decided to enter her domain from the rear. Before she could object, I drew apart her shiny, cherubic cheeks, withdrew from my previous work, and inserted myself slowly and fully into that dark, fudgy furnace. Though clenching tight, at first, it obligingly softened like worn leather.

Looking back, Denise, flushed in the face, exhaled softly through puckered lips, then turned away as I filled her gap. I moved in and out, slowly—alternately deeply, shallowly. Pulling that firm, full moon high, I gripped it hard with my fingers, rolling the tight flesh, spanking it a few times, just to produce that brief hiss through my little bully's clenched teeth, that brief quake throughout her system. Taking her by the shoulders, and thwacking faster and harder, I matched Denise's strained whimpers with my own struggling grunts of hard labor.

Feeling the end near, but not ready to release, I lay Denise on the rug, on her side, thinking to spoon her from behind for the finale. I stabilized her against me, one forearm strapped across her barreled chest, the other holding her one leg up and out the way of my sliding a fierce cock into that swollen, vulnerable cunt. But, Denise, after several seconds of having no control to do anything but endure the luscious tremors I caused her body, rolled us over, flipping herself towards me. Pulling me atop her, her hand searching frantically for my member, and screwing it within herself, she encouraged me to proceed at our newly set course. Slightly ticked off, I slung her legs over my arms and pulled them up till her knees went just over her head. Then, I ground in, rocking her pinned body from side to side, sawing through that waxed, elastic chasm.

After only a matter of seconds, her body went rigid, beginning its sustained spasm. So angry had I become, it wasn't till I noticed the smiling, soundless scream in Denise's face, did I feel myself explode. Pumping three repetitions of semen into her, she forced me out, taking my dick, still active, and jerking me, smearing cream all through her pudenda, stinging my wrinkling skin across her slick hairs, yet keeping me satisfied by the warm gyration of her hands, which permitted me to grind within their greasy stranglehold. Then, I fell atop her, crushing myself upon her, heaving her heavy tits together and kissing them. Denise, embracing me round the waist, one warm, moist hand massaging my cooling ass, chuckled exhaustedly:

"I know you cheated, Brian."

"Oh, game over."

•

Like I said, this was secret sex. This was nothing Denise wanted shared with the public. I don't even think she wanted us to know. We never talked about it. We never really cuddled, or anything. We treated each other like she was still frowning from the sofa and I was in my chair playing video games. There'd just be that moment, all of a sudden, when there'd be her hand over my crotch. Only when leaving, would she point a threatening finger at me: "And, you better not tell anybody about this."

And, I didn't tell—anybody we mutually knew. Why rock the boat? Hell, it was a slow season for me, and Denise was an animal fuck. About three times a week, she delivered like complimentary room service, so we never went out. She didn't eat or drink too much of my groceries, and she sometimes brought liquor and food.

The closest we ever came to a discussion was the day she came over with KFC, and I was on the phone. Mouthing me to continue, she left the bucket on the kitchen counter, near where she made her drink, then slumped onto the sofa. But, for all the fifteen minutes I continued to talk, she refreshed that drink four times. And, every time she passed me, even when I'd exaggerate a yawn, she'd scowl more moodily than usual. Finally disconnected, I seized the warm bucket, but had to search for Denise, who wasn't on the sofa or in the kitchen.

I found her laying across the bed, on her back, her feet, flat on the floor, unsheathed from their white sandals. One forearm across her abdomen, the other crossed her head, shading her eyes. Painted coral, every nail matched the knit tank and short-sleeved cardigan.

"I'm off the phone," I said, gently slapping her leg, thinking she'd fallen asleep.

"Thought you were convalescing," she said, snatching her floral capris pants away from my hand's proximity. Always the happy colors on a girl, now woman, who was dark and ornery. "You may as well go back to work." Her normally sterile voice was tinged with a slur of insuppressible emotion that comes from boozing. "Just how many damn girls are you seeing?"

"I'm not seeing anybody, but you."

"We're not seeing each other!" she snapped, then began reciting the girls' names I had mentioned during the only side of my phone call she overheard.

"The guy I was on the phone with brought them up. His type's usually fat and stupid. You jealous over fat and stupid?"

"... You tell him about me?"

I started to lie "No", but Denise shifted her arm, giving me a harsh look—nothing angry, just curious. "I told him about a girl ... a meter reader I met ... while housesitting for my mother."

As I spoke, Denise again shaded her eyes. When I again tried brushing against her leg, she didn't withdraw. Encouraged, I cradled the bucket in one hand, while sustaining our contact. She went rigid with sightless anticipation. Her breathing grew shallow, and there was the slightest smile on her face.

"Just out the shower, and naked under a terry robe, I led her to the basement meter. ..."

Easing down, seated beside Denise, I set the chicken to the side, then slid my hand between her thighs, my fingers petting the puffy prize at top. Pants and panties may conceal that crinkly redhead from sight, but an educated hand will feel the hang of all that kitty meat.

Stroking her, I unfastened her capris. Denise lifted her butt, assisting my getting the clothing down round her ankles.

"I guess I stood too close behind her, 'cause she bumped into me when she turned around. Knocked her gadget out her hand and kicked open my robe."

As I quickly sloughed off my own t-shirt and sweats, Denise, without my asking, stepped out her garments and spread her legs. As a tease, I fumbled her top up, her overly oval pyramids hindering any easy intent. Then, I chose to caress round her navel—that lone islet centered amidst waves of taut curves and unblemished flesh.

"Lower," she ordered, already panting.

"Sh. Who's telling this story?"

Easing up, I watched as Denise suffered a series of irrepressible convulsions. Pulling a warm drumstick from the bucket, I drew a trail of grease on her stomach, its gravelly texture tickling her, its flaking movements always finding a new spot to make her smile like a snarl. I swerved down into that little knot of hairs, streaking strands with sparkling grease. While I held the fading heat off the drumstick against the trembly sensitivity of the inner thigh, I maneuvered between Denise's legs, kneeling on her clothes, and tongued the trail just made. The small of her back rose, as I followed the taste of grease then dug my tongue into her coarse pelt till there came a scouring sound.

Then, Denise started bucking, her pelvis wrenching upwards, her hands groping uncontrollably under such sensations. Having to take control, I fumbled the chicken back into its container, and restrained this mighty mare by cradling her ass in my hands. I commenced to smooching on the pink, pouty lips swelling from beneath that little tangle of hair, and every time I drew away, Denise's demanding labia breathed in and out, an open maw cawing quietly for a feeding.

I dove in with a deep thrust of my tongue, straining the limits of its length, my own lips crushed against the barrier of Denise's body. The chicken, mixed with the musk of my playmate's chemistry, produced a blandly fried taste. Though, upon my initial strike, she'd tensed and squeezed herself up off the bed, as high as she'd go, my secure hold wasn't shaken. I stayed in hard for a good minute, trying to tag the farthest walls within her. With every conscious lick, I made her legs sway across my back, the heels of her feet knead me like a massage. When I finally pulled out a little, nibbling with gentler intensity, she eased down. But, I had to keep shifting Denise, keep her feet from fixing the mattress as a base of leverage for another violent swing upwards.

"Her fat ass split her pants as she ... down for the gadget," Denise said, throughout all sorts of shudders, "... lost her balance, grabb'n you for support."

Trusting the rhythm I maintained, Denise tried continuing my story as best she could, till falling off into motes of nasty little interjections. Meanwhile, I drew my hands up, over her squirming mounds; and, from one second to the next, as I tugged the best I could with the grip I had on her silky nipples, I took Denise from soft moans to the inhuman squeals that augured another bout of tremors throughout her system.

She got even by getting a foot under my belly, and working it towards my erection, which I'd been grinding uncontrollably against the mattress for sharp sparks of pleasure. She began batting me round, her toes tickling up and down the shaft, rendering me blind, and rapidly losing all motor control.

As Denise tightened up for another explosion, I fell out that contorting cunt, and onto the floor. I pulled her feet to the sides of my own personal drumstick; and, without looking up, she rolled me between them, while digging her slender fingers inside herself. She foot-fucked me with the two; then, while one ground my dick between itself and my stomach, the other moved to my sack, her toes pulling hair strands, and rotating my balls clockwise. Almost laying fully on a cold floor, I was overwhelmed by the heat of our climaxing together—Denise's arching back and the webs of viscous juice that clung from within her as she pulled her delicate fingers to her mouth; my own clotted custard flushing between her wriggling toes, completely covering the coral color and oozing down her foot. Catching our breaths, Denise looked up at me, and chuckled, smearing my chest with her saturated foot, as I kissed the arch of her dry one.

"... And, they lived happily ever after," I said, damn-near in love.

"You're paying for that chicken, Brian."

•

In September, Denise accepted a Chicago offer, I returned to my job, our afternoons ended, and I started dating again. A girl here or there, pleasant company out or in. But, each was so inhibited—like she was saving her best moves for a deeper commitment. Each had a cartoonish sense of being dominating. One would lunge like a tiger, then fall on her back like a turtle. Another couldn't help giggling while describing all the dirty things she'd do to me; then, later, perform so piss-poorly. I remembered why I started caring more for video games just before spring.

Slowly, I began thinking of Denise. Since childhood, she tyrannized everyone, older and younger. But, I, now confident in my manhood, found her alpha personality an exciting challenge. Not knowing what Denise might do was a hard-on waiting to happen; in a flash, she might leave her plate to go down on me at the kitchen table, or she might just leave.

Ignoring her bossy restrictions against doing so, I started texting her, suggesting dinner—two old buddies and a meaningless meal. And, when finally Denise agreed, it was because her car was in the shop, and she hated public transportation. So, the next day, I picked her up at work, overdressed to match her office attire.

"Light pink roses: signifies grace, gentility."

"Mine, or yours?" she frowned, regarding my presented bouquet.

"I dunno. But, I didn't want to be presumptuous with any other color's symbolism."

"Smart. That GED paid off, huh?"

From the start, it was awkward, our not knowing how to treat each other. We weren't kids, anymore—Lucy and Charlie Brown. And, as adults, we knew only the ease of mindless, primal lust. In public, we had nothing to say, so we just babbled till we lost our breaths.

"... Go home, get some sleep, loser," Denise said, as we stood before her apartment door. She slapped me across the arm. "Unless you want to come in—see how much better my place is than yours."