Hipster Fuckr 2: At the Heels of a Dom in Teal
by Janie Pander
Copyright 2012
Smashwords Edition
I met her at kickball. What? Hipsters play kickball. It’s a big thing for us – personally, I think it’s a little grade-schooly – but with a buzz on, it’s fantastic. So I was a little drunk, in the fun zone, and on a mission.
Roxxxie (who preferred to just be called “Roxie”) and I had really hit it off. I had found a cheapo place with an elevator, but it had about a coffin’s worth of room, so I was out of the apartment all the time. We were doin’ it on the regular (deep dicking, shallow dicking, 69ing, all the usual). Of course, a girl who calls herself “Roxxxie Duchess” can’t be satisfied with just one person, even one as cool and awesome and humble as me. So I was on a mission; to find “F” and bring her into the gravity well of our collective libido. I didn’t know what F looked like, but Roxie told me I’d know her when I saw her.
The 2nd basewoman was dressed in what appeared to be a superhero costume. She had a blue shirt with a wide black belt, tight teal shorts, long white socks and teal sneakers. On her chest was a black “F” in white painter’s tape. She was short, blonde, amazing; she had a superhuman vertical leap, an amazing arm, and knew instantly where the rest of her team was. She seemed a bit too good (and overdressed) for drunken mid-day kickball, but apparently the pitcher was mad at her.
“Nice one, FOULER!” he yelled when she caught the ball or tagged a runner. “FOULER!” echoed the third baseman (some chode with massive headphones and hair constantly down over his face). She didn’t let it bother her, though, and was set to knock out my entire team by herself.
On my first at-bat (or at-kick?) I nailed it. The red rubber orb went soaring right into mid-left field, right past the left-fielder (who was texting). As I passed second, everyone was staring at the ball, which was being lazily bucket-passed back. I took the opportunity to smack SuperF on the ass. She glared, but didn’t say anything.
***
My second time up was much the same; the leftfielder paid attention, so I sent a direct shot at the first baseman (who was looking to make sure the left fielder wasn’t texting). The ball him right in the hands, sending it bouncing wildly. A safe single.
SuperF was giving me look that I couldn’t quite read. Maybe she liked my black athletic shorts, or my “Federal Breast Inspector-Inspector” tee. (All hipsters and hipster-associates have great t-shirts; I think they passed a law requiring it). The next ball was a line drive, or the kickball version, and I took second base.
“Hey girl.” I said, all cool.
“Meet me after the game.” She demanded. “Under the bleachers.”
I grabbed her ass and sprinted for third.
***
It turns out her name was Shauna Fowler, which explained both the F and the way everyone was yelling “fowl”. I looked around for her after the game, passing behind the massive metal bleachers.
The area under the bleachers was empty (surprising for New York) and well shaded (less so).
“Hi, bitch.” Fowler said. She was carrying a teal camping chair.
“I…What?” I responded.
“You’re Roxxxie’s bitch, and you can’t keep her satisfied. So she probably wants me to. Eat my cunt and I’ll see if I can give you my phone number, OK?”
She was…convincing. Or at least shocking. I couldn’t think of much else to do that wasn’t eating her—
“NOW!” she demanded.
“Here?” I asked.
She responded by shoving me to my knees. She unfolded the chair, pulled down her shorts, moved her panties aside, and told me to start licking.
I obeyed.
The first thing I noticed about Shauna’s cunt was how it was…almost imperious. It was tight. It was shaved (with her pubic hair forming a downward arrow). It was imposing.
“You’re not licking!” she scowled, pushing down on my head.
“S…sorry.” I said. I licked tentatively. She tasted warm.
“Harder, Nolan. Or I’m going to take off.”
I licked more intently, going slowly from her inner walls to the center. I licked around the edges. I teased. I was patient.