The Internet Bad Boy

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Chapter 9

Warning! This chapter contains (mildly) mature content. Yeah, because we’ve already gone too long without a gratuitous sex scene.

Chapter 9

- Jake Villin -

I’m kissing Corrine Stone on the boardwalk.

It starts with the two of us mashing our lips together. I’m thinking to myself, what the hell is happening? Am I the one making a move on her? What do I do with my hands? Shoot, I didn’t even get the chance to chew some gum to prepare for this.

When she finally stops, I think to myself — Shorty’s finally coming to her senses. She’s going to tell me she regrets everything.

No. That’s not how it goes down. Not even close.

Little-Miss-Hot-Buns drags me onto the deserted beach with her. It’s starting to drizzle, so no one in their right mind would be heading toward the water right now.

No one, except the two of us horny idiots.

Anyone with an ounce of common sense knows that making out on the beach is not as romantic as it sounds. I can’t help but go along with it. Corrine’s ass looks so plump and round in those skinny jeans. I just want to grab a handful of each cheek, have her wrap those beautiful legs around my waist, and kiss her against one of those sandy dunes until she’s begging for more than just my tongue.

“Not afraid of a little rain, are you?” Corrine asks as she makes me drop our backpacks in the sand. I grunt in reply. I have my hands full, trying to keep my eyes away from her bouncy cleavage before the hardness in my pants pops the zipper in my jeans.

We leave backpacks by the wooden fences and giggle as we creep under the boardwalk. There, in the semidarkness, we hear lightning rumble in the distance. I’m about to open my mouth to suggest we retreat toward civilization, but Corrine has other ideas. She unzips my pants and starts to fumble with the button on my jeans.

“Hold on,” I interrupt, but my hands make no move to defend me against her advances. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m sure,” she giggles back. Her fingers brush against the sensitive-as-hell, throbbing tip of my dick, and I nearly come right there and then. She makes a face as she feels my erection. Back int he day, I could go at it at a competitive level except I haven’t had any for months. My body is aching for release. I haven’t even watched porn since Maggy, my ex smashed my taillights and told me I am a good-for-nothing loser. Everything sex just felt dirty to me after I left her. I don’t know if men are even allowed to regret sex with a chick.

Nothing about Corrine reminded me of that period of my life. Everything about her, from her thick curly hairy to the intoxicating smell of fabric cleaner in her clothes, seems right. It is like we simply fit together, like two pieces of a puzzle. At that moment, I forget all about my past.

It is as though the rain had come and washed all traces of Maggie’s darkness away.

Corrine backs away and runs through the pelting storm for her backpack. She brings it back under the sheltering boardwalk and searches the front pocket of her bag. Corrine fishes out a Hello Kitty coin purse. From inside the purse’ mysterious depths, her fingers produce a single Trojan condom. It looks absolutely ancient, but she tosses it at me.

“I got this from the guidance counselor at my old school. We were supposed to use it to practice with bananas. Maybe, I’ll practice by putting it on you.”

“Nah, I can help myself, thank you,” I assured her feeling my face burn with embarrassment. Okay, I should have been the one to bring the condom. What kind of a motorcycle-riding-hooligan am I if I’m not even prepared for surprise sex on the beach?

I turn my back to Corrine, hunch my shoulders over to maintain some small amount of privacy. The condom goes on smoothly even though it’s the first time I’ve put one of these types on. It’s just a little tight in the middle and wiggly around the base.

My cock is practically bouncing in stiff excitement now. It refuses to go back into my underwear, but I force it under. It makes a tent in my boxers, and I look ridiculous.

Hold it, cowboy.

When I turn around, Corrine’s t-shirt is gone. She’s wearing a beige bra that blends in with her skin tone. I am captivated by the rosy freckles leading down the path between her breasts. She keeps her arms stiffly at her sides as though she’s trying to hide something. When Corrine notices me staring at the portion of her lush torso that meets the waistband of her jeans, she immediately unbuttons her pants and shimmies out of them.

“Don’t look at my muffin top,” she snaps at me. “Keep your eyes up here, buster.”

I blink in utter surprise. I wasn’t thinking about that at all. Why are pretty girls always so insecure?

“N-no, I’m just looking at how beautiful you are.”

“Liar,” she teases. Corrine crosses the distance between us and strokes my throbbing dick with her cupped hand. “I want you in me,” she whispers into my ear. “Pick me up and ravage me.”

Her hand is finally giving my manhood some relief now. She has moved on to stroking my biceps. Then, as though she’s taking my naked torso in, she trails her nails down my collarbone to my pecs. I could have shown her something hard and muscular if I could focus enough to flex, but right then, I’m much too distracted by her heaving chest and the soft curve of her breasts.

With those two gorgeous knockers in my face, I can barely remember my name or even how to stand up straight. I should be doing something, taking the lead, dominating her like some sexually-experienced red-blooded-male. Whatever red-testosterone-filled blood I had at that moment, was mostly concentrated in the six inches between my legs.

I clumsily grab her thighs and pick her up. I’m so nervous that I nearly drop her from a couple of feet in the air. I guess it goes without saying that if I gave her a concussion, that would have killed the mood. Corrine Stone is a lightweight. I could have carried her across the length of Coney Island, that is on a typical day. On that very atypical day, I am so aroused I can barely walk straight.

I throw her against one of those weathered beams holding the boardwalk up. The ancient floorboards above us are leaking. The rain pelts the back of my neck and runs in rivulets down my back.

Corrine doesn’t appear to care about the thunder or the rain. She grins mischievously and pulls me closer with her thighs. She continues to kiss my neck as though she doesn’t notice the rain at all. I’ve never felt like such a stud as I do standing there, soaking wet, and cold as fuck. Yes, the sexual chemistry between us is so urgent that we can’t even find a proper 50 dollar hotel room in Brooklyn.

I’m the kind of gangster that bangs girls up against crumbling wood beams in Coney Island.

Corrine grabs my t-shirt collar and twists it in her little fist.

“Do it to me,” she tells me.

“Do it?”

“You know, fuck me.” Corrine giggles as she says that word as though she’s not sure if she’s in trouble for saying it.

“Okay,” I reply because I don’t know what else to say. Yes, madame, right away. Would you like my thrusts hard or gentle? She rips my pants off as I’m trying to balance her ass up against the wood beam. At least, in my shock at my pants hitting my ankles during a thunderstorm, I still remember to take a fistful of her thick silky hair and pull on it.

“Ouch,” she says.

“Sorry!” I reply and immediately release it.

“No, I mean down there.”

“Oh,” I immediately stop what I am doing. Corrine wiggles her butt around so that she’s sitting more comfortably on the wood beam. Then, I figure out she meant she was getting splinters in her butt with every thrust of my overly enthusiastic hips. I wonder if I can offer her my t-shirt to sit on, but she isn’t having it.

“I’m fine, keep going,” she orders me and lightly slaps my cheek. “You stop when I tell you to?”

Um yes?

I decide not to take offense. I can tell by the smirk on Corrine’s face that she’s trying to get me riled up, so I’ll act all aggressive. I still don’t get why girls like that shit. Can’t we just have loving sexy like adults? Why does it all have to submission, screaming, and beating like in those stupid werewolf novels?

“I’m going to break you in two with my giant cock,” I mutter in her ear. She giggles at that. I see her cheeks flush a little, and then her eyes flutter closed. It’s like she’s living her own fantasy of this moment. It bothers me, but I decide not to say anything. Virgins are hard to make love to or so I’ve heard from my cousin. He has plenty of experience in that area as his parents only sets him up with virgins.

I stroke the spot between Corrine’s legs, where the cotton was already soaking wet with her arousal. Maggie never got this wet, and her spot smelled a bit like a fish market on a hot summer day. I’m not sure if I ever enjoyed having sex with Maggie. I mostly went along with it because I was young, lonely, and horny. Even though we’re wet, cold, and sandy as fuck - this moment is completely different. I am relishing making love to Corrine. Her smell, her soft moans, and the way she arched her back as though she’s pushing her sweet wet spot into my advancing fingers — all of it is perfection.

Corrine smelled like vanilla. The lush, warm womanly smells emit from her pores. Maybe our senses are made for each other. After I thoroughly enjoy finger banging her, I ease her panties aside. I slip my hardness into her. I can barely keep myself from coming inside her immediately. I nearly come just from finger banging her.

I’m nervous that I’m going to blow my load as soon as the heavenly, tight walls of her vagina close around me, but to my utter shock, she’s the one give it up first. The feeling of her delicious walls contracting rhythmically around my member is a religious experience. I don’t believe in God, but I’m made a believer in the preternatural from pure ecstasy that shoots through every nerve in my body. I can’t hold out any longer; I’m only a man. I explode inside her.

As Corrine collapses against my shoulder and I wrap my arms around her, I can’t help but feel a warm fuzzy feeling growing in my chest. She’s mine. All mine.

To any passerbyer, we must look like two sweaty teenagers, covered in rainwater and mud. But, as I gasp for breath, I stare into Corrine’s half-open eyes and smile. This must be what they mean by the term a picture-perfect moment.

Corrine finally opens her eyes. She nibbles on my collar bone and giggles. Just like they do in the smutty werewolf novels. I want to kick myself for even making the connection. Has that stupid WilderLuna chick really poisoned my mind so completely that I’m making these ridiculous observations?

Corrine isn’t a smutty werewolf novel. Corrine is like one of those dusty mystery novels you lovingly pick up in a classy Manhattan library like the Rose Reading Room, where everything smells of lignin. Yes, that’s what her scent reminds me of. Her skin is like a story etched on parchment paper aged over the centuries until it emits notes of vanilla and cut grass.

I’m no mystery fanatic, but when I find a good one, I’ll devour it over and over again. My favorites are books where I don’t care for the story at first, but with each line, they entrap me and draw me in. That’s what the experience of making love to Corrine Stone is like. With each toss of her hair and brush of her fingers, I find myself plummeting deeper for this strange new girl. I’m emotionally entangled now even though I know there’s more to the story than what I see on the surface. I don’t care because just like that mystery novel, by the time I start having rational thoughts, I’m in so deep into it that I’ll go where ever the story takes me. I do this, even though the exquisite pain in my gut tells me that there’s no assurance of a happy ending.

In real life, there’s no way to check the tags to see if the author checked off HEA. In real life, you just have to live and gamble with your emotions. And perhaps, if that happy ending should come to pass, it means so much more because it wasn’t guaranteed.

I know the odds aren’t good for Corrine and me, I wouldn’t even say it’s 50:50. Maybe more like 10 to 90.

But I fall for Corrine Stone anyway.

Because, sometimes, even if reality doesn’t end happily — the imagination makes it so.

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