Dykes Takin' Dick - Callie Cyprus

Callie Cyprus sat bent over the folding table in her girlfriend’s living room, tongue between her teeth, spraying FUCK MEN in bold block letters across a cardboard sign. The paint fumes made her nose wrinkle. When the door slammed behind her girlfriend she kept working, finishing the stencil. She didn’t notice the neighbor until the smell of him—warm skin, faint aftershave—hit her nose. Tommy Pistol leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. "Fuck men, huh? That what you’re advertising on your lawn?" Callie straightened. She believed in equal rights, but in that moment all she saw was the hard line of his jaw and the obvious line in his jeans. He told her she shouldn’t knock dick until she’d tried it. She answered by hooking her thumb into her waistband and sliding her shorts down over smooth brown hips. His mouth crashed onto hers, teeth and tongue trading angles, and Callie decided she’d test his theory on the living-room floor. He peeled the rest of her clothes like he was unwrapping contraband. Spit-slick fingers stroked her open cunt until it clenched, then he drove in, thick and deliberate, hips snapping the table legs an inch across the laminate. Callie moaned—short, sharp sounds that matched the rhythm—nails hooked into his shoulders. He flipped her onto her back, lifted one knee to her chest, and fucked her until her thigh shook under his grip. Every thrust pressed a new filthy wet sound out of her; she answered with a string of yeses that climbed louder each time her clit caught the base of him. When he pulled out, thick ropes streaked across her open mouth and cheeks. The hot, salty weight slid over her tongue and dripped onto the fresh cardboard sign beneath her head. She was still licking the last streak from her lip when the front door opened again. Her girlfriend stood frozen, eyes wide, protest banners slipping from her fingers to the floor.