Chapter 4: The BBC Backyard Blowbang
The smell hit her first. Charcoal smoke, sweet brown sugar, vinegar tang, and beneath it all the unmistakable scent of pork fat rendering into crispy golden edges. Cherry Valentine paused on the sidewalk, her sandals still wet from the morning's swim at the community pool, and let the aroma curl around her like a lover's whisper.
Heavy bass laughter rolled over the fence to her left. Male voices, deep and rich, trading jokes and insults the way old friends do. The crackle of a grill, the sizzle of something hitting hot metal.
She checked her watch. Saturday. No appointments. No interviews scheduled. Just a free afternoon and a thin cotton sundress she'd thrown on after her swim, still slightly damp at the hem. Her press badge hung around her neck on its lanyard because she'd forgotten to take it off, a habit from too many years of always being on call.
The fence was wooden, six feet tall, with a gate that hung slightly ajar. Through the gap she could see a slice of lawn, a cooler overflowing with ice and beer cans, and a pair of massive shoulders wrapped in a white tank top.
Cherry licked her lips. She hadn't planned this. But planning had never been part of her gift. Opportunities just appeared, like ripe fruit within reach, and she'd spent her whole life learning to grab them before they fell.
She pushed the gate open. The hinges complained in a long metallic groan.
Twelve heads turned toward her. That's what she counted as she stepped through. Twelve men, ranging from mid-twenties to early fifties, scattered across a sprawling backyard that had been transformed into a cookout paradise. Two smokers belched fragrant clouds near the back fence. A long folding table held platters of ribs, chicken, and brisket. Coolers dotted the grass like islands.
But all of that barely registered. What registered was the way twelve pairs of eyes tracked her, some casual, some openly curious, all of them appreciative. She felt their gazes slide down her bare arms, linger on the damp fabric of her sundress where it clung to her curves, catch on the press badge swinging between her breasts.
"Afternoon," she said, letting her voice carry that easy warmth she'd perfected. "I smelled the ribs from the street. Couldn't help myself."
The man nearest her, the one in the tank top, had skin the color of rich espresso and arms thick as fire hydrants. He held a long-handled spatula like a scepter. He was the one who'd been standing when she entered, and he looked her up and down with a grin that showed a flash of gold tooth.
"Well, well," he said. "You lost, sweetheart? This is a private party."
Cherry stepped closer. The grass was soft and lush beneath her sandals, still cool in the shade. She tilted her head, letting her hair fall over one shoulder. "I'm a journalist. Cherry Valentine. I'm always looking for a good story."
"You found a cookout, not a story." Another voice, from deeper in the yard. A man seated at the table, shucking corn, wearing a Braves cap backwards. He was younger, maybe thirty, with a lean build and a wicked smile.
"You'd be surprised what makes a good story." Cherry let her fingers brush the badge at her chest, a gesture that drew every eye to the swell of her breasts beneath the thin cotton. "I've found stories in boardrooms. Locker rooms. Tour buses." She let the pause stretch. "I bet there are a few stories in this backyard."
The man with the gold tooth laughed, deep and rolling. "Sweetheart, you got a interesting way of talking. Most folks just say hi."
"Most folks don't have my skill set."
She was standing at the edge of their circle now, the heat from the smokers pressing against her back, the scent of char and spices thick in her nostrils. Twelve men, all of them watching. She could feel the charge building, that familiar electric hum that told her this was going to be one of those days.
The one at the grill, clearly the host, set down his spatula and crossed his arms. His biceps strained the fabric of his tank top. "Name's Darius. This here's my place." He gestured vaguely at the group. "These are my brothers, my cousins, my neighbors. We do this every couple weekends. Eat too much, drink too much, talk shit."
Cherry smiled, slow and deliberate. "Sounds like a lovely tradition."
"It is. And we don't usually get reporters crashing it." He studied her, and there was a knowing glint in his eye. "Though I gotta say, you don't look much like a reporter. Where's your notebook?"
"I'm off duty." She let her fingers trail down the front of her dress, tracing the line of her cleavage. "This is just me. Enjoying a Saturday."
"You enjoying it without a plate?" This from the corn-shucker, who'd set aside his work and was now fully facing her. "You want some ribs? We got plenty."
"I'd love some ribs." Cherry took another step forward, into the heart of their circle. The grass was warm beneath her feet. The sun was high and golden, filtering through the leaves of an old oak tree that spread its branches over half the yard. "But I came for more than food."
Darius raised an eyebrow. Behind him, several of the other men had shifted positions, moving closer, curiosity and something else flickering in their eyes. She could see them sizing her up, the way men did, and she let them.
"Oh yeah?" Darius asked. "What else you came for?"
Cherry reached up and pulled the press badge over her head. She held it up, swinging it gently, letting the lanyard catch the light. "I'm a very dedicated journalist. I go where the story takes me." She let the badge drop onto the grass beside her. "And right now, the story is telling me there are twelve hungry men in this backyard who've been smelling ribs all afternoon."
The silence stretched. Then Darius barked a laugh that echoed off the house.
"Brothers," he said, looking around at the assembled men. "We got us a live one."
The corn-shucker stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. "You serious, sweetheart? Cause I'm not in the mood for games."
"I'm very serious." Cherry reached for the hem of her sundress. "And my name is Cherry. Not sweetheart." She pulled the dress over her head in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the grass. Beneath it she wore nothing but a pair of damp white panties, the kind that were thin enough to show everything through when they got wet. She'd been at the pool an hour ago, and the Lycra was still clinging to her skin, translucent at the edges.
Darius's grin widened. He looked her up and down, taking his time, lingering on the full curve of her breasts, the soft plane of her stomach, the dark triangle visible through the wet fabric of her panties.
"Well," he said slowly. "Cherry. I do believe you just moved to the front of the line."
She stepped toward him, her hips swaying with each step. The grass tickled her bare ankles. She could feel every eye on her, twelve pairs of hungry gazes, and the sensation made her skin prickle with delight.
"My press badge is on the ground," she said, stopping in front of Darius. "That means I'm not a reporter right now. I'm just a woman who walked into the wrong backyard." She looked up at him, at his broad chest and thick arms, at the sweat glistening on his skin from tending the fire. "Or the right one. Depends on how you look at it."
Darius reached out and hooked his finger in the waistband of her panties, tugging her closer. "I'm looking at it like the best damn Saturday afternoon I had in a while."
His hand slid down her hip, over the curve of her ass, squeezing with a firmness that made her breath catch. Then he dropped to his knees in front of her, his face level with her navel, and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of her panties.
"Let me show you some Southern hospitality," he said, and pulled them down.
They slid over her hips, her thighs, pooling at her ankles. Cherry stepped out of them and into the open air, bare from head to toe, her skin goose-pimpling in the warm breeze despite the heat. She felt the sun on her breasts, the grass between her toes, the gaze of a dozen men on her exposed flesh.
Darius leaned in and pressed his open mouth to her mound, his tongue flat and hot against her labia. Cherry moaned, soft and surprised. His hands cupped her ass, pulling her closer, burying his face between her thighs.
"Oh," she breathed. "Oh, that's..."
He licked her slowly, deliberately, the way a man savors something fine. His tongue parted her folds, found her clit, circled it gently. Cherry braced her hands on his broad shoulders, her knees trembling.
"Y'all just gonna watch?" Darius's voice rumbled against her. "Get over here. She's got enough for everybody."
They didn't need a second invitation. The circle closed in around her. Hands appeared on her hips, her shoulders, cupping her breasts from behind. Someone's rough palm cradled the back of her head, turning her, guiding her.
She found herself bent forward, facing a younger man with a close-cropped fade and gold glasses that he'd taken off and tucked into his shirt pocket. His cock was thick and half-hard, dark against his light palm. Behind her, she felt Darius rise to his feet, his hands on her waist, and she heard the groan of his belt unbuckling.
"I ain't never had a reporter on her knees before," the man with the glasses said, grinning down at her.
"You'll like it," Cherry said, and took him into her mouth.
He was long and filled her throat in one wet stroke. She relaxed her jaw, breathed through her nose, and swallowed him deeper. His taste was clean, slightly salty, and he grew harder on her tongue. She heard his sharp inhale, felt his fingers bury themselves in her strawberry-blonde hair.
Behind her, Darius's cock nudged between her thighs. Thick, long, pressing at her entrance from behind. She was already wet, dripping with need, and he slid in with a single slick push that made her cry out around the cock in her mouth.
"DAMN," someone said. "Look at her take it."
The man with the glasses pulled back, letting her catch her breath. "Oh, she likes that." He slapped his cock against her cheek, leaving a wet mark. "You like that, Cherry? Getting stuffed from both ends?"
She tried to answer but Darius chose that moment to start moving, and the words collapsed into a moan. He fucked her hard, each thrust driving her forward, pushing her nose against the young man's hip. She swallowed him again, bobbing her head in rhythm with Darius's pounding.
The other men had moved closer, surrounding them in a loose circle. Some had their cocks out, stroking themselves lazily. Others were still stripping, shedding shirts and jeans with quick, eager movements. Cherry saw a flash of white briefs falling, heard the jingle of a belt buckle, felt hands stroking her flanks, squeezing her shoulders.
"You gon' take all of us?" Darius asked, punctuating the question with a particularly sharp thrust. "All twelve?"
Cherry pulled off the cock in her mouth, a string of saliva connecting her lower lip to its glistening head. "I'm going to take every... single... one," she gasped. "And then I'm going to need seconds."
The man with the glasses laughed, startled. "Shit, where'd you find this one?"
"Street," Darius grunted. "She smelled the ribs."
They switched positions seamlessly, like a choreographed routine she'd known all her life. The man with the glasses took Darius's place behind her, filling her with a slightly different angle, while Darius moved to stand in front of her. His cock was glistening wet with her juices, thick and imposing, and she opened her mouth willingly.
Darius was big, bigger than the young man, and she had to work to take him. She relaxed her throat, focused on the breath through her nose, and let him push deeper. She gagged once, twice, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she kept going. He tasted like salt and musk and man.
"That's it," Darius grunted, his hand cradling the back of her head. "Take it all. Show me you got some sense in that pretty head."
Around them, the other men had formed an eager audience. Some were masturbating, watching her with hungry eyes. Others were clustered together, murmuring, planning. She felt hands on her ass, spreading her cheeks, a thumb pressing against her tightest hole.
"You ready for some company back here?" a voice asked. Deep, southern, amused.
Cherry pulled off Darius's cock, gasping for air. She twisted to look behind her. The man addressing her was older, maybe fifty, with a salt-and-pepper beard and a barrel chest. He had his cock in his hand, thick and girthy, and he was grinning like he'd already won a prize.
"I'm ready for everything," she said.
He didn't need more prompting. He positioned himself behind her, the same place the man with the glasses had just vacated. She felt the head of his cock press against her slick opening, and then he pushed in with a slow, deliberate fullness that made her see stars.
"Ooh," she breathed. "Oh, yes."
He filled her completely, stretching her walls in a way that felt different from the others. His strokes were unhurried, deliberate, each one dragging against sensitive spots that made her thighs tremble. Meanwhile, another man stepped up in front of her, younger, leaner, his cock already slick with precum.
"Open up, sweetheart," he said, and she did.
They fucked her in turns, switching without warning, each one bringing a different angle, a different rhythm, a different flavor to her mouth. Cherry lost count of how many filled her. She knew there were hands everywhere, gripping her hips, squeezing her tits, stroking her back. She knew her knees were raw on the grass and she didn't care.
The ribs were burning. The smell of charred meat wafted over them, sharp and acrid, and someone muttered, "Shit, Darius, your grill." But nobody moved to save it. The men were too deep in their rhythm, trading her back and forth like a shared treasure.
She felt a pair of strong hands grip her waist and lift her, turning her to face the older man with the beard. He sat down on a folding chair with a groan, his cock standing thick and proud, and guided her down onto it. She sank with a full-throated cry, impaling herself on him, feeling him fill her to the brim.
"Ride it, Cherry," he said, his hands on her waist. "Show these boys how a real woman fucks."
She rode him with abandon, her hips rolling, her breasts bouncing, her head tipped back to catch the sun. Around her, the other men pressed close. Hands cupped her face, guiding her mouth to a waiting cock. She took it greedily, hollowing her cheeks, sucking hard.
"You got a gift," the beard man grunted beneath her. "A genuine goddamn gift."
She swallowed and pulled off with a wet pop. "I know," she said, grinning. "That's what they tell me."
The orgasm hit her without warning. It started in her core and radiated outward, a white-hot burst that made her body clench around the beard man's cock. She cried out, her voice cracking, her nails digging into the arms of the chair. He groaned and thrust up into her, driving her through the waves.
"Goddamn," he said. "She's squeezing me like a fist."
"Don't finish yet," one of the other men said. "She promised us seconds."
But it was too late. The beard man's hips bucked once, twice, and then he was coming, filling her with hot spurts that had her clenching around him, milking him dry. His head fell back, his mouth open, a long groan escaping his throat.
"Ah, fuck," he said. "Fuck, that was good."
Cherry climbed off him with a satisfied sigh. His seed trickled down her inner thigh, warm and wet. She looked around at the remaining men, her press badge still lying in the grass where she'd dropped it, the forgotten ribs still smoking on the grill.
"Who's next?" she asked breathlessly.
There was no shortage of volunteers. They pulled her down onto the grass, onto a blanket that someone had thoughtfully spread out. The young man with the glasses was next, sliding into her from behind while she knelt on all fours. His strokes were quick and sharp, his hands gripping her hips tight, and he came with a cry that startled a nearby flock of birds from the oak tree.
Then it was the man with the gold hoop earrings, who turned her onto her back and lifted her legs over his shoulders. He was thick and relentless, and she came twice before he finished, her body shuddering with each climax.
Then a slim young man who looked barely old enough to buy beer, who trembled with nervous excitement and came after only a few strokes, painting her stomach with his release. Then a heavyset man with a kind face who spent a long time inside her, gentle and thorough, making love to her in the middle of the chaos while the others watched and waited their turn.
It went on for hours, or maybe it was only minutes. Time lost meaning in the haze of heat and flesh. Cherry took them in her mouth, her pussy, her ass, shifting positions whenever a new cock demanded entry. She lost track of how many loads she swallowed, how many filled her, how many painted her skin.
At some point, she looked up and saw a plate of ribs sitting untouched on the edge of the table. The meat had gone cold, the sauce congealed. She laughed, a genuine, belly-deep laugh that surprised even her.
"What's funny?" the man currently inside her asked. He was on his back, his hands on her hips, guiding her up and down his length.
"The ribs," she said, gesturing weakly at the table. "I came for the ribs and I haven't had a bite."
The man laughed, a full-bodied rumble that made his cock twitch inside her. "Girl, you the best thing on this menu."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
When the last man had emptied himself inside her, Cherry lay flat on her back in the middle of the blanket, staring up at the sky through the oak leaves. Her body was slick with sweat and cum, her thighs glistening, her hair a tangled mess around her shoulders. Her press badge lay a few feet away in the grass, catching the late afternoon light.
Darius leaned over her, blocking out the sun. He was grinning, but there was something warm in his eyes. "You alright down there, Cherry?"
She smiled up at him, lazy and satisfied. "Better than alright. That's the best Saturday afternoon I've had in a long time."
"You want some water? Some food? We got more ribs, though I think we gotta start over with the ones on the grill."
"I'd love some water." She pushed herself up onto her elbows, looking around at the twelve men scattered across the yard. Some were dressing, some were lying on their backs like her, spent and breathless. "And maybe..." she paused, meeting Darius's eyes. "Maybe I could get one of those interviews after all?"
Darius laughed, shaking his head. "Reporter's gotta report, huh?"
"It's what I do." She reached over and picked up her press badge, brushing the grass off it. "Sexx Puppet gave me an exclusive. The championship team gave me one. Five executives gave me one." She grinned up at him. "You boys have a story to tell, I can feel it."
"We got a story about a white girl who wandered into our cookout and got fucked eighteen ways from Sunday."
"That's a start."
Darius hooked his arm under her shoulders and helped her sit up. "Alright, Cherry. You drink some water, eat something, and then we'll talk. But I'm telling you right now, the story's gonna be about the ribs."