Chapter 7: Virgin Feast
The sun hammered down on the weathered patio boards, turning the faded blue cushions on the lounge chairs into furnaces. Taylor lay sprawled on a thick beach towel, a sheen of coconut oil making her skin glisten like molten gold under the brutal glare. She’d positioned herself carefully – close enough to the low privacy hedge bordering Dylan’s parents’ yard to be visible, angled so the curve of her hip, the long line of her thigh, and the suggestive shadow between her legs were plainly evident. Her bikini top was untied, the strings loose beneath her shoulder blades, the fabric barely containing the swell of her breasts. Her bottom was a scrap of red fabric that vanished into the cleft of her ass. Eyes closed behind oversized sunglasses, she feigned deep sleep, her breathing slow and even. Every pore radiated calculated vulnerability.
The muffled snickers drifted over the hedge first. Then voices, pitched low but carrying easily in the heavy, cicada-drone silence.
"...no fucking way, man. Look at her. Jesus Christ." Marcus, Dylan’s lanky, acne-scarred friend, sounded awed. He was the ringleader, the one with the cruel streak.
Dylan’s mumbled response was too low to catch, but his discomfort crackled in the air.
"Seriously, Dyl," chimed in Ben, shorter, rounder, perpetually sweating. "That’s McDonnell’s wife? The dude who looks like he chews rocks for breakfast? And she’s laying out like... like she’s the fucking dessert menu?"
"Shut up," Dylan hissed, his voice tight with anxiety. Taylor’s lips threatened to curve. Good. He’s scared. Scared of Caleb, scared of getting caught watching her again. Scared of her.
"Bet she doesn't get laid proper," Marcus sneered. "Lookit that roid-rage fucker. Probably humps her for thirty seconds, grunts, rolls over. Probably can't even find her clit with a fucking map and a flashlight." Raucous, stifled laughter erupted from Dylan’s side of the hedge.
Taylor felt a flash of anger, hot and sharp. They weren't wrong about Caleb's fumbling impatience. But the sheer audacity of these pimply virgins dissecting her sex life… it was infuriating. And exhilarating. She deliberately shifted, stretching languidly, arching her back just enough to make her oiled breasts strain against the flimsy bikini top. A soft, sleepy sigh escaped her lips.
"Fuck me," Ben breathed. "Did you see that? She moved."
"Like she’s begging for it," Marcus crowed, emboldened. "Bet she’d let anyone have a go. Bet she’s got that desperate, neglected housewife vibe happening hard. Look at her legs. Spreading like she wants a breeze… or something else."
Taylor clenched her teeth, the crude words hitting a nerve. Neglected. That was the raw core of it. The boredom. The loneliness. The ache Caleb couldn't, or wouldn't, fill. She felt a familiar throb of heat low in her belly, unrelated to the sun. The memory of Dylan’s frantic, inexperienced tongue under the fence flashed through her mind – clumsy, desperate, but obsessed. That raw, uncomplicated hunger was a drug.
"You guys are sick," Dylan muttered, but his voice lacked conviction. She could almost hear him staring.
"Sick? Dude, she’s right there!" Marcus pressed. "Practically advertising! Bet if you just walked over, tapped her shoulder, she'd open like a fucking oyster. Bet she’s so wet right now, dreaming of a real cock, not that caveman's thumb."
"Shut the fuck up about Caleb," Dylan snapped, a sudden spike of anger cutting through his fear. Taylor’s internal smile widened. Protective? Interesting.
"Ooh, touchy," Marcus taunted. "What, you claiming dibs, fatboy? Think you got a shot? She probably laughs at your pathetic ass." He paused, a cruel idea dawning. "Or hey… maybe you already have had a shot. That why you're jumpy? You been sampling McDonnell’s leftovers, Dyl? Sneaking tastes of Mrs. McDonnell while the big bad wolf's away?"
Silence. Thick, electric. Taylor held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs. This was dangerous. Deliciously dangerous.
"D-Don't be stupid," Dylan stammered, the lie pathetic.
Marcus laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Bullshit! Look at you! You're sweating bullets! What'd you do? Jerk off behind the shed while she sunbathed? Or did you actually crawl over that fence?" His voice dropped, dripping with salacious glee. "Did you get that fat face between those sun-oiled thighs, Dyl? Huh? Did you lick her pussy?"
The hedge rustled. They were pushing closer. Taylor could feel their proximity like a physical pressure. The scent of cheap deodorant and adolescent sweat cut through the coconut oil. She remained perfectly still, the picture of oblivious slumber, but her nerve endings screamed.
"Marcus, stop," Ben said, a note of unease creeping in.
"Fuck off, Ben. Dylan knows I'm right." Marcus’s voice was inches away now, right at the hedge. "Come on, Dylan. Confess. Did you eat Taylor McDonnell’s cunt? Did that desperate bitch let you?"
The words hung in the suffocating air. Taylor felt a dizzying rush – fury at the insult, a dark thrill at the accusation being flung at Dylan, and a pulsing, undeniable arousal soaking the crotch of her bikini bottom. She imagined Dylan’s face, flushed, panicked, aroused. She remembered the frantic lapping, the desperate suction, the way he’d moaned against her. She needed that again. Needed to shove Marcus’s vile words back down his throat with proof.
Slowly, with exaggerated languor, she stretched again. This time, she deliberately let her legs fall open wider. The tiny red triangle of fabric shifted, revealing a glimpse of darker skin, glistening with oil and sweat… and something else. A deliberate, unmistakable invitation. She let out another soft, breathy sigh.
"Jesus H. Christ," Marcus breathed, all mockery momentarily replaced by stunned lust. "She's fucking soaked. Look at that!"
That was it. The catalyst. Taylor heard a choked sound from Dylan, then the crunch of gravel as footsteps retreated. Ben and Marcus were muttering, their bravado cracking under the sheer brazenness of her display. They started moving away, their snickers fading, leaving only the thrumming silence and the drone of cicadas.
But Dylan didn’t follow them. Taylor sensed him lingering, a heavy, trembling presence just beyond the thin green barrier. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm. Now.
She lowered one oiled hand slowly, trailing her fingers down her belly, past the knot of her bikini bottom. Her fingers slipped beneath the damp fabric, finding the swollen heat beneath. She let her touch linger there for a heartbeat, then slowly, deliberately, drew her fingers out, slick and glistening. She lifted her hand, holding her glistening fingertips just above her parted lips in the sunlight. A silent offering. A command.
She didn’t turn her head. Didn’t open her eyes. Just waited.
Seconds stretched like taffy in the heat. Then, the rustle of the hedge. Hesitant. Fearful. Excited. A shadow fell across her oiled stomach. She felt the heat of his body, smelled the familiar scent of his nervous sweat mixed with laundry detergent. He knelt beside her lounge chair, his breathing shallow and rapid.
Taylor finally turned her head, looking at him over the rim of her sunglasses. His face was beet red, slick with sweat, eyes wide with terror and unquenchable need. He stared at her wet fingers.
She lowered her hand towards his mouth. "Taste," she whispered, her voice husky, raw. "Taste what you did."
He flinched, but his gaze remained locked on her fingers. He leaned forward, trembling. His tongue, warm and hesitant, flicked out, touching her slick fingertips. A low groan vibrated from his chest. He licked, timidly at first, then with growing hunger, drawing her fingers into his mouth, sucking the essence of her arousal off her skin. His eyes fluttered shut, lost in the flavor.
"Good," Taylor murmured, pulling her fingers free, leaving a thin strand of saliva. "Now…" She slid her hand back down, hooking her thumbs into the sides of her bikini bottom. She peeled the tiny red fabric down her hips, past her thighs, and kicked it aside, baring herself completely to the sun and his rapt gaze. Oil glistened on her dark curls, beaded on her inner thighs. Her sex was swollen, glistening pink folds parted slightly, visibly wet. "Finish what you started under the fence, Dylan. Right here. Right now."
The fear warred with raw desire in his eyes. He glanced frantically towards his house, then back at the forbidden feast laid bare before him. The sight, the scent, the memory of her taste… it overwhelmed him. With a choked sound that was half-sob, half-growl, he lunged forward. Not onto the lounge chair. Onto her.
His hands, clumsy and large, grabbed her hips, yanking her towards the edge of the cushion. His mouth crashed against her cunt with desperate, sloppy hunger. His tongue stabbed, lapped, plunged – no finesse, just blind, frantic need to consume her. He buried his face in her, smearing oil and sweat and his own saliva across her thighs, groaning like a starved animal. His nose pressed hard against her clit.
Taylor gasped, arching her back, her fingers tangling in his sweaty hair. "Yes! Oh fuck, Dylan! Just like that! Lick me! Eat my fucking pussy!" She ground her hips up against his face, forcing him deeper. "Suck my clit! Suck it hard!"
He obeyed, his lips clamping over the swollen bud, sucking fiercely, his tongue flicking relentlessly. He was learning, driven by her commands and his own desperate desire to please. His hands slid up her oiled torso, roughly groping her breasts, pinching her nipples through the loose bikini top. It was rough, almost painful, but the sheer intensity, the raw ownership he took, sent electric shocks through her. She was exposed, spread open on the patio, her neighbor’s overweight virgin son devouring her, and the risk, the depravity, the sunlight baking them both, ignited a firestorm inside her.
"Fingers!" she gasped, bucking wildly. "Inside me! Now! Fuck me with your fingers!"
Dylan fumbled, pulled his mouth away for a second, leaving her clit throbbing. He slid two thick fingers into her soaking entrance, meeting no resistance this time, only slick, clenching heat. He pushed deep, curling them immediately, searching.
"THERE!" she shrieked as he found the spot, hard and ridged. "FUCK YES! RIGHT FUCKING THERE! HIT IT! HARDER!" She slammed her hips down onto his hand, fucking his fingers with abandon. He pumped them furiously, his mouth returning to her clit, sucking and licking with renewed frenzy. Taylor’s cries escalated, echoing slightly in the quiet yard, a reckless abandon taking hold.
"Oh God! Dylan! I'm coming! Fuck! I'm gonna fucking squirt all over your ugly face!" Her body tensed, arched off the lounge chair, every muscle locking. A guttural scream tore from her throat as the orgasm detonated. "DYLAN!" Hot liquid gushed over his chin, soaking his face, flooding his mouth as he sucked and lapped. She spasmed violently, her cunt clenching rhythmically around his pumping fingers, her body shaking uncontrollably.
He didn’t stop. He kept sucking, kept fucking her with his fingers, riding the waves of her climax, moaning into her wetness. His free hand gripped her thigh hard enough to bruise. Taylor collapsed back onto the towel, panting, drenched in sweat and her own release, Dylan’s messy, eager face still buried between her thighs, lapping at the aftershocks. She felt raw, exposed, utterly debauched.
Before she could catch her breath, before she could even think, Dylan scrambled up. His eyes were wild, desperate, locked onto her face. His jeans were already undone, his thick, flushed cock springing free, jutting out rigid and leaking. He didn't ask. Didn't hesitate. Driven by her orgasm, by weeks of fantasy, by the crude taunts of his friends, he grabbed her hips again.
"W-what?" Taylor managed, dazed.
He yanked her roughly to the very edge of the lounge chair, her ass hanging off. Before she could protest, he dropped his heavy body onto her, his belly pressing against her slick skin, his cock driving blindly towards her entrance.
"No, Dyl—!" she started, but it was too late. He shoved. Hard. The thick head of his cock caught at her opening, stretched her wider than Caleb ever had, her still-clenching muscles protesting. He grunted, a sound of pure animal need, and slammed his hips forward.
"Ah! FUCK!" Taylor cried out, a sharp mix of shock, pain, and unexpected, brutal fullness. He was huge, stretching her impossibly wide, buried to the hilt in one desperate thrust. Her inner walls clamped down instinctively, making him groan, a deep, guttural sound of agonized pleasure. He pulled back, almost out, then slammed into her again, hard enough to make the lounge chair scrape on the patio stones. And again. No rhythm. No grace. Just frantic, hammering thrusts, his belly slapping wetly against her oiled skin, his breath hot and ragged against her neck.
"Taylor... fuck... Taylor..." he panted, his voice broken. "So tight... so fucking wet..." He was lost, consumed, pistoning into her with raw, unbridled force. The sound of flesh slapping flesh, wet and obscene, filled the air, louder than the cicadas now. Taylor gasped, clawing at his sweaty back, overwhelmed by the sheer physicality, the invasion, the unexpected power in his clumsy rutting. Pain blurred into a deep, bruising pleasure. She felt split open, possessed. His cock dragged against that sensitive spot inside her with every rough stroke, reigniting embers of her climax.
"Harder!" she heard herself gasp, surprising herself. "Fuck me harder, Dylan! Pound that virgin cock into me!"
He obeyed with a strangled cry, his thrusts becoming even more brutal, more frenetic. The lounge chair groaned in protest. Sweat dripped from his face onto her breasts. He was grunting with each slam of his hips, a primal soundtrack to their coupling. Taylor wrapped her legs around his thick waist, locking her ankles, forcing him even deeper. She met his frantic thrusts, arching up, taking everything he gave, the oil making their bodies slide and slap. The risk, the exposure, the sheer forbidden filth of it – being fucked raw by the neighbor kid on her patio in broad daylight – pushed her towards another peak, sharp and dark.
"Gonna... gonna come..." Dylan gasped, his rhythm faltering, his thrusts becoming shallow, jerky spasms. "Inside... Taylor... please..."
"Yes! Fill me!" she snarled, digging her nails into his shoulders. "Breed me, you fucking virgin! Pump your fucking load inside!"
His eyes rolled back. A final, choked cry tore from his throat as he slammed deep and held, shuddering violently. She felt the hot, thick pulse deep inside her, jet after jet, flooding her, marking her. His entire body went rigid, then collapsed heavily onto her, crushing her into the sweat-slicked towel, his cock still throbbing within her, spilling the last of his seed.
They lay like that, tangled, gasping, drenched in sweat, oil, and come, the sun beating down mercilessly. The smell of sex, salt, and coconut was overpowering. Taylor felt the wet mess between her legs, the heavy weight of him pinning her, the echoes of his desperate grunts still ringing in her ears. She stared up at the blinding blue sky, dazed, her body humming with aftershocks and brutal satisfaction.
Dylan nuzzled his face into her neck, murmuring
Dylan nuzzled his face into her neck, murmuring, "Taylor... I... oh god..." His heavy weight pinned her to the sweat-slicked towel, his softening cock still buried inside her, sticky and wet. The sun beat down, amplifying the stench of sex, coconut oil, and male sweat clinging to her skin. She felt the tacky smear of his release leaking out around his slack shaft, pooling beneath her on the terrycloth.
"Get off," Taylor commanded, her voice flat, devoid of the frenzy that had gripped her moments before. She shoved at his shoulder, slick with perspiration. "Now."
He flinched, scrambling back, pulling out of her with a wet, sucking sound. His eyes were wide, dazed, flicking between her bared body and the evidence glistening on his own softening cock. "I... I'm sorry... it was just... so good..."
"Shut up," she snapped, sitting up, wincing slightly at the raw, stretched feeling between her legs. She ignored the thick, white fluid trickling down her inner thigh, already cooling in the air. "Get dressed. Go home. Don't look back." She pointed towards the fence, her gaze cold and dismissive. "And clean yourself up. You're a mess."
Dylan blinked, the glow of his climax rapidly replaced by humiliation. He fumbled with his jeans, yanking them up over his sticky groin, his face crimson. "Okay... yeah... sorry..." He shot one last, longing glance at her oiled body, glistening in the sun, marked by him, before turning and practically running for the gap in the hedge, vanishing into his own yard without a backward glance.
Taylor watched him go, a flicker of contempt in her eyes. Pathetic. Desperate. Exactly what she’d needed. She pushed herself off the lounge chair, the towel beneath her soaked through with sweat, oil, and the viscous pool of Dylan's seed. She gathered it up, balling the sodden fabric carelessly, and tossed it towards the patio door. Naked, she walked to the outdoor shower tucked against the side of the house, turning on the cold water full blast.
The icy spray hit her skin like a physical shock, sluicing away sweat, oil, and the alien stickiness Dylan had left inside and on her. She stood under it, head back, eyes closed, letting the water pound her skin, tracing rivulets down her breasts, her belly, washing the remnants of the virgin from her thighs. It was bracing, cleansing. She soaped herself roughly, scrubbing at the places he’d touched, his scent, his claim. Yet, beneath the cold water and the abrasive washcloth, the embers of arousal, stoked by Dylan’s frantic possession and Marcus’s crude words, refused to die. The memory of Marcus’s sneering voice cut through the water’s roar: "Bet she doesn't get laid proper... Probably humps her for thirty seconds, grunts, rolls over... Bet she’s got that desperate, neglected housewife vibe..." Each insult, each vulgar assessment of her marriage, of her, had been a twisted kind of foreplay, tightening the coil low in her belly.
She switched off the water, stepping onto the sun-warmed stone, dripping. The air felt thick, humid again. Moving deliberately, she picked up a fresh bottle of coconut oil, the golden liquid warm from the sun. She poured a generous amount into her palm, the scent instantly filling the air. Slowly, sensually, she began to rub it into her skin, starting at her shoulders. Her hands slid down her arms, over her collarbones, tracing the swell of her breasts. She lingered there, massaging the oil into her nipples, feeling them harden instantly under her touch, sensitive and eager. Her hands glided down her taut stomach, slicking the oil into her skin, over her hip bones. She felt the eyes before she consciously saw them. A prickling awareness on the back of her neck. She turned her head, just slightly, towards Dylan’s house.
There. In the small, grimy window of the basement rec room. Marcus. Staring. Unblinking. His face pressed close to the glass, his expression a mixture of shock, disbelief, and raw, undisguised lust. He’d seen it all. The shower. The oil. Everything. A slow, predatory smile curved Taylor’s lips. Perfect.
She didn't acknowledge him directly. Instead, she poured more oil into her palm and, with agonizing slowness, brought her hands lower. She slicked the oil onto her inner thighs, her fingers gliding through the damp curls that were already stirring back to life. The cold water had washed Dylan away, but the core heat remained, fanned by Marcus’s voyeuristic hunger and the memory of his filthy mouth. She was already slick again, her folds swollen and sensitive beneath her touch. "Bet she’d let anyone have a go... Look at her legs. Spreading like she wants a breeze… or something else." His crude words echoed, making her core clench.
Holding Marcus’s transfixed gaze through the window, Taylor slowly, deliberately, spread her legs wide. She leaned back slightly against the cool stone wall beside the shower, bracing herself. One hand slid down, her fingers parting her glistening folds with a practiced ease Dylan could never manage. The oil made her skin shine, highlighting the dark pink flesh, the glistening wetness already gathering there, visible even from a distance. She traced her entrance, slick with fresh arousal, her finger sliding in easily to the first knuckle before pulling out, glistening. Her other hand drifted up, pinching her own hard nipple, twisting it slightly, her breath catching.
She saw Marcus’s mouth move behind the glass, forming a silent curse. He was frozen, mesmerized by the blatant display. Taylor tilted her hips forward, offering herself fully to his view, her finger circling her clit now, a slow, deliberate rotation that made her gasp softly, the sound carrying in the quiet yard. Her eyes locked onto his, challenging, inviting. See what you do to me? See what your filthy words make me? She was dripping onto the sun-warmed stone, her arousal undeniable, a blatant invitation painted in oil and her own slick desire. What will Marcus do?