The Autumn Diaries (4 page)

Sam pulled out and ran around to me, holding his cock, and positioned it right in front of my mouth. I didn’t need to worry about my shirt. Sam coated my lips, tongue, and comforter.
 

“OH GOD AUTUMN!” he yelled. And he said it like that, too, with no pause between “GOD” and “AUTUMN,” like he was calling me a GOD. Motherfucking
right
.
 

 
When Sam was done dispensing his own toothpaste into my mouth and on my face, I cleaned my face on the comforter, which was splooged-on anyway (side note — why does my spell check not recognize the word “splooge”? Doesn’t it know who I am?), then rolled my ass from the bed to yank off my skirt, quickly followed by my cute little schoolgirl socks and shoes. I wasn’t wearing a bra, so Sam’s hands immediately went to my tits. I know it’s a cliche for men to be into tits, but I still can’t help but watch the childlike delight that crosses Sam’s face
Every. Single. Time.
that he sees them. Like he’s just unwrapped a brand new present.
 

“You are so hot,” he said, his spent dick already twitching back to life.
 

“Strip, cowboy,” I commanded him.

Sam did.
 

“Now go and get me a cookie from on top of the fridge.”
 

I just wanted to see if he’d do it.
 

Sam ran from the room, cock and balls bouncing, adorable ass working hard. He was gone for exactly one and a half seconds before I realized I didn’t want to wait for him to return. So I ran into the kitchen and tackled him from behind like a linebacker. We hit the floor. I was on top, but I muscled him over so he was on me and, after a little spin move, facing me. Sam is almost twice my weight but I get powerful when horny.
 

“Eat my cunt!” I shouted.
 

“Don’t you want a cookie?”
 

“Eat it!”
 

I shoved him down. All of this toothpaste tube action and 30-second fucking had my head swimming with an almost inebriated slur. My pussy was in charge now dammit, and shouting commands like Jabba the Hut. I had Sam’s hair in my hands, almost ripping at it, and put his mouth right where I wanted it. His tongue was all over the place, in me, licking me, slipping up inside my dripping wet fuckhole. Soon I was about to cum too, and when I did, I pushed Sam so hard against me that him
not
passing out meant he either drew a deep breath beforehand, or possibly had a breathing tube.
 

My juices were everywhere. The linoleum was covered. My cunt and both of my inner thighs were completely coated. Sam’s face looked like he’d been hit with a water balloon.
 

“Good?” he said.
 

I wanted more. I stood up and yanked Sam to his feet. He took the hint and slammed me against the fridge. He pushed his cock into me and started thrusting as hard as he could. I put my hands behind him and grabbed his ass, squeezing it toward me. But the angle wasn’t deep enough, so Sam took my right leg and held it all the way up, draping it up over his shoulder.
 

Fortunately, I’m hella flexible. I was so far open I was about to pull something, one leg on the floor and the other in the air, Sam pistoning into me, his muscles starting to glisten with sweat, and he’s all “I’M GOING TO CUM!” and I’m all, “ME TOO!” and that’s when we both slipped in my pussy juice and started losing our balance.
 

I grabbed for Sam. Sam grabbed for anything solid and found the handle of the freezer. The little door opened and it got very cold. Our legs kept slipping until they were sliding forward toward the base of the fridge, our torsos still tumbling backward, Sam’s hand on the door handle, and then OH HOLY FUCK the whole fridge started to go.
 

The craziest thing was that while all this was happening, with Sam still up to the hilt in my pussy and my leg still on his shoulder, so we’re like this two-headed, three-legged animal freeing a great white beast of food and freon as the fucking thing started to tip. Then, at this point,
I fucking came.
It was as if my pussy decided that if I was about to die, it might as well throw a final party. Then, with the fridge at a 45-degree angle and Sam’s legs and ass working together to keep us upright and maybe (maybe) alive,
Sam
fucking came.
 

You know how they say that in life and death situations, time slows down and you can see every detail? It’s true. I felt Sam’s cum shooting into me, immediately starting to run down my leg thanks to all the jostling. I saw a blob fall and my thought as it fell toward our already-slipping feet was,
That cum is trying to kill us.
I was angry at it. I felt my upward foot jiggle against Sam’s skin. I felt a chill from the freezer.
 

With a heave, Sam seemed to decide that we weren’t going to catch the fridge or stay upright, so the only way out was to crash to the floor on our own fucking terms. So he tossed us to the side and we landed hard (again) on the floor just as the fridge toppled forward and landed with a splintering crash a few inches away.
 

I looked at the fridge. It had smashed a large hole in the linoleum and seemed to have annihilated the wooden floor underneath. We could have died because we decided to fuck against a fridge in a puddle of cum. Let this be a lesson to you, kids.
 

I looked at Sam, heart beating out of my chest. He was panting. Our eyes met, and I wasn’t sure if we were excited from the sex or panicked from our mutual near death experience. I figured it was probably both.
 

“Holy shit,” said Sam.
 

“I came,” I said.
 

“Me too.”
 

“I felt that.” His cock was inside me, all squishy with jizz. Sam was still totally hard, despite the blood demand his heart
had
to be exacting. I was on top. If we hadn’t just almost died, it would have been a great move, like totally intentional.
 

My head swam. I couldn’t believe what had just happened.
We almost died!

I started to fuck him again.
 

“Autumn! Did you not see what just happened?”
 

“Shhh.”
 

“Autumn!”
 

But terror and total turn-on were closer neighbors than I realized. His cock in my pussy felt amazing. I started to writhe and bounce, my tits swinging in Sam’s face. I shushed him harder.
 

“Seriously? Get off of me!”
 

Before he’d just been reprimanding me, but now it was like he was threatening my babies. I pinned his arms to the linoleum and yelled, “SHUT THE FUCK UP I ALMOST JUST DIED” all as one run-on sentence, then quickly it was all breathy moans and orgasm noises and I came for a third time, while Sam lay shocked and helpless beneath me.

Then I rolled off and laid beside him. The two of us and the refrigerator laid exhausted on the kitchen floor like exhausted parties in an interspecies threesome.
 

“You totally just raped me,” said Sam.
 

“You almost just killed me,” I replied.
 

Sam saw my point. We laid there for a while. Finally he said, “I fucked you.”

“Finally.”
 

“Do I owe you eight hundred dollars for a new fridge?”

“Without question.”
 

“Ah.” Sam made good money. He could afford it. And also, I was kidding. We’d split it.

“Most couple’s first times are like this, right?” I said.
 

Sam reached over, rubbed my nipples across the flat of his hands, then kissed my neck and followed it with my mouth.
 

He said, “Let’s be boring next time.”
 

Ha. Right.

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27

FUCKED SAM AGAIN IN MY bed. No injuries.

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2

HAD THIS AWESOME IDEA TODAY. What’s coming up? Valentine’s Day. And what do people do on Valentine’s Day? They fuck. But what do they PRETEND to do? They pretend to be all lovey-dovey.
 

Now, I believe in love. I might love Sam. But I also believe in the power of pussy, and I know how much people feel the need to hide their fucking, or at least obscure it. Why are there no Hallmark cards that say, “I want you to fuck my throat until I sound like Harvey Fierstein”? Or for the guys: “I want to stuff you with more filling than a box of chocolates”? Because that’s what people really want, at least in part. I guess I’m a little sluttier (almost wrote “slittier,” LOL) than most girls, but don’t all of us really want a hard pounding?
 

A nice dinner. Flowers. Pixies and cupids and shit.
 

Then, a wall-rattling fuck session.
 

So I figured I’d just cut to the chase. My second book is going to be something about a slutty Valentine’s Day. I also think I’ll just totally make stuff up this time about people I know. Preparing for backlash. I haven’t exactly broadcast some of this mind-fucking I want to do to these people, but I figure that if any of these people read this stuff, they’re going to be horny and primed anyway. They’ll be like, “Why are you writing about fucking me?” And I’ll be like, “Why are you reading smut? Come over and fuck me for real!”
 

Oh, except that I said I wouldn’t fuck other guys anymore. So I guess I’ll need to have Sam fuck me.
 

I’ve got to get on that. Getting Sam fucking me, I mean.
 

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I’VE FINISHED MY SLUTTY VALENTINE’S Day collection. I did some serious mind-fucking on this one, so we’ll see how well people like it and how well it sells. I’m betting a lot of horny people out there are going to want to have some porn for themselves on Valentine’s Day or — and this would be great — maybe want to share it with their husbands, wives, girlfriends, boyfriends, whatever.
 

Oh, and although I made all of this up, I did include one true story: the thing that Johnny told me about getting head in a movie theater. I took a few artistic liberties, including the line, “Now THAT’S what I call buttered popcorn!” Johnny might be pissed. Not sure I care.
 

I also have another one ready to go. Apparently I’m good at writing about sex. It takes me no time and it just feels like a head-dump, proving that my brain has nothing in it but cocks and pussies and cocks that go into pussies. Some people have fireworks going off in their heads when they get ideas, but I think I get cocks going off. BOOM, there’s an idea, and the inside of my head just got coated in jizz.
 

Okay, it’s so wrong that the idea of a guy cumming inside of my brain just got me horny, but it did. I stopped writing between this paragraph and the last and pulled off my pants and panties and rubbed my clit until I came. It didn’t take long at all. And now I’m sitting in a wet spot on my couch. LOL, I have wet spots everywhere. My favorite is the one that’s soaked into the bathroom wallpaper six feet off the ground. People ask about that one all the time when they come and visit. I told my dad that I went into the bathroom while holding a Filet O’ Fish and tripped over the rug and slapped it into the wall and that the stain was from the tartar sauce that soaked into the plaster. I guess he figured it was too stupid to make up, so now he always comments on it. I’ve got to rip down that wallpaper. I can’t have my dad commenting on something my pussy made.
 

But anyway, the new project is going to be called
Talking Dirty
. It feels so ballsy to me that I wish I had a nutsack so I could talk in depth about it being ballsy. It’s going to be my stories. Like: MY stories. My life reads like porn, and I could have had a reality show back in college that would have made pussies everywhere wet and made thousands of cocks rise to attention and fire off a seven-second salute six seconds later. So I’m writing them down. Diary format, like the way I write in here. Talking about guys putting their dicks in my pussy. Talking about taking cum in my mouth. Somehow, that seems pretty scary, but if people like it and it goes, I could write them forever and rub my pussy every other sentence.
 

Sam’s cool with it, like a total trooper. He says that as long as I don’t do other guys now, he doesn’t care what I did in the past, or if I tell the world.

Yeah, I guess I do love the guy.
 

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STORIES TO TELL IN FUTURE
Talking Dirty
volumes:
 

The one with the angry cab driver -

That one night when I was out in the club and stuck that lipstick up my pussy because I was drunk — mention how no cleaner gets out lipstick, the Scotch Guard joke (“use Teflon coating!”), and then when he was chasing Brooke and I fucked the gearshift… mention the fuzzy dice thing and about how he chased us with that dildo.

The one with two guys except one wasn't really a guy -
 

Be sure to mention Dinah Shore and that phone call to 911.