Mr. Larry was gross. From the first time he showed her what would be her apartment, his massive frame with his beer belly straining over his belt, relaxed black hair slicked into a small greasy tail at the back of his head, and his clear disbelief in hygiene, much less deodorant. His deep, Barry White voice insisted on calling her “Babygirl”, as though one word rather than her given name. He was gross. The occasional smirk on his lips when he talked to her disrupted the dark freckles across the bridge of his nose and tops of his cheekbones. That same smirk displayed the missing teeth half way back the on the upper left side of his mouth. He was gross.
The USMC tattoos perpetually on display that lined his broad muscled shoulders and long, meaty arms from spoke of a time in the military. Those guns led down to massive hands and banana-like fingers, the latter ending incongruously in well manicured nails and shockingly pink, clean palms.
There were the seemingly extra long basketball shorts on his legs and untied Jordans on his feet and the ever present “traveler” in his hand. She was unsure the contents, but aware that it was definitely alcoholic. He was gross, but otherwise not a bad guy.
After her breakup with her alcoholic, no-really-I’m-not-gay ex, this apartment had conveniently become available. The building and the apartment itself were not terribly large, but the building was located in Congress Park, so convenient to work and access to downtown. It was a converted red brick denver square with only six total apartments that hosted a large courtyard accessed from her apartment’s back door. There was a perpetually busy laundry room across from the manager’s apartment in the basement and a convenient storage area. The single washing machine and dryer were typically in use when she needed to use them and so frequented a nearby laundromat when in need.
Thankfully, despite his pet name for her, his slightly strong–in both smell and personality–presence, Larry was not really a creeper, he was just gross In the initial days of her residence, she would encounter Larry with no great amount of frequency, but she grew to be aware not merely of his odor, but that each time in his presence she felt somehow delicate next to his large, towering frame – more so than her statuesque height would typically incur. As a result of those occasions of interaction, she further recognized that when he made reference to himself, it was as “Mr. Larry”, as in, “Mr. Larry’s gonna keep an eye out for you, Babygirl” or “Don’t want any of them young punkasses think they can take anything from you, Babygirl” or “You make sure you call Mr. Larry if one of them boys step over the line, Babygirl” or “Mr. Larry help you for whatever, Babygirl.” His concern was benevolent, sweet even, she admitted, though not really necessary. She was not currently inundated with suitors – but that fit with with her current sabbatical from dating. She tended to attract man-boys who appeared somehow surprised when having sex–as though they could not believe their luck–and not at all inclined to pursue her satisfaction. She regularly referred to her toy chest (once her suitor was graciously but emphatically shown the door) to ensure physical satisfaction. While she appeared somewhat innocent, conveniently, her imagination was active, vast, and unashamed. She would, by the time she lived there for almost a year, consult the contents of the toy box with frequency and creativity and had certainly never needed to call Larry for what ever form of “help” he could supply.
Time passed. She met her neighbors, each of whom seemed kind but seemingly disinclined to be overly friendly. That suited her just fine.
Several seasons passed since she set up house in late January, and suddenly, it was nearly Christmas. She was not traveling home for the holiday, happy not to have to navigate family dynamics and dodge the ubiquitous questions about her relationship status. Her mother was disappointed, but understood that her daughter would enjoy this time aside.
There was light snow falling as she arrived home from work one afternoon checking her mail in the front vestibule.
“Babygirl,” the low rumble greeted her as she was pulling her mail from her box in the lobby. She turned, noticing that although the temperature was approaching the single digits outside, Larry’s “sun’s out, guns out” uniform was in place and beefy café au lait arms–and tattoos, naturally–were fully on display. “Oh, hey, Larry. Getting ready for the holidays?” He stopped a close distance from her with his particular scent drifting toward her. He was gross.
She knew that her intrinsic politeness would win out over a need to escape when he reached out to brush a drop of melted snow from her cheek. “Looks cold out there, Babygirl. Those some pink cheeks”, continued the rumble along with a smirk accompanying the last two words. “You ain’t told Mr. Larry when you headin’ out for holidays”, he paused to take a sip from his traveler. There was an unwritten rule that each tenant alerted Larry when they would be out of town, for how long, and whether there was someone scheduled to look out for their place.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Larry,” she said, breathing out through her mouth to avoid the wafts of eau du armpit, “I’m not going anywhere for the holidays, that’s why you’ve not heard anything from me.” He looked furrowed his brow and frowned, “You gonna be solo for about a week, babygirl. Everyone else gonna be gone until New Years,” he rumbled, “You gonna be ok? Ain’t no one gonna be looking out for you?” Excitement with a tinge of fear zinged through her body with this statement but she said, “I’ll be ok, Larry, I’ll enjoy myself. You know, Netflix, baking, laundry…” She smiled, her fair skin blushing when he looked unsure she said, “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself”, she said and patted his arm kindly as she passed by on the way to her front door.
The expression came to mind as she was inserting the key into and opening her deadbolt, “feeling his eyes on her back”, she turned to enter her place and saw Larry still standing looking at her, frown of concern in place. She smiled again and said, “Happy Holidays, Mr. Larry”, she said, embracing his self-styled moniker, and closed her door.
The building had been blissfully quiet and occasionally eerie since everyone had been gone.The emptiness had led her to feel that her “domain” extended to all open spaces of her building. For the last several days, she had alternately been reading Literotica, watching Netflix, masturbating, eating and sleeping. Now one day away from New Year’s Eve, she decided that it was time to do her laundry. For once, she would be able to not have to leave the building to do it. Having saved up for nearly three weeks, she had an unknown number of loads to do. With several trips up and down the stairs and a pause in between to read erotica and masturbate, after a bit, she just brought her tablet with her. She passed the Manager’s apartment and entered the laundry room, planting herself atop the washing machine crossing her ankles underneath her. The vibration of the machine was becoming stimulating, sending delicious feelings to her pussy, and she moved her legs from sitting in lotus to hanging off the front. It allowed her to rotate her hips and press her pussy agains the top of the washer. She rhythmically squeezed her thighs together, pressing and releasing her tingling cunt.
Taking benefit of the knowledge that she was completely alone, she decided to feed her exhibitionist side and pulled her tight top up, exposing her braless breasts to the empty room, her hands found her dark nipples, already erect from the slightly coolish air. Her head lolled back and her eyes closed as her fingers fondled her nipples, stiff under her fingers.
Light caresses were nice, but after a long day of repeated jilling off she needed to up the ante. Between the thumb and forefinger of each hand, she rhythmically pinched and released her nipples. Increasing the pressure with each pinch, the sensation was approaching painful. The moan that escaped her throat with each pain filling the empty room.
She was getting where she needed to be. When erect, her nipples were naturally long but they became more so with her aggressive pinching. Her pussy had gone from tingling to throbbing, to swelling fully as blood engorged the erectile tissue of her vulva. She was confident that as soon as her fingers parted her inner lips, they’d meet a dripping wetness. Breath was coming faster with her unkind fingers tormenting her nipples, not just pinching, but pulling now. Her nipples were looking longer and longer, and with the abuse, a deep rose moving toward an angry red.
She brought her feet up to the top of the washer to either side of her hips and she spread her knees wide. Her hips began pumping of their own volition. A puddle was forming in her sweatpants as wetness rolled out of her vagina. She was humping the air with abandon and the need to be touched between her legs becoming insistent. She held off, prolonging her anticipatory arousal. With each lift of her hips, her legs splayed further aside. A wicked smile began to form on her lips – surely she should not further soil her sweatpants with the river of pussy juices running from her nether lips. Surely her aloneness allowed for total exposure.
Her fingers left her dagger-like nipples and slipped down between her waistband and skin. It took no time at all to slide her sweats down past her hips and threw them unceremoniously to the floor only to be joined a moment later by her t-shirt. She was completely nude, legs fully spread, heels up to the edge of the washer in line with her hips. That she was exposed–but knowing that there was no one around–drove her willingness to hold nothing back. She felt like she WAS sex. Powerful, alive with her openness and solitude. Her knees were completely aside. She was fully exposed when her fingers found her pussy. In her mind’s eye, she could see how it was gorgeous, lips fully opened, pink and glistening. She could feel her juices on her smooth pussy running from vagina, down her perineum, over the furl of her anus, and then the audible sound of drops as they hit the floor.
The fingers of one hand found her clitoris, swollen, hard, and standing well-proud of its hood. Unable to restrain herself, she began frigging her clit, loving the wet sounds as she beat off. She was pulling her nipple again, this time stretching it out farther, pain and pleasure mingling, groans regularly coming from her throat with each tug, with each frig.
“Babygirl.” Eyes flew open, she gasped in shock.
Mr. Larry standing in the doorway.
Her knees slammed back together and she looked for something to cover her openness. Face burning with shame and embarrassment. What could he possibly think??! Jaw working as she tried to say something, knowing there were only recriminations (wasn’t everyone supposed to be away???), knowing there was only herself to blame.
“I…I..,” still nothing would come out, but she realized that she would have to retrieve some article of clothing before being capable of talking.
“Babygirl, that the prettiest white girl pussy Mr. Larry ever seen,” Barry While voice coming out as a growl, Larry taking two steps into what she now saw was a very, very small room. Sitting up, her hands over her breasts, she was about to tell him to fuck off, give her clothes. At least she wondered she was. Before she spoke, she saw movement at the periphery and looks down to see something inching, growing down, way down, the leg of his shorts. Growing. Down. It was his cock.and it just kept going. She gasped…Suddenly words evaporated in her mouth, from her mind. How long is he?!
Gross, she remembered. He is gross.
“Show Mr. Larry that pretty pussy again, Babygirl. Show him how your honey pouring out. Open those pretty knees, come on now, Babygirl,” he was now less than two feet away. Gross, greasy pony tail. She can smell him. Gross. She can see his belly. She can see what’s standing straight out below his belly in his shorts. His hand touches it almost as a reflex. She can see it jump. She has butterflies. She is aroused. Oh God! Her mouth falls open. She deeply aroused. She is aware that her moment of initial shock is past and, that despite her humiliation at being caught by Mr. Larry, totally exposed and masturbating in the laundry room, her swollen cunt is once again weeping and each gentle, deep, encouraging word that comes from his mouth causes her knees to creep aside.
She actually wants to do what he has demanded. Show him her pussy. Her knees start to inch aside.
He’s moved further into the room, stepping within a foot of her. He is gross.
“That’s it Babygirl, open those knees. That’s it, wider…get those knees apart…wider, now…Babygirl, you’re almost there…show Mr. Larry your juicy baby pussy,” her knees are now fully open again when he says, “Good girl,” his words are a caress directly to her core. Her back arches and her head falls back and she moans.
“You pussy smell good, Babygirl, so good. Touch that clit again baby…” she moved her left hand down to massage her fat clit. “That right, rub that clit for Mr. Larry,” his eyes are glued to her center where her fingers are again at work–at his behest–and she moans gutturally.
“You like rubbing your pussy for Mr. Larry, don’t you?” Why do his words affect her like this? She wants to answer him, she wants to please him. “Yes,” she whispers shortly. Her hips begin pumping again. Toward his face. He frowns, “Yes, what, Babygirl? Tell Mr. Larry…” What does he want her to say? Ohhhhh, “Yes, Mr. Larry, I like rubbing my pussy for youuuuuu,” the last part coming out as a moan.
“So wet, your pink, white girl pussy so wet. Your clit is fucking swole,” he breathes in through his nose, an inhale as his face seems drawn to within inches of her cunt, “Mr. Larry got to get that on his tongue. Would you like that, Babygirl? Mr. Larry tongue lapping up your honey, tickling your clit?” What?! This is something she had not considered. Would he want more than his tongue in her quim? And what if he did? Her mind was becoming focused on her need. Was there anything less that would satisfy her? He is so gross, how could she possibly let him touch her?! His stench is entirely in her nose, almost overwhelming now. Her nipples throbbed. He is so gross. How could she possibly allow him to touch her?
Fuck! How can she NOT?!
“Please…” hips pumping toward his face, “please Mr. Larry…please, lick my pussy…PLEASE,”
His tongue is suddenly everywhere – in her lips, inside her vagina, up across her clit, fire spreading throughout her body as she feels him moan into her center. He starts to take long strokes with his tongue. His tongue is so wide, each stroke covers her vaginal opening, labia, and swirls on her clit. It is pure pleasure, shooting throughout her body. Her fingers discover her nipples again, pinching. Hard. twisting and pulling. Again and again, his tongue strokes every part of her pretty organ. The sounds she is making no longer seem human.
His tongue begins making longer strokes now, beginning at her taint, running in the same trajectory, ending on her clit. Sometimes he sucks her clit between his lips. Sucks hard. Sometimes he fucks her hole with his tongue. The pleasure is almost destruction. He swirls his tongue over her clit before preparing another stroke. This time, he begins lower. His tongue is on her bottom hole, tickling, swirling. No one has ever licked here here before. It feels…Forbidden, decadent.
After a series of lengthy laps from back to front, he begins to concentrate on her darker orifice. Her head shot up only to look down at Mr. Larry incredulously. She has a vague notion to tell him to stop. This is too gross. He’s licking her bottom hole. But any thoughts quickly dissipate.
His hands are holding her thighs aside with his thumbs pulling her ass cheeks wide, and his tongue continues its assault on the furled opening, making the occasional trip up into her vagina, up to suck at her clit again. With each stroke of his tongue, his thumbs move closer to her dark center.
Larry lifts his head and thumbs continue to massage beneath her perineum. She looks down to see him, her juices dripping from his chin and before she knew what was happening, Mr.Larry stood, swept her in his arms and moved to lay her on the ancient Formica kitchen table to the right of the dryer mostly used for folding clothes. Pulling the chair over he sat to return to his feast. Pushing her knees up and aside he said, “Babygirl, Mr. Larry never tasted honey as sweet as yours. I know you want more…”
She nods her head and closes her eyes once more, not fully understanding what she’s agreeing to. He lowers his head once again licking and sucking around her bottom hole before suddenly plunging his tongue directly into her anus. “OOOHHHHH,” she yells as the tongue works deeper, “Please nooooo!” She is fully shocked at this invasion. This cannot be right! Tongue plunging, swirling, one gigantic finger extending up and rubbing over her inflamed clit while his thumbs start to rub near the ring of her anus in time with the thrust of his tongue. Pleasure, embarrassing pleasure builds as her bottom hole is repeatedly massaged and speared open.
She is no longer caring about the wrongness. God. She loves having her asshole licked, tongue-fucked. She is so gross.
She gradually becomes aware of a blooming sensation. A…looseness. It feels like she’s…opening.
He raises his head. Thumbs massaging now directly on her anal ring.
She looks to see a smirk on his wet, juicy mouth as one of the massaging thumbs slips into her bottom, lubricated by her pussy juices. “Nooooo!” The thumb fucks her asshole, in and out. She is shaking her head no, but moaning as the invader is joined by the other one, slipping into the dark opening, providing a greater sense of stretching. It feels…wrong? Right? She’s becoming overwhelmed by the warring sense of the forbidden and the pleasurable, making her need the thumbs to be out, but simultaneously wanting them deeper.
“Yeah, Babygirl, Mr. Larry knew you needed your ass filled.” She is so gross. Oh, god, he is so right she loves it.
He removes his thumbs and a gigantic banana-like index finger enters and sinks deeply, directly to where it joins her hand. “Fuuuuck” they both moan at the same time.
The giant finger slips out, pauses as a gush of pussy juice collects on it, and slips back inside. He repeats the journey. And again. Her body feels liquid. She is aware of sounds escaping with each invasion.
She hears a click for a plastic cap and a squeezing sound. She looks down to see the massive, newly lube-slickened finger start entering her anus. The smirk he’s been wearing as he teaches her about her new needs widens, the finger slipping in and out and in and out easier and faster with each passage, her head slips back, no longer ashamed by his finger fucking her dark hole. It goes in one last time in and then slips out entirely. She can feel something more on the outside. It is fingers. More than one pressing inside. “Fuck Babygirl, you are opening up, getting loose for Mr. Larry. Rub that pussy for Mr. Larry again,” she complies frigging her clit hard with four fingers. There is nothing he demands she won’t do. She is so gross.
Another finger joins the two in her ass. Full. Stretched. Fuck! Her chin drops to her chest as she adjusts to the ever-widening, burning invasion.
“Look at Mr. Larry, Babygirl” She raises her head and splits her eyes aside. He rose from his seat and looks down as, with his free hand, he pulls the waistband of his ubiquitous shorts out and down slipping it to his knees. He lifts a cock the size of which that she wondered only existed in porn. It was fat. Beyond fat. And very, very long. Pink at the circumcised, swollen head, becoming darker and wider as it traveled down to the root.