Entice:The Evolve Series, Book Three(3)

By: S.E. Hall

“You wanna dance?” the blonde asks me, strategically placing herself between my chest and the bar, her tit grazing my arm.

I wouldn’t even begin to pretend I know how to dance to the twangy, inbred music coming from the jukebox...and if we’re doing this, I want her brunette friend anyway. I shake my head slowly and take a swig from my beer. “No, but Zach here has dance fever, don’t ya, buddy?”

“Yeah,” he stands, extending his hand to her, “show me your moves.”

And he’s back in the game, ladies and gentlemen! Now it’s me and the friend. I blatantly move my eyes down her body and back up even slower, giving her a one-sided grin when I get to her wide, hungry eyes. Not bad. “You got a name?”

“Carmen. Yours?” She smiles shyly. Nice try. Her eyes tell me the truth; she’s anything but shy.

“Sawyer. Have a seat,” I pivot toward her and spread my legs, patting my thigh, “right here.”



Don’t open your eyes, just keep going. She’ll go away, you’ll finish and fall asleep; another day down.

Her fist thuds on the door so hard this time it shakes. “Sawyer!”

“What?” I scream back, aggravated. Whatever my sassy ass roommate Laney lacks in good timing…she doesn’t make up for in subtlety, either. Must we talk while I’m buried nine inches deep in…? I spare a one-eyed peek at…the brunette under me. That’s right—the friend. The girl I picked solely for the color of her hair.

It may always be a raven-haired beauty, for the rest of my life, if I don’t fuck her image out of my head. The thought of the clumsy-yet-captivating lil’ stripper has me pumping feverishly into Miss Not Her, screams of “Oh Daddy!” bouncing off my bedroom walls again.

Which explains the complaining spitfire banging on my door. This bitch is loud!

“You are not her daddy and I have to be up and on the field at 6 am! Finish or shove a sock in her mouth!” Laney calls out, the thin plywood door, the only thing between us, not even close to a barrier if Laney decides to come shut this girl up herself.

“Yup,” I answer, eyes squeezed shut again, no break in the rhythm of my thrusts. “You heard her,” I grunt to my guest, “quiet down, sweetheart, and no more Daddy talk.”

“Hmph.” She starts to pout, but it easily morphs into an open-mouthed groan when I switch from teasing her with only the tip to slamming home again.

“Yes, oh God, yes!” she screeches beneath me, totally faking it.

Yes, I’m sure. You see…loose chicks, or basic bitches, can get away with the fake orgasm when they’re fucking a needle dick. As long as she fluffs Pencil Dick’s ego until five seconds after he comes, he’s okay with ignorant bliss because of the unspoken understanding that he’s anatomically equipped to get off regardless of the fact that he’s a suck fuck and she got nothing. Not only can he not tell, since he’s sporting a twig, but most guys don’t give a shit if she’s really getting off or not, so they’ve never made a study of the signs.

I have a different handbook; feel free to follow along.

I’m built. It’s not ego, just a fact. So if I can’t touch the sides, the elasticity in that thing is shot—Ben Wa, kegels, duct tape, and electrical wire be damned—there’s no hope, sweetie. Buy a double-wide dildo and a lifetime supply of anti-depressants and wait ‘til some unlucky bastard’s too drunk to care.

For the rest of you—guess what the fact that I’m packin’ means? I can feel, or not feel, the ripples, the natural quivering in the lining of your pussy that you can’t make happen anymore than you can make it stop when you actually get off. So save the fake screams and use your big girl voice to tell me left, right, up, or down instead. There’s a 100% chance I will come by the time we’re done, and since you went to all the trouble of letting me in, you should get yours, girl…no shame in that game!

It never ceases to amaze me, really. A woman in the passenger seat won’t shut the hell up. It’s all “turn here, slow down, stop and ask,” but she’ll fake her way through mediocre sex, unfulfilled, and never say a word. What is that?

If only this one would do something to snap me out of the monotony, do something to engage me enough to stop these damn vagina monologues currently running through my head. Slap me, take charge, tell me how this shit’s gonna go down— do something, girl! But she doesn’t. Just like the one before her and I’m sure the one after her, she just lays there with the false moans and occasional twist or squirm. So I answer accordingly, banging into her like a jackhammer, not so much as using one finger to tickle her fartbox (which they all like, though they’d deny it if asked). Sorry, Senorita. No extra effort, no surprise ending.

Top Books