Chapter 6 #4
I swear, the sound comin' from him vibrated right through my clit, and everything in me locked up, my spine archin'.
Before I fuckin' knew it, the orgasm ripped through my gut like it came to kill.
A cracked cry tore from my chest, and my thighs jerked to clamp around his face, but he had them pinned open.
“Relax, sweetheart,” he said, draggin' his mouth up my pulsin' flesh, then heaved his tongue over my clit, pressin' against it. The moment I did relax, his hands moved to my spread pussy, and he massaged each side of my clit with his thumbs. Heat flooded the climax, then cum gushed out of me—hot, wet, hittin’ his tongue. “Mmm… there you go."
I never had it shootin' outta me like that before. His lips stayed wrapped around it, tongue pressin' up to guide the flood, workin' the stream down his throat and moanin', completely obsessed with me.
It felt like the orgasm never fuckin' ended. It kept goin’ and goin’… Past the point when my body collapsed under him, chest risin’ like I'd just been buried and re-born.
"Didn’t think you had nothin’ this fuckin’ good in you," I remember him sayin' as I stared up at the night sky, at the stars, never feelin’ true ecstasy before. He stayed buried between my thighs and ate while I laid there, dead weight, limp, legs sprawled out as if they weren't mine anymore.
His tongue dragged wide, cleanin' me, collectin’ the mess he made, leavin’ no drop belonging to him behind. When he finally lifted his head, he closed my legs, pressin’ my knees shut, holding them together with one palm.
He pulled the button-up off his shoulder, wiped down his face.
Then finally he fuckin’ looked at me through a drunken gaze—eyes dark, pupils wide, lids heavy. It was the first time he looked at me since I spread my legs.
“Don’t fuckin’ confuse it. This ain’t ‘cause I wanted to fuck you. It’s ‘cause I could’ve—easy.
” His eyes roamed my body, my tits, his fingers squeezin' my knees like he wasn't done with me. “I could’ve fucked you, but you’ll never get me like that, and you sure as fuck'll never get my cock. So here’s some fuckin’ honesty you can sit on… ”
He wiped the back of his neck, wishin' I'd let him fuck, but then he was actin' like he was the one who stopped.
“Who gives a fuck who wants you? After tonight—you do.” He lifted his brows. “You want you. That’s what matters. ‘Cause I just watched a fuckin’ queen climb up on this hood and spread her legs for someone who don’t even want her. Then shove it in his mouth.”
He's still frontin' actin' like he did me a favor, like I'd never orgasmed before, tryin' to prove somethin'. Like he don't want me—yeah, okay, keep tellin' yourself that while your mouth's still waterin'.
True story: if I told him to whip it out, he'd do it without question.
And he kept runnin' his mouth—“This ain’t about me not wantin’ you—never was.
This was about you knowin’ what you got and provin’ it when someone else don’t see it—including yourself.
‘Cause you were the one who needed a reminder tonight, and you didn’t need a bastard like me to get on his knees and beg for you to feel important. You did that all on your own.”
I didn't have anything to say at that point.
He exhaled through his nose, hand slippin’ away from my knees.
One brow kicked up. “That do it for you?”
I nodded, and he broke the stare, rippin' his eyes off me, then stepped back, balled up the shirt, and chucked it into the trash, actin' like I was nothin' but a mess he had to clean up, but no doubt he was lickin' his fingers the whole way home.
He never glanced back.
He got smaller under the streetlights.
Until he was gone."
// CIRCULATION — LATE AUGUST '17 — JERSEY //
[RoxyBianco.mp3] — “Tell me why this man spread me open just to say I ain’t gettin’ his dick.” The audio cuts off at her laugh—high, breathless, cocky.
Ten girls listened at once.
“On God—por Dios, he ate my ass first.”
“He made me hold my pussy open and spit inside. Who the fuck does that?”
By noon, Roxy was spillin' the story at the salon, under dryers in Bayonne, nail files pausin’ mid-buff.
“He spent twenty extra minutes just eatin’ me clean after I came.”
“Bro was obsessed.”
Brows lifted. Scissors stopped mid-snip.
“He ain’t even touch himself?”
Roxy retold it everywhere she went,
thinkin' it'd make her a legend.
By the time it jumped to other cliques,
it mutated.
Booths during lunch breaks turned into confessionals, girls whisperin’ over pies and mozzarella sticks.
“You heard about Roxy Bianco?”
“And that Harding kid?”
And no matter how wild the story got, no one questioned if she was lyin’.
By midnight, four different girls in Bayonne swore he made Roxy Bianco squirt in his mouth on her hood. By the next day, it was leakin’ outta every girl in Jersey with gel tips and bad roots.
“Didn’t unzip, didn’t jerk off, didn’t ask for shit,” they said.
By the weekend, it spread like smoke through dive bars off Bergenline.
Passed like tampons under stalls.
The story hit the streets,
and girls leaned in close,
whisperin' in dressin' rooms,
on the path train,
in passing at Newport Mall,
and written in fake group chats titled ‘church group’.
“You heard about Andrew Harding?”
“And that one girl?”
One of 'em nodded, drink half-raised.
“He moaned into her pussy, tellin’ her he don't wanna fuck, just eat.”
“Nah, get the fuck outta here.”
“I’m dead fuckin’ serious. He made her come for like ten minutes straight.”
But the story did what stories do.
It grew legs and left Roxy behind.
By the end of the month, every girl in Jersey knew the name—Andrew Harding, and Roxy faded into the background.
Harding said he'd teach her a lesson—one about other people deciding your worth. Turned out, the lesson outlived the night. The real story, the one Roxy didn't tell you or anyone else, proved Andrew never had to lift a finger.
She did the rest all on her own.
By September, Roxy was a nobody,
Andrew Harding was a god.
Now they were all lined up—secretly, stupidly hopin’ for a taste of the same.
The boy who eats without fuckin’.
The one who moans without feelin’.
But every girl was thinkin’ the same thing: If that's how he eats a pussy he don’t even want or like...
what the fuck happens when he’s in love?
Since Roxy, the numbers have climbed.
One girl became dozens.
And every one swore he left her cryin’, shakin’, screamin’ into pillows.
They wrote his name in lipstick,
on mirrors,
scratched into lockers.
Harding inside doodled hearts,
orgasmic nights woven into songs.
They all tried to keep him
longer than one time.
Tried to turn the moment into endgame.
But none of 'em could.
A myth doesn't end,
it's only born,
passed around,
retold.
And Andrew Harding's started right here—
one summer night in Jersey,
one hood, one girl everyone forgot,
and the mouth no one’s ever recovered from.