Urban Legend

Arianna had expected maybe fifteen, perhaps twenty, parents to show up. She had printed two hundred cards, sure, but that was just the panic of a woman who didn't know how many cocks a married cunt could hold in reserve.

She had not expected this.

By two in the afternoon, the front garden looked like a small festival. Cars lined the curb all the way past the Henderson’s', and the Henderson’s were the nosy kind who would absolutely be peeking through their blinds. Men stood in clusters on the lawn, on the porch steps, spilling out of the open front door like the house was a jar of honey and they were the flies. Some had brought wives. Most, Arianna noted with a fresh gush of warmth between her thighs, had not.

She stood halfway up the staircase, one hand on the banister, and looked down at the crowd, and her breath caught.

They were looking back.

Not all of them, not yet, but enough. Enough that she could feel the weight of two hundred gazes settling on her bare shoulder, on the strap of the black bra she'd let peek from beneath her cream sweater, and on the short skirt that had ridden up her thighs when she'd climbed the stairs. And many of them—too many to count, more than she had ever dared hope—were already fully hard. She could see the outlines pushing against slacks, jeans, and the soft cotton of sweats. A forest of erections, and every single one of them had a business card in their pocket with her cell number on it.

How in heaven's name am I supposed to handle them all? she thought, and a giggle bubbled up out of her chest before she could stop it. Her panties were soaked through already. The very instant she'd seen the sheer scale of what she'd done, her body had answered like a struck bell.

She needed a system. A woman could not simply wing two hundred cocks. That was how one ended up crying in a bathroom with cum in her hair.

Selective, she decided, scrambling back up to the landing where she'd stashed a stash of the leftover cards. I have to be selective.

She grabbed a fat handful and a pen and started writing numbers on the backs. One through fifty, to start. That felt manageable. Sort of. A high number—say a fifty—would be sucked off in the hallway or behind the shed or wherever she could drag him, quick and dirty, mouth only, to get him out of the way. A low number—an eleven, a seven—would get the real prize. Would get to fuck her fertile pussy. The first ten numbers would be the ones to mount her, one after another, in her own marital bed, and they would be the best cocks, the alpha cocks, the ones with the thickest outlines and the hungriest eyes, and they would fill her up in a long, slow sequence so that the very best sperm won the roulette.

She had rechecked the predictor that morning. Her egg was ready. Sitting there, patient, waiting to be filled with baby makers.

Yes, she thought. This works.

And then the noise downstairs swelled—her husband's big friendly laugh, the clink of glasses, the low rumble of men who had been promised something and were getting impatient—and Arianna's system collapsed in her mind like a house of cards.

No. This doesn't work either. Because the men would see the numbers, would compare, and would figure out who got the bed and who got the mouth, and there would be sulking, and there would be questions. And questions were dangerous. Questions led to wives.

She bit her lip. A tombola, she thought wildly. A raffle. Only ten cocks win my ready womb, and the rest get—no. No, the tombola was worse, because the winners would cheer and the losers would demand a recount, and suddenly everyone would be standing in a circle watching her draw paper slips while her husband poured drinks.

Fine, she thought, descending one step. Fine. I'll simply mingle. I'll work the room. I'll take one by the hand and fuck his brains out while my husband is busy, and when I'm done, I'll take another. And if I only get through ten tonight, the others get rainchecks.

Rainchecks. Almost two hundred rainchecks.

She did the math in her head as she came down the stairs, and the math made her giggle again.

Five men a week, she thought. That's what—forty weeks. Nine months. Oops.

Nine months. Nine months of dripping into the spare room on Tuesday mornings, of "just running to the gym" on Thursday afternoons. And honestly? Six a week would be tidier. Six a week. Or maybe two per day, mornings and afternoons, and then she'd come home and sit still beside her husband on the sofa in the evenings, her married cunt still sore and full and leaking, watching something stupid on television, and he would never suspect a thing.

She would win Slut of the Neighbourhood for sure. She wondered how many divorces she would cause. She wondered if that even counted as a downside.

Her husband found her at the foot of the stairs, spatula in hand, apron on, cheeks flushed with the heat of the grill and the pleasure of being a good host. He leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek, cheerful and distracted.

"You look pretty," he said, out of nowhere, that Arianna actually stopped, happy about his remark. He sees me, she thought. He finally sees me.

Warmth flooded her, a little flare of hope in the middle of all her scheming. She radiated.

And then he ruined it. "All the lads said so," he added. "Figured I'd better say it too."

Arianna blinked. All the lads. They had noticed her before he had. They had told him, and only then had it occurred to him that his own wife was pretty, and even now he was parroting it back like a homework answer.

It hurt. Genuinely, stupidly hurt. For one second, she had felt seen, and then she'd been handed a second-hand compliment from the men who were about to breed her.

Goodbye, she thought, looking at his back as he returned to the grill. Goodbye to your pussy. Goodbye to your womb. Goodbye to your egg. You had your chance, and you brought a spatula.

She turned away before the hope could come back and hurt her a second time.

Now. To work.

She scanned the garden for her number two pick—her first actual body, since Stefan the giant was somehow already cornered by two other wives and couldn't be extracted yet, which left David, the lean tattooed one, exactly where she'd predicted he'd be: hovering by the shed, adjusting himself in his jeans, watching the house like a man waiting for a sign.

Arianna caught his eye and crooked her finger. His whole body straightened.

She threaded through the crowd, touching shoulders, murmuring, "Hi, so glad you came, help yourself, help yourself," and reached him and took his warm calloused hand in hers and leaned up to his ear.

"Twenty minutes," she breathed. "Then come upstairs. Second door on the left. Don't knock."

He nodded, too fast, like a dog being told about a walk.

But then—because she couldn't help herself, because the house was full of hard cocks and her egg was ready and twenty minutes was an eternity—she decided she didn't want to wait for him at all.

She pulled David by the hand, right past her husband, right past the grill, right past a knot of three men who watched her go with their mouths half open, and up the stairs, and down the hall, and into the marital bedroom, and she closed the door and turned the little lock with a click that felt louder than the whole party.

"Change of plan," she said. "You're first."

David stared at the freshly made bed—the good sheets, the ones with the high thread count—and then at her, and understood exactly what kind of a day he was having.

"Your husband's literally grilling my sausages out there," he said.

Arianna reached for the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head in one clean motion and stood there in her black lace bra and that short plaid skirt and felt the air of the bedroom move across her flushed skin.

"Then we'd better be quick," she said, and reached for his belt.

…

She didn't bother with the slow reveal. Arianna dropped to her knees right there on the bedroom rug—the good rug, the one she'd chosen to hide a wine stain—and worked David's jeans down over his hips with both hands, dragging his boxers with them in the same impatient motion. His cock sprang free, longer than she ed from the warehouse, curved slightly up toward his belly, with that fat vein running along the underside like a seam she wanted to trace with her tongue.

She traced it.

"Fuck," David breathed, one hand already bracing against her dresser.

Arianna licked him base to tip, slow, letting the flat of her tongue drag up that vein and over the ridge of his head, and then took him into her mouth all the way down, her lips stretching, her throat opening, until her nose pressed into the wiry hair at his root. He was hot in her mouth, pulsing, and she could taste the salt of him and the faint ghost of the party's beer, and it made her hungrier. She pulled back with a wet suctioning sound and did it again. And again. Her hand found his balls and rolled them, weighing them, judging them—these were good, full, heavy things, and her pussy clenched at the thought of what they carried.

"You're going to give me so much," she mumbled around him, mouth full, eyes watering and looking up.

She sucked him hard, hollowing her cheeks, twisting her fist around the base while her lips worked the top, flicking her tongue against that sensitive notch under his head until his hips started to twitch and his breathing went ragged. His hand found her hair and held it, not forcing, just holding, like he couldn't believe she was real.

"Not yet," she said, pulling off with a string of saliva still connecting them. "Not in my mouth. I want you inside. All of it. All of this."

She stood, shimmied out of the skirt and peeled the soaked panties down her legs, and then climbed onto the marital bed—*her* bed, his bed, their bed—and lay back on the good sheets, knees up and wide, one hand reaching down to spread herself open so he could see everything he was about to get. Pink, wet, flushed, glistening. Her clit was already swollen and peeking out of its hood like it wanted to be introduced.

"Come here," she said. "Look at it. Look how ready it is. My egg is here, David, right here, right now. You could be the one. Do you want to be the one?"

He knelt between her thighs and ran the head of his cock up and down her slit, spreading her wetness, tapping it against her clit until she gasped.

"Tease," she accused.

"Wanted to look at it first," he said, low.

"Then look while you fuck me, baby." She hooked her heels around his back and pulled. "Can you do it? Can you actually knock me up, or are you just pretty? Come on. Fuck me, baby, David. Prove your swimmer’s work. Put one in me."

He pushed in.

Slow. God, so slow. The head slid in and paused, letting her feel every ridge of it stretch her open, and Arianna's eyes rolled back and her mouth fell open on a sound that had no words in it. He was thicker than she'd guessed. He filled her like a plug, like something meant to be there, and he kept going, inch by agonizing inch, until his hips met the backs of her thighs and she felt him pressed all the way against the mouth of her womb.

"There," she breathed. "There, there, that's it, that's where the baby goes—"

He began to move. Slow, deep, deliberate strokes, pulling nearly all the way out so she could feel the drag, then sinking home again with that same maddening patience. Every push kissed her cervix. Every push said here, right here, take it.

Oh, she thought, dazed, gripping the sheets. Oh, this is my best pick. This one. This one's the best pick.

Her first orgasm came quiet and rolling, a slow wave that started deep where he was pressing and spread outward through her whole body until her toes curled against his back and she moaned long and low and just let it take her. David felt it—felt her clamp down on him—and groaned, and didn't speed up, the bastard; he just kept that same patient rhythm and fucked her straight through it, and she loved him for it.

"Again," she panted. "Do that again. Slower. Make me—"

He did. And then he began to speed up, a little at a time, each stroke a fraction harder, a fraction faster, until the room was full of the wet slap of their bodies and her voice rising in a steady, shameless moan that she made no effort at all to muffle. Her husband was outside. Let him hear. Let all of them hear.

"So close," she whimpered, arching. "So close to being a mommy, oh god, right there, don't stop, don't you dare stop—"

He hit her deep on every stroke now, a rhythmless, hungry rhythm, his balls slapping her ass, his cockhead bruising that sweet spot at the top of her channel, and Arianna was already climbing toward the second one when the door cracked open.

"Oops—sorry—"

A head poked in. James. Her number two. Wiry, intense-eyed James, who had watched her every move all afternoon and clearly could not wait the twenty minutes she'd given him.

"Sorry," he said again, already backing out. "I'll come back—"

"No," Arianna moaned, loud, and it came out more like a command than she intended. "Stay. Stay and watch. Oh—oh—stay right there."

James stopped. Stayed. And watched, hand drifting to his own belt like he was powerless not to.

David, for his part, liked being watched. His hips sharpened, and Arianna felt the change—felt him tense, that whole long lean body going taut over her, and then she felt it, the deep unmistakable clench and lift of his sac drawing up tight against his body.

"Fill me," she whispered, barely a sound. "Fill me, fill me, fill me—"

She came again, right on his cock, clenching hard and rhythmically, and that was what finished him. He shoved in to the root with a groan that came from somewhere behind his ribs, and then he was coming, hot and long and deep, pulsing into her in thick, heavy throbs that seemed to go on and on.

It was so warm. So hot. Bastard seed, she thought, and her pussy rippled around him, contracting, milking, drinking every drop like it knew its job, pulling him deeper even as he finished, wringing him until he had nothing left and sagged over her, forehead to her shoulder.

"Make me a mommy," she cried softly into his hair, and her hips gave one last tiny buck against him.

He stayed inside her. Neither of them moved. And at the door, James stood perfectly still, watching the two of them , watching the place where they still were one, and he cleared his throat very quietly.

Arianna lifted her head off the pillow, flushed and wrecked and gleaming, and found his eyes in the dim room.

"Give me five minutes," she said, and grinned, and didn't let David pull out.

…

David pulled out slowly, and they both watched it happen—the wet drag of him leaving her, the sudden empty ache, and then the spill. Cum came after him in a thick pearly rope, sliding down her slit and pooling in the crease of her thigh, dripping onto the good sheets in a warm spreading stain. Arianna didn't move to stop it. She just lay there, thighs still open, watching her own married bed get marked by a stranger's seed, and felt a deep, stupid satisfaction settle into her bones.

"Come here, honey," she said to the door, crooking one wet finger at James. "You've been patient."

James was on her before David had even cleared the edge of the mattress. He toed off his shoes, dragged his shirt over his head, and shoved his jeans down—quick, economical, a man who had already decided and didn't need ceremony. His cock was out and hard and already leaking, shorter than David's but thicker through the middle, standing up flat against his stomach like it was angry.

David, meanwhile, was hunting for his boxers. Arianna caught his wrist.

"Be a doll," she purred, not even looking away from James. "On your way down—send up any good-looking, strong one you find. Twenty minutes. Big cock if you can spot one. And "David—" she finally glanced at him, flushed and lazy and glowing—"tell him not to knock."

"Any of them?" David asked, buttoning up.

"Any of them." She stretched like a cat, feeling the cum shift inside her. "I'm done picking. Just want to be full. Send me a big one."

David laughed, shook his head like a man who had wandered into a very good dream, and slipped out the door.

It clicked shut. And James climbed onto the bed and shoved straight into her without a single word of foreplay.

Arianna cried out—a raw, shocked sound—because she was still slick and open from David, but James went in deep on the first stroke, no easing, no patience, just his whole thick length ramming home until his hips cracked against her and his balls swung up and slapped her ass. And then he did it again. And again. Hard, fast, mechanical, a piston. No rhythm to learn, nothing to figure out. He had found the hole, and now he was going to use it.

Oh, she thought, as the bed started to creak. Oh, this is different.

This wasn't the slow worship David had given her. This was used. She was a hole, and he was a cock, and the two of them had a job to do, and neither of them cared how pretty it looked. Her tits bounced with every thrust, her head tipped back, and her hands clawed at the sheets because there was nothing else to grab. The wet sound of it filled the room—squish, slap, squish, slap—her own leftover wetness and David's cum churning around James's shaft, making a mess of her, making everything slicker, easier, and louder.

"You like that," James grunted, not really a question.

"Yes—" she managed. Yes, harder—"

He gave her harder. He bent her knees back toward her chest and folded her nearly in half and fucked down into her at an angle that had his cockhead dragging over that spot every single time, and Arianna's voice climbed into a steady shameless wail she made no effort to control. Downstairs, somewhere, her husband was turning sausages. Let him hear. Let all of them hear.

This is what a fuck slut is, she decided, dazed and grinning and wrecked. This. Right here. This is the true slut level. Welcome home.

She came once—sharp and fast and almost incidental, a little clench that rippled through her and was gone, swallowed up by the relentless bashing. She came a second time minutes later, longer, shuddering, and James didn't slow for either one; he didn't even seem to notice and just kept hammering like a machine until his own body finally betrayed him.

The first time he came, he grunted and buried himself and pulsed into her, and Arianna felt the fresh heat of it everything else, and then he kept going. Didn't soften, didn't pull out. Just fucked his own load back up into her and kept right on hammering, and she lost count of the orgasms somewhere around the third one because they started to blend, one rolling into the next, until her whole lower body was one long continuous ache of pleasure.

His second load came slower and deeper, and she felt his sac again—full, heavy, drawing up.

She reached down between their bodies and cupped it, warm and tight and pulsing in her palm, and stroked it with her thumb.

"Give it to Momma," she purred, looking up at him through wet lashes. "You've got one more in there. Give it to me. Make me one."

He stiffened. Every muscle in his wiry body locked, jaw clenching, and he drove in one final brutal time and came—came hard, came like he was trying to plant the seed by force, hips twitching and grinding against her.

And Arianna came with him, clenching and milking and pulling, and her pussy drank it all down, and she felt the hot flood of his warm seed spread into her deepest place, coating her ready cervix, filling the womb that was waiting and open and hungry.

Now nobody will know who the father is, she thought, and the thought made her smile even as her body shivered through the last of it.

Five men in the warehouse. Two men in her bed. She could feel all of them inside her at once, layered and mingled, a mixture she had made on purpose, an anonymous cocktail of strong proven sperm, and one of them—she would never know which—was going to make her a mommy.

James sagged onto her, breathing hard, and Arianna wrapped her arms around his sweaty back and held him there and stared up at her own ceiling.

Downstairs, twenty minutes had ed.

The stairs were already creaking.

…

The door swung open without a knock, and Arianna lifted her head off the pillow, still pinned under James, and saw the face in the doorway—and laughed out loud with pure delight.

"Jason!"

Her husband's friend. His best friend, the one who came over for the football and the beers and the burnt sausages her husband always overcooked. Sandy hair, an easy grin, and the kind of shoulders that filled a doorway. And he was standing there looking at her—naked, flushed, spread, cum-slicked, and dripping on his best friend's marital bed—with an expression of complete and delighted understanding.

"Are you going to fuck your friend's wife?" she demanded, happily, shamelessly.

Jason grinned. He took his time—God, he took his time—unbuckling his belt and working his jeans down over his thighs one slow notch at a time, watching her watch him do it, letting her squirm. James had rolled off to the side and was catching his breath, and neither of them mattered. Arianna propped herself on her elbows and stared.

When the jeans dropped, she actually gasped.

He was huge. Much bigger than she'd expected—than anyone could have expected from the way he dressed. Thick from root to tip, standing up heavy and dark and throbbing with every beat of his heart, so long it looked like it had a mind of its own and had just woken up angry. This was not a friendly cock. This was a cock that had knocked a woman over at least once and knew it.

Oh my god, she thought. He's been sitting on my sofa for two years.

Jason didn't say anything. He just reached down, grabbed her by the hips, and flipped her over onto all fours in one clean motion—facedown, ass up, knees sinking into the ruined sheets—and lined up behind her and shoved in.

No pleasantries. No easing. Just one long, deep, brutal stroke that split her open and kept going until his hips met the backs of her thighs.

Arianna screamed into the pillow.

Oh, she thought, eyes wide, as he dragged back and slammed home again. Oh, this is a real man. This is a real man fucking me.

Because he was. He didn't fumble, didn't chase, and didn't need to find anything. He knew exactly what he was doing. Every stroke was proper—full length, straight and hard and true—driving up into her at an angle that had his fat head butting her cervix like a knock on a door. And he fucked right through the mess the others had left in her, pushing David's and James's seed back up deeper, displacing it, mixing it, churning it all into one slippery anonymous soup that coated his shaft and dripped down her thighs and made every thrust squelch obscenely.

"So deep—" she moaned, fingers clawing the sheets. Ohh, Jason, oh god—"

He was so deep. Deeper than anyone. She could feel the length of him reaching past where the others had reached, stretching places that had been left alone all night, and each blunt shove against her cervix sent a jolt up her spine that made her young tits swing and shake beneath her with every impact. He watched them bounce. She knew he did, because his rhythm hitched when they did.

So, she teased him. Because she couldn't help it.

"Fucking your buddy's wife," she panted over her shoulder, grinning through the wreckage of her hair. "On his bed. On his sheets. While he's downstairs grilling sausages." She pushed back into him, meeting his thrusts, making the slap louder. "Am I your new slut, Jason? Hm? Am I?"

"Fuck," he grunted.

"Will you come visit me?" she purred, arching her back, presenting herself higher, offering him more. "When is my husband working? Tuesdays. Thursdays. Mornings, afternoons—" she gasped as he hit something that made her vision spark. "Any time. Just text. I'll be here. On all fours. Ready."

He drove in harder, faster, losing the last of his composure, and she knew she had him.

"Are you my new best cock?" she whispered. "Say yes. Say you're my new best cock and this is your pussy now—"

"Yes," he growled and grabbed her hips with both hands and pounded, and Arianna gave herself over to it, moaning freely into the pillow, letting the bed frame bang against the wall so hard that somewhere downstairs a glass probably rattled, and she didn't care, she didn't care, she wanted them all to hear, she wanted her husband to hear and wonder and never once suspect.

She came like that, on all fours, face down, ass up, clenching around a stranger's friend's cock, and it was the third man in an hour, and she had stopped keeping count of the orgasms entirely.

Behind her, Jason's breathing went sharp and ragged, and his sac drew up tight, and she felt him tense all the way through his big frame.

"Inside," she moaned. "Don't you dare pull out. Give it to me. Make it four."

He came with a long, shuddering groan, buried to the hilt, and Arianna felt the hot, heavy pulse of him flood into her and the others—Ethan and David and Stefan and James and Alexander and David and James again and now Jason, all of them layered deep inside her, and she closed her eyes and let it happen and thought, One of you. One of you is my baby's father. And I will never, ever know which.

Jason slumped over her back, sweating, and both of them were breathing hard, and from the doorway came a soft, polite throat-clearing.

Arianna turned her head. James was dressed. And behind him, another silhouette on the stairs.

"Tell me the next one's big too," she mumbled into the pillow and grinned.

She didn't get up. She didn't even move her hips. She just waited, on all fours, dripping, and listened to the stairs creak.

To be continued.