Banging Rebecca by Alison Tyler Page A

into them. Every part of my body felt abused. My legs were weak, the insides of my thighs slippery wet.
    “Rebecca,” I told him, and I couldn’t help but laugh as he took my hand, flipped it, and kissed the inside of my palm, like a gentleman, tracing the lines in my hand afterward, sending a fresh shiver through me.
    I was sure he’d thank me for the tryst and leave, drive off to wherever he lived, turning me into one more conquest on a string of kinky memory beads. But he didn’t. My hand still in his, he led me to a glossy black truck and opened the passenger side door. “I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he said, when I gave him a questioning look. “You’re too precious.”
    I slid into the truck’s bed, and wondered what I’d gotten myself into.
    Turns out, I got myself into Sean.
    *****
    He drove me to his bungalow in Venice, then walked me around to the back, to the old porch hovering on the canal. Here, he fucked me again, on that time-worn wood, with the lights flickering on the water, as if we were in the real Venice, the other Venice, and not the SoCal wannabe. Everyone’s a wannabe in Southern California—even the cities. Marina del Rey dreams of becoming Saint Tropez. Brentwood has wet dreams of waking up as Beverly Hills.
    Sean didn’t say a word at first. He simply stripped me down. This time, I was totally naked, boots off, stockings off, shorts ripped down so violently, the fabric tore. Shirt discarded. No bra to lose.
    When he had me exactly the way he wanted me, he started to talk once more:
    “I knew you were a bad girl when I saw you watching me play.”
    L.A. is never totally quiet. We could hear the helicopters overhead, chasing down some speed demon on the Highway. Music spilled from one of the houses nearby—Eric Clapton, soft and low. The sound of the water kept the rhythm, lapping on the struts of the porch. But mostly, I listened to Sean, to the words he spoke in a whisper, making me strain to hear: “Jesus, you’re so fucking wet.” His cock pressing into me, filling me up. His hands moving me, turning me so that I was on my back, legs over his shoulders. Then on my side, one thigh crossed over the other. “I’ve never felt a girl get so wet so quickly before. Must be because you truly are a slut.”
    He used his hands constantly, tricking his middle finger between my pussy lips to touch my clit, parting my legs, then spreading my nether lips wide open, rapping on me, tapping on me. He was reading my desires as if I had notes on my skin, drumming on me
    until I came, awash of sensations, unable to believe how many times this boy was taking me over the edge.
    And yet, I knew he hadn’t climaxed. Not out in the alley. Not here on the porch.
    What was he waiting for?
    What did he need?
    *****
    Sean was a model lover, the kind you dream about when you press your double-C charged vibrator to your cunt on the nights when you’re all alone. But it wasn’t until he got ready to fuck me a third time, that he revealed his true self. Seems he had to get the rest out of the way—fucking up against the wall, screwing in front of the water—before he was ready for the big show and tell. He opened the sliding glass door to let me into his pad.
    “This is all yours?” I asked, startled by the high ceilings, by the stark but clearly expensive furniture.
    “I do some modeling,” he said, offhand, chin jutting towards a portfolio tossed on the great wood coffee table. He didn’t waste time with the tour—pulled me directly to his bedroom—where I saw the tools and implements that made my breath catch in my throat.
    Had I caught something up on stage? Had I known from the way he beat those skins that he would beat mine, too? I like to think I did, that I’m clever like that.. But who knows? Coincidences happen every day. Yet desires like ours draw you forward like a magnet.
    “You game?” he asked, fingers tripping over the business end of one of his specialty crops. Hand