What Everyone Came For (full-length version)
Daring exhibitionism. The full-length version of what began as flash fiction.
This is a work of fiction that contains explicit sex scenes and strong language. It is intended for mature, adult readers aged 18 and older. Issues such as STD's and other risks of sexual conduct are, for the most part, ignored, which means this story is fantasy in that it takes place in a world where such complications do not exist. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2024 by Ema Stonig. All rights reserved. Published by Avenue Oh ™
What Everyone Came For - the full story
“I don’t think I can wait.” Taylor says this quietly, not quite a whisper, more like a confession slipping out, the way thoughts create pressure and escape.
They are on a dark back road heading toward the vineyard. This is rural land, 90 minutes from the airport where they landed just after sunset.
Kyle drives the rented Lincoln Navigator, which smelled of its recent commercial cleaning until they opened the windows and turned on the heat against the cool night. Now, the air reminds Kyle of the autumns from his youth—pine and leaves and smoke from wood fires drifting out brick chimneys.
Kyle grew up in Pennsylvania. Taylor is a Florida woman with a stirring of Louisiana and Alabama in there—years spent along the northern Gulf Coast. Both in their early 30’s—not married, although Taylor was briefly, a short-term disaster that’s one of the reasons she now lives in Ohio, where she met Kyle.
“How much longer?” Taylor asks, meaning until they get there.
“Twenty minutes…” Kyle guesses. He’s never been here before, either.
“Okay … okay…” Taylor shifts in her seat. “That’s plenty time.” She could lift her short skirt but pushes it down instead, because having it off is a completely different feeling—and lets her slip off her thong in the same motion.
She leans back into the big seat, knees apart, hands on her pussy, one on top of the other, fingers pressing just the right way. Closes her eyes. Feels the cool air breezing through. Sighs, “I am so turned on. So turned on.” Touching herself, she smiles and hums, “Oh, yeah, this won’t take long.” She reaches for Kyle’s forearm, tugs it toward her. “Here—feel.”
He takes a hand off the steering wheel, keeps his eyes on the narrow road, and lets Taylor guide him to her pussy, which is very wet.
“I’ve been like this all day…” she lets him know. “Thinking about tonight.” She presses his hand against her folds. “Can you get a finger in me? I can do it myself, but yours feels better.” That’s not entirely true—she can put two fingers inside herself and create a sufficient cock-like motion, but sometimes what you say in sex is as good as what you do. Plus, she really wants Kyle’s hand on her, wants him to know how into this she is. Not that there should be any doubt.
She grips the sides of her seat as he moves his hand between her legs.
“Yes, yes,” he appreciates, gently spreading her folds with his fingers, her pussy like warm, slippery silk.
“Can we pull over?” Taylor opens her eyes long enough to glance in the side view mirror, and says again, “It’s not going to take long.”
There hasn’t been another car for miles. Just trees and darkness cut by the Navigator’s high beams.
Kyle’s using his fingers although the angle’s not right to get inside her, which is what Taylor wants, so he slows the SUV, looks for a place to pull off. There’s no road shoulder, just a thin strip of crushed gravel then rocky dirt, clumps of weeds, trees, old fence posts strung with barbed wire. A field beyond the tree line maybe.
Around a bend, the road straightens, which will do. Kyle steers the right wheels onto the gravel, eases to a stop, shifts to park. The big vehicle’s still two-thirds in the road, so he turns on the flashers.
Taylor sighs a smile and shimmies in place, knees bent open. She lifts her floral print pullover with the petal sleeves, baring her breasts to the dash lights in case Kyle might want to lean over and suck them while he fingers her.
Which he does. She runs her hands through his short hair and gets inside the neck of his t-shirt, stretching it out to feel his bare shoulders. She’d let him fuck her right here on the side of the road, no cares about someone catching them, but then that might be that, and the vineyard’s waiting.
“Do my clit,” she whispers. “Right there.” He has two fingers inside her and his mouth on her nipple, and he just needs to keep doing that, just like that, and yes, yes, here it comes, she’s going to come.
If another car approaches, there’s no way she’s letting Kyle stop. Let them drive by and get a glimpse, wonder, What’re those two doing in that car? Maybe they’d catch the expression on Taylor’s face and know exactly what was doing, the idea of which puts a little extra charge into it and Taylor cries out, “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Now, baby. Like that. Faster. Now, now! Make me come. Oh, make me come!”
Her orgasm is very sweet—bursts of electricity that charge through her, then subside. Taylor draws a satisfied breath. Touching Kyle’s thigh, she tells him, “Told you it wouldn’t take long.”
He gives her taut nipple another kiss and withdraws his slicked fingers from her pussy. Takes a couple seconds to clear his head and shifts the Lincoln back into drive.
Heading for the vineyard.
The sign at the end of the gravel driveway posts that they are entering PRIVATE PROPERTY—what once was a commercial vineyard with wine tastings and a small restaurant no longer open, although acres of grapes remain.
The old farmhouse—restored 15 years ago—sits near the top of the hill, its façade only partially visible by interior light cast through a few windows.
Halfway up the long sloping driveway, an aged Jeep Cherokee sits partway on the gravel. An unassuming but large man in a black t-shirt and jeans smiles into Kyle’s opened window.
“Here to see Janine,” Kyle says, a sort of password.
Alongside Kyle, Taylor has her skirt back on. Her thong, though, that’s still on the floorboards somewhere.
“Okay,” the man welcomes. “Have a nice night.”
Kyle steers partway onto hard dirt to get around the Jeep.
Taylor looks straight ahead. “I am so fucking turned on.” She lightly bounces a leg—the afterglow of orgasm 15 minutes ago already overtaken by arousal that coming just once couldn’t dent.
At the farmhouse, a dozen cars are parked on a circular driveway, but Taylor doesn’t see any people and figures they’re already inside. “Fuck-fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.” Revved up, she bounces her leg more vigorously.
Kyle pulls the Navigator to the back of the house, where, per Janine’s directions, a set of metal Bilco doors cover a utilitarian hatchway that steps down to the wine cellar. The doors are unlocked and on pneumatic struts that makes them easy to lift.
If they’d arrived earlier, they could have used the front door, but that would have meant waiting for everyone else to show up. This way, everyone is waiting for them.
Kyle goes down the stairs first, reaching back to guide Taylor, making sure she ducks because the head clearance is low at the threshold. She handles it with no problem and is alongside Kyle just inside the cellar, which feels secretive and daring.
The lighting is golden and dim and makes Taylor’s skin glow like cinnamon. The air feels dry and smells surprisingly fresh, as if still being ventilated for the wine, although the temperature is mild.
A narrow hallway leads under the main house to where the wine cellar used to be. Mortar joints between pale-red bricks that line the walls are as precise as if set by lasers.
Taylor listens for clue as to how many people are waiting but hears only a steady low hum from the sophisticated HVAC system. “We’re doing this,” she whispers to Kyle, imagining he’s rock hard in his jeans.
The hall turns right and stops at a brick archway where an ornate wooden door is closed.
Kyle says, “This is it.”
Taylor, alongside him, raises quickly up and down on her toes, shakes out her arms. Her short hair stays in place. Her nipples are hard against the front of her top. “Fuck—fuck-fuck-fuck.” She’s imagining how many people are on the other side of that door.
Kyle unbelts his pants, unzips, opens them, and his cock juts out. Stiff as iron, just like Taylor knew he’d be.
“Oh, baby,” she moans and can’t help touching him, running her fingertips along his length, the way it has that slight curve left, which it seems like she can feel when he’s inside her and does really good things to her clit.
He gets his pants all the way off, his scuffed brogues kicked free in the process. Shirt comes over his head. The broad shoulders exposed now, one with the large geometric tattoo Taylor thinks makes him look like a warrior. Cock warrior if that was a thing.
He faces toward her, hard-on angled at her pussy like a divining rod.
“Oh, fuck yeah,” she sighs as if giving in. Not that anything was holding her back, but this pause let it register, the transition from fantasy to reality as basic as opening that wooden door and going into the other room.
She pulls off her top and holds it out like a stripping ballerina before letting it drop to her feet. She pushes down her skirt for the second time in the last half hour and toes it into a pile with her top and shoes.
She says, “Let’s hold hands.”
Kyle’s good with that. He takes her hand and reaches for the heavy doorknob. Turns it.
Taylor whispering, “Yeah-yeah. Do-it-do-it-do-it.”
The door opens.
“Oh, fuck!” Taylor fights the urge to press herself against Kyle’s naked back like he’s a curtain she can hide behind, and instead walks boldly forward alongside him.
They step into the old wine cellar where—how many?—thirty, forty people are waiting. Most have their faces covered, either by a mask or hood with eye and nose holes. No one says a word, just watch Kyle and Taylor step onto a padded platform—ten-by-ten—rubber tiles laid over wood.
The lighting is the same golden hue as the hallway, brighter at the platform, darker toward the back, creating the sense of theatre this is: an audience and a stage.
Taylor wonders what everyone is thinking behind their masks. What they expect. What they want to see.
She’s been out there twice as one of those masked watchers—other places though, not here, and the first time it felt so feral she found herself not really thinking at all. Just reacting. The second time, she just wanted to be fucked. Wanted to watch what that night had been three people on the platform—two guys/one woman—and have Kyle fuck her. Even if those three strangers had just stood there naked and the guys hadn’t doubled up on the woman, that would have been all right. It was so hot it made Taylor want to be the one being watched.
Kyle has liked being looked at from the day she met him, two years ago. Being looked at gets him hard. The way he is now. Standing alongside her, his cock like a pole, so hard Taylor can see it jumping a little with his pulse.
She knows she’s wet, but that’s not as easy to show off. She will, though. Yeah, she will. Which means this might be exploitation. But who’s exploiting who?
The watchers want to watch. And the watched want to be watched. It’s what everyone came for, Taylor thinks as a quiet stirring begins to shift through the crowd, the same way a lit fuse leads to an explosion.
She holds herself still, her breathing short and excited. Bathed in warm light, she feels eyes on her round tits, her dark triangle of pussy hair, her sturdy legs, her pretty face framed by the close cut of her dark hair. It’s as if all those gazes are caressing her.
A guy—young it sounds like—calls out, “Fuck her!” and his words bang against the brick walls not in a mean way but like a request, the way fans want a band to play their favorite song.
From a different part of the cellar, a woman encourages, “Do it!”
Taylor remains boldly faced toward the crowd for a few more seconds, pelvis thrust forward, then she turns toward Kyle. They decided ahead of time this would all be her call. He’d stop whenever she wanted. Or go as far as she wanted.
It was the same with the audience. Behind those masks were vetted spectators who understood basic rules. No phones. No means no. There were also supposedly people to enforce those rules somewhere in the crowd, although not really bouncers, more like reminders, the way any good society functions with subtle encouragement of acceptable behavior.
Still, it was a crowd. And numbers could tilt the odds. Chaos was always possible. Which gives the experience the little edge that makes it even better. Because anything could happen.
Taylor turns toward Kyle, touches a finger across his strong chest she traces down his side, to his hip, along the muscled line that leads to his unruly pubic hair, onto his dick. Just her fingertip runs along his shaft to his cockhead, then her hand withdraws, and as if that motion creates centrifugal force, she turns in place, 180-degrees, and eases down to the platform, knees on the firm rubber tiles, then her palms.
Now on all fours, positioned perpendicular to the watchers, she doesn’t look at them but at a side wall, the hard brick washed in golden light.
She inhales a sigh that sounds like, “Owhh,” as Kyle comes in behind her, his knees inside hers, edging her legs farther apart, his cockhead touching her ass as he holds her hip with one hand, aims his cock with the other, looking for her silky opening with the tip of his cock. Finding it, settling close, he pushes in.
Taylor inhales lustfully, tilts back her head, a sexy motion that if done faster would be like whiplash.
Someone in the crowd gives two short whistles, which sounds to Taylor like musical notes singing, “Woo-hoo,” and the noise invites her to turn her head toward the people watching her get fucked through their masks. And there they are, some moving in place, others holding still as if peeking out secretly from a hiding place.
The feel of their eyes is so strong, it’s all Taylor’s senses can absorb—the way the human body supposedly can only experience one sensation at a time. The reason heat soothes sore muscles is because it steps into pain’s limelight and steals the show.
Although she’s fully aware of Kyle’s cock stroking inside her, in Taylor’s head it’s become more about being watched than being fucked.
She sees two people in the crowd retreat through an archway into one of the dark alcoves where wine used to be stored on aged wooden racks, and she imagines their clothes coming off, but not their masks. A side show. His dick out will be out. Her mouth will open.
Someone else—Taylor can’t tell because of their hood and loose clothing—is it a man, a woman?—reaches into their partner’s pants and begins rubbing them. Rubbing pussy Taylor imagines from the angle of their arm, which isn’t the same as how a hand would wrap around a cock and stroke it.
When she locks eyes with a man through his hood, Taylor gets that jolt like you do when that connection’s made. He steps toward the platform. Maybe just to be closer. But watchers are allowed to join—so long as they take their masks off, then their clothes.
Once on the platform, there’s a soft count of sixty before the mask has to come off, another sixty for the clothing. And anyone already on the platform can say no with a simple shake of their head—and it’s nothing personal.
The man coming forward hesitates. Taylor wants to tell him it’s okay. Whatever he wants to do. And is wondering how to convey that to him when her pussy takes over her brain, the thrusts of Kyle’s cock sweetly sliding inside her, and it’s no longer about being watched but being fucked.
Taylor’s going to come. She’s going to come, and all these people are going to see it. But only she’s going to know what it feels like.
She lightly pounds the rubber floor with the palm of one hand, each contact an echo of Kyle’s thrusts inside her. “Oh, yeah-yeah … yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah! Do it!” Taylor gasps, just like some woman cried out moments ago. “Do it!”
Kyle has hold of her hips and leans in strongly, fucking her faster the way she likes it when she comes, stroking her all the way through it.
Taylor gasps, throwing her head side to side like a wild horse, not looking to throw its rider but overcome by the sensation of someone on her, in her.
Her climax peaks and she pitches forward, arms collapsing so her face and shoulders are on the floor, but she keeps her ass up in the air even after Kyle lets go of her hips and slides out his still-hard cock.
Taylor’s breathless, smiling. That felt so good. So intense.
She wants to open her eyes but she’s not ready for that yet. Wants to give the pleasure in her pussy a few more moments to ebb before the thrill of being looked at regains advantage. Which is when Kyle puts his cock back in her.
Oh, fuck! That’s a surprise. And he’s in her so deep.
Taylor cries out, pounds the floor again, gets herself back up in that secure all-fours so she can hold herself against those cock thrusts.
Kyle is fucking her hard and fast like he has to come.
Taylor exhales through her mouth as if she’s sprinting up steps. She wants to see how the watchers react to this, so she’s going to open her eyes. But doesn’t want to be distracted from how good this feels for her pussy. So just a glimpse. She’ll open her eyes just for a couple seconds, see everyone, then close them again, let her pussy have its thrill.
Blink, she looks, but has to blink again, because there’s Kyle: standing at the edge of the platform, talking with a woman in a red dress who’s looking at his hard cock through her mask, his dick just inches from her dress.
Blink. Yes, that’s Kyle.
So—fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-yes!—whoever has their dick in her is not Kyle.
Breathing harder, Taylor sees the discarded hood on the platform, along with a white t-shirt and jeans, which is what that man she made eye contact had been wearing—the man now fucking her.
She tries to look over her shoulder at him, but only manages a quick glimpse. His dark, uncombed hair. Two-days beard growth. The hair on his chest. Strong arms.
The woman in the red dress touches Kyle’s cock. Her hair back in a loose ponytail, she only wears an eye mask, maybe because her lips are too pretty to cover. She has shapely legs, not thin, not long, but very inviting to look at, leading the eye up to the hem of her skirt to make people wish they could see more.
Kyle touches the woman’s mask, and Taylor imagines he’s asking to take it off. The woman nods but doesn’t mean it, so Kyle whispers to her, and she suddenly shakes her head, withdraws her hand from his cock, and turns to leave, making her way through the crowd.
So sexy, Taylor thinks and starts to come again.
She gets a last look at the watchers. Some remain like statues, others embrace partners, but the tension crackling around them is like lightning on a hot summer night.
Taylor lets herself feel their eyes, then concentrates on the penetration of the cock of a man she doesn’t know, and her orgasm blocks out every other sensation. Its voltage ripples through her.
Someone in the crowd whistles again.
The man fucking her groans, pulls out, and Taylor feels squirts of hot cum on her ass.
Taylor doesn’t want to leave the wine cellar. Doesn’t want it to end. “You haven’t come,” she tells Kyle, who has his arm around her, leading her off the platform and through the arched doorway. “It’s not fair,” she says, as if sex needs a scoreboard.
“But it’s time.”
“Fuck,” she sighs. “Fuck.”
It can’t last too long. The show. Whatever you want to call it. The audience can only watch for so long before arousal becomes too teasing. Like smelling a delicious meal without being able to eat it.
The audience needs their private space now—a means to express the excitement of what they’ve watched. And while some watchers like to be watched—many do not.
Some have already left. Those with partners will fuck, while those who do not will expend that arousal in self-pleasure. Some will wait to get home. Others will do it in their cars, or inside the stand of trees that protect the farmhouse from prevailing westerly winds.
Taylor wonders what the woman in the red dress will do—the woman who it looked like might join them on the platform but disappeared.
In the hallway, with the wooden door to the wine cellar now closed behind them, Kyle uses a handkerchief to wipe cum off Taylor’s ass and what’s run down the back of her leg, which Taylor finds sexy but knows a lot of people might not. She doesn’t mind sex mess. It usually means something fun happened.
It hasn’t completely registered that she just fucked with a stranger. But the whole night will take a while to sink in. What’s most in focus so far is she wants to do it again.
Kyle and Taylor get back into their clothes.
Outside, the night has turned slightly cooler and makes Taylor feel as if steam should be rising off her hot skin where air slips up her skirt.
Kyle drives them around front of the farmhouse, where a few cars remain parked. A couple still wearing masks lean against a BMW and kiss. The man’s hand is inside the woman’s shirt.
Taylor watches them as Kyle turns the big SUV down the hill. She wonders what’s going through his head. If his cock is still hard. Sometimes he likes leaving it that way. Likes how the edge of not coming keeps going inside him.
But most of the time he wants to get off and she imagines that’s what he’ll want tonight. Maybe at the hotel they’ve booked, but that’s over an hour away, back near the airport. So maybe he’ll just pull over on the road and they’ll do it there. Pretty much whatever he wants, she’ll do. Because that’s what they came for.
But then, a mile from the house, around a bend in the narrow road, a little red Honda’s stopped, driver’s door’s open, flashers on, and where the edge of the Lincoln’s headlight beam catches the tree line, a woman with dark hair stands in foot-tall grass with her red dress pulled up above her small breasts, the hem held in her teeth.
Kyle stops behind the Honda and turns off the engine.
If the woman started the night with a bra and panties, they’re gone now. She has both hands on her pussy.
“It’s her,” Taylor says.
It’s the woman who came up to the platform and whispered with Kyle, touched his dick, then turned away. The woman’s mask is now off. Her hair falls over her shoulders.
Kyle puts down the windows and they can hear her gasp, like she’s going to make herself come.
Only she stops and lowers her dress and turns into the woods, glancing back over her shoulder just before she’s hidden by the trees.
“Did we scare her?” Taylor assumes.
Kyle is smiling. “That’s what she meant.” He opens his door, gets out.
“What?” Taylor asks.
Kyle leans back into the Navigator. “Right before she left, she said, ‘Chase me.’” Kyle starts for the trees to do just that: chase her.
Taylor is about to join him when a car comes around the bend. Instead of going into the woods, Taylor positions herself behind the Lincoln. She pushes down her skirt, lifts her top and holds it by the hem with her teeth. And waits for the approaching car’s headlights to find her.
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