Grammar Thief

A/N: Short story inspired by the above.
WARNING: Smut alert!


I hid in the shadows, waiting for a good mark, and spotted the gent in the cream-colored dinner jacket. I knew the Lord of the manor he’d just left had invited an assortment of foreigners for a dinner party tonight. He was probably hoping to walk back to his hotel, but I intended to relieve him of whatever valuable verbs, odd modifiers, and loose grammar he might have on him. It’s what I do: I’m English.

As luck would have it, he went down an alley where what few street lights there were had been damaged by the neighborhood boys throwing rocks at them. It would be pitch black tonight with no moon and thick clouds overhead. The only illumination in the whole alley came from the windows of a factory where there was someone still working inside, mending a machine. It was the ideal location for me to catch him up, treading noiselessly in my rubber-soled shoes and knocking him down to the pavement before he even knew I was there.

I had to give it to him, though, for keeping a cool head. He immediately flailed his arms about, trying to shake me off as he twisted around on the ground to face me. We tussled for a minute or two before I managed to pin him down with my left hand, but he grabbed my right wrist as I cocked it to punch him. I’d pegged him as a pansy but he was strong enough to hold me off. We were caught in an impasse, staring into each other’s eyes since we had landed right in the orange square of light cast from a factory window.

His bow tie had been knocked askew in the struggle but he still managed to look dandy as he gasped and tried, unsuccessfully, to wrench himself free.

“What are you?” I demanded, hoping to at least elicit a dangling participle. “French? Swedish?”

Non! Je suis Belge,” he replied indignantly, even as he panted for breath and fought to push me off.

“Ah! Belgian,” I repeated with a grin. “Haven’t had one of those in a long time… but since you’re speaking French, you must be one of those guys I owe for the great word, ‘Walloon’!”

Je ne parle pas Anglais,” he replied, redoubling his efforts to shake me off.

“What? You don’t speak no English?” I said in glee. “I’m taking that one for sure! Don’t worry, my friend – you have exactly what I’m looking for…” I removed my knee from his stomach where it had landed, straddled him firmly, and yanked my arm free from his grasp. Just as I reached to rifle through his pockets for more little gems, though, I felt a significant bulge in his trousers. It was growing right under my perineum, unmistakable in its texture and behaviour. The realization sent a thrill first up my spine and then back down, straight into my crotch. The guy was getting turned on by being manhandled! Which, in turn, was turning me on.

“You like it like this? Huh? You like it rough?” I taunted.

He flushed crimson in the wan light of the window and attempted to push me off with his hands again. I blocked them, thinking that the easiest way for him to get me off of his torso was to buck his hips, but of course he couldn’t do that without pressing his cock right up against mine. I grabbed at his wrists, catching one of them, and leaned in to whisper in his ear, making sure that my hot breath tickled the fine hairs in it.

“I’ll bet you like getting fucked by a man, don’t you? Is that what you want? You want me to fuck you, right here, out on the street?”

Non,” he protested, but it was feeble and unconvincing. Especially when his dick pressed even harder against my balls at the suggestion.

“Tell you what,” I said, using my free hand to unbuckle my own belt, “you keep pretending you don’t want this, if that’s how you want to do it, and I’ll just keep shoving my cock up your ass until you spill your French all over yourself. Then I’ll take what I want and you can drag your worn-out ass back to your hotel. Got it?”

This time his response was a mere whimper. The helplessness in that sound – as well as the way he did nothing to stop me, as though desperately embarrassed to admit his desire and yet desperately needing to be fucked – made my cock strain at my underwear. I pulled it out in a trice and then set to work on his clothes. His cummerbund was made of silk and its name came from Persia, so I tucked it into my pocket, then pushed his shirt up to bare his stomach. His belt was unremarkable, as was his underwear, but I paused when I pulled down his trousers and briefs to reveal his thick, long penis. I had never seen one so big, and I had seen a lot in my day.

“Crickey!” I exclaimed as I examined it with almost scientific interest. “No wonder you lifted me up with that…”

Such a massive manhood demanded anyone’s respect, so I wrapped both of my hands around it and stroked it, up and down, several times. The tip of it was drooling pre-cum before long.

“Not so fast, my little Walloon,” I chided, getting up onto my knees and pushing down his trousers even further. “I haven’t made good on my part of the bargain yet.”

I had to move over to one side of him before I could get his clothes completely off of his legs – he was no longer pretending that he didn’t want this, instead cooperating as I removed his shoes and socks to make things easier, even bending his knees and grabbing them himself. I spread his legs further apart and back against his body so that his now-naked ass was more visible. He made an amusingly incongruous picture since he was still wearing his dinner jacket above, and the pale globes of his ass below me filled me with strident need.

I wiped the pre-cum from his throbbing cock and smeared it around his anus with my fingers, sliding one, then two of them inside in quick succession. He gasped and flinched at the intrusion but made no move to escape. When I thrust the two digits further inside him, rough and demanding, he groaned and arched his back, scraping the dirty pavement with the back of his head. My own cock was aching for more attention than my one hand could give it, and I figured that if he liked it rough, that was preparation enough. I pulled out my fingers, stroking that sensitive spot one last time before positioning my penis at his hole.

Pushing in, I knew it had to hurt him, but his “Ahh! Ahhh!” only served to drive me wild. And at that point if he’d wanted me to stop, he could have kicked me with his legs and easily gotten away. Even as my movements became faster and harder, he never tried to escape from the onslaught of my cock. And as I thrust into him in a frenzy of lust, his huge male organ kept dripping with cum, bouncing between his stomach and mine, slathering the fluid on both his skin and my shirt. I felt the pressure within me building like a volcano; with several long, hard shoves, it erupted deep inside of him, transferring my lava-hot semen into the depths of his body as I trembled with pleasure and release.

It took me a moment to catch my breath, at which point I saw that he had also squirted cum all over himself. The sticky fluid lay in strings like so much sugar frosting drizzled over his belly.

“Hey,” I demanded, rubbing a finger through the mess, “what do you call this?”

He looked at me through half-lidded eyes, still panting from the exertion. “Foutre,” he finally managed.

“Fuck. That’s too hard to pronounce,” I grumbled, though not with rancor; I was too sated from the sex to be mad at him. I checked through the pockets of his dinner jacket for any other hidden treasures but found only a handkerchief. “Here. You need this more than I do,” I said as I slapped it into his hand. He looked at it, dazed, as though he didn’t quite know what to do with it. I stood up and put my spent cock away, brushing the dirt off my trouser knees.

Merde,” he sighed, finally wiping himself with the handkerchief.

“Not bad for a Walloon,” I told him with some satisfaction. I was turning to leave when a movement caught my eye:  there was a grizzly, sweaty bear of a man standing in the factory window. No doubt he was the mechanic who’d been working late. He was eyeing the Belgian on the ground hungrily, his mouth gaping with obvious want.

“Looks like you have another customer,” I told the guy – who still had his lower half exposed – and made my way back to the main street to look for more foreigners.

Leave a comment

10 Comments

  1. managerie

     /  2012/07/28

    “What are you?” I demanded, hoping to at least elicit a dangling participle,”

    ***Hoots***
    Hilarious and hot

    Reply
  2. deliacerrano

     /  2012/07/28

    What a weird story that my twisted little brain thought was well done.

    Reply
  3. Mamahub

     /  2012/07/28

    *massive nosebleed followed by brain splodey*

    ….please allow me a moment so I can manage to try to pull myself together enough to be coherent…

    The combination of lingual “word porn”, plus the STEAMING hot rough, dubious-con, he-man sex… MAJOR KINK ALERT!!!!!! SCORE!!!! WIN!!!!

    (Rest assured that I will definitely be re-visiting this little gem. Frequently!!!)

    Reply
    • ROFL — I’m so glad you liked it! I’d seen this picture before and thought of this scenario, then saw it again yesterday and had to write it down. I’m not really into BDSM, but when you see a picture like this, what else can you do?

      Reply
  4. I never cease to be amazed at your imagination, Thea!

    Reply
  5. I had to come read this again and I realized that I’d forgotten to leave a comment! Absolutely brilliant and so clever. I’ve heard that saying about English before, but I’ve never seen the picture, lol. Thanks for sharing! ^_^

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

  • Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

    Join 300 other followers

%d bloggers like this: