Horny And Hornet

 

Horny

Ned was the neighborhood’s certified player—handsome, charming, and dangerously down-to-earth. To everyone else, he was just a reckless young man who swapped girls the way other people changed pants. No one bothered asking for his side of the story. They’d already judged him guilty and locked the verdict away.

Ned didn’t care. He knew the truth, and it made him smile whenever he thought about their gossip. He wasn’t addicted to women—he was addicted to the chase. Especially when the girl already had a boyfriend.

Nothing turned him on more than hearing, “I have a man, I can’t cheat.” Those words were pure fuel. He loved watching that wall of loyalty crack, piece by piece, until she finally gave in.

He leaned back on his bed, grinning at the ceiling as old victories played in his head like a private highlight reel. And then there was Favour—the one who nearly broke him.

Favour. Twenty-seven going on nineteen, tiny little thing, barely 4’7”. Small breasts he fantasised about every night, full lips, and an ass that jiggled just right when she walked. Pretty face too, no denying that. She was honey, and he was the hornet.

He’d chased her for almost two years. Two whole years of spending money, taking her out, giving her whatever she asked for—nothing worked. She played hard-to-get like it was an Olympic sport. At one point he ghosted her for four solid months, hoping absence would do the trick.

Then one night he saw her WhatsApp status—a new picture that hit him straight in the chest. Game back on. He slid into her DMs, turned up the sweet talk, the promises, the fake-deep love confessions. He even begged. Him. Ned. Begging a woman.

He laughed out loud at the memory and knocked his forehead with his fist. “How the mighty have fallen.”

One faithful Saturday, after hounding her from morning till night, she finally agreed to come over. He waited all day like a man possessed. By 10 p.m., panic set in—she still wasn’t there. He called. She said she couldn’t make it anymore.

His heart nearly stopped.

He begged harder than he’d ever begged in his life, voice cracking, pride in pieces. Minutes dragged like hours. At 10:30 p.m., she sighed through the phone and said, “Fine. I’ll be there by 11.”

Ned looked at the clock, then at the door, smiling like a madman.

The chase was almost over.

The call came at exactly 11 p.m.

“I’m at your junction,” Favour said, her voice low and a little shaky. “I swear I can’t remember the way to your place. It’s late, Ned. I’m scared. Come get me… or I’m turning around and going home.”

Ned bolted out of his room like a man possessed. He nearly ripped the door off its hinges in his rush. It was only when the cool night air hit his bare skin that he realized he was standing in nothing but his boxers.

Too late to go back now. He didn’t want to risk her changing her mind.

He sprinted the whole way. When he finally reached her, panting and disheveled, she looked him up and down, one brow arched.

A sheepish grin spread across his face. “Sorry. I ran out so fast I forgot pants.”

Favour just stared, speechless.

He walked her back to his place, heart hammering with triumph. To him, in that moment, he was the happiest man alive.

As soon as the door closed behind them, his hands were on her. He kissed her neck, pressed himself close, already hard with anticipation.

She pushed him back gently but firmly. “I’m not here for sex, Ned.”

He forced a casual shrug—like a man who’d heard that line a thousand times and knew exactly how the night would still end. “Cool. No pressure.”

He started talking, giving her the juiciest gossip he’d been saving, making her laugh. While she relaxed into the conversation, his hand drifted—slow, deliberate—across her thigh, her waist, lingering just a little longer each time. She didn’t pull away.

Good sign.

His fingers found the button of her jeans. He traced lazy circles over the soft skin just beneath her navel, teasing the patch of hair lower down. She tensed when his hand slipped between her legs, thighs clamping shut.

He didn’t stop. Just kept stroking, patient, coaxing.

Slowly—finally—she parted her legs.

His thumb brushed her clit, light at first, then firmer. A soft moan escaped her. Her back arched off the bed, hips lifting toward him. She grabbed his head, guiding him down to her breasts. He took one dark nipple into his mouth, grazing it gently with his teeth, then the other. She shuddered, fingers tightening in his hair.

His hand slid lower, two fingers easing inside her. She was soaking.

“Ned…” she gasped, voice raw. “Please. Now.”

Ned refused her plea even as she arched her hips, silently begging him to fill her. She was soaked; he could feel her trembling under his touch as he slid one finger in and out of her.

“Please,” she gasped, “I need you inside me—deeper.”

He ignored her, stroking her slowly at first, then faster, deliberate and controlled. She bit her lip to quiet the shaking, but her moans only grew louder. Still, he wouldn’t give in.

“You know this is just the beginning,” he murmured, curling his finger just right. She shattered almost instantly, weeping with ecstasy as she came hard over his hand, her whole body quaking.

“I’ll be good,” she whimpered. “I promise I’ll be your good girl. Please, just take me.”

“Nah,” he said softly, drawing another trembling climax from her until she was limp and breathless.

Only then did he move. He hooked her legs over his shoulders, slid a pillow beneath her hips to tilt her perfectly, and shoved his boxers down. His cock sprang free—thick, rigid, veins pulsing with need. He smirked at the sight of it, throbbing and slick with pre-cum.

He dragged the head along her dripping folds, coating himself in her wetness, teasing her swollen clit until she squirmed. Favour tried to reach for him, desperate to guide him in, but he gently slapped her hands away.

“Be patient,” he warned, voice low.

She moaned, eyes fluttering shut, hips lifting in silent invitation.

Finally, he gave her what she craved—pushing in slow, inch by agonizing inch. She was impossibly tight, gripping him like she was made for him alone. A low groan escaped his throat.

This, he thought, this is the kind of pussy I’ve always wanted.

He started to move—slow, deep strokes that built into a steady rhythm. She met him thrust for thrust, rising to match every roll of his hips, their bodies finding the same hungry tempo without a word.

After they finished, he lay in the darkness with a wide, satisfied grin, giving his spent member a lazy pat—like a general saluting a soldier for a job well done. He glanced over at Favour. She was already asleep, breathing soft and steady, completely unaware of the victory lap running through his head.

“That,” he thought, “is what it feels like to be the damn boss.”

The memory dissolved like smoke. He snapped back to the present, staring at the ceiling of his room. Another relationship had crashed and burned just a few weeks ago. He asked himself the same question that had been eating him alive: Did I actually get what I wanted?

After some cold, honest math, the answer was clear. No. He still needed Fanny.

He’d never met anyone like her. He craved her touch the way an addict craves the next hit. Every girl he looked at these days wore her face, her body, that impossible hourglass shape he swore wasn’t human. He shook his head, almost laughing at how whipped he was.

A small voice whispered that this might be love. He shut it down fast.

“Nah. We just had an understanding. Chemistry. The kind of nights that ruin you for anybody else—that’s all.”

From the very first time he saw Fanny, he’d wanted to rip her clothes off. When he finally shot his shot, she hit him with the “I have a boyfriend, I don’t cheat” line. That only made him chase harder. The day she finally said yes, he felt like a king who’d just conquered the whole galaxy. And the sex? Lord. Nothing—not even Favour—had ever come close.

Now she was gone, and he couldn’t accept it.

“How could you just walk away after everything?” he muttered into the empty room.

He’d tried reaching out—subtle at first, then less subtle—but every message went unanswered or got the coldest replies. It wasn’t even his fault, not really. She just stopped understanding him.

Lying on his bed, he started plotting like a man planning a war: texts, surprise visits, the perfect apology, the right words, anything to get her back before Christmas rolled around and she disappeared to her family—or worse, into some other guy’s arms.

He had to win her back.

Question was: would he actually get Fanny again… or was it time to let go and find someone new?

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