Tumbleweed By Julia Bramer
“Two men were infinitely better than one, an intoxicating combination if I could find it, and my greedy self-indulgence was boundless, my sexuality unleashed those many years ago with him. His shadow haunted me and shaped my obsession, the depth of my depravity deep and forged in the cafes and nightclubs and back alleys in a dozen countries with dozens of men.
Once I’d started down that road, I couldn’t stop and couldn’t go back, a dark and insatiable impulse propelling me forward and driving me into the arms of strangers like the Mohammeds and into the sweltering barren desert.” 〰 Haley 〰
Unable to cope with the loss of her first love, a charming and seductive Spanish soccer player, beautiful, headstrong Haley Hanson abandons love entirely. She seeks solace in the arms of strangers and fame, a tumbleweed rolling where the gusts of wind carry her, and she lands between a garbage bin of rotting food and a brick wall. Stuck in limbo and near death.
Will love destroy her or conquer all?
Dreamcast
We returned to the hotel after midnight and I immediately drew him a hot bath, adding bubbles from the upscale toiletry collection, and he let out a long sigh as he sank slowly into it, gazing at me expectantly as I hovered over him.
“You come, cariño?” he asked, gesturing for me to join him, and my pussy immediately jumped to attention.
I sat on the toilet and hurriedly removed my sandals and ripped off the tank top, my pulse racing as it always did when his luscious eyes turned seductive and mischievous.
“You do naked dance, mi amor?” he asked.
“Striptease,” I corrected, laughing, and he flicked bubbles in my direction, grinning boyishly.
“You do striptease?”
The suggestion made me hotter and I slowed down. I slid the jeans leisurely over my behind, turned away from him and bent over, giving him a good, long look at my ass in the skimpy thong as I wriggled out of the pants.
“Fantástico,” he murmured, and I spun to face him, fluffing my hair so it fell wildly around my face.
Then I slid my index fingers inside the panties, tracing them along my hip and the apex of my sex, and I plunged a hand inside, touching myself and licking my lips, enticing him with my tongue, and his eyes practically bugged out of their sockets.
I smiled to myself. My first striptease and it turned me on as much as it did him, my slit dripping with juices and my clit plumping and pulsing, and if I’d wanted, I could’ve made myself come in an instant.
I moaned softly, deliberately, and moved my hands up to my breasts, skimming the lacy fabric. I unhooked the bra and held it close to my chest, my hips swaying suggestively, and then I flung it at him.
He snatched it out of the air, his coordination soccer perfect, as was he. Delicious, tantalizingly hot, the bubbles swirling around his ribcage as he smiled his uniquely crooked smile and gazed lovingly at me with his soft chocolate eyes.
He was enjoying himself and so was I, and it was impossible not to love him.
I shimmied my tits in his face, making a show of it, and his hands reached for them, but I backed away.
“Mi amor, come with me,” he appealed.
And I did, quickly peeling off the thong and sliding into the tub. I straddled him and he grasped the nape of my neck, gently drawing me in for a kiss, his tongue passionate, loving and intense, a slow sultry dance. I drowned in that kiss, swept under by a–
The lock clicked. Baba was back. I silently cursed him, wanting to remain in the past, wanting to stay with Mikel. I remained immobile and kept my eyes closed, and I felt him looming over me, sensed the stark light streaming from the ceiling and smelled cigarette smoke.
Excerpt 2
We headed south and stopped at a carpet store to pick up a small, funky off-road bus. The side of it was painted with a mural of camels, sand and a big yellow sun, and it was well-equipped with multiple spare tires, a satellite phone for communications and a CD player. Momed turned on the music, pumped up the volume, and we sang to ‘80s rock ‘n’ roll, which blared from speakers attached to the roof’s interior. I was ecstatic, pleased we were no longer driver, tour guide and client but new friends enjoying our youth and freedom, and soon, we’d be enjoying each other.
Two hours later, Hammed pulled off the highway and headed into the Western Desert. It was a bumpy ride and I hung on tight, bouncing wildly on the seat, and an hour later, Hammed stopped in the middle of nowhere.
There was sand and barren rocky hills as far as my eyes could see, and it was perfect for what I’d planned, finally alone with the Mohammeds and not a soul in sight to watch our every move.
It was uncharacteristically hot for January, sweat immediately pooling on my forehead and dripping down my spine, and I stripped off my white cotton shirt and jeans, leaving me wearing only a black lacy bra, bikini panties and sandals.
Momed and Hammed stopped setting up the canopy to gape at me, the surprised look on their faces what I’d expected, and I smiled to myself, nonchalantly shrugged my shoulders and said, “It’s freaking hot, guys. Feel free to do the same.”
They didn’t follow my suggestion right away, but after setting up the canopy, spreading the blankets under it and lugging the coolers into the shade, perspiration seeped through their polo shirts and they looked miserable.
It didn’t matter to me. I was certain they’d eventually end up naked in my arms, and then thatknowing look passed between them again, and they quickly peeled off their clothes and stood before me wearing only white jockey underwear, and they were magnificent, beautiful…
Their hard bodies–one pale and one golden–glistened with sweat, and their cocks bulged beneath the jockeys, making my stomach clench and pulse race, and it took all my willpower to stop myself from immediately pouncing on them. It was almost too much, my pussy plump and throbbing and hot juices accumulating between my legs, but I acted like I didn’t notice. Instead, I sank to my knees and began organizing lunch, clad in the skimpy undergarments as I laid out plastic food containers, and I could sense their eyes following my every move, their lust electrifying the stark landscape and me.
There’s nothing to compare it to, that feeling of sexual power over men, except maybe taking that perfect shot, and I had a strong urge to snap their picture, their silhouettes shadowed under the canopy yet fully formed close up. And they were close, their musky scents teasing my nostrils and manhood tantalizing my libido, and a rush of sweet satisfaction surged through me.
I forced myself to calm and sat cross-legged on the blanket, intentionally opening up my sex to them while also opening a beer, and I dramatically took a big swig. It was ice cold and I rubbed the cold can on the nape of my neck, my body on fire, heated from the desert and hot anticipation.
“Do you want one?” I asked. “There’s water and soda, too.”
I wasn’t surprised when they both grabbed a beer from the cooler. There were no prying eyes to see them and no one to admonish them, and they sucked it down as if it was water.
I didn’t say anything, their religion their own business, and I passed around the food–flatbread, salads and vegetables marinated in olive oil and little pies filled with meat and cheese, and for dessert, a semi-sweet pastry filled with nuts.
The meal was delicious, made more so by the crisp desert silence and half-naked Mohammeds, their stiff cocks hidden by the jockeys a constant reminder of what was to come, and I crawled on all fours, giving them a good look at my ass as I cleaned up and placed the leftovers back into the cooler, and then I scooted between them and rested on my knees, glancing from one to the other.
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