Bang! Bang! with Hilary Duff

[TheLW]

Bang! Bang!
With Hilary Duff
Written by TheLW
Codes: MF, Oral
Disclaimer: This FICTIONAL story was written for entertainment purposes only.


The sun hung high and merciless in a cloudless sky, casting everything below into harsh relief. The wind was dry and mean, sweeping across the dust-blown shooting range with a hot edge that scraped the back of the throat. The ground was cracked and uneven, scattered with spent shell casings, rocks, and scorched brush, a battlefield of practice and precision. But Hilary barely noticed any of it.

Her world had narrowed to the scope in front of her.

The rifle in her hands was a battle-style marksman’s rifle, heavy and weathered from years of use. It was no range toy, this thing had history, and it showed in the worn camouflaged stock, the scraped metal, the old sling hanging from one end like a battle-worn banner. Hilary didn’t care about its past. Only how it performed right now. She cradled it with precision, her arms tense and locked, but not rigid. Her knees bent, her stance forward-leaning, left foot planted like a post, right leg balanced behind her, a stance built for recoil and results.

Her clothes clung to her in the heat, a sleeveless gray tank top, streaked with sweat at the chest and back, and tight dark jeans, dusty at the knees and thighs. Her long blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail beneath thick black earmuffs, which covered her ears and sealed her into the moment. Her eyes, focused and cold, were locked downrange through the high-power scope, pupils barely twitching as she took in the target.

She didn’t breathe like a novice. She inhaled slowly through her nose, held it, and let it out through her mouth in one practiced exhale. A second later, her finger tightened on the trigger.

CRACK.

The sound split the air like a hammer on steel, echoing off the rocks behind her. Dust lifted from the berm near the target. The smell of gunpowder drifted up, hot and sharp.

As her instructor, I stool behind Hilary, I was in my mid-40s, and built like someone who’d spent way too long in the military. I wore a faded red T-shirt, dark jeans, scuffed boots, and a pair of wraparound sunglasses that reflected the bright sky. Earmuffs rested snugly over my ears, but my body language said everything, arms crossed, one hand occasionally lifting to scratch my beard, legs spaced in a relaxed, stable stance. I wasn’t just watching her. I was analyzing, down to the slight shift of her shoulder after recoil, the tension in her elbow, the spread of her feet.

“Center mass,” I said, with the brief nod of someone not easily impressed, but impressed anyway. “Clean.”

Hilary adjusted the scope without a word. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture eased. She rolled her shoulder, settled in again, and pulled the trigger.

CRACK.

Another clean shot. Another center hit.

I stepped forward slightly, not close enough to crowd her, but enough for her to hear him. “You’re locking in too hard on your exhale,” I said. “Loosen your breath. Don’t force it. Let the shot break like a whisper.”

She turned her head slightly toward me, just enough to show she heard, and gave a subtle nod.

“Again,” I said, stepping back.

Hilary reset her grip. Her breathing slowed, became almost meditative. The wind pushed strands of hair across her cheek. She didn’t flinch. The metal of the rifle pressed against her bare shoulder, rough, cold, grounding.

CRACK.

I smiled. “Better.”

She finally spoke, voice dry but calm. “It’s different when it’s a real weapon. Not like with movie props.”

“Because this one kicks back,” I said, nodding toward the rifle. “This one demands respect. And it doesn’t give you second chances.”

Hilary looked back through the scope, her voice low. “Good.”

We stood in silence for a long moment, just the wind and the spent echoes of gunfire fading into the hills.

Behind us, the rest of the range was empty, nothing but scorched dirt and weathered targets, the ground littered with the stories of shooters who came before. But Hilary wasn’t here to tell a story. She was here to write her own.

She chambered the next round. Let the heat settle over her like armor. I stepped back again, arms folded, watching as she took aim with no hesitation.

Hilary wasn’t trying to prove anything. Not to me. Not to anyone.

She was here to hit her mark.

And every single time, she did.

“Are you planning to do anything with this skill?” I asked.

She shrugged. “You never know when you’ll need it.”

Another shot. Another perfect hit.

“Come on. Let’s cool off. The main building’s got water, fans, and walls that don’t bake like an oven,” I said.

She hesitated, slung the rifle off her shoulder, and nodded once. “Fine.”

We walked in silence for a while, the sun bleeding down the ridgeline, shadows stretching long across the range. The main corridor of the compound was quiet, all concrete, cool air, and the low hum of a generator echoing somewhere behind thick walls. There were lockers, a table scattered with training manuals and spare parts, and a long hallway that led deeper into the instructor’s quarters.

Hilary leaned against the table, took a water bottle from the cooler, and drank deep.

I leaned against the opposite side of the table, arms crossed, watching her.

“You’ve got this fire in you,” I said, voice low.

Hilary didn’t look away. She let the silence build between them again, the same way it had out on the range, only now there was no rifle, no targets. Just proximity.

I stepped back, sweeping my arm across the table in one clean motion. A clatter of papers, pens, an empty casing, and an old range log hit the floor like a dropped heartbeat.

The table was clear.

Hilary didn’t hesitate. She tugged her black jeans down, and then moved, smooth, determined, hoisting herself up onto the desk, settling back on her hands, legs slightly parted.

A moment later, I found myself down on my knees, in-between Hilary’s legs, my hands pressed lightly, not quite reverent, to the inside of her knees. The heat radiated off her skin, still flushed from the shooting. I traced my thumb up her thigh, caught the edge of her panties, black, as if she had preemptively matched them to her tank, and slipped my hands beneath the elastic.

Hilary’s head rolled back, the base of her skull thumping against the painted cinderblock wall. She watched the slow-motion progress of my head as I ducked beneath the hem of her shirt, the faint scrape of his beard teasing the skin at her waist. She let her knees fall wider, bracing the soles of her boots against the steel edge of the table, the muscles in her quads flexed and exposed to the mercy of my hands.

I grazed her with my tongue, just once, a quick assessment, then committed. I worked methodically, patient as a marksman, every movement measured but not gentle. She could smell herself, sharp and clean, almost metallic, mingling with the trace of gun oil from her hands. Her fists closed around the edge of the table so hard her knuckles blanched. I worked higher, deeper, until her hips bucked and she bit down hard on her lower lip, seeing blotches of white behind her.

I didn’t stop. If anything, I pressed in harder, relentlessly, my hands kneading the bulk of her thighs, guiding, anchoring her as she tried to rock free. She let out a sound, not a word, not even a real syllable, just a low, guttural flex of her body’s frustration and need, and drove the back of her head so hard into the wall she felt the thud along her teeth.

I looked up, mouth wet, eyes slivered, and said, “Focus, soldier.”

Then I ducked back down, sucking, biting, and licking away at her pussy until Hilary was seeing haze and fire behind her lids, thrumming with furious need. The table’s edge dug into the backs of her thighs. The high of the range was nothing compared to the slow, deliberate way I pulled her apart, as if the whole day had been only foreplay for this.

I kept my mouth pressed against her, but my hands started to drift, callused palms sliding up and beneath her shirt. My fingers swept along her ribs, tracing every sharp bone, finding the sweat-soaked line of her tank’s hem and pushing up until I caught the hard, pebbled edge of her nipple between thumb and knuckle. I rolled it, perfect, in sync with the pace of my tongue, and only then let up, just long enough to gasp in air, and hear her curse him, a bent, whispered fuck that seemed to vibrate between her knees.

She tried to look down at me, at the bowed head and knotted shoulders between her calves, but everything blurred. The air in the room was thick with gun grease and that sour, almost sweat smell of the range, plus the undercurrent of her own arousal, elemental and embarrassing. The fan thudded overhead like a metronome, counting out the seconds. A bead of sweat slipped down the small of her back, pooling at the waistband of her jeans where they hung, tangled, just below the curve of her ass.

Hilary felt the world pinprick down to just her thighs, my beard, my hands, the wet noise echoing somewhere inside her. She bucked forward, chasing the sensation, boots grinding against metal, the whole table rattling beneath her. It wasn’t gentle, that was the point. It was rough, scraping, insistent, a violation she’d signed up for. She wanted to be undone, and I delivered, my tongue working her to the edge so fast it felt mechanical, inevitable.

She didn’t want to come. Didn’t want to give me that win, to be the predictable story I probably told the other instructors at the bar afterward, the “you wouldn’t believe” type, but her body had different orders. Her thigh muscles locked, and she felt the coil start, dumb, singular, urgent as a trigger press. She couldn’t stop it. I seemed to sense it, burying my face even harder, the entire lower half of my face shiny with her juices, beard glistening, mouth open, tongue flicking so fast it almost stung. All of her focus shrank to that pleasure, the unrelenting pace of my mouth, the greedy draw of my cheeks as I sucked everything out of her. She tasted blood in her mouth, she’d bitten her own lip.

She spasmed against me, shoving the top of my head with both hands, but I didn’t move, just groaned low and guttural, vibrating her from inside out. The sudden force of orgasm hit her like a shell burst, blinding, humiliating, sweet. She heard herself scream, quick and high, a noise that ripped loose from some place she’d barricaded. Wetness followed, obscene, not just a trickle but a full flood, and I took it all, soaking my face and the front of my T-shirt.

Hilary pushed me away, finally, palm against my forehead, and I leaned back with a wicked smile. Her heart still galloped.

“Not bad,” she said, voice ragged.

With that, I got up off of the ground, dropped my pants, I was already hard, thicker than she’d guessed, and I didn’t waste time with halfhearted preambles or checking if she was ready, her body answered that for both of us. I lined myself up, hand braced on her hip, and shoved in all the way, so deep she thought she’d split and spill out onto the tiled floor. She gasped, not from pain, she could take pain, but from the blunt, undeniable force of my cock.

I gripped her by the waist, both hands callused where they dug into her skin, and pulled her down onto me with a sharp, sure motion. All the tenderness in my earlier touch had evaporated, now it was just friction and drive, each thrust dragging her closer to the edge of the table, closer to me. Hilary clenched around me, muscles still shuddering from before, and felt herself start to slip again, that fragile post-orgasm haze shattering as I dragged her back up the mountain.

I fucked her with all the precision and violence of a live-fire exercise, hips snapping forward with each thrust, the slap of skin against skin echoing off concrete and the faint metallic clank of the table legs rattling against the floor. Hilary clung to the edge so hard she thought the laminate would shear off the particleboard underneath. She lost track of the world outside the room, forgot the gun oil and the spent brass and the desert choking the compound, forgot her own name except for the primitive syllables that forced themselves out of her mouth with every jolt of my hips.

"Ugh, so good!"

I braced one foot against a lower shelf, giving myself more leverage, and hammered into her cunt with abandon, each movement measured but clockwork, as if I was checking off a list of operations, insert, withdraw, repeat, escalate. She tried to breathe but just kept swallowing air, gasping, sharp and wet with every collision. She couldn’t see my face, could barely see anything except my hands on her hips, squeezing, using her for balance as much as for pleasure.

She felt the scrape of the table edge on her skin, the burn where her back slid against the rough paint, the pinch as I drove so deep she could feel me all the way up into the hot, bruised region under her ribs. Her head smashed the wall again, harder this time, and for a moment she saw black, stars, some ringing in her ears not quite covered by the slap and clang of the table. She was barely aware of her own voice, the soft pitiful mewlings, rising and then dying against the back of her clenched jaw.

I found my own rhythm, then lost it, then found it again, working her over the edge and past it in ruthless increments. I was a machine, and she was a target on a clean white page, holes appearing in her body, each new shot a mark of my will, not hers. The pleasure came back, meaner now, needier, a heat that left her shaking all the way to the roots of her teeth, and she wanted more.

“So good.”

She used the leverage of the table’s edge to force herself back onto me, meeting my thrusts with equal aggression. Our bodies met and separated in a staccato rhythm, no gentleness or pretense, just sweat and the scrape of denim and hands that didn’t know how to be soft. She braced against the cold cinderblock, the roughness scraping her bare back, and clung to the here-and-now as my cock drove in.

Hilary pulled me in by the hips, legs wrapped around me, wanting everything, wanting the whole savage thing to happen before she could second-guess it. Skin slapped, tempo rising, my sweat mixing with hers. She was proud of how much she could take. There’d been boys before, a few men, range rats and barflies, none of them memorable, none with this kind of will. It was like firing the whole magazine into the dirt berm and daring the target to stay upright.

“Ugh fuck.”

She took every inch of me, and then some, like she could will me deeper through force of want. The table creaked and shimmied under them, every thrust rocked her clit, the spasms of her first orgasm bleeding right into the next, a feedback loop of insistent pleasure she couldn’t modulate or control. I had my hands everywhere at once, on her hips, on her belly.

I was close. She could feel it in the way my pace failed, in the uneven shove of my hips and the ragged air through my nose. She wanted it, the full ruin, the whole fucking collapse, all of it.

I went over with a groan, sharp and mean, like I’d been holding my breath for years. I pressed in deep, locked hard against her, and she felt the surge of my cock throb inside of her, before my baby batter flowed into her inner walls.

The End