Hide and Seek By Ty Vossler

A beautifully hand-written invitation was put in Lucia’s graduate student mailbox. She shared it with me when she returned to our tiny Binghamton, New York apartment:

Dear Lucia,

You and Wyler are cordially invited to attend our fifth annual Summer Solstice Festival in our home on the night of the twentieth, beginning at 9:00 PM. Bring your appetite, a favorite wine, and an open mind. We hope to see you here!

—Ben Thomas—

An email address was provided to RSVP.

“I wonder what he means by an open mind?” I asked.

“Sharma was impressed that I was invited,” she said, “He’s heard that it’s an exclusive gathering.”

It wasn’t surprising that Sharma, also a graduate student, knew of the event. He enjoyed keeping up with all the latest gossip.

“Why did you get one?  Ben Thomas isn’t your Ph.D. adviser.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Lucia answered.

Of course, I had my own theory. Lucia is a full-figured, exotic-looking Mexican. Her dark, short-cropped hair, almond brown eyes, and soft, full lips scream of potential. You won’t see her on the cover of a checkout stand magazine, but she has je nais se quoi—that special aura that attracts men. Marriage isn’t much of a deterrent for the men who recognize it. I further postulated that Dr. Benjamin Thomas was smitten.

Lust-worthy wives offer certain advantages. After watching another men devour Lucia with his eyes, I am the one she goes home with and then the fireworks start. I often use fantasy to ignite fleshy conflagrations. Lucia has only to conjure a recent admirer, and we’re off to a blazing start.

The night of the party, Lucia allowed herself a lot of time to prepare. When she was ready, I was astonished by the results. An East Indian skirt showcased the outline of her strong, thick thighs and the generous curvature of her ass. A red stone necklace dripped down into the V of an orange blouse that she had purchased in Oaxaca, Mexico. Her earrings matched the necklace and she wore a tinkling ankle bracelet that she had purchased at a yard sale. Lucia didn’t give her face much attention—a little moisturizer, red lipstick, and voila.

I wore the New York look––black on black, always fashionable. Lucia stepped close to adjust my collar. Then she buckled on a pair of metallic gold high heels. I had a strong urge to coax her into bed for a quickie.

“Lord almighty,” I drew her into me.

“Wyler,” grabbing a small black purse, “we’ll be late.”

# # #

We arrived at 9:30—fashionably late in England, unconscionably late in Germany, and an hour or two early by Mexican standards. Although we were there to celebrate the summer solstice, unseasonable clouds had developed in the moonless sky. Ben Thomas greeted me with a firm handshake us and kissed Lucia’s hand. I presented him with a gift bag of wine and he ushered us into the living room, where a barrister served drinks. There were half-a-dozen couples milling there, and other voices wafting in from adjacent rooms.

“We are so glad you could come. You’re in for an interesting evening. Please, explore the house and meet the other guests. After-dinner amusements will require that you both have a precise knowledge regarding the layout of the house.” He held his hands up defensively, “I can’t say any more than that.”

“It’s a lovely home,” Lucia said.

“Thank you,” said Dr. Thomas. “Other than the fact that winter power bills are highway robbery, Giselle and I enjoy it.”

Many of the homes in Binghamton are two-story Victorian’s with large front porches, full basements and attic space. The cost of upkeep had kept Lucia and I from considering purchasing one.

The doorbell rang and our host excused himself saying, “I’ll sound the gong when dinner is served.”

“A gong?” I whispered to Lucia.

“Shhh,” she admonished, “someone will hear you.”

Lucia and I wandered the house, and judging from the others it was a couple’s only affair. Each guest gave us a thorough appraisal.

“Do you know anybody here besides Dr. Thomas?” I asked.

“A few just in passing, but there are no other mathematicians.”

We ascended the squeaky stairs to the second floor and poked our heads into the rooms. The bedrooms were richly appointed with canopy beds, Berber carpets, and lustrous antique wood furnishings. Fresh flowers topped each nightstand and a collection of nude oil paintings graced the walls.

Lucia pointed, “That’s Giselle, Dr. Thomas’ wife.”

I stepped closer. Mrs. Thomas was recumbent on brightly colored throw pillows, one leg lifted to reveal her blonde, sculpted pussy.

“Hmm, where do we find pillows like that?” I joked. Lucia poked me in the side.

The bathroom fixtures were gold, and the Turkish-style bidets impressed Lucia, as did the walk-in showers, tiled with coupled Hindu’s in various positions. The den was nearly wall-to-wall bookshelves. In addition to a great many science and mathematics books, a large collection of erotic literature and tabletop art volumes graced the shelves. Above the worn brown leather couch hung other nudes. “That’s one of the other guests,” I observed.

“The woman in the red kimono,” Lucia noted, “I think she’s married to the Chinese professor.”

“Excuse me,” a well-dressed man, hired for the occasion, walked to the picture window facing a large wooden desk. He closed a pair of wooden shudders and drew a heavy set of purple curtains that fastened with Velcro. Then he smiled at us and left.

“Strange,” I said.

“Maybe we’re in for some bad weather,” Lucia suggested.

The gong sounded. We descended the stairs hand-in-hand into the living area and were greeted with pleasant smiles all around. Doctor Thomas stood next to the gong that was perched on a small secretariat. He was holding his wife’s hand.

“Giselle and I wish to welcome you all to our humble abode. Dinner is served!” He announced.

Lucia and I were ushered to opposite ends of a long dinner table. Everyone introduced themselves by name and country, and I hopelessly tried to memorize each. The woman seated to my left wore a stunning black dress, v-cut in the back. She held out her hand and I wanted to kiss it.

“Hello, Wyler, I am Nonna, You are a writer,” she said.

“Yes,” impressed that she knew my name.

“I teach physics at the university,” she added.

“I was never too good with the sciences,” I confessed.

“Most artists are right-brained.”

“My wife—

“Is Mexican and she is finishing a doctorate in Mathematics,” Nonna finished, “That is her talking my husband, Donovan. No doubt you saw some of his paintings upstairs.”

“Yes, indeed, they are very impressive.”

Nonna lifted an eyebrow, and raised her glass, “Here’s to the arts and sciences.”

I wondered how she knew so much about me? We clinked glasses, and I saw that Lucia was sandwiched between conversations—Donovan one side and Ben Thomas on the other. I noticed other ladies present were represented upstairs on canvas.

The man sitting to my immediate left was Alwin, a sociologist, who had recently published a book about the effects of technology on pro-social behavior. We exchanged cards.

I told him, “You may not believe me, but I actually shot my television seventeen years ago.”

“Bravo, Wyler” Alwin laughed, “I merely tossed mine into a dumpster.”

Giselle, sat directly across from me. She smiled and lifted an eyebrow. As dinner concluded, her husband stood and tinkled his glass with a fork.

“Esteemed colleagues, it is an honor to have you in my home to celebrate this year’s summer solstice. A little background might be appropriate for our first-time guests, Lucia, and Wyler.” All eyes turned toward us. “The word solstice originates from the Latin, sun stands still. It occurs in December and June when the earth’s axis tilts toward or away from the sun,” he looked directly at Lucia.

“Tonight, summer solstice campfire celebrations will burn in cold northern countries such as Iceland, Poland, Latvia, Denmark, and Sweden. The holiday is more common in northern communities, such as Reykjavik, where the sun barely sets on the solstice.” His eyes rested on me and then gazed around the table.

“The rock formations at Stonehenge are a solstice party hot-spot, with as many as 30,000 revelers awaiting sunrise on solstice morning, including hippies, ravers, and modern Druids. A similar sunrise watch occurs in Orkney, Scotland and continues with a weeklong music, literature and drama festival.”

Doctor Thomas paused, gazing at his guests. Some were nodding, yet others merely smiled. “Look around you. China, Sweden, Germany, Mexico, North America and Turkey are represented here tonight.”

“You forgot Ireland,” complained Donovan.

“Forgive me, Donovan,” Thomas pursed his lips into a smile, “and Ireland.”

“Everybody always forgets poor old Ireland,” Donovan finished.

“You are no doubt wondering what is in store for us on this summer solstice?” Ben Thomas continued. “You will find out after dessert.” He smiled knowingly and sat.

We were served hazelnut mousse and I was drawn into several interesting conversations. A distinguished middle-aged Chinese professor named, Jian, swallowed a blue pill and said that he had read my novel, The Journal of Desperate Living.

“Ah, so, you’re the one,” I said—a standard writers joke, but he laughed all the same.

“I enjoyed it very much,” Jian added.

My ego swelled along with my stomach. We were offered a choice of after-dinner drinks. Everyone imbibed slowly and no one appeared to be tipsy. Lucia had warned me to go easy because I get drowsy when I overindulge.

As plates were cleared, the other guests spoke in hushed tones. An atmosphere of expectation suffused the room. Lucia blew me a kiss.

“Shall we retire to the living room?” Giselle suggested, taking her husband’s hand.

Some of the furniture had been pulled back and replaced with leather beanbags placed in a circle at the center of the large living room. Again, Lucia and I were seated away from each other. She sat with ankles crossed. When everyone was comfortable, the lights dimmed. I observed that all the windows were shuttered and curtained. Then the lights were doused and the darkness was stygian.

A small overhead theater light slowly intensified, illuminating our circle. Giselle spoke, “Friends, for most of you this celebration will add new experiences to others you have enjoyed,” she paused while everyone smiled and nodded. “Tonight, we are honored to have Wyler and Lucia with us.” Polite applause followed. “Before we embark on tonight’s amusements, I must advise our new guests of the golden rule—weather or not you choose to participate in tonight’s activity, you must give your solemn oath never to share your experience with anyone outside of this circle.” She looked first at Lucia and then to me. We both nodded in agreement. “Very good,” she gestured to her husband, “Ben?”

“Thank you, darling,” he kissed her hand. “As always, it is perfectly acceptable if you choose not to take part and no questions will be asked. You may take your leave with our blessings.” No one budged. I cleared my throat and everyone watched me for an embarrassing moment before Ben continued. “Tonight’s game is hide-and-go-seek.” There were giggles from the other guests. “As you can imagine, our version is quite distinct from the game we played as children.” More sniggers. “All clothing must remain within the circle. You may wear jewelry, but timepieces are not permitted. Each of you will be blindfolded and escorted to a location within the house. The power will be turned off so do be careful. Once everyone is placed, the gong will sound and you are free to seek. Are there any questions?” Dr. Thomas finished.

Lucia timidly raised her hand and everyone smiled at her. “What are we seeking?” Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Oh,” said Lucia.

What a mixed bag of feelings we carried. Of course, Lucia and I had indulged in sharing fantasies to stimulate the appetite. Yet, here we were faced with the opportunity to act out our whimsies. The good-looking Nigerian Economics professor with his exotic Turkish wife, a lovely Swedish architect with deep blue eyes, Donovan the artist, the Chinese couple and the others swiveled their heads between the two of us. Lucia fidgeted with her necklace and looked at me.

“Wyler and Lucia,” Ben Thomas looked at us each in turn, “will you be joining in tonight’s festivities?”

Neither was sure how to respond, and yet the atmosphere was infused with spontaneity. I watched Lucia’s head begin nodding and I followed, not wanting to appear foolish.

Thomas stood, “Excellent,” he said, “Shall we?” He slipped out of his clothing and the others followed. Lucia and I were slowest to finish. Being surrounded by so much flesh was daunting. Each body was beautiful in its own way. Of course, Lucia drew the most ogles. The Nigerian had a thick, attenuated shaft of ebony and his tiny Turkish wife sported a manicured snatch and childishly small tits. She contrasted sharply with Lucia’s untamed triangle and larger breasts, accentuated by large, brown nipples.

Benjamin produced a box of airline quality blindfolds, and addressed his wife, “Sweetheart, please escort Lucia and I’ll go with Wyler’s.” Blindfolds were passed around, “You may remove your blindfolds once the gong has sounded.”

“A final reminder,” said Mrs. Thomas, “talking would, of course, ruin the effect, so any sounds should be related only to—”

She didn’t need to finish. Ben Thomas slowly led me away from the circle, stopping for a moment to give me a few disorienting twirls before continuing. After a short while, he whispered for me to sit and I was greeted by the comfort of a leather chair somewhere downstairs.

“Bon voyage, my friend,” he whispered, patted my shoulder and was gone.

Sitting alone, I began having serious second thoughts. I imagined Lucia groping in the darkness, contacting flesh, finding another pair of lips, tasting an unfamiliar tongue, a stiff cock pushing into her warm pussy. These thoughts made me dizzy and I resolved to find her before someone else did.

Some minutes passed before the gong sounded and when I removed my blindfold it was pitch-dark. I stayed put until I was oriented, listening for movement. Old houses are never quiet. They snap, crackle and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies. It wasn’t long before someone touched my arm. I reached out and felt thick arm hair. His hand patted mine and he retreated in search of softer flesh.

Now there were noises all around me and I listened for Lucia’s ankle bracelet. To my left, I perceived a deep sigh, followed by moist kisses. A man’s soft moan intensified into a deeply satisfied groan and the woman responded in kind.

Lucia’s ardent voice is a fingerprint and I would know it anywhere. This woman wasn’t Lucia. I groped until I found the stairs. Lucia and I had been strategically separated all evening, so it was logical to assume that she was upstairs. On hands and knees, I ascended carefully. At the top, I sensed a presence, groped with my hands and contacted soft skin. Feminine arms pulled me in until we were lying side-by-side on the wooden stair landing.

She pressed a nipple into my mouth. Then her lips found mine and she tasted good. Her tongue was soft and playful. She lifted a leg and my cock was deliciously sheathed in her pussy. As we fucked, another hand located us—a woman’s. Keeping my cock inside, my lover rolled on top facing away and the newcomer positioned her body so that she was able to suck my balls, which caused me to cum almost immediately. My lover was climaxing too, and I was able to stay hard enough so that her contractions didn’t spit me out.

After I slipped out, the women stayed together, kissing as I continued my journey to find Lucia. I felt the open door to one of the bedrooms. Inside, bedsprings squeaked and I discerned labored breathing—the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. A woman issued high, piercing seagull cries—not Lucia’s.

There was a myriad of sound all around—panting, groaning, sharp cries, laughter and none belonged to Lucia. I found another bedroom. At first, I thought it was empty, but then I heard a slurping sound. A man gasped, grunted and the sound stopped. There was movement on the floor and I heard the bathroom sink running—sounds of rinsing and spitting—not Lucia.

I crawled to where the office was and was immediately rewarded by the spicy odor of books. Soft moans were coming from the leather couch and I crept inside. I perceived a tinkle of jewelry. A portion of the curtain joined by Velcro was slightly agape, allowing a sliver of the streetlight to filter in. I could now distinguished silhouettes on the couch.

The leather squeaked and Lucia’s ankle bracelet tinkled as her hips churned over him. “Ayyy,” she moaned.

“Oy, sweet Jesus,” the Nigerian’s voice was deep and filled with passion.

My throat felt as if I had swallowed a spoonful of gravel. The shadows moved together, I heard Lucia taking a deep staccato breath followed by a deep, guttural homage to ecstasy.

“Ay, ay, ay, ayyy!” Her hands rested on his chest and she rocked as her orgasm squeezed his cock.

The Nigerian lifted for a moment to suck her tits, and then lay back down. He grunted loudly, growled and poured into my wife. I tried to remember his name—the name of this man who was cumming inside my wife.

“Yes, baby,” she urged, and she climaxed again.

Their lovemaking was followed with tender kisses, “You’re an angel,” he whispered.

“We have a mess to clean, Musa” she replied.

Musa, I thought, the man who caused the mess. A man’s heart is a mysterious world. Instead of waiting my turn with Lucia, I left. Finding the stairs, I fumbled my way down until I reached a couch. Pre-cum oozed from my cock. I wasn’t alone for long. A hand touched my thigh and grasped my cock.

She took me into her mouth, painting the underside of my cock, jacking me until I was pulsing in her hand, and then she straddled me. I slipped in easily, clearly aided by another man’s spunk. I pictured Lucia as this mysterious woman sent me in and out. I twisted her tiny nipples as she toiled and she came repeatedly before I added fresh spurt. I guessed her to be Musa’s Turkish wife, Sabella.

We kissed farewell and she continued her wanderings. Done in, I resolved to return to Lucia. She wasn’t there, so I sulked self-indulgently on the couch. After a few minutes, I stood to leave, feeling confident that I could find my way without going on hands and knees. I paused at the curtains and refastened the Velcro. Someone appeared, as I was ready to leave, so I stepped into the darkest corner. He went passed without noticing me, and stood by the window next to the desk. A short time later her ankle bracelet announced that Lucia had also returned. She carefully made her way to the desk.

“Psst!” she said.

“Here,” he replied.

My Velcro repair work didn’t last and again, a sliver of light entered the room. Lucia was seated on the desk. Musa lifted her legs by the knees and Lucia groaned deeply as he pushed inside. He stroked back and forth to the rhythm of her grateful responses.

A large lump, more like a rock developed in my throat. Occasionally air escaped from Lucia’s pussy as the Nigerian delivered deeply. Lucia cried out and Musa grunted and groaned in a shivering voice. Then, after a short time to catch their breath, he pulled out.

“I found some tissues,” Musa said in a low voice.

“Thank you,” Lucia replied.

“How many others—?” Musa wanted to know.

“Doctor Thomas.”

That was no accident. How did it go?”

“Quickly,” Lucia said.

They both giggled, having broken all the rules of the game in one fell swoop.

“I had better be going,” Musa said.

“Why?” She replied, and I heard her kissing him again.

“To find my wife. Perhaps next week we can have lunch.”

“Okay,” There were kisses again and my erection mocked me.

The Nigerian helped Lucia down from the desk, “Are you coming?”

“No, I think I’ll rest here for a while,” she said.

“Mmm, if I don’t find my wife I will return.”

Another kiss, and then I saw him leave. Lucia sat on the sofa, and I stood frozen in the corner until I heard the deepening of her breathing and knew that she had fallen asleep.

I waited another five minutes before taking her into my arms, “Hit baby.”

She lovingly stroked my hair, “How are you?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” She detected hesitancy in my voice.

“Yes, what about you?” I asked.

“I need to find a bathroom.”

I kissed her softly, smelling sex—the intoxicating combination of body chemicals, colognes, and perfumes. I brushed my fingers over her body and felt a wad of tissue between her legs.

“Let’s find you one.” I took her hand and we found an empty bedroom. Commandeering a shower I lathered her body and desperately wanted to fuck her, to conquer her, yet my cock was out of fuel.

Afterward, we climbed into the empty bed and Lucia soon drifted off. My brain prevented me from joining her right away. I replayed her reaction to having the Nigerian’s cock inside her. How would I compare after an experience like that?

When we awoke, our clothes were neatly stacked on a chair and the smell of coffee wafted from downstairs. Early morning light filtered in through the open bedroom curtains.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning, my love,” Lucia stretched luxuriously and pecked my mouth.

“How do you feel?”

“A little tender.”

“How many—?” I already knew the answer.

“Three,” she said, “and you?”

“Two—it’s different for men, you know. We only have so much ammunition.”

“It was like a dream.”

“Yes, it was surreal. I tried to find you.”

“You finally did.”

Lucia and I dressed and went into the kitchen. Most other guests had returned home. Dr. Thomas was in the kitchen wearing a robe and concocting a large omelet.

“Top of the morning!” he enthused. “I’ll wager you’re both starving. Such a night makes for mighty appetites.”

Before we could answer, his wife, Giselle, breezed in, “Buenas dias,” she greeted, kissing her husband and giving us pecks on the cheek. “I’ll make a green juice.”

“Let me help,” said Lucia, and they began chopping vegetables.

Benjamin motioned me over to a strange looking contraption, “Ever had coffee made with a French press?”

“No, how does it work?”

He showed me, and in no time we were sipping the best coffee I had ever tasted.

“Quite a night, eh?” Benjamin lifted his eyebrows.

“Unforgettable,” I answered.

“I already have an idea for next year,” Giselle said.

“She’s the creative one,” Benjamin gestured with his head.

The Nigerian professor entered with his petite Turkish wife. I watched Lucia’s lips curl into an enigmatic smile.

“Good morning everyone,” Musa blew a kiss to the whole room with both hands. When he kissed Lucia’s cheek I saw him whisper something. Lucia smiled and blushed.

“Wyler is making more coffee, Sabella,” Giselle informed her.

Musa’s wife pressed in behind me to peer over my shoulder as I practiced my French press skills, “Mmm, smells lovely,” she moaned.

“It’s nearly ready, Sabella,” I said, happy to say her first name.

Donovan the artist trudged in without greeting anyone and helped himself to Ben’s coffee mug.

“Barbarian,” remarked Giselle, “where’s your wife?”

“Still asleep,” he grumped. He shuffled over to kiss Giselle’s cheek and waved a feeble greeting to the rest of us.

“What the world needs now is love, sweet love,” Ben sang to Donovan.

Donovan murmured something as he sat on a barstool, then whirled around to face Lucia, “I’d like to paint you.”

“I had a feeling you might,” Lucia replied.

I imagined Lucia joining others on the time-honored walls. Giselle looked at me wistfully and her husband eyed Lucia furtively.

“This coffee is from Kenya,” Giselle told Musa.

“Ah yes, some of the best coffee is found in Ethiopia and Kenya,” Musa said.

# # #

After breakfast, Dr. Thomas walked us to our car. The morning air was fresh—the birds were out in force and a light breeze stirred through the pine trees that forested the neighborhood.

“We have bi-monthly get-togethers. Now that you’re in the circle, there are marvelous opportunities to be had. By the way Wyler, I was wondering, do you play golf?”

I barely heard him because I was busy wondering what Musa had whispered to Lucia in the kitchen.

The Wonder of Women By Charles E.J. Moulton

I have always been psychic. Feeling people. Spiritually, I mean. I go into a room and immediately feel the atmosphere. If it’s good, I am flying, baby. If it’s bad, I am down to the ground.

To top that off, I admire the female anima, the suave caress of the female soul, the force that inspires us to create art, make music, make love, write poems.

Often, when I sit in the bus, and a beautiful woman comes and sits down, that female anima comes gleaming and glittering over at me. So, ever so subtily and carefully, I study her, looking at the curve of her breasts, the swaying of her buttcheeks, her lips and how they would feel around my hard cock. In my mind, I spread that girls legs, lick her pussy only to shove my hard dick into her throbbing clit. I have made love to hundreds of women in my mind like that, squirting cum into their hot and willing mouths.

But it isn’t just their bodies that arouse me. In fact, it’s the anima that raises my prick: that endearing magic of elegance, eloquence and arrogance that signifies the female spirit. We men love to obey them, kiss them, unwrap them and fuck them until they beg for more. Their beauty is endless and therefore endless in arousal, always begging for more. The female energy invites you into endless copulation, just as endless as the soul is endless in conciousness.

Wonder, oh, the wonder of wonderful women.

As I was sitting in the bus today, not only did I study the girl that came up and sat opposite me, the curve of her boobies and the swaying of her arse. I also imagined what it would be like to be her, have a hot and bothered male with a growing cock studying you like a meaty and marinated steak.

Then I closed my eyes. I imagined myself not having a penis, but a vagina. Then I imagined having round hips, big tits and erect nipples. I imagined myself making myself up every day, choosing a bra and panties and a skirt and then walking out in high heels and having all those men rubberneckin’ me, looking at my tight butt, dreaming of sticking their fat schlongs in my hot little fanny.

I imagined what it felt like to have that long hard dick shoved into me like I had shoved my cock into dozens of pussies before.

Had I been my dream fuck, having my stern rod catapulted into my hot cunt, what would I have felt? How does it feel to have a long hot banana shooting up and out of your crack?

As I sat there, fantasizing about my dream fuck, I realized that, believing in reincarnation, that I might have been a woman in a previous life, with all that entails, the ups and the downs, the periods and the hormonal outbursts.

And I realized that sex connects souls. It focuses two people’s emotions with one purpose: symbiosis. Unity. The act that binds a couple, at best, produces a baby. Sex is nature’s necessity, a foundation for our survival. It is peaceful and built into our DNA.

I believe in reincarnation, in the existance of the afterlife and in a concious and emotional God that put his energy into everyone’s emotions: a source we can tap into whenever we want. A source we need no religion to find.

Soul.

I also believe in logic.

What was before the big bang and where does the universe end? Microcosmos vs. Macrocosmos? These questions have one answer: a divine intelligence.

I also believe in Jesus’ resurrection.

Jesus chose a woman to spread the word of his resurrection: Mary Magdalene.

There were more gospels that were not published. The patriarchal priesthood would have been out of a job if the anima had ruled as it would have deserved.

The male priests grabbed the trophy of priesthood, although women clearly were wiser.

Adam and Eve’s shame was their downfall. Or does an animal feel ashamed when creating a baby? So why do humans love babies but discard how they are made?

Sex is kissing, hugging, loving.

Why do we cheer in movies when someone is killed and cringe when they make love?

Weren’t we taught to love one another?

Violence is sin.

Faithful sex is not.

Think about it.

It’s just simple logic.

Cabin By M. Earl Smith

All in all, I couldn’t help but laugh. After all, you were turning out to be bolder that I had imagined.

You responded quite well to the reduction of my paranoia, as well as a decrease in attention. Perhaps a lot of that was my worrying about losing someone as amazing as you in my life, but either way, I was an old hand at this game, and I should have known better. The old adage was true: when you were relaxed, and spending most of the time having a good time as opposed to worrying about what the future would hold, things went a lot smoother than when I was whining about this or that. For the first time in a long time, we were both having fun.

It was of little surprise, then, when you texted me and asked me about having a drink. You bragged a few weeks ago about having moonshine at home, but I was skeptical as to if you had ever partaken. I, on the other hand, was familiar with drinking. It had bothered you, you said, so I was careful with the scenarios that I allowed alcohol to become a part of.

I was already at the cabin, sitting at the table, thinking, when you arrived. I smiled, and hugged you before putting my hand around your waist, to lead you in. Once inside, I placed an arm gently on either side of you and grinned, leaning in to kiss your neck. You moaned softly, letting this go on for a few minutes before placing a hand on my chest, slowly moving me back. I did as you wished. You smiled, and offered me one kiss before nodding at a brown bag on the table. “Did you rent this place for the night?”

I grinned, and nodded, handing you my keys. “Put these with yours. If we are drinking, nobody is driving.”

You laughed, as if you knew something that I didn’t know, and walked towards the table. Looking in the bag, you pulled out two bottles. One was a simple bottle of vodka, one of my favorites. The other, you noticed with a chuckle, was a bottle of chocolate liqueur.

“I guess I know which one is for who,” you said, removing two shot glasses from the bag.

I laughed, and removed my jacket and tie, tossing them over a chair. “Given your relative inexperience, I figured you should start light. After all, this is just a little fun. Speaking of which, let’s turn this into a game. We will each pour a shot, and one asks the other a question. If it’s true, the person who was asked has to drink, and if it’s false, the person who asked the question has to. Fair enough?”

You giggled, and sat down. “I have a feeling you’re not going to fare well, old man” you teased, filling each glass up to the brim with the chosen drinks. “I get to ask first. You kissed your first girl before you were sixteen, right?”

I smiled, and reached for the vodka. As I did, you put your hand over mine, a fierce look in your eye. “Merle, you’re not a mean drunk, are you?”

I tried hard to restrain my laughter. “Mean? No. I’m actually a silly drunk. I grew up in a family of mean drunks, and I went the other way with it. Why be angry when you’re giddy? Truth be told, I rarely get drunk at all.”

You smiled, and moved your hand. I picked the shot up and downed it, wincing as I did so. The vodka was smooth, but strong, and it sent a warm shock through my system as it went down. Shaking my head, I poured myself another shot and looked straight into your beautiful blue eyes.

“You’ve tried smoking at least once in your life” I said slowly, asking a question that I won’t mind hearing the answer to.

You giggled, and nodded towards my glass, pushing yours away slightly. I shook my head, a little surprised, but, of course, I believed you. With a grin, I raised the second shot in a mock toast and downed it. The second goes down much smoother than the first, and the sting of the alcohol brought a flush to my cheeks that is noticeable even with my beard. Wicked delight danced through your eyes as you refilled my glass.

“Your turn to ask” I said, trying to conceal my giddiness. I was far from drunk, but I felt the effects of the alcohol. The next question, however, sucks all humor out of the room.

“You fell harder for me than you did her, didn’t you?”

All I could do, for a long minute, was stare, so much that you started to reach for your glass, a bit of disappointment in your eyes. I cleared my throat and shook my head, reaching for my own glass, admitting to you that you had a greater hold on me than anyone else ever had. As I went to drink the shot, you reached across the table, pulling it away from me. As you set it on the table, you pushed my chair back from the table and straddled me.

I sighed, saying nothing. I wrapped my arms around your waist and started kissing your neck, hitting the spots behind your ear and along your jawline that made you quiver with anticipation. As I leaned in, you whispered the words in my ear that you knew drove me to the brink of madness with passion for you.

“Quit being a chicken and kiss me.”

The green light given, my lips locked with yours, holding the first kiss for a long time as our jaws worked in unison with one another. Soon, my tongue slid into your mouth, intertwining with yours as you softly pressed your body to mine. I ran my hands under your shirt, along your hips and sides first, before gently reaching up to unsnap your bra. Pulling it loose, I sat it aside and ran my hands along your breasts, feeling your nipples harden at my touch. You tensed a little, as if unsure what to do, before wrapping your arms around my neck, to continue kissing me.

I stood, cupping my hands on your ass I did. You emitted a little gasp of surprise, only to grin and kiss me with more force. It was so intense that I had to stop for a moment to catch my breath, and to reposition my hold on you. The kissing intensified with each step, your legs wrapped around me as you pushed your pussy against me, fabric on fabric. Finally, I made it to the bed, to gently lay you down.

Free from my grip, you slowly crawled to the top of the and looked at me, curled up, not sure what to expect next. I crawled up next you, face to face, and start kissing you again. You returned my kisses, as my hands run up your legs, softly rubbing your pussy through your jeans. You pressed yourself into my hand and kissed on. I slowly moved one of my hands up and unbuttoned your jeans. You froze, reaching your hand down to clasp over mine as you, in a rare moment, looked me in the eyes.

You stared at me for a long second before you slowly started to work your jeans off of your slender, curved hips. It was with a faint surprise that I noted that your panties came off at the same time, and as you slid them past your ankles, to carefully be set aside next to you, I gently started to slide the tips of my fingers up and down your thighs, allowing them to trace occasionally across your pussy, leaving you to wonder if it was intentional or not. This went on for a few minutes before I started to slowly trace circles around your pussy, rubbing along your lips and your clit softly. Another moan of pleasure escaped from you, and you bit your lip as you stared at me in anticipation.

My index finger focused on your clit, rubbing it softly in slow, circular motions as I tickled along your opening with the tips of my fingers on the opposite hand. By this point, your pussy started to grow wet, and it was plain to see that you enjoyed being teased in this way. My hand rubbed up and down on your clit, and, with a steady hand, I slid two fingers into your pussy. You moaned softly, and started to work your hips against the soft thrusts of my hand.

My hand never left you. In a swift motion, I positioned myself between your legs and, with a chuckle, my tongue moved in, to nibble at your thighs for a second before moving northward. In a matter of moments, my tongue replaced my fingers on your clit, and you quickly grew wetter as the tip of my tongue flicked softly against you. You growled in delight, and ran your fingers through my hair.

I took my time, my fingers working in and out of you slowly as I built you towards your climax. My tongue never ceased in its endeavors, and you soon started to softly buck your hips against my mouth and hand as anticipation built within you. You moaned louder, and I felt your thighs tighten around my head. Arching your neck and back, you let out a shriek of pure delight as you reached your climax, coming all over my face and hand, as well as the sheets below. I chuckled, even as my mouth was soaked with your juices, as I continued to lick and finger you for a few more moments, even as you ran both fingers through my hair and trembled under my touch.

I laughed as I finally pulled away. As I looked up, I saw a smile on your face, even as your skin trembled under the effects of what you just experienced. As I crawled into the bed next to you, I grinned, and took you into my arms.

“Worth it?” I said.

You nodded, saying nothing. After all, no words were needed.

Dirty Harriet Discovers Porn By Dirty Harriet

The first time I watched porn was with Mike, my… well, friend with benefits is probably the most accurate description. He was my ex-bestfriend’s ex-boyfriend. His cock was the first I ever sucked. Mike’s best friend Dave’s was the biggest cock I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and I sucked his cock too.

That makes it sound like I’m a bit of a slut, but I never had sex with either of them. More by Dave’s choice than mine, I would have fucked that boy until I couldn’t walk, but the complicated relationship I had with Mike put a stop to that.

I headed round to Mike’s house, where we normally engaged in oral activities, and the boys were both in Mike’s bedroom watching porn when I walked in.

To be honest it wasn’t quite what I’d expected.

I’d interrupted the boys as they wanked and watched porn on Mike’s laptop, and although they slowed what they were doing they never stopped. I waited a couple of minutes while they slowly wanked and watched and looked at me.  And then I shrugged and sat with them and watched as this poor girl was fucked in the mouth, in the pussy, in the arse and then the pussy and mouth, and arse and mouth, and pussy and arse, and basically every filthy combination you could think of.

It made me feel dirty to watch the sex on screen. It was kind of horny, in a strange and unnatural way that I had no control over. But it didn’t put me in the mood, if that makes sense.

The boys seemed to enjoy it, and the two well-muscled and well-endowed men on screen spunked all over the girl’s face after they fucked her raw.

At the time it seemed pretty weird for me to watch people having sex. Sitting between two horny teenagers while they wanked was much sexier to me than whatever was happening on screen. I wanked them both off, Mike’s sperm drenching my hand, and then Dave’s. Oh, Dave, I still think of that cock regularly. It wasn’t that it was attached to a wonderfully attractive black man, or that it was twice the size of Mike’s normal sized penis, it was the hot, fat, thick veins that made it feel alive when I took it in both hands and stroked it until it jerked and spewed his orgasm all over me. That time I asked Dave to look at me just as he was about to cum and when he did I kissed him, our lips met, parted, and his tongue entered me. That was my first time watching porn and, more importantly, it was my first proper kiss. And it was with Dave. All while Mike cleaned himself up in the bathroom.

Sadly I never got another opportunity to kiss Dave like that. I would have loved to have kissed every part of him, but he dumped me a few weeks later. We weren’t even going out and he dumped me, the bastard.

The next time I watched porn was at University. My roommate, Jamie, was a lovely girl, but she was a massive lesbian and a complete perve. I couldn’t even remember the number of times she asked if I wanted her to lick me out, if I’d like to try lesbianism, or if I wanted her skilled fingers to make me cum. Sometimes I wish I’d started my lesbian adventures with Jamie, but it wasn’t to be. A young man by the name of Ben got in the way, love and all that kind of stuff. So, Jamie never got to taste the delights of my pussy and I never got to have her tonguing my vagina.

But Jamie was responsible for my interest in porn. You see, apart from offering me all manner of lesbian action, she used to study, and I really do mean study, all kinds of lesbian porn. And one morning she rushed out of our dorm room, heading to her lecture, grabbing her bag and a bagel on the way and she had left her laptop on, with a full screen of these two beautiful girls kissing.

I rubbed my eyes and it took me a moment to realise it wasn’t her screen-saver and the two girls were touching, caressing each other while they kissed.

I groaned, turned the other way, but I could hear the soft moanings of lust from Jamie’s headphones on the desk. It was like listening to lovemaking in the room next door. Soft, muted, but definitely there.

Ignoring it wasn’t going to work. Already the soft sounds of murmuring, the gentle moans, the heavy breathing, the delicate sexy eastern European accents. It was so much sexier than the brutal, raw fucking of the porn I’d watched with the boys just a few years ago.

So I turned back to look.

They were in a beautiful gazebo, surrounded by pretty flowers.

The brunette was peeling the blonde’s shirt off. They both looked like high-class waitresses, in tight white shirts that were a little too small, and one wore a tight pencil skirt that would be almost impossible to walk in, if she’d been able to walk with her six-inch stiletto heels. The brunette was in a mini-skirt was the gusset of her black lace knickers clearly visible. They were both beautiful.

I vaguely recognised one as Eve Angel, from a poster Jamie had on her wall. I didn’t recognise the blonde.

Eve kissed the voluminous breasts of the blonde, who arched her back in pleasure, her fingers reaching between Eve’s legs and stroking against the delicate fabric barely hiding her modesty.

They kissed again, their soft lips meeting, their tongues poking out of their mouths to gently touch and lick each other.

Then the blonde opened Eve’s shirt, releasing two perfect, natural breasts. No bra. The nipples pointing up into the blonde’s face and she took one in her mouth, gently squeezing the other breast, and Eve’s mouth twisted in pleasure and she gasped.

I couldn’t help myself, I threw off the bed covers and sat at the desk in my pyjamas.

I gingerly put on the headphones and the soft moans and gasps of pleasure were suddenly diving straight into my head. Every soft moan, every groan of ecstasy sending ripples of enjoyment through my body.

My right hand slipped between my legs, beneath the fabric of my loose pyjama bottoms. The flesh hot and soft, my fingers brushing through my soft pubic hairs and continues down.

On screen the blonde is now on her knees, Eve’s tiny skirt hiked up to her hips. Her legs look beautiful in stockings and garter-belts. The gusset of her lace knickers pried aside and the blonde’s tongue flickers at her clitoris.

Eve’s cries of joy and bliss are sending hot peaks of pleasure through my blood, and my fingers dance across the lips of my labia. I can’t control myself, my pleasure is Eve’s pleasure. The blonde’s fingers explore beside her lapping tongue, and I want to feel that too. Eve looks at the camera and as she is looking at me, my finger enters my vagina, my thumb presses against my clitoris, and my left hand also goes inside my pyjama pants.

A finger explores Eve’s pussy onscreen. My left forefinger enters my vagina, my right hand flickers across my clitoris, flicker, brush, flicker, press.

Already I’m breathing heavy, as is Eve on screen. Her friend’s head is buried between her thighs, licking, lapping, fingers exploring, spreading the moist flesh and exposing Eve’s bud.

Eve’s head rolls, she squeezes her left breast with one hand, her right hand pushing the blonde’s head deep between her legs.

Her hips arch, her back arches, she grinds against her friend’s mouth. Eve’s mouth opens gasping.

I’m gasping, two fingers inside me, my right hand skipping across my clit, brushing, rubbing, touching, flickering.

Eve’s panting is getting louder, I know mine is too although I can’t hear it outside of the headphones.

I lick my lips as the blonde takes a momentary break and pushes another finger inside Eve who groans, twisting her leg and lifting it over the blonde’s shoulder. The blonde dives back in, her chin wet with saliva and love juice.

I wish I could taste it.

I push another finger inside me, feeling the stretch and enjoying it. Feeling full, feeling satisfied. I press harder against my clitoris, fingers skipping across it with increasing rapidity.

Then suddenly I’m there, the build up peaking immediately, and lustful pleasure flooding me. My tightening vagina pushes out my wet fingers, my clitoris explodes with ecstasy, sending surging ripples of pleasure through my hips and thighs, down my legs to dissipate and I gasp, pulling off the headphones and dropping them on the desk, realising I’ve cried out in joy and suddenly aware I’m in a dormitory filled with people and thin walls.

On screen Eve cries out in pleasure and I press the pause button, her beautiful face on screen twisted in delight.

I pant a little, decide to ask Jamie if I can borrow her laptop later, kiss the screen and Eve Angel’s beautiful lips, and decide that may be porn isn’t that bad after all.

Dreaming of Jolene By Steve Slavin

Let me tell you just one thing about me: I have always been – and always will be – a strictly heterosexual male. End of story!

You’re probably wondering why I find it necessary to make this statement. Well, back in the eighties and nineties, no one needed to say that. You were a guy, you were a girl, or maybe you were bi. That was it! You had three choices – not a whole fuckin’ menu!

But today? Shit! I mean the definitions and sexual identities keep changing every couple of months. Which, I happen to think, is complete bullshit. I’ve always looked at it this way: You’re either straight or you’re not. End of argument. Finito!

Yeah, yeah, yeah – I know what you’re thinking. Who is this ignorant, completely out of touch schmuck?  Am I right? And you probably think I’m some old dude who can’t stop blabbing about the good old days.

Whatever. I always thought fifty was old – so I’ve still got a couple of years to go.

Look, I’m sorry I got into all that shit, but if you’re going to understand what happened to me, then you need to know exactly who I am – and what turns me on. OK?

What I’m going to tell you all happened exactly ten years ago, almost to the day. It began on a Thursday night. I was living on the Upper Westside, and early one evening I saw this hot-looking chick in the supermarket. I could see that she was interested when we smiled at each other.

She was about as tall as I am, which is unusual for a girl. That’s because I’m a shade over six feet.

I used to have a friend who wrote a book to help singles meet in the city. Her theory was that if a person was attracted to you, you could say anything, and they would respond.

“Come here often?”

She laughed. “Is that the best you can do?”

“Look, I have this friend who wrote a book about meeting people.”

“And did your friend suggest that line?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, aren’t you?”

We both laughed. Then I said, “I am so attracted to you!”

“Really?” she said.

“Well, yeah. Or else, why would I make such a complete fool out of myself?”

“You tell me!

“So, can I have your phone number?”

“You know what?” she said. “Maybe it’s better that we just have our fantasies.”

You are my fantasy!”

Exactly! And I could never live up to that.”

“Maybe our reality could be even better than our fantasy.”

Our?”

“Look, I’ll bet you’re as attracted to me as I am to you.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Because you’re still talking to me.”

“Point taken.”

“I’ll tell you what. I live just a few blocks from here. Come back to my place and I’ll fix you dinner.”

“Very smooth.” We both laughed.

“Look,” she said.  “I’ll tell you what: Here’s my card. I’ve got some stuff to do now. Why don’t you come over in a couple of hours?”

Great!”

 “OK, but remember what I said. Fantasy is better than reality.”

“I’m going to prove you wrong.”

# # #

I glanced at her card on my way home. Her name was Jolene – and she was an art therapist — whatever the hell that meant.

The only time I ever heard of that name was in a movie I had seen years ago. The actress who played Jolene was maybe semi-attractive and pretty flat-chested.

But I loved the name. And my Jolene was the opposite of flat-chested. And she had very long, light brown hair. I supposed that in the sixties she would have been called a “hippie chick.”

She had high cheekbones, big brown eyes, and a great smile. When she smiled, you smiled.

Jolene had long legs that looked like they never quit. You want a fantasy, Jolene? I’ll tell you mine. I wanted those long legs wrapped around my head. But I’ll bet she already knew that. And I’ll bet she also knew a lot of other things.

# # #

Two hours later, I rang her downstairs bell, and she buzzed me into the building. When she invited me in, she gave me a light kiss on the lips. I was smart enough not to push it.

We sat at her kitchen table drinking tea. We talked and talked and talked. And finally, we started to make out.

Slow and easy, I thought to myself. We had all the time in the world. But I had this huge erection and I knew that she could feel it. We must have been kissing for at least half an hour. Then she said, “Look, John, why don’t we continue this tomorrow night?”

I just looked at her. I couldn’t believe that she was going to send me home with the worst case of blue balls. Very, very reluctantly, I began to disengage.

She took my face in her hands. “We both have to go to work in the morning, and it’s already past midnight. But tomorrow’s another night.”

Maybe she was right. And besides, horny as I was, I was in this for the long haul. Didn’t mama say there’d be nights like this?

So I limped the eight blocks back to my apartment and within a few minutes I was dreaming about Jolene. This time we went a lot further.

On my way to work, I laughed thinking about what Jolene had said about fantasy and reality. I could hardly wait to see whether or not she was right.

We had a date for eight p.m. I brought her flowers. She put them in a vase. Five minutes later we were rolling all over the floor making out.

Soon I was humping her with my thigh. She arched her back and I could feel her shuddering. This was going to be easier than I thought. If I could do this to her with my leg, then just imagine how hard I would make her cum once I was inside her.

Our tongues were practically entwined. I thought she was actually going to deep throat me. I don’t know where she learned to kiss like this, but she knew a hell of a lot more than I did! Teach me, Jolene, teach me!

I had never been so aroused in my life. Now we were lying side by side. She was stroking my cock through my pants and I was fondling her breasts through her bra. As much as I wanted to take things to the next level, I think I could have just kept doing what we were doing forever. This was, by far, the best sex of my life, and I was barely at second base.

I was smart enough to know that she needed to be in control, so I let her move things along at her own pace. Soon she unzipped my fly and reached in.

Now she had complete control. She had her tongue in my ear and my cock in her hand. She wasn’t giving me any choices. In less than a minute she made me cum.

After we caught our breath, she kissed me and said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I just stared at her.

“I can’t sleep with you right now.”

I just starred. I didn’t know if I was mad or sad – or maybe both.

“It’s a physical thing. I’m not physically capable of having sex right now.”

“Are you ill?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Maybe another time. Maybe if we get to know each other a little better.”

“OK. Look Jolene, I want you to know something. You are the most exciting woman I have ever been with. I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I really, really like you.”

“I know that, John. I know that.”

“Can I stay over? We can just hold each other. I’d really like to do that.”

She kissed me. “Maybe soon, John. But not tonight.”

I helped her up, and we kissed good night. By the time I got down to the street, I was thoroughly confused. What was wrong with her? Was she dying? Did she have a social disease?

As I walked, I considered a few more possibilities. And then I began to wonder what was happening to me. Look, I was thirty-eight years old, and maybe for the first time in my life I was actually falling for somebody.

Well, I could have done a lot worse for myself. And even if we found that we didn’t have all that much in common, to paraphrase that old Captain and Tennille song, “Sex will keep us together”.

I’m not a very patient guy, but I was willing to wait till Jolene was ready. I knew I could trust her. No matter what – I’d do whatever she wants. Isn’t that what love really is?

I wanted to tell her that even though we barely knew each other, I would be there to help her with whatever she was going through. I mean, isn’t that how you know who your friends are?

Even though we had only just met– and we had not yet been intimate – I felt I already knew her body better than any other guy she had ever been with. And even though we hadn’t actually “done it”; it still was, by far, the most exciting sex I had ever had.

I could stop looking. No other woman could come close. Ladies and gentlemen — I have an important announcement. My search is over: We have a winner!

When I got home there was one message on my phone. I was hoping that it was from Jolene, but it was from my friend, Larry.

He and I were basically party friends – not real friends. We partied together, occasionally talked on the phone, but never just got together.

It was too late to call him back, so I went straight to bed. Needless to say, I dreamed of Jolene.

When I woke up I decided to call Larry, and then Jolene. Maybe she would agree to see me tonight. We had not yet gone out on a real date. The only problem was what happened later. Maybe I could just walk her to her door and say good night. Fat chance!

So I reached tor the phone and called Larry. He probably wanted to tell me about some party. Well Larry, I hate to tell you, but my partying days are over.

When Larry picked up he got right to the point. “John, I heard you’ve been seeing someone.”

Wow! News travels fast! How did you even hear about us?”

“You know the old grapevine.”

“So you know her?”

“No John, not directly. But I know a couple of guys who do know her.”

“Are we talking about the same girl? Her name’s Jolene.”

“Same girl.” There was something in his voice I didn’t like. He seemed to have taken on the tone of a funeral director. I was beginning to get the impression that just maybe it was my funeral.

“So Larry, what’s the story?”

“In a word?”

“Whatever.”

“John, you better sit down.”

“Shoot!”

“Jolene’s a guy!”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t say anything. My stomach was going through violent contractions. I was having a very bad case of the dry heaves.

Larry must have been able to hear me. He kept asking if I was OK.

It took me about half a minute until I could gasp, “No, not really!”

He then patiently explained everything. It turned out that Jolene was a pre-op guy waiting to have a sex change operation.

“You mean they haven’t cut it all off yet?”

“You got it!”

“Holy fuckin’ shit!”

“Yuh can say that again! So John, let me ask you a question.”

“The answer is ‘No!’”

“No, you didn’t fuck her?

“Larry: stop and think! If I had fucked her, you don’t think I would have noticed something?”

“Yeah, that’s true. So John, why are you so upset?”

“You want to know why I’m upset? I’ll tell you why I’m upset! I’m upset because never in my entire life did I ever meet someone so beautiful, so sexy, so sensual, such an unbelievable turn-on.”

“Yeah, so what’s the problem?”

“You wanna know the problem, Larry? I’m the problem! I just can’t do it!”

“No?”

No! I’m a guy! And Jolene – well she’s a guy!”

“John, you just said you practically love her. And after she has the operation, she will be a woman. If you’re so fuckin’ attracted to her now, then just think how attracted you’ll be once she’s all healed.”

“Larry, listen to my words: I’m a guy. And operation or no operation she’s a guy! End of story!”

 

 

 

Beverly Hills Rebel By Charles E.J. Moulton

I glanced at my Rolex, shifting into second gear, waiting for the moron in front of me to decide if he wanted to fall asleep by the wheel or not. Drumming with my fingers at the steering wheel, I conjured up even more impatience in my soul as to how long it would take to get there. My watch told me that Betty was in the last half hour of her shift. I would make it, too, if there weren’t so many snails stopping traffic.

“Yo, bozo,” I yelled, rolling down the window of my Lamborghini, “what did ya do at your driving exam? Take sleeping pills?”

I drove past the guy, an old codger swallowing the gearshift, who gave me the finger as I drove by. I waved back, returning the favor. “Fuck you, too,” I spat, “I’ll be a lawyer in a year. Then I am gonna sue your ass.”

The inner city hustled, bustled, just like it always did on weekends, assisted by the blasting of my stereo, playing a tune that was by now an oldie: “We Built This City” by Starship. Friday nights kept their promises. Although I hadn’t officially begun my professional life yet, I certainly had a long working day in court behind me. That gave me the right to have my share of relaxation.

I swung delicately into my destined street, my previous anger subsiding, realizing that these secret visits to “Bobbie’s Big Burgers” had become an important part of my life. Betty was different, funny, cute, a good listener and, damn it, a far less arrogant than Wendy.

Fun. That was the key word now, wasn’t it? Wendy? Fun? No, slow. Had Wendy been my choice of partner? No. Had I chosen her? No. As far as I went, she was dull. Wendy was money. To my father, that meant a lot. No. Everything.

That and power.

I parked my expensive car in the only spot that had been left free, across the street from the diner. I sat there in the silence for a bit, hearing the cars whizz by and the occasional dog bark at a pigeon. I gazed up at the phoney photo of me and Wendy hanging from the front mirror. It had been taken at the official engagement party last month and was the biggest and most valid example of phoneyness I knew.

I remembered the buffet, the band, the speeches, the public peck on the lips that Wendy had given me, the press photo with that damn famous client of my dad’s, the rapper DJ Ice. It had all been a show that we put on for my father.  Good food, nice drinks, great music, pretty lies.

Wendy sent me a text message at about eleven o’ clock that night, outlining our upcoming marriage. She had used the words “strictly for the money.” There was a big problem with that phrase: I agreed with her. Our daddies had joined together in order to form an axis of power. The two richest lawyers in California, how good would that look if their kids married. Man, that would just make them totally famous and totally rich.

I unwrinkled my Armani suit in the back, stepped out of my car, wondering how I could improve the situation. The slamming door felt like the ultimatum my father slammed in my face. My way or the highway, he seemed to tell me. No Wendy, no college degree. So, what was this? I was between a rock and a hard place. What did the literature students say? Scylla and Charybdis? My soul told me I loved another chick, that Wendy could go screw herself. But where would that leave my degree? I would be over my frigging head in debt if my father cut the money for law-school. No Wendy, no inheritance. Was I really so dependant on my dad?

The slight salty breeze in my face, my Ray-Bans firmly reflecting the UCLA logo on my white shirt, a wide smile appeared on my lips. Betty crisscrossed the tiles in there, delivering her burgers and fries, serving those milkshakes with a sensual smile. Although I must say that I preferred her own personal milkshakes to those her boss made behind the counter.

I held on to the doorhandle for a bit once I arrived, the metal literally glowing from the heat, watching my sweetie bounce about before I wandered in. When I entered, a short round man greeted me with a smile.

“Mr. Blake,” he crooned in a broad Brooklyn twang, reminding me of how many New Yorkers I knew that had ended up in California. “I thought you were gonna stay out there clutching that doorhandle forever.”

“I like to watch,” I joked and sat down by a table by the window.
“You eat burgers, you don’t watch them, buddy.”

“Burgers are like paintings,” I crooned, contradicting my family’s obsession with hors d’oevres, escargot, dom perignon and Pata Negra varieties. “Their mere appearance triggers a desire to awaken the internal tastebuds. Hence, they are art.”

“We have a connoisseur on her hands,” he sang. “Betty, would you do him the honors?”

“Yes, Mr. Kaplan,” the lust of my life smooched in a melodious tune.

Her two glorious black pigtails swung up and down as she came striding up toward me.  Finally arriving at my table, her back to Mr. Kaplan, she carefully unbuttoned one button on her blouse and let me gaze into that gorgeously huge cleavage. She gave me a half-smile, licking her red lips.

“The usual?” she crooned, winking at me.

“The usual,” I answered with a smile, waving my eyebrows.

“With or without cream?” she said, giggling.

“Lots of cream,” I swooned. “The more, the better.”

She smiled, closing her button and turning around back toward the kitchen with a seductive swing of her frilly skirt. For one moment I got a glimpse of her upper leg. She wore a négligé for me. The red one I’d had the honor of lifting up to hip level last week for the quickie in the back room. It was a wonder Mr. Kaplan hadn’t noticed the cum dripping down her legs as she walked out into the diner. I don’t know how we did it without being noticed.

We literally reeked of sex.

So there I sat, trying to inspect the best fuck of my life as discreetly as possible without having any of the other guests or Mr. Kaplan notice me. There was this old woman in the corner who eyed me, but, heck, I was a lawyer, we kick ass for a living. So I didn’t really bother about what the old woman thought. I just imagined in my head what I would be doing to Betty later that evening, if I succeeded with my plans. I had promised Betty a really royal fuck in my princely waterbed over at my father’s mansion.

“There you go, Sir,” Betty said, handing me a king size chili cheeseburger and a Special Kaplan Chocolate Shake with added Extra Cream, as delicious as Betty’s much smoother white boobies.

After handing me the food, she also handed me a small note, opening her lips and sticking her tongue firmly in her cheek.

“Justin. Eat fast, baby,” it read. “I need you. See you by your car.”

The food melted in my mouth as lusciously as Betty’s lips melted into my rod when we had sex. The cream on my shake also tasted almost as good as Betty’s vulva. I thought I knew what Betty meant when she told me that she needed me. Well, I did know. So I ate fast, gulping down that shake while my love stood by the bar, giving me hot cum-ons.

“Was the food okay?” Betty asked me once had devoured it all, belching like a Renaissance king.

“Wonderful,” I nodded, laying a twenty dollar bill on the table. “Keep the change.”

“I’ll keep it and change,” she said, “but I bet you have something else for me, Mister!”

“Like what?” I said, sparks flying.

“Real cream?”

“Home made stuff,” I answered, blowing her a kiss, waving goodbye to Mr. Kaplan and entering the brilliant sunshine, hoping to find myself fondling my loved one’s jugs soon enough. Kaplan waved, Betty winked, the old lady in the corner sneered and me? I went to my Lamborghini, closed the door, rubbing my crotch.

I couldn’t really see the diner from here. Okay, it was across the street, but a tree was in the way. Pretty secluded spot. Maybe that was good. I don’t know.

Well, I kept listening to the silence, sort of depressed about my situation.

The moment my dear one appeared from the other side of the street, now wearing a frilly pink blouse and a private white skirt with that pretty red négligé under it, I forgot how deep in shit I really was. She opened the car door and literally sunk into the passenger seat, rolling over me and giving me a tongue kiss that had my socks flying off and my breath whistling like frigging teapot.

“Honey,” she told me in her comely, ambivalent voice. “Is it okay if I just give you a blowjob now and we can fuck later tonight at your house?”

I nodded, my voice trembling.

“Sure, babe. Whatever you say! You have an appointment?”

Betty unzipped my pants and fingered out a cock that immediately began growing in her hands.

“My jackass sister needs help with her taxes, but I will be with you at nine o’clock.”

Betty took my schlong in her mouth and gave it the suck of its century.

“Great,” I groaned.

“Your parents are leaving the house tonight, right?” she mumbled with the thing half in her mouth.

I nodded, faster this time, yelping and making a tortured face. “They’ll be at Wendy’s parents’ house out of town. They’re staying over night.”

“Where’s Wendy?”

“At a seminar,” I responded. “Or so she says.”

Betty unbuttoned her blouse and displayed her glorious cleavage, heaving her massive boobs out of her négligé and bra.

“Just for the effect.”

She leaned over, sucking on my cock a couple of times, making me groan and moan and throw my head toward the roof of the car. Then she took my erect dick out of her mouth again and continued talking while jerking me off.

“What’s with this Wendy girl? Do you love her?”

“No, I love you, Betty,” I said, doing my best not to squirt – yet – trying to answer the question as well as I could. Betty leaned over again and continued her blowjob, really getting into it now, her head bobbing to and fro like a rose in a storm, while I uttered the words I had wanted to utter in Betty’s presence for a long time. “The relationship with Wendy is strictly for the money, Betty. She knows it. I know it. We both fuck on the side. The only reason why we’re together is because our parents are business partners.”

Betty stopped sucking, giving me the original blowjob-point-of-view-gaze, licking my balls. “You’ve hinted that,” she said, taking one of my testicles between her teeth and lightly nibbling on it, smiling. “Let me guess, your father will not pay for your college degree if you don’t marry this bimbo.”

“Bingo,” I nodded, almost barking now with lust.

She took my cock in her hands, making racing car noises and pretending my penis was a joystick. When the helmet of my pole firmly lay between her grinning teeth, she laughed, spitting out a witty: “My Lamborghini Gearshift!”

After a moment’s break, she added a contientious: “Sorry!”

Again, she sucked, harder and deeper this time, with me now producing noises that sounded sort of like my Lamborghini on the highway.

“God, you are the best damn cocksucker in the world,” I said, my voice sounding like a wheezing weasel.

“Better than Wendy?” she spat, sucking away.

“Wendy and I don’t sleep together.”

“If you and I marry each other,” she crooned, my hot dog half into the sexy bun of her cheek with lips that had the color of ketchup, “I could give you blowjobs 24/7.”

She giggled, her now cherry-nippled marshmallow knockers wobbling with excitement, her eyes wide with for frolicking mirth.

“I could even suck you while sitting under your desk at work,” she blubbered, handjobbing me. “I could be your homebound call girl.”

“Convince my father of our relationship first,” I sighed, grabbing the leather seats of my car and biting my lower lip. “He’s very conservative.”

“Does your father like blowjobs?” Betty mused, again giving me fucking fabulous fellatio. “Justin, this is your decison. You fuck who you wanna fuck.”

With that, my sex princess gave her work complete attention, embracing my entire length, caressing it with every inch of her lips, up, down, jugs wobbling, hair shaking, pink earrings swinging. While she sucked it, she massaged my balls, managing to circle my shaft with her tongue during her expertise sucking work. I felt my testicles pull together, my rod tighten, my heartbeat accelerate, my breath tremble, the wet, warm feeling in my crotch turning the experience into a divine miracle, the plopping, smacking sounds of her mouth bringing a smile to my face, the smell of her floral perfume tickling the edge of my shaft, the sight of her knockers turning my manhood into a steel lamppost.

The explosion was just a second away now, Betty’s head bobbing faster and faster by the millisecond. Betty deep-throated my dick, not prepared to take it out for the orgasm, wanting to swallow every drop. I came, shooting my load into the back of her mouth with a groan, cumming again and again.

Betty swallowed, not letting any of that free portion of protein get lost. After all, since I had begun cumming in her mouth people had given her compliments about her increasingly gorgeous skin color. I had, on her request, shot about twenty loads into her mouth the last month. As the storm subsided, Betty pulled away, panting, drying her lips, eyes closed, leaning against her seat, sighing a happy sigh of sexual relief.

“Man, you’re good.”

“You, too.”

My dick shrinking, her boobs slowly heaving back into her bra, we closed our garments and drove off to join the crazy traffic of Los Angeles. Before I dropped her off at her house, she half-smiled at me, giving me a tongue-kiss, one cum-drop left on her chin.

“I want you to shag all my holes tonight, okay? Are you up for it?”

“My machine’s reloading as we speak, baby,” I answered.

I humbly stole a sneek peak at Betty’s bottom as it swung to and fro into her apartment building, her stomach full of my happy little sperms.

It didn’t take long, though, for the blues to catch me. No sooner was I back on the highway when I again seriously began wondering how to tell my father that Wendy and I were bound to divorce sooner than anyone could scream “fake.” I had to tell him, introduce him to Betty, tell him that she was the love of my life. I wouldn’t tell him about the cumshots, though. I would tell him that it was Betty or the highway.

As I left that highway again, for Beverly Hills, reminded of how excited I’d been to move here, meeting the stars. Hell, going home to the stars. All because the press called my father “America’s Lawyer Number One, Trusted by the Celebrities.”

I cruised the streets, happy that people didn’t wave anymore or stop my car to get my autograph, causing an accident. I was a lawyer, not a pop-star. All because of my dad’s megalomaniac attitude, putting the family name Blake on the map. I now resented this fame, forcing myself to live a lie. Wendy and I, we hated each other.

Driving myself to a frenzy into our lot, parking my Lamborghini in garage number four, it took me about five minutes to calm down. I had just received the blowjob of my life, but it only took me driving into Beverly Hills in order to depress me.

I loafed out of the garage into a florally scented day, my gaze meeting my parents bouncing down the stairs. My father’s wide, bleached toothpaste grin flashed at me, his tanned skin beaming with the fake joy called greed. Mom? She cleared her throat, waited for his greed to subside.

“Justin,” my father said, slapping my arm, his casually priceless short sleeved shirt thrown over a muscular tennis-corpus. “What’re you going to be up to today in this lonely house?”

I smiled. “Hi, dad. Thesis work, law study,” I lied.

“That’s my boy,” he cackled, the dollar-signs magnetically reflecting in the Ray-Bans stuck above his grey hair-do.

I looked at my parents, putting one arm around each of them. “See you tomorrow, right? You’re staying over night with the Wilkins family? Wendy’s not there?”

“No. She’s not. Regina,” my father husked. “Better get going.”

He embraced me, greed beaming into my soul.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he laughed, stepping into his Rolls-Royce.

My mom eyed heavenward. “He’s getting worse by the day.”

I put my hand around my mother’s waist, realizing that if anyone could change anything, Regina Blake could. “It’s very difficult.”

“Justin?”

“Yes, mother?”

“You love Wendy?”

One look was all it took for my mom to understand. I said nothing, smiled painfully, the edges of my mouth twitching.

“Regina,” my father spat. “We got to go.”

“I will see that this situation changes for the better,” my mother said.

As my parents drove off, my heart soared into new heights. My father was in seventh heaven, sure. My mother? She understood where the cookie crumbled. She knew. She’d been through it all. The highs, lows, middles, love affairs, crisis, the love, the hatred. For the better. What did that mean? Not having to marry Wendy? That would be fabulous.

So, I remained outside for a while, watching Antonio Banderas car drive by after George Clooney’s. I strolled through the rose garden, admired the Japanese fountain and sat for a bit by the replica of Michelangelo’s David. To be honest, I lost the track of time. I walked in through the lobby with the red carpet of marble tiles. I played a tune on our white Bösendorfer grand piano. I went to our champagne fridge and opened a bottle of Boulanger Vielles Vignes 2004 for $ 1090, walked through the painting gallery, admiring original Rubens works and Dali replicas, realizing why I had chosen a burger broad instead of a rich bitch. I was getting tired of this arrogant, snobbish attitude.

At first, “Bobbie’s Big Burgers” had been a last minute decision during a stressy day. I found so much friendliness in Betty’s response, so much fun and good conversation that I realized that this woman could make me happy for the rest of my fucking life.

I spent about two hours dawdling in our huge house, praying to God, waiting for an answer how to solve this damn problem.

Suddenly, the waitress named Elizabeth Browning rang my expensive Big Ben-bell, her smile wide, her cleavage clearly visible, all her lips wet, nipples hard, perfume sexy, her tongue longing for dick, ass wobbling, hair tousled, car parked far away. Me? I loved the fact that she was here: honest, fair, lovely, horny, fuckable, friendly.

I took her up the marble staircase, her eyes wide, voice giggling, breath shaky, mouth open. When I took her into my bed chamber, kissed her neck, gently unbuttoning her dress and letting that cute thing drop to the floor. She stood there in a red négligé, massaging her boobs, displaying two of the most gloriously beautiful breasts known to mankind.

I did her a favor and stripped off every single piece of clothing I had on before unclasping her bra. Before we knew it, we were as stark naked as the animals. Adam and Eve, as unashamed of the fact that we were animals. Sex, the ultimate creational experience, a means to connect, had been created by God to express love and bring lovers together. We were naked, two beautiful people who honestly loved each other. The Beverly Hills Rebel and his waitress, the big boobed and beautiful cocksucker named Betty Browning.

So, I did the only thing I could do, stripped off my expensive clothes: I lay Betty down on my waterbed, spread her legs, licking her deliciously sweet, salty pussy, her juices overflowing me with physical love. My tongue entered her deeper and deeper, her hands caressing my head. She sucked my cock, I fucked her from the front, against the wall, from the side, we licked each other in a sixty-niner, only to explode into a glorious doggie-position, me fucking her wobbling ass, Betty on all fours.

My father’s voice in the lobby of our mansion first scared me, Betty wanting to grab her clothes and cover herself. My cock already deeply stuck into Betty’s asshole, it gave me one helluva chance to prove to myself what I believed in. I just kept fucking her.

“Justin,” Betty growled. “Your father.”

I kept my dick inserted inside my loved one.

“My mom’s on my side. We can solve this. Trust me.”

“But we are fucking in your father’s house!”

“Sex is not a sin,” I spat. “Keep shagging!”

As I kept making love to Betty, we overheard the conversation that took place right in front of my mansion bedroom door.

“I can’t believe Wendy was openly unfaithful to Justin in her parents’ house,” my father groaned. “I never want to see that family again.”

“Larry? Will you now let Justin choose who he wants to marry … himself?” my mother sing-songed in her usually liberal tone of voice.

Our door opened wide. It seemed that I had to hold on to Betty’s butt extra well and especially hard whilst shoving my cock inside her this time. My father shrieked. I had never heard him shriek before. I was adamant. I groaned, fucked, shagging Betty like crazy.

My mother? She laughed. I don’t know why, but she laughed like a crazy woman.

“Who is this?” my father screamed.

“I am fucking the woman I love, father,” I answered back whilst seducing Betty. “Meet your future daughter-in-law: Elizabeth Browning.”

Stark naked and while being fucked to smithereens, Betty raised one hand and waved at her future father-in-law.

“Hi, Mr. Blake,” she chirped. “Your son has a great cock.”

“I’m disowning you,” my father screamed.

“Oh, shut up, Larry,” my mother said. “We fuck all the time. You love blow-jobs just as much as she does.”

I think my mother had some convincing to do before she could lower my father’s pants. I have no idea how it happened, but soon enough my father and mother were naked, as well. I had never seen it before and it was quite daunting, but I squirted on Betty’s face at the same time my father squirted on my mother’s face.

I later found out that Wendy deliberately had jumped into bed with her part-time-lover while my parents were in the house. My mother had simply aided the situation.

I got my college degree, my inheritance, married my Betty.

We now have four lovely children.

Oh, yes. Betty, now years later, still gives me fantastic blowjobs.

She still swallows every drop and claims it is great medicine for her complexion.

From what I hear, Betty and my mom compare dick-stories in secret.

That, though, is a completely different and very fuckable story.

Lucia Finds Her Mojo By Ty Vossler

Her doctor recommended estrogen therapy. Lucia was leery because the list of side effects was as long as her arm. Yet, he insisted that with frequent monitoring, there was little to be concerned about. Menopause had replaced her sex-drive with mood swings, hot flashes, and vaginal dryness. At lengthy intervals, she performed her wifely duty for the sake of the marriage, yet it left her feeling bitter and resentful. Lucia’s husband, Wyler, noticed the detachment in her eyes when she opened her legs for him.

Lately, when the occasion warranted, Wyler smeared lubricant on his tip and pushed into the past—traveling back in his mind to a time when Lucia’s hips churned and her fragrant flower quivered around his cock. He imagined the Lucia of yesteryear, when she was in her thirties, working on a Ph.D. in mathematics, and nearly always had energy left at the end of the day to take him on an erotic journey. Yet, these days she just wanted him to get it over with, to pull out and spurt on her belly because sperm made her itch.

Lucia’s lack of libido caused her to procrastinate in her search for a treatment. She had hoped that she would wake up one-morning feeling better, and that her desire, like a lost pet, would return to paw at the door. She had tried fantasizing, yet images conjured so effortlessly in the past were unsustainable now. Now there was only Wyler, moving slowly between her thighs, grunting and leaving an opalescent puddle on her lower tummy.

Lucia didn’t like pills. She explained to the doctor that she was even sensitive to aspirin. He prescribed a minimal dose of estrogen cream to be applied by hand. When she returned home, she sat up on the bed, drew her knees up to her chest, and spread her legs. Then she put a prescribed amount of the cream on the tip of her index finger and pushed it in as deeply as she could.

“A week or two,” the doctor had said, “and you will feel a difference.”

Two weeks later exactly, Lucia was working in her office at the university when a familiar ache announced itself. The lost pet had returned. The Braid Theory she was studying faded into the background and was replaced by the urge. She shivered and her flower throbbed beneath her long Indian skirt. She glanced at her watch—just after twelve—the traffic would be impossible at this hour. Wyler was a full-time writer and worked from home. Depending on traffic, their home was forty minutes away—too far, too long. She locked the door and returned to her desk. Furtively, she lifted the skirt, lowered her panty and sat in her office chair, resting her feet on the edge of the desktop. She licked her first two fingers and reached to find the tiny teardrop nestled beneath her dark pubic hair.

Lucia imagined Wyler lowering her to the bed, lifting her knees and pushing in slowly. She heard herself moan and closed her eyes. Yet the image of Wyler image was soon replaced by a strong memory. As an undergraduate, she had visited a favorite professor during office hours, boldly locked the door and presented herself on his desk. The professor had wasted little time in draining his pants and slipping inside.

In those days, Lucia’s sexuality purred to life with the touch of a button. With the exception of Wyler, she had never stayed with any man for very long. Curiosity drove her always to greener pastures. A few times she had several different men on the same day. Lucia sifted through memories—the first years with Wyler, handsome and hypersexual. They balled as if there were no tomorrow. More than once the mattress slid off the bed.

Lucia paused to add more moisture to her fingers, leaned back into the chair and sighed deeply. She closed her eyes again and there was Luis. When they met at a seminar eight years ago, he had been forthright about wanting her. She politely declined, yet here he was now, scratching at the door, the outer labia petals were slipping over his engorged cock and letting him in.

The image shifted and the Cuban professor, Osbel, two doors down from her office came into focus. He often stopped by to chat and it was obvious that he liked her. She imagined sitting on her desk, Osbel cupping her below the knees, lifting her legs, his thick, dark shaft pushing down and in, glistening with wetness when he pulled back and plunging forward again.

Her fingers circled her clitoris, transporting her back to an infidelity at a conference in Morelia. She and Wyler had been married for only two years. Pedro, a Portuguese professor from Lisbon, had pushed the right buttons and they lost themselves in each other for hours. She remembered after the first time, he had stayed hard and they had done it again even as his spunk crept out and dripped to the bedspread. They made love well into the night and then she returned to her hotel room to shower and sleep

Lucia kept a thumb on her tiny clitoris and slipped two fingers inside, curling them upward to find her sweet spot. She clenched her teeth to keep pleasure from spilling into the hallway, “Mmm,” the strength of her first orgasm made contractions around her fingers, “huh, mmm,” her hips jerked around in the chair.

She imagined Pedro groaning, gliding back and forth. Another strong climax followed and then smaller ones as Pedro filled her with semen. He had wanted to continue meeting even after the conference, yet she was married and he was engaged. They never connected again, yet his memory was fresh.

Lucia cleaned herself with a tissue. Each of her fantasies had been suffused with bits of reality. Her lost pet had returned, and she was determined to keep it from ever leaving again.

There came a light tapping at her door. Her blood left her face and she hoped that no one had heard her. Quickly she stood, pulled up her panties, straightened her skirt and ran hands through her hair. Then she unlocked the door.

The Cuban professor was there, “Can I treat you to lunch?”

“Okay, thank you.” No harm in that, she thought. Yet, even as she gathered her purse and locked the office, a familiar ache returned.

On The Beach By Andrew Miller

Here we are, thought Marci, first day of our vacation on an island twelve hundred miles south of ice-covered Detroit, and what does Harold order to drink? Iced tea, half sweet, half unsweet. The bartender, an Irish-looking guy with a pearl stud in his right ear, grabbed two plastic jugs from the refrigerator and started pouring. After setting the tea on the bar, he gave Marci that up-eyebrow look, the one reserved for single women after he asked them if they needed help in their room or wanted directions to the beach.

What, she wanted to know, is in the Bahama Mama?

The Bahama Mama contained coconut rum, gold rum, Nassau Royale liquor, a splash of grenadine, orange and pineapple juice. Plus, Angostura bitters, which turned out to be alcohol infused with gentian, herbs, and spices. Did she want the bitters? It was optional, considered by some to be an acquired taste.

Translation, most Americans don’t like it.

Harold was listening, iced tea in one hand, golf book in the other.

“Jesus, all that stuff in one drink. Might upset your stomach.”

Mr. Pearl Stud explained that Angostura bitters was a known remedy for upset stomach and hiccups.

There you have it, everything you could want in one drink.

We’re here to get the full experience, she thought as they traipsed down the path to the beach. And that doesn’t mean ordering the burger plate like that couple on the veranda. Poking fries into their mouths while tethered to their iPads, oblivious to purple-throated humming birds buzzing around the potted flowers, scattered palmettos and palm trees outside the fence, long stretches of white sand streaked with foamy surf.

And, just because the bartender wore a pearl in his right ear, didn’t make him gay.

Marci jammed the insulated tumbler of Bahama Mama into the sand. Harold was off to the right, closer to the beach. The only visual evidence of him was the tip of his golf book. She tilted her head back, held Bahama Mama slush in the back of her mouth until it melted, let the liquid glide down her throat. Sweet, tangy, spicy, cool and warm at the same time.

She spotted a tall figure at the water line, jogging their way.

“My God—look at that.”

He was over six feet tall, well-developed biceps and thighs, smooth, hairless skin, massive, blocky pecs and firm, russet red nipples. Bouncing along the water’s edge in his white thong. She craned her neck as he passed their palm grove. The view was even better from the rear; round, ripe melons flexing, undulating, beckoning her to follow.

She took a swig of her drink, wiped her lips with the back of her hand, then turned her head toward the other hammock.

“Need more ice?”

Harold was a slow drinker. His ice usually melted before he finished the beverage. Right after they were married she suggested that he order an extra glass just for ice. But he hadn’t done that today. Gotten distracted by Angostura bitters, pearl stud.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“Is that, ‘Uh-huh: yes,’ or ‘Uh-huh: no,’ or ‘Uh-huh: Uh-huh’?”

Silence. What is it about guys and golf?

She settled back, took another drink. The hell with more ice. If she wanted another look at Mr. Pearl Stud, she’d get a refill.

“Are you up to five irons yet?”

More silence.

You’d think that the Scots would have figured out everything there was to know about golf years ago. Besides, there’s not much to it. Walk around a manicured lawn and slug it out with a little white ball. Carry a zillion different clubs, even though they all work the same. Handling a golf club is no different than swinging a bat, just aim lower. Once, during a pickup softball game in their back yard, her brother had rolled the ball to her. Thought he was being cute because she kept striking out. She had drilled that one good, ran the bases, sending her cousin and little sister to home plate in the process. After that he didn’t want her to play. No matter. She didn’t like playing ball with him.

My God, here he comes again.

She snatched off her glasses, shined the lenses, put them back on.

Ohhhh…our jogger is little turned on. Hmmm. Bulge in thong had grown.

“Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?”

Harold glanced at the beach, then back to his book.

“I wouldn’t worry about guns on this beach. These people are very strict about weapons—not like the States.”

“Right you are.”

Thong-man flew past their hammocks, feet scritch-skritching over wet sand. Buns seemed larger, more sharply defined.

“Would running around in a thong give a guy a boner?”

No answer. Understanding the five iron requires concentration.

She took another belt of the Bahama Mama, closed her eyes.

Hello there…

No, I didn’t realize you were a masseur.

Yes, yes, I would love a massage.

Here or back in the room?

The sun was doing a number on her belly and legs. That deep-down warm feeling had been building since she lay down. Her fire was stoked. She pointed her toes, rubbed her thighs together, shifted her butt.

She sat up. “Would you spread sun block on my legs? I’m getting all heated up. Don’t want to burn.”

He stretched out his arm, palm up.

“Squirt some on, step right up.”

Marci spread the towel over her thighs.

“Maybe later.”

Mr. Hard-On was out of sight.

Maybe he wasn’t turned on, that was just his regular, Sunday-go-to meeting, relaxed state.

She was on top of him, boobs pressing into his rock-hard chest, the top of her head touching the underside of his chin. A faint odor of sweat in her nostrils, she could hear his heart beating, blood throbbing in his neck, feel his chest rising and falling. His fingers made circles on the nape of her neck, detoured over her scalp, sampled her earlobes, then wandered down her spine. His palms gripped her butt, pressing her abdomen into his. She could tell that he was ready for her.

“Are you OK? Sounds like you were moaning.”

“I’m feeling great.”

“That drink didn’t disagree with you, did it? You gotta be careful with those strange herbs and spices. Remember what happened to Mother at Red Lobster.”

“Your Mom shouldn’t chug wine on an empty stomach. Nothing wrong with those shrimps.”

She lay back, studied the palm fronds.

“Just talking to myself. How’s the golf book?”

“I’m picking up lots of new techniques. The fellas back home will be impressed.”

‘That’s wonderful. What’s the latest on putting?”

“Grip is everything.”

“Read some of it to me.”

“Listen to this: ‘The big disadvantage to the overlap grip is a susceptibility of becoming too handsy and mis-timing the stroke’.”

Sounded like jerk-off instructions.

“I didn’t know golf could be so technical.”

“I need to work on my grip.”

She grabbed the Bahama Mama.

Where’s my jogger? Probably at the nudie beach.

The clothing optional beach was a couple hundred yards beyond the hotel, partially hidden behind mangroves. The woman in the gift shop had given directions, then added, “Them’s that should—don’t. Them’s that shouldn’t—do.”

Mr. Jogger should. Definitely.

“Hey, how’d you like to go down to the adult beach? It’s just past the mangroves.”

Must be on to the pitching wedges. That’s when golf really gets exciting.

No sign of jogger. She checked her watch.

“Are you hungry?”

He looked up.

“Yeah.”

She sat up, felt around for her sandals.

“Let’s grab a couple of Singapore Slings, an hors d’oeuvre plate, sit in our hot tub, have a party.”

“What’s on the hors d’oeuvre plate?

She had studied the to-go menu last night. She tossed down the last of her Bahama Mama.

“The super-duper plate is called The Deep-Sea Mariner.” She closed her eyes, spread her toes. “Oysters on the half shell, homemade crackers, grilled lobster tail, angels on horseback—that’s an oyster wrapped in bacon then grilled—an assortment of Danish cheeses, homemade French bread—plus lots of tropical fruits: papaya, three kinds of mango, pineapple, star fruit, kiwi. And, to top it off, a bunch of fresh fruit mini-tarts.”

“Sounds like a feast.” He closed the golf book, set it next to him on the hammock. “And what was that about the adult beach and wearing a thong?”

Pamela’s Wet Dreams By Charles E.J. Moulton

Confusion. It all seemed completely topsy-turvy to her, all these things happening to her, these harsh words, these accusations, these strange remarks, all these hard looks. Would she do this? Could she fill in for that guy at the theatre? Did she have time to empty the dish washer, mow the lawn, bring the kid to sleep, fetch the bottle from the cellar? Why had she not fixed that lamp in the kitchen yet? Too fucking much at once.

Yes, Freddie had so much to do at the office, he was so overworked and she did have the time, being a freelance artist. La-dee-frigging-dah. Juggling between housewife chores and learning choreographies for “All That Jazz”, hopping between finishing that painting the bank wanted and teaching that drama student.

A Renaissance Woman.

That’s what the press had called her.

Freddie?

He sat in his office chair eight hours a fucking day, stressed out – hah! – pointing his finger at his employees and his cock at his secretary, wondering why she had not filled out the forms yet or brought him coffee today.

And then: that day. The bike-ride. Seven year-old Joshua had to have his grey shorts on, Freddie screamed, those that went over the knees, otherwise, Christ help them, he could not go on the frigging ride. But, oh, when Pamela, the ultimate Renaissance Woman, asked Freddie why on God’s name he had to have the grey shorts on, Freddie went nuts. Pamela answered that, damn it, she was the woman in the house and could darned well decide what her own son should wear – and added in her own mind that she would find the first stud and fuck him – just to get even.

A silent bike ride followed, the kid playing in the park and Pamela and Freddie sitting on different park benches – hating each other. A silent summer fucking family barbecue, Freddie brooding. A silent evening, Freddie in the garden, playing with his Smartphone.

Pamela? Writing another story on her Samsung laptop.

And, hot damn, wondering why the hell she had to go through this.

Success, heck, yeah, lots of it.

A husband she loved, sure as hell.

But also a husband that drove her nuts.

“Is the barbecue thingie gonna stay out there in the garden all night?” he yapped.

“Shit, Freddie,” she yapped back, “are you gonna bitch all night? You the man, right?”

So, Freddie banged up angrily to the upper floor, telling Pamela that she could leave the pavillion open. After all, it wasn’t gonna rain tonight. Well, lah-dee-fagoolin-dee-dah.

“What am I,” Pamela thought to herself, “the local maid? There’s a storm flashing outside. What do you want? Should I lick your nuts? Lick them yourself.”

Darned, she was cooking inside, flaming, an inferno. In her mind, Pamela Reiff wanted to shove that guy’s nuts up his keester.

Pamela came to bed, as always, three hours later than Freddie, after having written another story and sent it to another publisher.

Pamela meditated in bed, lying on her back, fingering her fanny and boobies, closing her eyes, saw that her chakras were aligned, rightly colored, the right size and that her breathing was steady. She did her best to try, at least try, to count the positive things in her life: successful author, successful actress, singer and dancer, semi-successful painter. And Freddie wasn’t a keester all of the time, but she had suspected the guy to be a borderline psychotic for quite a while.

He was good in bed, when he was in the mood. With that long cock of his shoving up her sweet and wet furburger, slapping two hard testicles against her asshole, causing her boobs to dance and her buttcheeks to wobble, knowing why she had married him in the first place: he was a darned good fuck. Okay, not just for the sex, but, after all, when he straddled her face and squirted that cum onto her cheeks, she felt good. Salty, luscious sperm running down her cheeks onto her tits.

Not today, though. Today, they hated each other.

So, Pamela Reiff lay there in the marital water bed, fell asleep and escaped.

Pamela felt herself sinking into another dream. She had reached the upper crown-chakra when she drifted into another reality. A familiar reality. The soul’s reality. Strange and yet so … what was the word? Oh, she would think of it. Lovely. That was it.

A lovely spiritual reality.

Green trees were there, of a greener tinge that she had seen anywhere in the world. Blue water. Not just blue because of the shining sky, but true blue in every sense of the word. Red roses, redder than blood, more red than cherry juice, more intense than red apples. A sun as bright yellow as the most ripe lemon, only that this lemon was not sour, but as ripe as her own C-cup knockers, more pink than her most aroused pussy. A sunset as sexy as apricot colored candy. Earth as brown as chocolate. And a sweet fog over it all. No, not fog. A sweet mist, ever so slight. And flowers the colour of cum.

Pamela knew she was dreaming, but it was pure escapism by choice and by necessity.

She walked down a long path in that dream, a long and winding road down through a forest patch full of happy trolls and giggling fairies, all pointing their fingers at her and cheering for her to find the valley of love, finally strolling down into a bright expanse exploding in so many colours that it dazzled the eye.

The most amazing thing about this place were the men. Many men of all creeds and races. All these men lay there on the grass, grass leading down to a large lake, leaning their heads against their hands, smiling at her, all of them jerking their huge cocks, raised erectly toward the sky, waiting to be blown, sucked and fucked.

“Who are you guys?” she asked them, heartily.

One African fellow, the one with the biggest dick of them all, answered her:

“We are here to relieve you of your tension.”

She giggled, a bit shy over getting all this acceptance and sexy love.

“You’re ready for it, Pamela,” an Asian guy with a gigantic schlong mused.

“What do you mean?” she chirped, looking down on her own body and discovering that she was stark naked, her jugs willing to be licked. As soon as she discovered her own nudity, she saw that the valley was filled to the brim with fucking couples, simply expressing their own lust for life. Blonde Caucasiangang bnag women riding Arapaho cocks, even granting Pamela a glimpse of the white-red child to come. African women fucking Asian dicks, giving Pamela a sneak preview of the yellow-brown baby of the future. There were literally hundreds of copulating people here … and it all made sense. Love, lust, freedom of expression, it all made sense. There was no hate here. Just emotion. Just … life.

“Sex is not a sin, is it?” she asked a white boy with a cock that seemed to be nine inches long.

He shook his head.

“You wanna try tasting my glory?”

Pamela smiled, nodding, looking forward to this heavenly gang-bang.

So, this frustrated woman, her erect titties pounding, her throbbing pussy leaking, her pink asshole and all expectant, went down onto her knees and took the first dreamy and long dick in her mouth, sucking like a genius, tasting that wonderfully salty thing, grabbing two balls with her hand, massaging them, licking them, putting them into her mouth, switching to the long schlong again and loving it.

It was half-way into the facial, that white stud squirting his cum onto her willing face, that Pamela suddenly felt a little peck on her anus. Looking behind her, she noticed the dreamy black fuck trying his best to gently shove in his long one-eyed-willie into her butt.

It hurt, she would admit that, but seeing the line of dicks that were rowing up to stick their penises onto her willing tongue, it was a pain that was worth something.

Weirdly enough, the Arapaho fellow that had fucked the blonde chick was now sharing her body with the black guy, fucking her pussy ever so gently. It went on and on, so many schlongs fucking and squirting into her pussy, onto her ass, onto her face. She lost count at twenty men. It went on forever and ever.

“Glory,” she thought to herself, “we women have it good. Men have to take a break after squirting. We can fuck as long as we want with as many men as we want … at least until our pussies and asses get red and sore. Fuck, yeah, I love men after all.”

The glorious finale came when Pamela was met by ten men, all of different nationalities. She took a look at them before swallowing their cocks. One American Indian – a red cock. One Chinese man – a yellow cock. One Indian fellow – a nougat cock. One Swedish guy – a white cock. One Italian macho – a beige cock. One African bloke – a black cock. One French dude – a pink cock. One Brazlian gentleman – a beer-coloured dick. One Russian man – a creme-coloured penis. And finally: a British fellow with the biggest white cock she had ever seen in her life.

The British fellow banged his cock into her mouth harder and faster than she had ever seen anyone fuck before. His helmet felt like one of those big hard walnuts and his big tasty cock had the hardness of a wooden pole. Pamela’s cunny dripped like crazy. Cumming on the floor under her cunt while his gender pumped in and out of her word hole aroused her in ways that defied gravity. Pamela felt like flying. She moaned and groaned in higher and higher tones, while other dream men fucked her from behind.

She knew instinctively that these dream gigolos loved her voice range climbing into the extreme high range. Now she sucked a new cock and exerted small staccato squeaks as he rolled over her tongue. With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, that sounded like she had just finished a cocktail, she took out the Brit dick out of her mouth, wiped sperm off her chin and exclaimed: “Lick my pussy long and hard. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy. Show me you are good for something other than to bitch.”

The red dick didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders after the Brit cock was finished. He lift her off the ground, his dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind. Pamela and the red dick rode like masters, while six other cocks pleased her other holes on the grass. The sun was setting as the Indian fellow inserted his tongue into her pussy snatch for the forth time. She had the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that she soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of her own pubic hair.

She alternately rubbed her C-cup titties and his by now ruffled hairdo. Head hair on pubic hair, cock hair on pussy hair, clit-juice on cum, tit on muscle.

The Russian fellow now shoved the Indian guy aside aside and began licking Pamela’s snatch. The sound he was making was quite similar to the sound when eating spare ribs. The slurping and licking sounds made her think that there were gallons of clitty-juice in there – and there probably was.

She laughed to herself, aroused by this amazing sensation, loving the way that stud licked her clit. It really made her understand why she liked men in the first place. They certainly knew how to fuck, if nothing else.

Then, the triumph: all the men that had fucked her up until now came up to her face and all squirted their sperm on her face, all at once.

There were gallons, litres, nay, metric tons of cum on Pamela’s face that dreamy night. And she ended up finishing off her dream fuck with a long and very sexy shag with the only guy that she hadn’t fucked yet: the Irish fellow with the ten inch erection. Wonderful pain.

One ray of light hit Pamela’s eye. It fought itself through the window and forced her left eyelid open. This eye slowly met the sun, shining through a crack in the blinds and letting the sensitive blinking of his eyelid open. Orangecolored see-through-draperies graced a cream painted window. A heart hung on a string from the curtain. It bobbed slowly back and forth from a breeze that came from somewhere. Pamela knew not from where. Sighing and yawning, Her other eye opened and she first wondered where she was.

Her eyes drifted over to the pillow next to where she was laying. Crumpled orange sheets with pictures of Tut-Anch-Amun on them met her gaze. The satin sheets felt soft. Her dreams smelled of hot sex, of bodies intermingling, of hot words of lust, of newly washed bodies reeking of coconut cream, green grass and blue water, red roses and apricot cum.

Reality, as of yet, cold, but expectant.

Pamela looked around and remembered the dreamy Irish cock, the tanned skin of the Brazilian fuck and the long dick of the Arapaho fellow. She had never asked their names.

Did it matter?

Pamela breathed in slowly. The salty, welcoming smell of frying bacon met her nose.

Soft music playing in that kitchen, the noises of plates being taken out of cupboards.

When she stood up, she stumbled over her own bra, panties and skirt. They lay in a crumpled bunch on the floor next to Fred’s ancient sperm-covered copy of Playboy. Faked old-style floor, made to look like log-cabin-boards, graced the floor.

Picking up her panties, bra and skirt and putting them on, Pamela noticed Fred’s Elvis T-shirt laying over the chair. Fred certainly was a virile as Elvis. Walking out of the bedroom, she noticed the reproduction of an old Monet painting on the outer wall. It all seemed new, though so old. Walking out of the bedroom, the coffee and toast also came floating over. The balcony table overlooked what from her position seemed to be the inner yard.

“Fred?”

Was all this for her? Breakfast? Her husband made her … breakfast?

Another man she had known way back now had returned, looking out across the spring-like city of wondrous lust.

“I love you!”

Pamela shrugged.

“What?”

Fred’s cock in her mouth felt like the soft fabric of the Persian carpet under her feet: soft and yet hard. The fluffy sound of Pamela’s bare knees under her knees felt like a miracle. More home than what she had in years.

Fred looked down at her features, her hair swaying in the breeze from the open balcony door.

“I am sorry I have been a jerk,” he cried.

The two of them hesitated, like teenagers hesitating before a first blowjob. The breeze refreshing, their souls still shy even after a complete take-over of nightly lust, they realized that they looked at each other for the very first time and liked what they saw.

The woman sucked her husband’s cock. She bit her lip, trembled a bit, exuded some gorgeous perfume, sweated, sighed and received a hot-load of his sperm, willingly accepting it into her mouth. The couple fucked again, showered together, woke up their son, forgave each other and made another child that evening.

They never misunderstood each other again.

There was a whole lot of love and loads of cocksucking.

And Pamela’s wet dreams were exuberant.

She never revealed it to Fred, but, after being shagged by her hard hubbie every night, in that dream valley Pamela gave lots of international dream men loads of wet cummy fellatio.

The Pyramid By Michael Fontana

They first met at work where Perry noticed the tattoo of a pyramid on the back of Michelle’s neck, just below the hairline at the top of the spine, in a place where he wished to reach down and touch to feel the imprint and then to kiss it, figuring it would spiral her out of control somehow, that this solitary wild spot held the key to all the sexual circuits scattered throughout her body.

Still they said nothing, did nothing, just danced around each other when a transaction had to be discussed or a ledger entry or a check cut. She was the accountant, he the spender, this game of opposites in the workplace driving him near to sorrows with his insatiable desire for her. They were a similar age, early fifties, an age when others were sexually waning but he wanted more. He felt dead without it.

She was tall and black haired, brown-eyed, low key in speech and eye contact, dressed in slacks and fine blouses, limited makeup and perfume. That damned tattoo appeared in the midst of all this modesty like an insult in a way, a way of saying to him “you’re mistaken as to who I am.” He was tall also, lean, dressed in suits and loud ties, spending money to lure further business to the firm. The lunches, the parties, the evening events, it was all pandemonium of sorts but it was sexless and drunken and beyond anything as interesting as Michelle’s solitude.

He returned to the office one evening after a charity gala, mouth in a burn from red wine, and found Michelle still behind her desk, still fingering the calculator with one hand, ruffling papers with the other. He stopped her right there, put his hand on the hand with the papers.

“Bet you didn’t calculate this,” he said and lowered his face for a kiss which she returned deeply, lips for lips, tongue for tongue, the breath slowing, shallowing, until she slid her chair back and pulled him down to her by the hair, towards her and then towards the floor.

It was strange to undress on the carpet that they trod every day, that everyone ignored and found dull but suddenly it was not dull, it was illumined by the bareness of their bodies, by the electricity of their desire as he opened her blouse like the pages of a sacred book, the beauty of her nakedness beneath almost unbearable to him. But he reached for it and kissed it, sucked her breasts which rose with his attentions and she reaching up to undress him as well.

Suddenly his mouth explored her further, dipping down to her slacks, unzipping and unbuckling them, removing the sweet silk of her panties and then down to lick her in slow circles around the edge of her cunt, slowly working his way inward to the clit and focusing on that, the way it made her jump and yelp.

She nearly slithered in her passion, her fingers working clumsily to undress him as well, her hand reaching for his cock, yanking it until it stood upright and then lowering herself to lick around it and then suck it slowly, moistly, so that he could barely contain himself.

When he entered her it was as if they had lost any separation at all between them. The ride twisted and turned them, they growled and howled at certain junctures. She dragged her nails down the backs of his arms until they bled and then he released into her. But still the biggest prize remained unclaimed. He pulled her head forward and found the pyramid there, he anointed it with a finger full of their combined juices and then he kissed it clean.