DESIRE: A Pornographic Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton

It was a wonder Mr. Gallagher didn’t actually run up and wank on those erect nipples of mine. The concentration he rewarded with shot directly into my panties, my damp cunt literally overflowing with juices. I must say, I had slipped into my most hot attire, tits bouncing out of my white bra. I wore my stuff with such fury, it all looked like an attack on his penis. I knew he wanted to fuck me. I sort of longed to see how long he was, but mostly I just wanted to become a hot famous cocksucker.

     He looked at my resumé, nodding.

     “Come on,” I thought to myself. “Look up at me. After what Josh told me, I have to find out. I have wanted your cock for so long.”

     Without looking at me, he leafed through the pictures I gave him, one by one. For every photo, he raised his eyebrows a bit higher and nodded more ferociously. Finally, when that seventh picture landed on his desk, his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Not once did he actually react to the horny slut that was sitting here and hoping to unzip his fly.

     “Where did you say these pictures were taken?”

     I tried to concentrate, my voice shaky and nervous.

     “Uhmm, in L.A. A female photographer named Jessie Barnaby took them. A friend recommended me to contact her. Jessie finally consented to take the pictures after I showed her my portfolio from Wet Dream.”

     Mr. Gallagher uttered a surprised gasp.

     “Our rival.”

     “Yes.”

     “Very good, indeed. You make love to the camera, Pamela. You will certainly raise a few cocks. Mine, as well. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

     I smiled. “No problem. No problem at all.”

     Gotcha!

     After contemplating my next sentence, I stuttered for a bit, grinning from ear to ear, thinking if I really should be so bold to say what I was going to say.

     “After all, that is what I am in this business to do. Raise as many cocks as I can.”

     He smiled, still looking at the photos.

     “You are in this business to do what, Pamela?”

     “I am in this business to raise cocks.”

     Come on, man, I thought, this just has to wake you up.

     Still not looking up, his eyeballs focused on the nude pics of mine, he continued: “What surprised me was to that you called me at all, with you speaking to Josh and all.”

     I gave him an ambiguous smile.

     “Well, Josh told me you were well endowed. You knew your stuff. You were … a fantastic dick pleaser.”

     Now, for the first time, he looked up at me.

     It was a look of awe. No. Sperm. He needed to squirt.

     “I want to suck your cock.”

     He cleared his throat.

     “I beg your pardon?”

     “I am a glamour model for men’s magazines, Mr. Gallagher,” I said. “One that has never fucked before the lense. Off the lense, I fuck all the time. I mean, I have had so many men fuck me…”

     I paused, laughing.

     Mr. Gallagher chuckled. “What?”

     “Well, I fuck around so much that my girlfriends all call me Rocket Pussy, the vehicle that needs male fuel.”

     Mr. Gallagher giggled, again. Now, his lips were beginning to dampen. They started to look like my pussy, red and wet. I knew now, that I desperately needed to suck that cock.

I just had to give him a blowjob.

Especially since Josh told me that the guy was gay.

     “What made you come here with this portfolio, Pamela?”

     I shifted in my seat, looking right and left, searching for some corner to crawl into. I knew that I needed to say this, but I had no idea how. It was strange. A girl like me, taking off her clothes for thousands of men and now embarrassed to her tits.

     Then, I just decided to say it. No mercy.

     I took a long look at him and smiled, now very much tongue-in-cheek.

     “I wanna find out,” I responded. “I came here to find out if your dick is as huge as they say it is. Josh told me you were gay. I couldn’t believe that. If you are, I wanna convert you. I mean you can’t be, being the editor of this magazine.”

     I paused, waiting.

     “Can you?”

     The editor of Great Gazongas sat back in his leather chair, putting his tongue firmly into his cheek, stroking his black chest hair with the finger wearing a golden ring.

     “I met you at so many parties,” I continued. “I went into so many back rooms and fucked so many guys. But actually, I only wanted you. Your…”

     “My cock?” he filled in.

     I nodded. “If you are that big, women just have to suck it. A cock like that is made to be sucked.”

     Mr. Gallagher grinned and sighed.

     “Well, girls do like my cock.”

     “Really?”

     “They do.”

     “And me? Can I? Please?”

     “Be my guest.”

     “So, you are not gay?”

     He smiled. “You can start sucking and find out if I react.”

     I looked at him like a kid that had just heard that Santa was for real. “What?” I cried. “You want me to fuck you?”

     I started clapping my hands, looking like a happy two year old toddler with her first copy of Winnie the Pooh on her lap. I couldn’t wait to see that thing in the flesh.

     The editor stood up, circled the table and waited.

     “What are you waiting for? Open the gift. Unwrap the schlong.”

     “Josh Templeton said you were gay.”

     Paul Gallagher threw back his head and laughed.

     “Josh is the editor of Wet Dream, baby. He is always telling people that kind of stuff.”

     “How did he know about your big cock, if he hadn’t sucked on it?”

     “Everybody knows my cock is big.”

     I looked at him with pleading puppy-dog eyes.

     Paul Gallagher, again without a word, slowly took off his Armani suit jacket and dropped it on the floor.

     “My long, fat dick is famous in this country. Every damn chick in this business has sucked it.”

     I looked at those pants with great interest. I felt like a schoolgirl, opening her birthday present and hoping her favourite toy was in there.

     With trembling hands, my nail polished hands reached for the fly. The zipping sound made my heart go bump a couple of times. What was going to be in there? How big would this be?

     I opened the buckle first, then the button, then I lowered his pants. Meanwhile, while I looked at the lump underneath those jocks, the editor took off his shirt, displaying that thick chest-hair.

I nearly went crazy. Underneath those tight jocks something huge resided. I mean, it was huge. By now, the cocks on my repertoire had been red, brown, black, blue, white and even purple. I sucked small cocks and medium size ones. One cock had been so big that my pussy still hurt a month later. Those eight inches made my cunt sing and cry at the same time. This one? Would my vagina hurt as well? I hoped so.

“I am really curious,” I grinned.

The editor pursed his lips. “Shut up and take it out.”

     What plopped out of those underpants outsized them all and it grew bigger and bigger as I watched it. Even watching it made it grow. The long thing bounced, its helmet greeting me with a friendly, fun loving “Hello!”. I felt like a tourist watching the Washington Monument for the first time. This thing had a life of its own. A snake on its way to the apple.

     My pink mouth took that salty male prick into its mouth and began sucking it. It was like sucking on the biggest lollipop known to man. Captain Salty’s delight. It was like travelling with the greyhound bus, knowing that the U.S. was not the limit. This bus would now travel globally. The thing that amazed me was that it grew bigger for every second. That penis tasted wonderful. How wonderful to suck a dick this big, I thought to myself. Size does matter. Guys, it does matter.

     The editor grabbed my head and pushed his cock into my mouth, harder and harder. I could feel that dick grow in my mouth again, the helmet just simply turning into an apple in there. I groaned.

     “How big are you, man?” I asked, mumbling as I sucked.

     The Gallagher smiled. “13 inches long, 5 inches thick.”

     “Mr. Gallagher,” I gasped, still mumbling, enthusiastic. “You taste great. Gosh, you should take this taste and make it into a soft drink. Your cock beats pop-corn!”

     “They all say that.”

     I took the cock out of my mouth with a witty plopping sound.

“Please, fuck me, now. I have just got to have you in me.”

     “Call me Paul, you horny slut.”

     “Paul,” I spat back, feeling randy and bitchy. “Shut up and just stick it in.”

     With brute force, Paul lift me up by my tush, away from my seat, ripping my clothes to shreds, not that the clothes had covered much of me anyway. Completely naked, he lay me on his desk and shoved in his big stick into my aching vagina. I saw stars. It hurt very badly, it was enormous, but it was the most horny pain I had ever felt. He pounded his cock into my wet cunny so fast and with such vigour that I felt like a real whore. I loved feeling cheap, real cheap, like a hooker, a sex-object. Gosh, this guy really could fuck.

     My 40DD tits bounced back and forth.

     I moaned, pleading for his penis to thrust deeper.

     “Let me prove to you that I am not gay.”

     My jugs bounced, doing the jive and the quickstep in his hands.

     Now, he turned me around, picked me up, slapped me around and spread my legs, shoving me against the wall. I didn’t know what to expect, but when that big penis slid into my asshole it was the most luscious hurting sensation. Now, that stud really gave it to me.

He fucked me, slapped me, rode me, called me really dirty names, massaged my funbags, grabbed me by my hair, sticking his fingers in my mouth and letting me taste my own cum.

“You are the randiest little tease I’ve met in a long time. What a horny little whore you are.”

     “Please, squirt into my mouth! Don’t wait. Take your cock out of my ass and give me your sperm on my tongue.”

     I opened my mouth and pointed on it.

     “In here.”

     He withdrew his cock from my ass, turned me around, pushed me down on the floor and threw my head back. I opened my mouth wide, sticking out my tongue, the Rocket Pussy pleading for her white fuel. Paul wanked his cock faster and faster, in fact, so fast that I couldn’t see his hands anymore. They were all in a blur. Paul threw back his head, like some fucking porn star, laughing and closing his eyes, making a mean grimace, twisting his face into a snarl.

     Then the juice came shooting out of his cock. Tons of it, glasses of it, a whole bottle full. My tits were covered with cum, my mouth was full. I was covered from head to toe in sperm.

     “Do I have the job?”

     “As long as you keep sucking my cock, yes.”

     “Then, I will suck you again.”

     “Keep sucking my dick and you will keep getting jobs.”

     “And if I stop?”

     “There are other girls willing to suck my dick!”

     We ended up laughing and fucking our heads off. This time, I swallowed every drop of his cum. The office soon smelled of sex, sperm, female juices and hot pussy.

     “So, what’s the verdict,” Paul asked me.

     “Gay or straight?” I responded.

     He shrugged.

     “That cock is straight. Definately.”

     He looked at his own cock. “It’s pointing toward the ceiling, baby. Wanna suck it again?”

     I looked at it. “You are right. I have to work on that one. It needs more size.”

     “What are you going for? The Washington Monument?”

     “Yes.”

     And so I began sucking it a third time that day.

     While I titty-fucked his prick, I said:

     “Wanna invite Josh for a gang-bang?”

     “But he is gay, is he not?”

     I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

     “You wanna find out?” he asked as I sucked on his balls.

     I nodded.

     “Okay.”

     I stood up, put on my clothes and smiled.

     “I will call you in an hour and tell you if he is gay.”

     After all, Paul knew that I also wanted to find out if Josh’s cock also was as long as people were saying. If it was, his cock was also worth being converted. I have always loved sucking on two big cocks at once.

     If I play my cards right, both Wet Dream and Great Gazongas will soon belong to me.

     I am stuck in elevator reading this into my dick-ta-phone, hoping that the repairman will fuck me on my way to Josh.

     After all, what is a poor horny slut like me gonna do without a cock for ten minutes?

Adventures of a Sex Addict: Hamburg Part Two By Mr. E

The next day I wasn’t intending to go to the Sex House. I wasn’t intending to go back to see Anna. She was gorgeous, she was soooo sexy. But there are hundreds of other options for sex on my doorstep in Hamburg.

And if I went back what would I do with her?

It was a wet and rainy day and as usual I had a free afternoon. So I decided I would buy a toy from the sex shop that was constantly open next door to my hotel and have another play with the lovely Anna. I bought a toy, a bullet on a string with a controller to go up my butt and give me pleasant vibrations. The bloke in the shop asked if I wanted it taken out of the wrapper, so I said yes for ease of transport and put it in my pocket. He told me to have fun, and I smiled, intending to. I popped a quick Viagra, not that Anna needed any help making me hard, but I wanted to enjoy myself as much as possible and the stimulant always took a bit of the pressure off.

Round the corner and straight up the stairs to the first floor. I wasn’t particularly worried if Anna wasn’t there, I could always find someone else to give me a hand.

But she was, a few other girls were in her corridor too.

I walked straight up to Anna, she smiled at me and asked if I wanted to go in. I was half way through the door before she’d finished speaking.

I gave her a hundred euros, there was no point messing about.

She asked if I wanted the same as yesterday. I showed her the toy and then realised there were no batteries in it. Damn.

She said she could use her fingers. I nodded, yes please.

I stripped off and lay down beside her. She started by kissing me all over, kissing my neck and chest and working her way down my torso. It was hot and sexy and tender and sweet. It made me like her more.

She slipped a condom over two fingers, and although her hands were pretty small I was a little worried. She dripped oil on her hand and then positioned herself next to my hips. I raised one knee and tilted towards her. Anna positioned her fingers right there, between my buttocks, and then pushed.

My cock stood straight up and she began working it with her other hand. She pressed in deeper into my anus and then pulled my cock hard, working me from both angles. Almost immediately I was gasping and panting for breath, the sensation almost overwhelming.

Watching this sexy young woman kneeling between my thighs, one hand on my cock, the other between my butt cheeks: it was incredible.

She worked me hard, my cock was so close to bursting I was sure my cum would hit the ceiling. But I didn’t. There were so many times I wanted to cum, but stopped myself. I wanted to feel her mouth on me again. She wanked me hard, I was gasping at every stroke. Then she stopped and asked if I wanted her to suck me. Oh yes, oh yes I wanted it so much.

She changed position, kneeling beside me, her head facing away from me, her bum easily reachable. My hand wandered all over her body as she sucked my cock. She went deeper, taking almost all of it into her mouth. She sucked harder and for longer than the day before. I just lay there enjoy it.

Then I asked her to lay next to me, I snuggled into her hot, sexy body. Her curves so soft. And I hugged her tightly as she wanked me. Then I wanked and hugged her tighter. As I came I cried out her name involuntarily. It was only after that I thought about how weird it was, especially as I work with someone called Anna. Who was I thinking about when I closed my eyes and hugged that gorgeous body to me, kissing her chest, and yanking my cock until I came all over myself.

Anna chatted to me again afterwards, but also let me know we’d gone over our time. I was happy to give her another fifty and a tip on top. Every minutes with that girl was like visiting heaven. She made me feel amazing, unlike any woman I’ve been with for a long time.

If only I hadn’t broken my cock (over-used and slightly sore) and had more than an hour on my last day I would have visited again. Good job I wasn’t there for a week, my bank balance wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

The Twilight Zone of Sensuality By Charles E.J. Moulton

Did it matter… in the long run?

There was no question that it hurt.

Cedrick just wondered if it really had any relevance at all that it hurt … in the long run.

In the long run.

Would it still hurt that he had lost her … in twenty years?

Twenty years without Jenny?

Could he live without her?

Could, yeah.

Wanting to, no way.

He wanted to keep loving her.

No, wrong: he needed to keep loving her.

Looking at these waves crash against the shore and the sunset meeting the horizon, feeling the gentle surface of the beer bottle in his hand, the summer wind against his face, that felt pretty good. Just sitting here felt good, cooling down. There was no woman beside him. No nagging woman, talking, chirping, hoping, dreaming of shopping. Oh, but no loving, kissing and hugging woman, opening wide, telling him to squirt his juice onto her tonsils. No love. In spite of all the nagging, that was what life was about after all. Love.

Holy shit. If it hadn’t been for that gnawing feeling in his gut, he would’ve been happy. The emotion lay there in his bowels, screaming for him to let it out, bashing its bloody symbolic head against the proverbial wall of his soul, yelling:

“I want her back! Damn you, call her, stupid moron and say that you are sorry! You have her number! Just say you’re sorry!”

Why had she… why had she not… why had he… what had she meant… why had she brooded so that evening? Why had he not reacted quicker when she had asked him to go fetch that necklace for her? Had he used the wrong washcloth for the bathroom?

Cedrick sighed, looking across the ocean, hearing those waves gently, ever so gently, crash against the shore, the waves approaching with that weird, steady and solitary security, knowing they would blast against the seaside and die, turning into foam and molecules.

The stone he sat on gave way for a moment, making him realize he sat on something not quite steady, not quite firmly planted in the ground. As Cedrick tumbled off, landing on the sand, quickly standing up and brushing himself off, he witnessed a small and brown animal crawling out of the hole that was under the bolder. It glanced back at Cedrick, its eye-whites glimmering in the oncoming dusk.

A stone that had been positioned between the grass and the beach had been the home for a… hiding groundhog? Yes. Well, not that Cedrick knew so much about groundhogs, but this guy seemed so agile, so quick, so alert. He popped out of the hole, scared, glancing back and forth, and scooting off into the distance, leaving Cedrick quite dumbfounded. Had this little animal actually lift the bolder out of its socket and him, the grown man, off the ground?

Whatever the case might have been, Cedrick stood there with his right hand in his Camel shorts, the wind in his hair, the salty air up his nostrils, looking at the scared animal disappearing beyond the sand dunes.

Just like that animal had toppled him off that stone just now, Jenny had toppled him off the rock of his life. Her words, oh, those mean words: “It’s over, damn it,” came from a row that had escalated out of nothing. Him not cleaning up enough, leaving pizza cartons all over the place, using the wrong sponge for the bath, whatever. And soon enough, Jenny and Cedrick were packing bags and sorting out jewelry and photos.

That damn flat in Walthamstow seemed darned empty comparing to the fine hubbub of their mutual London penthouse.

It could be that Jenny missed him, too, although she seemed to be rushing across the proverbial sand dunes of existence, hoping he would get lost… or something. Whatever. In his heart, he hoped that Jenny wanted him back.

As Cedrick loafed two steps toward the beach, minding his own business, forgetting about the strange and very strong groundhog, a lock of Jenny’s hair, that lock that she had given him during their trip to the French coast, came falling out of his pocket, landing on the sand. One lock in a small plastic folder, created for a ring, he believed. One blonde lock with the words: “I love you!” written on it in pink ink.

She had laughed when she wrote those words, remarking how pink ink actually had a very nice meaning for her. “That book by Dr. Seuss my mom gave me twenty years ago, for my 4th birthday,” she had mused with his gender halfway into her mouth and her pink pen in the other, “it was called One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. There was a funny creature in there was a funny creature there called a yink that liked to drink pink ink.”

“So, what do you like to drink, babe?” Cedrick had responded.

She had given him a wink.

“Cum on, you know that!”

The sting of dying laughter buried into his heart again like a knife, memories of a happy facial fest making him realize the little sign of love on that folder was no more. No more. Just a small lock of Jenny’s pussy hair from a delicious bush meant to be a lovely token of affection. So why was it that he had eloped to France… again… just to escape her?

In fact, they had fucked right here on this spot, on this very beach. They had thought they had been alone. Maybe they had, until they heard a branch crack. It could’ve been the groundhog. The voyeur.

Wait a minute. When had they met? Four years ago? Yeah. It could’ve been the same groundhog, regarding the fact that groundhogs lived from 9 to 14 years.

Cedrick looked over at the tumbled rock, recalling the spot just a few feet away from it. It had been the spot where Jenny had stripped naked four years ago, spreading her legs, letting Cedrick stick his tongue up Jenny’s snatch, making him bury his head deeper and yet deeper inside her pussy, tasting her juices, licking that salty liquid off her clit.

Cedrick shook his head, more tears than arousal inside his soul.

“Why do I revisit every single place that meant something to us? Am I nuts?”

He walked over, clutching that lock, hoping that the temptation of going to that brothel on the west side would wither away. That would be cheap. Right?

“Torture.”

Just a few minutes and the sun would be gone beyond the horizon. The groundhog would be sleeping and Cedrick would be joining the rich bums and the fifty-somethings in the hotel bar, getting drunk on cheap Chardonnay.

“Wonderful torture. I’ll just go back to my hotel room and squirt on Kimberley Clark.”

Cedrick turned around and faced the setting sun with all its dying dark orange and pink tinges, all its longing and mysterious bliss, all that spiritual beauty.

“Come back!”

Damn, how sappy was that.

Cedrick, the seven-inch-cocked stud, sounding like Kate Winslet in Titanic, his tears rushing down across his face. Sappy enough.

His £4,99 Woolworth sandals loafed almost involuntarily over toward the beaten path leading to the hotel, his hand sticking to that lock of Jenny’s clit hair in his Camel shorts again, his brain wondering why the fuck he did that, his soul really wanting to hold on to that pussy lock. No, not only hold on to it. He wanted to take out the picture of her he had brought along, whip out his dick and masturbate to it… as he cried… drunk and alone.

“Hell, Cedrick,” he mumbled to himself, “there are other women. It’s over, boy.”

Yeah, that other voice whispered inside him, that he had to hold on to true love.

True fuck?

That, too.

That was true. Her… what was the French word for it? Joie de vivre, lust for life. Man they had fucked in every imaginable position: anal, oral, riding, doggy-style – ooh, those wobbling buttcheeks – titfucking. They had done it all. She had made him fuck him openly in her car once, in a park behind a bush, even in the airplane rest room on their way to the Maldives once, even in her parents’ house – while the old folks were watching telly.

Heck, she had taken him into the ladies room of their local London pizzeria and given him a blowjob once, facial, cumshot, swallow and all. Imagine the looks on those old ladies faces when Jenny wandered out of the cabin with a huge smile on her face, Cedrick dashing out toward the parking lot, Jenny’s chin sporting a large sperm drop.

Now, years later, after a painful break-up, in a revisited version of the original France where they had fucked first, there were about seven people in the bar. When Cedrick arrived, piano-bar music filled the air, inspiring him to plop down by a window with a seaside view, the moon now rising over the Atlantic, sending reflections across the water, making him feel even worse, getting drunk and dying fast.

“But what do you do when you can’t let someone go? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

Cedrick’s mumbles sounded like groundhogs coughing drunken basenotes, hiding hearts overfilled with woe.

“You wallow in self-pity, crying over fucking spilled milk, hoping to mop up the droplets of tit-milk that can be saved, jerking your schlong off to a mere memory.”

The thin waiter with the blue eyes arrived, taking order upon order. As the evening went on, the waiter brought Cedrick his third Louis Royer Cognac that night and Cedrick secretly took out the plastic folder with the blonde lock of pussy hair, reached inside the bag and touched it. The ruggedly soft texture of her yummy pubic hairs brought back memories of digging deeper and deeper into Jenny’s vagina with his face.

Sure, Cedrick sat there with a boner by the window, but it was a hard-on with a symbolic knife sticking up his ass. It felt like the Chinese water torture.

Why had he followed his rage, let his impatience take the better of him? Why had he said all those things? Would she have stayed with him if he hadn’t been so loud, so obnoxious, so rude, told her that she overreacted all the time? Why had he let out all of his frustration about women being… what had he said… “such prissy bitches, overruling everything men say”? Men and women, different species, really, but Yings to Yangs, a plus to a minus, pieces of a puzzle, able to cope, becoming better people for it.

Cedrick lift his third glass of 32-year-old French Louis Royer cognac to his lips, finally thinking on deciding to call that hooker hotline, a bloody darned escort service. Tonight, he would ask for a nice redhead with big tits that he could hump until the sun came up, so he could fuck himself out of his own misery and get drunk again the next day. Maybe that would do the trick. Maybe then and only then, he could get over not seeing his soulmate again.

If it hadn’t been for the revelation that appeared before him.

As he turned around, his back to his third brandy and a rising lunar disc in the sky, facing the slowly populating bar, he saw a blonde woman. He knew her spirit, her fancy chit-chat and her endless deepthroating, her fantastic scrambled eggs and her witty text messages. In fact, he knew her vagina better than any other part of her body. That pretty and sexy blonde bush he had opened endlessly, sticking his tongue into. The clit he had eaten, tickled with the tip of his male wonder, it had returned, wearing that decent white dress that she had bought in Suffolk three years earlier. The one she had bought for the job interview at the Bank of England. It made her look “decent”, she had told Cedrick before ripping it off and setting herself down onto his erect penis and riding his blood blue.

“Decent, me arse, you’re my lusty whore,” Cedrick had whoppeed while thrusting his fat dick into her body and squirting her full of sperm.

Now, Jenny just stood there, looking like an angel, and, yes, a revelation.

Thoughts criss-crossed his brainstem, catapulting through his nerves into the bottom of his existence. Jenny? Here?

It was hard to express what he felt. His heartbeat accelerated, his eyesight failing him, sweatdrops trickling down his brow down behind his shirt into his buttcrack. Jenny? She just stood there, silent, her handbag in front of her crotch, her knockers swelling.

Cedrick’s heart soared into new heights he had not experienced flying around into since… yes, since meeting Jenny four years ago. He wanted to rush up to her, embrace her, stick his erect penis in her mouth, squirt onto her gums and ask her to marry him.

Cedrick just sat there, looking at her gently order a dry Chardonnay. There was no spite there, just a wounded question in her heart. That evil, wounded pride that he had dwelt in the last few … what had it been? Eons? The fear of never ever meeting someone to share his life with turned into dust. Maybe Cedrick would turn into a married man after all.

Or maybe not.

Who knew?

“Oui, Mademoiselle,” the thin waiter answered, leaving them to… do what? Reacquaint? Yell at each other? Fuck? That would be fabulous, but… was that possible?

Slowly, in that stately manner that so signified her entire elegance, Jenny strode up toward the barstool that stood empty next to Cedrick’s seat, resting her elegant and fuckable tush down upon a brown cushion. Cedrick watched that ass lower itself onto the barstool, not really being able to believe maybe… just maybe… being able to…

“You’re here?” Cedrick croaked.

Jenny lay her white handbag onto the table.

“Your mom told me you’d left for France,” she whispered, her voice as familiar as the moonlight reflecting on stormy waters. Jenny looked up into his eyes. “There was only one possible place I could look.”

Those eyes, reindeer eyes, deep brown lakes of love he could drown in, he would love to drown in and disappear into.

“I’ve been miserable,” Cedrick mumbled.

Jenny nodded, looking down, a sadness in her gaze.

“Are you here to say good bye again?” he added with a questioning gaze. “Or just here with someone else to rub it all in, hoping to excel my misery?”

She shook her head.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wanted to repeat any break-up, baby,” she continued, her gaze now drifting beyond the dark horizon, dreamily hoping to find that love beyond the moon inside the starlit sky of the universe.

Baby. She had called him … baby.

How nice that sounded.

How promising.

How hopeful.

Did he dare to… hope?

“You know, I sat there in my bank office, getting calls from suitors, even fucking some of them. I gave some of them blowjobs, I let them squirt on my face, they took me to the opera, I even let one of them fuck me… in the ass.”

She smiled, bitterly.

Jenny reached into her handbag and took out the cloth napkin with the rose she had bought over in Dublin, drying the two tears that streamed down her wounded face with it.

“The flat just wasn’t the same after you left,” she said, “I broke up with every one of my suitors, mostly after a week or so. I hated myself for being so… crazy. Finally, after getting so drunk I could hardly stand on my feet, I decided to call your mother and ask her where you were. I… had to… come… and see you.”

Jenny looked up into Cedrick’s eyes, that spirit beyond the body swimming inside her soul, his aura mingling with hers. The tension tingled to the point where Jenny didn’t notice the thin waiter with the blue eyes serving her a drink. The couple simply kissed, tongues playing gently with one another, saliva drifting from mouth to mouth, lip upon lip, pussy tingling, cock growing, nipples stiffening, nostrils widening. An eternity passed before their mouths parted, their foreheads meeting, their eyes closing, their hands intertwining and Jenny gently whispering:

“Just promise me one thing, Cedrick.”

“Anything you want, Jenny!”

“Never call me bitch again!”

It was hard to say what prompted the tears. Clear enough was that the tears came and that several people inside the bar turned around to see who was producing these guffaws, these desperate sobs. They guffaws accelerated into such a frenzy that Jenny had to grab Cedrick’s wallet from his shorts and pay for the drinks herself.

Soon enough, two half-empty glasses rested on a lonely table by the window, two lovers reassuring the redhead receptionist that they would pay for the extra person staying here over night, the receptionist reassuring Jenny that room 121 had a double bed.

It didn’t take long for the couple to take off their clothes, slapping themselves down on that double bed in a horny 69, Cedrick’s face inside Jenny’s blonde bush, Jenny mouth embracing Cedrick’s big cock.

Outside, the moon glittered over French waters, the Atlantic wind sending its sweet breath into room 121. Cedrick licked his girlfriend’s titties. As he thrust into her body again and again, he promised himself never ever to risk losing the love of his life again.

He would think before he spoke, just as she promised to reason before she exploded.

The groundhog that had tumbled the rock had come back to set the rock back in place.

As Cedrick squirted his sperm load into Jenny’s body that night, an angel came into his waking dream, telling him that he would become a father.

Cedrick and Jenny fell asleep in each other’s arms that night, driving home to London that next early morning. They got married in a small chapel in Walthamstow no one ever heard of. Now, many years later, they’re retired, Cedrick an ex-sports-instructor, Jenny an ex-banker. But they always tell their daughter Hope, when she comes to visit them, her own daughter Charity playing with her own toys, that she was conceived the day they got back together, back in France, back when the groundhog tumbled the rock.

Cedrick and Jenny now know where they want to buried: next to each other in St. Anselm’s Cemetery in Walthamstow. Cedrick and Jenny still make love, even at their ripe age, ever so wrinkled, even with eyes and ears failing them. They celebrate their eternal souls manifested through sexual lust. And Cedrick still thinks that Jenny is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

Sometimes, when they get really nostalgic, Jenny puts on her white dress and Cedrick puts on his Camel shorts, remembering their own youth.. They still fit into those garments, but not for long. They undress, they mingle, their lips and genders meeting, their heart uniting like they will in heaven. Cedrick squirts, Jenny wails. For they know in their hearts that the lust that created that their daughter is as little a sin as the sun itself.

And so they sit on that porch after sex, one drop of his cum dangling from her chin, glittering in the moonlight. They hold hands, looking at the stars, dreaming of their own youth back in France, back when emotions still were strong and the sun still glittered upon blue waves within what could be called the twilight zone of sensuality.