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Lucy’s Paradigm Shift By Charles E.J. Moulton

Harry was uptight.

In fact, his uptightness had been legendary for quite a while.
It wasn’t that Harry was unfriendly. No, not at all. He smiled when you met him, he listened attentively to you when you spoke and occasionally, at parties, he would hold a very precise conversation entailing a wide variety of subjects.

Harry was no loser.

As a consummate professional, he meticulously prepared academic research papers, like he had back in college. Here a piece about the Napoleonic Wars, there a thesis about Roman Cuisine. He would often read these pieces to his university students during lectures, before returning home to his cigar, his Armenian Ararat Brandy and his CD-collections of Edward Elgar and Gustav Holst.

Harry was good looking, a very suave blond hairdo, impressive stature and large blue eyes, so it came as a surprise to many female students that such a man in his early 30s could be so shy of girls.

His parents had taught him to be impeccable.

The parents themselves?

No possibility in seeing Harald Carruthers Senior cuddling his Deirdre. Kissing? Impossible. They were friendly folk, loyal Bromley citizens from Billy Idol’s Small Town, England. They took Sunday strolls in the park, closed their own and their son’s eyes when a lightly clothed woman was shown on TV.

What goes around, comes around.

Harry Carruthers, Junior, developed a shame for his urges, although his secret drawer with the lock in his room had been filled to the brim with copies of Large Jugs Mag, Foot Fun, Sazzy Legs, Brash Blowjobs, Sexy Asses and Big Ones. And every time he squirted on Kimberley Clark’s Kleenex, he begged the heavens to forgive him.
This was his life until his a few days before his 31st birthday, a life spent remembering the one girlfriend from high school, the one with the large boobs, who left him because, you guessed it, he was just… too uptight.

It was a regular Monday afternoon, Harry returning from campus after an especially strenuous day. Big crowds of students, no or little reaction to his efforts, and that one girl sitting in the first row, eyeing him during three of his lectures. Lucy Holmes.

Harry knew he had given her his cellular phone number a few months before. She had needed the university password for the online research archive and he had let her use the spare computer in the back of the library.

She had eyed him back then, her big braless basooms stretching her V-shirt, nipples perkily pushing the cotton to say a becumming “Hello!”

It had been incredibly hard to hide his hard-on back in the back of the library, as hard as it had been to hide his hard-on today. Harry had not been able to help himself, so he spent most of his lectures behind his desk today sporting a massively throbbing erection, trying not to study Lucy’s fantastic D-cup wossnames too openly.

It was tough, real tough, having such uncontrollable urges.

Harry closed the door to his two room flat behind him that day, closing his eyes, breathing heavily. This had to be wrong, Harry told himself. Feeling this way, he meant. Being ashamed of loving titties, lots of titties, big titties, small titties, medium sized titties. If he only could overcome his fear and shyness when a pretty woman flirted with him. He spoke freely for hours on end about history during his lectures. Why on Earth was speaking a problem when it came to girls? He, a university professor. Shy. Getting a stiff prick two seconds after seeing a sexy female smile, squirting after a handshake. Impossible.

Harry threw his bag on the couch, shoved a Gershwin CD into the stereo, a frozen pizza into the oven and poured himself more than a half glass worth of Armenian Ararat Brandy. There he stood, on his miniature balcony, gazing at lawns and lawnmowers, cars and parking lots, houses and doors, exists and entrances. He had no idea what the thought was that was forming in his head or even why, only that the time was ripe for change. What change? How? The fuming vanilla cigarillo acting the Yin to the brandy’s Yang, Harry only understood then and there how lonely he felt.

Sex, a sin? No, loneliness, a bigger sin.

Half-way into his American Pan Style Chili Cheese Pizza, the familiar urge soared again. Harry ripped his desk drawer open, flung open his jeans, took out his throbbing erection, wanked, spread eagled the Score Mag Centrefold Babe, licking her sweet paper pussy, leaving a few strains of Chili Cheese on her pink clit. He imagined shoving his entire face into that wonderful cunt, coming out completely wet, his entire face dripping of oestrogen and clit wine. He felt his hand beat his willie so fast it sounded like a stampede, faster and faster, strains of pizza mixing with make-believe cunny soda.

At that moment, Harry’s phone rang.

“Lucy Holmes,” the display read, the photo he had taken of her in front of the university entrance, masturbatory boobs flashing on the display, de Falla’s Fire Dance reverberating as a ringing tone.

“Lucy,” Harry whispered to himself, thoughtfully, carefully wanking his penis, thoughts criss-crossing his mind as to why she called him now after work… in private.

Harry’s trembling hand swooshed across the display, causing the red receiver to turn green. Harry carefully raised the phone to his ear.

His dream fuck.

Harry was terrified.

“He-… Hello?”

A moment’s silence before any reaction came, fears of a student prank, a joke on his expense, causing his cheeks to turn red again. Then a very sweet and tender voice spoke in shy waves of tenderness.

“Mr. Carruthers? Lucy here. Lucy… Holmes.”

He looked at the nude model on the centrefold, as he listened to Lucy’s voice, masturbating his cock as he heard her sexy voice croon.

“Miss Holmes,” Harry crooned, “a… a pleasant surprise.”

She laughed. “I do hope I am not interrupting you.”

Harry stammered, looking at his half eaten pizza standing half way onto the porn babe’s jugs. “No, no. How can I be of service to you?”

“It’s sort of an emergency, Mr. Carruthers,” she began. There was another pause. “You have a minute?”

Harry, intrigued and terrified at the same time, croaked a quiet: “I have time,” which in retrospect seemed more horny than academic, but he was the teacher, right?

“Great,” Lucy chirped, which made Harry quietly wonder what the emergency was.

“I submitted an academic research paper to my uncle’s literary journal in Dublin,” Lucy continued, “and now he phoned me, telling me that they have a blank spot in the next issue. An author withdrew his submission. It’s an issue about Scandinavia. He told me he would publish it only if I add more information about the people’s uprising of 1542 against King Gustav Vasa under Nils Dacke.”

Lucy exploded out into an insecure laugh.

“I thought he was kidding,” she sing-songed in a Yorkshire lilt, “but he wasn’t. Apparantly, there are several pieces about Scandinavian uprisings in the issue and he wants it in there before 6 tomorrow evening.”

He didn’t know what it was, but hearing her voice just made him even more horny, but then there was the weird feeling of guilt in the back of his head.

“You’re the expert,” she swooned, coquette, “I’d pay you. I wouldn’t stay long.”

Harry imagined humungous racked Lucy here, discovering his hard-on.

“You live not far from here, right?”

“Yes,” she chuckled in a frilly bounce, “we strolled past your apartment building … the day you took those photos of me, remember?”

If she only knew how many times he had looked at those photos.

“How does seven o’clock sound?” Harry crooned, his cock still facing the ceiling, massaged by his firm left hand.

“Fantastic,” Lucy chirped. “Thanks ever so much, Mr. Carruthers. It would be my first published piece. I would be thankful for any help I could find.”

“See you soon.”

“Bye,” she whispered.

This all confused Harry. Had this something to do with her appearing in three lectures of his today and smiling.

Well, Harry’s dick went into his pants again, the pizza wandered in segments into his mouth and the Centrefold Chili Cheese Pussy into his drawer.

As he with shaking and nervous hands lit some candles and injected an Enya CD into the stereo, he remembered photoshopping Lucy’s pics, zooming in on her jugs and using the photo as a screensaver. He had even printed out the picture a couple of times just to squirt on it. Enya sang, Harry ran. Until he remained standing in the midst of his tidy flat, asking himself again and again why he had no fears about work and every fear in the world about meeting girls, a college teacher spending his life licking paper pussies.

Harry showered, making sure cock and balls and asshole were clean, sprayed some Cartier on his throat and brushed his teeth. He paced the hallway, shivered and mumbled silly nothings to himself. Maybe it was all a practical joke?

The doorbell gave him quite a start. It caused not only his heart to flutter, but also his cock to twitch. One look in the mirror later and Harry opened the door to reveal Lucy, sprayed with something smelling of magnolia and roses, Chopard or Christina Aguilera, wearing that T-shirt from the picture with “Malibu Beach” written on it. There was a beach on it that looked like a continent by the way the tits stretched it … and the nipples? Well, let’s say they stuck out like flagpoles in the wind.

“Thanks ever so much,” she repeated, stretching forth one bottle of red wine. “Rioja?”

Harry nodded. “Uhm-hmm. Co-… come in.”

She wandered in, rubbing her pink skirt, causing Harry’s tight trousers to seem even tighter. “You have a really nice flat, Mr. C.”

“Tha-… thanks.”

Harry took the bottle of wine, shaking his head.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

Lucy shrugged, her knockers shaking in the process, causing him to glance at them. She noticed he was gazing at her tits, but for now she only gave him a sly grin, looking down at his swelling crotch.

“Oh, yes, it was, you helping me with my article and all.”

“I’ll get two glasses.”

Harry thanked the Lord that the cork didn’t break and that he did not spill any of that wine. Lucy brought forth her USB-stick, forcing Harry to focus on his work. It was difficult to explain thoroughly how a Swedish farmer revolted against the royal regime of 1542 when a buxom brunette frequently spent her evening leaning toward the computer screen, shoving her milk-factories under his nose.

Three quarters of an hour later and Lucy had an impeccable written addition to her submission, not her own, but albeit a very adequate one that would make any Irish, English or Swedish historian proud. So much for not staying long. On the other hand, the longer Lucy stayed, the more did Harry actually want to fuck her, the more he actually felt he had the guts to make a move, the more he felt he could just grab her boobs and stick his dick between them. Shaky and quite red in the face, Harry strolled to the kitchen to get the chocolate chip cookies, hearing Lucy rave about his great work, when, suddenly, out of the blue, Lucy stopped talking. She had been chatting about a lecture of his when…

“Oh, my God.,” she exclaimed.

There was a very long pause, which caused Harry to think that Lucy had left.

When Harry returned with a crystal plate of cookies, Lucy stared at a bouncing screensaver. Harry took a few steps toward her, that fuckable woman with the monumental wankable whammers, her mouth open.

“That’s me, Mr. C.,” she said, giving Harry a sudden attack of the nervous fright. Pictures of unlawful sexual conduct came to mind, Lucy running out and screaming. She did nothing of the kind. Instead, she just smiled. “You made a special close-up of … my tits.”

She looked at Harry, more immobile than the Statue of Liberty, Lucy with a sexy and innocent kind of grin on her cocksucker lips.

“Lucy, I don’t know how to say this, but…”

“You like my tits, Mr. C?” she crooned.

No response. “Uhm, uhm …”

She looked up, licking her lips.

“You can say so, if it’s true, Mr. C.”

Harry nodded slowly, clutching the plate.

Lucy looked down below Harry’s plate toward the growing bulge in his trousers.

“Yes, I do like your tits,” Harry said. “Very much.”

And as Lucy stood up, catwalking toward him, the cookies on his plate rattling against the glass, she licked her lips.

“You wank to pictures of my tits, Harry,” she asked.

Harry nodded. “Yes, I do. Often.”

“You print out pictures of me and squirt on them?”

Harry nodded again.

“I like that,” she said.

Harry chuckled nervously.

“What’s that in your pants?”

She took the plate, put it on the coffee table by the couch and slowly rubbed the very prominent thing that now more resembled a long coke can than a small fish.

“Something for me?” she crooned, stroking the bulge slowly.

“It’s growing,” she chuckled, waving her eyebrows, giving him a kiss. “Can I ask you a question, Professor Carruthers?”

“Uh-huh,” he groaned.

“How long has it been since someone gave you a blowjob?”

“Gosh,” Harry croaked. “Dunno…”

“Uuuh-ooh,” Lucy whispered, taking off her Malibu T-shirt. “You probably wanked yourself silly over my titties, squirting on my printed picture. Well, Mr. C., you sexy wanker.”

Lucy went down on her knees, unbuckling his belt with the look of a kid who just saw that Santa was real.

“I want to taste that big dick of yours, baby,” she mused.

The zipper went down, the pants went down, the underpants went to the floor and when she saw his monster cock, as big as a foot and as thick as a coke bottle, she opened her mouth, giggling. It was with a smoothe grin that she freed a penis that simply bounced out and smiled at her with its eight inches and one happy eye on a happy plum sized helmet.

“Mr. C.! Now I am about give you a private lesson.”

Lucy carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around his shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process. At the moment Lucy Holmes took his Long John in her mouth, Harry saw stars. The way she sucked his cock had to be felt to be described. She literally embraced his penis with her mouth, letting it touch the back of her throat, making little groaning and squeaking noises as she sucked, occasionally letting the cock plop out with an elegant little pop onto her chin for a fine little lick of the tongue. A quick kiss on the one-eyed helmet, a gentle suck on the tip, a long lick at the shaft, a tender long slobber at his balls, taking one testicle into her mouth, bouncing it up and down with her tongue, then the other, grabbing his buttocks as she sucked. Then, she was back to sucking, harder and harder. Harry was amazed that he had not squirted yet, but she sucked so fantastically it made sense to wait and enjoy. While she sucked it, she massaged his balls, managing to circle the shaft with her tongue during her expertise sucking work. In fact, he felt his dick grow in her mouth only because she managed to give him such good oral sex. Lucy half-smiled while sucking, nodding ever so sensitively, her cockhungry eyes glittering in moonlight from the window.

“Do I suck you well, Mr. C.?” Lucy said, licking his balls again.

“Oh, yes,” Harry said, suddenly free of fear. “You are a great cocksucker.”

“I wanna please you, Mr. C,” she teased. “Do I please you?”

Harry moaned something unintelligible.

Lucy slowly worked herself down to my long schlong and devoured it deep throat, balls and helmet and pubic hair.

“You wanna see me ride you, Mr. C.? My tight little arse ride your long and hard dick? Or are you in the mood to lick this good little girl’s clit first?”

Freedom made Harry invincible. “I think I wanna drink your cunt first.”

Harry had never ever seen a woman run so fast to the bed and Harry was not slow in responding, stretching out his tongue for a taste of some Yorkshire pussy.

Harry’s head literally disappeared totally into that furburger. Between every pussy lick, Harry had to take breaks for air. He was soaking wet, but her clit tasted so damn good. It was like a juicy fish filet and he wasn’t gonna stop licking and pleasing that sexy woman, sticking his long tongue way into her cunny, fucking her with his mouth. She grabbed his hair, pushed his face violently into her snatch and then begged for him to fuck her.

And fuck her, he did.

Hard.

Harry did not recognize himself.

First, she rode him, just like those sluts on Facial Fest. After a Blowjob POV, now an arse ride. “Am I fucking you good, Mr. C.? Am I your submissive little sex object?”

“Yes, Lucy.”

“Will you give me a good grade on my thesis, Mr. C.?”

“Yes, Lucy,” he said, looking at those wobbling buttcheeks. “And you get high honours in fucking. Fucking good grades.”

A while later, Harry turned around his randy little cockteaser, man-frigging one-night-hooker-fuck and shoved his prick into her pussy from the front. Seeing those incredible boobs wobble in front of his eyes was like going to heaven. It was a sight for the Gods.

He made her cum. It was a sight to die for, Lucy closing her eyes, raising her eyebrows, yearning and burning. It made him want to squirt, too. So he straddled Lucy funbags, fucked them, felt that burning sensation in his cock, slid up to her mouth, opened it, causing her to stretch out her tongue, begging for his sperm.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Lucy begged. “Wank on my face, you maggot.”

Harry’s hand movements now accelerated, his face grimacing, his head bobbing, his dick even bigger and bluer than before. Finally, his cock erupted, a long string of cum skyrocketing into onto her tongue. The second portion shot onto her left cheek, the final dessert of this three course sperm-dinner landing on her nose. Every portion of her face was covered in cum. She licked it all off, swallowing every drop. A stunned silence now came over the room, their mutual copulation inspiring us. His apartment became a symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of a burning desire.

The load that came shooting out of shaft, landing inside her mouth and all over her face, had made them connect.

Suddenly, with all of his sperm covering Lucy’s face, Harry retracted. He saw his upbringing, his sterile parents who never ever seemed to touch each other, his mother calling every attempt to copulate “sick” … and Harry wondered.

Lucy lay there, licking off his sperm, tasting it, savouring it, it seemed, lost in a world of sperm and post-copulation.

“Yummy sperm,” she swooned­.

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, lost in his world of post-horniness, that feeling he got after sex. Before an orgasm on a tissue: “Wow! I wanna squirt!” After orgasm on a tissue: “I wish I hadn’t!”

Lucy whispered: “Your cum tastes marvellous, it reminds me of that tunafish steak I had in Crete. You have such a great cock, Mr. C.”

There was no response from Harry, so big boobed Lucy looked over while licking off bits of his cum and giggled: “You didn’t like the sex?”

Harry looked over at Lucy, laying there, spread-eagled, pussy-lips spread, covered in cum, all over. “Oh, you are a fabulous fuck.”

“So, where’s the problem?” she said, now cleaning off entire strains of sperm with her hand and licking the strains off.

“It’s a sin,” he said.

Lucy laughed. “Who says?”

“Society,” Harry says.

Lucy sighed. “Who are we hurting?”

Harry looked over at Lucy, surprised.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Who are we hurting?” she repeated. “If it’s a sin, that is. I mean, that’s what I understand as a sin, something that hurts someone else. We are not hurting anyone, are we?”

Harry looked away, wondering silently to himself.

“I never thought of it that way,” he wondered. “No, we are not.”

“And we are just embracing each other, loving each other’s touch,” she coninued. “With all the violence that occurs in the world, a little bit of nice and honest sex is not bad, is it? At least, I think it is pretty okay. You’re unattached. I am unattached. We’re just making love and that’s all there is to it.”

“My parents were very uptight,” Harry said after a moment’s pause. “I never even saw them embrace each other.”

“They were missing out on lots of great experiences. That’s probably why you are so shy of girls,” Lucy pointed out, sighing. “And be honest, Mr. C., without sex, we would have no humanity. Sex creates babies. Why do we love babies and think sex is a sin? That makes no sense. It’s like loving food and hating cooking. If we stopped having sex, humanity would disintergrate. We have to set our priorities straight. We call babies holy. Then we should call faithful sex holy, too. I believe in the eternal soul. I believe in reincarnation. I believe in heaven. I also believe in making love.”

Harry nodded, looking over at Lucy, suddenly brave, Lucy’s paradigm shift making him realize how strained he had been. “Damn it, you’re right. Sex is necessary.”

“And faith.”

“So we can have sex as long as we’re honest and faithful about it?” Harry mused.

“We have to,” Lucy shrugged. “Yeah. Violence is a sin. Sex is a necessity. Give me a kiss.”

Harry did.

“I came here to loosen you up,” Lucy winked.

“Here’s to Kama Sutra,” he giggled.

“And the eternal soul beyond sociological compartments,” she replied.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the touch of their bodies sending signals to their souls that they were alone no longer. They became a couple, created four lovely babies, one boy and three girls, with their sex, and wrote books about the joys of marital love, reproduction, procreation and even one book linking inspired artistic creativity to creating a baby. Harry was a changed man with the signals they sent each other and others.

He held lectures on a regular basis about love in sonnets, nudity in art and sex in music and claimed how universal love was and the necessity for human touch.

He claimed that a person who accepted and respected sex as a part of his eternal being never ever could commit a crime.

“We cannot avoid what is a part of us,” was one of his credos, “we can only begin to understand how we can use our parts to benefit all.”

Harry lived a good and very fulfilled life.

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Not For The Birds By Andrew Miller

Janice sprinted into the living room, shot past Larry, grabbed a pair of binoculars from the book case. “Unbelievable,” she said, “unbelievable.” She raced toward the back porch.

“Something interesting out there?” Larry had the latest issue of Natural History Magazine in his lap and didn’t look up. “Fall migration’s about to start. Should be some warblers out there.”

The door banged shut behind her. “I’ll let you know.”

She and Larry had arranged the furniture on their porch, an old couch and three wicker chairs, so they could watch birds in their back yard. The had installed floor to ceiling screens on all three sides, which kept out mosquitoes and flies and provided a wind break during chilly weather. Janice adjusted the focus, sighted past three birdfeeders, a row of azaleas, a wooden trellis crawling with morning glories. Holy, holy shit, she thought, I wasn’t dreaming.

She held the binoculars steady, licked her lips, wiggled her butt. “Larry,” she called, “Come quick. Ya gotta see this.”

“Need the bird book?” He tossed the magazine on the table, got to his feet.

“Forget the book, come here.”

“Check that out.” She pointed toward the back yard, handed him the binoculars.

He began a sweep of the hedge. She shook her head. “Not there. The porch on the gray house.”

He let out a low whistle. “My God, look at that. Penis erecti.”

“Yep, subspecies: elongatus.”

“They are really going at it.” He held the binoculars steady. “A rare sight, this time of year, a pair of mattress thrashers. In full breeding plumage.”

“I knew you’d like the double breasted one. Gimme the binocs.”

“Not so fast. Now they’re doing it standing up.” He dropped one hand to his crotch for a quick adjustment. “She’s got her legs wrapped around his waist… clawing his back, sucking on his neck. Passion… passion… whew… he’s got his fingers up her ass…” He leaned forward, tugged at his pants again.

Janice squeezed the bulge in his trousers. “Come on, let me see.”

“Damn, wish I’d bought that tripod. It would be nice to have both hands free.” He passed the binoculars to her.

She zeroed in on their neighbors. “I don’t know what I like better, watching them or listening to you describe the action.” She adjusted the focus. “They’ll make an evening of it. See that bottle of wine on the table?”

“Sure.” Larry leaned forward, squinted through the screen. “Now what’s happening?”

“She’s strapping on a dildo.” Janice shifted left to improve the view. “And,” she glanced at Larry, “hers is longer than his.”

Larry pressed his forehead against the screen. “Longer than mine?”

“Oh, hell no. He looks like a Georgia peanut next to you.”

Larry nodded, stood a little straighter.

“Hang on, he’s down on his knees—great set of buns—ready for his pegging.” Janice moved closer to the screen. “I’d love to sink my teeth into one of his cheeks. Hard, firm, like they were chiseled out of oak.” She glanced at Larry’s pants. “Her fake schlong is ready for action… now she’s on her knees… she’s got both hands on his shoulder… pump-pump-pump… and rubbing his big dick…”

“We’ve got a live sex show. Didn’t have to pay a cent.”

Janice eyed Larry’s trousers. “Whatdaya think, big fella?” She kicked off her shoes, squirmed out of her shorts, black panties, slipped off her light blue polo shirt, unhooked her bra. She hopped on the couch, landed knees first, twisted her butt toward him. “We’ll do it while we watch.”

“I hear you. Damn, we need another set of binocs.”

Larry pulled down his pants, being careful not to damage Mr. Ready-For-Action. He jumped up behind her, scooted close, began to massage her breasts. He pressed in close, poked his rod between her cheeks.

“Slow down. Take off your shirt. Give me some chest-to-cheek grinding with your pecs.”

“Okay if I leave my socks on?”

“What do I care about your socks—get on with it.”

He tossed his shirt on the floor, bent at the waist, squeezed his pecs against her smooth, round buns. While he stroked her breasts with both hands he moved side to side, massaging her cheeks with his chest. She arched her back, raised her butt. He stroked her boobs, continued chest-rubbing. She said in a low voice, “Keep at it, big boy, I’m getting into the mood. A couple of times she felt his penis poke up her crack. She held out the binoculars. “Here, take them.” A few minutes later she turned her head., “Okay…”

He slid inside. In real slow; he knew how she liked it. He gripped the binoculars with one hand, fondled her breasts with the other, started to rev up. “I’ve—never—done–this—before,” he said between strokes. “Never—never—nev—er.”

She reached between her legs, gave his nuts a twitch. Uh-oh, she thought, getting to the hard-ball stage. Won’t be long now. “Slow down, I’m not ready for Mr. P to go limp, lose his umph.”

“Ok.” He eased out, watched the couple for a while, then continued, “She stopped pegging.” He pressed in close to Janice. “Their porch is like ours. Got a couch, table, and bunch of chairs. Except, they’ve got a hot tub. Maybe they’ll jump in later.” Larry slipped inside, moved slower than before. With his free hand, he touched her breasts, felt her nipples firm up.

Janice moved her butt in a circular motion, matching his rhythm. A warm feeling spread down her legs, up to her breasts. “Tell me some more.”

“She yanked off the dildo. Now they’re having a glass of wine.” Larry stopped thrusting, continued to fondle her nipples. “It’s kind of odd…every once and a while…one of them disappears behind some sort of partition…”

“Too get more wine?”

“Maybe, hard to say… okay… they’re getting at it.” He watched for a while, then, “Now she’s got one leg on this little table, and he’s about to go down on her.” Janice closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of him inside, made all the richer by his description of love-making from afar. “He’s got his head between her legs—tongue’s a flying—she’s gripping his neck, scratching his back, moaning and writhing…”

“Let me see.”

She took the binoculars. “Ooooo, very good, his butt’s writhing and twisting all over the place… look at that cheek separation.”

Larry slid out, then pressed his chest up close, wrapped his arms around her. Do you know those folks?” His voice was low, husky. She could tell he was close.

“Sure, its Ann and Henry Scott. Don’t know him, but I see her at the gym. Sometimes we go for coffee.”

“Does she walk around naked in the locker room?”

“All the time. And plays with herself in front of the full-length mirror.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You wish.”

Janice flipped over, positioned herself on the arm of the couch so she could see the neighbors. “Do me like Henry is doing Ann.” She squinted through the binoculars. “Gotta make sure they are in view before licking begins.” She shifted position, then motioned him closer. “Come on.” She slipped her legs apart, pulled Larry’s head toward her crotch. “Put that tongue in gear. Our neighbors are ahead of us.”

She slipped her palms behind his neck, locked her fingers. She felt his tongue dance up and down her thighs, tiptoe over her pubics, then zoom straight to her hot spot. Janice sighed, swiveled her hips, sucked in air. His fingers began to tease and tickle, wander about, probe here, probe there. She closed her eyes, stretched her legs, flexed her toes, dug her fingers into the cushions, raised her butt, began to moan.

#   #   #

Larry felt her chest heave, her body tense. She’s getting close, he thought, I gotta go slow, steady, not spoil it by making unexpected moves. He knew she was at a critical stage. Any unexpected motion, distraction from anywhere, would wreck everything. She’d lose her footing, slide off the mountain without ever reaching the summit. He felt her fingers on his scalp, gentle, soft, now on his shoulders, slight pressure. Closer, closer, her fingers said, go a little deeper, but stay gentle. He shifted his position. He knew that the contractions were about to start.

The liquid, rich, whistling notes of the Baltimore oriole are the most beautiful of any American songbird. A series of chirps and trills up and down the scale, part warble, part bubbly gurgle, unlike any musical instrument. Larry had found the ring tone for her on a bird-watching website. She was enchanted by the song, happy to use it instead of any of the preprogrammed ones from the manufacturer. Whenever someone called, she delayed answering for as long as possible, just to hear the oriole’s melodious call.

That wonderful song came from Janice’s phone, which lay on the table in the living room.

Larry’s eyes snapped open. “What the fff…. Let the damn thing ring!”

She sat up, pushed his head aside. “I better get that. Might be Mom.”

Janice bounded into the living room, grabbed the phone, hustled back to the porch. She flopped down on a chair opposite Larry. He clenched his teeth. God oh God, he thought. How did this happen? What class double A jerkoff is calling? If they had only waited five more minutes.

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is your neighbor, Ann Scott. We see each other at Love Your Body Health Club. Remember?”

“Oh yeah. Hi—how’s it going?” She mouthed to Larry, who was slumped on his side, “This will be quick.” She winked, spread her legs, gave a couple hip thrusts.

Ann had more to say: “Henry and I were wondering— are you guys bird watchers?”

“Yes, yes we are.” Janice slid her legs together.

Larry groaned when he heard, ‘Yes we are.’ Oh no, he thought, we’re going somewhere. He looked at his penis, beginning to shrink and shrivel. Soon it would look like a button mushroom that had been abandoned for weeks behind the potato salad on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Larry took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His sex plans had taken an unexpected nose dive. The phone rang when Janice was seconds from an earth-trembling climax. What was supposed to happen—if the phone hadn’t rung—was to bring her to a screaming climax, let her recover, then slip inside, stroke slow and steady, slow and steady, for as long as possible—she’d be climaxing all the time of course—then throttle up for one gigundamunduss, super long, off-the-Richter-Scale organism that would blast their heart rates off the charts, leave them both panting, near death. To miss all that, just because of her Mother on the phone?

Janice took a deep breath when she heard: “We saw that you were watching us.”

“Oh yeah?”

Larry didn’t notice the anxious look wash over her face; he was still agonizing over his shattered plans. They’d open that bottle of Merlot, break out the special cheeses and crackers, the red grapes. Legs tangled up, they’d eat cheese, drink wine, watch their neighbors go at it while he repressurized down below for the next tumble. Grape juices would meander down her chin, drizzle onto her boobs. She would get up every so often, pour them more wine. He could watch her bustle about with no clothes on—luscious, bouncy.

“We’re bird watchers, too. And, we have a 40-mm spotting scope. Great for detail.”

“Uh-huh.” Janice continued to hold her breath.

“Yeah, it’s hidden behind this partition. Don’t want to spook the birds.”

“Yeah…”

“And, we noticed that Larry has a weird line of freckles across his chest.”

“Uh-oh.” Janice frowned, rubbed the back of her neck. She squinted through the screen at their neighbor’s porch. Laughter on the other end of the line.

Larry closed his eyes, continued to dream about the lost sexscapade. After hors d’oeuvres they’d order pizza from Gino’s, slice up some heirloom tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden. Stay naked all evening. Eat on the porch. Light candles, rev up the CD player. It could be a two, maybe three-orgasm night. Finish up by watching an old Sopranos episode. Then a mutual shower. Maybe she’d even suck a little, do a bonus soap-off to tide him over ‘till morning.

“And we’ve been watching you watching us.”

“Oh wow.” Janice sat up straight.

Larry saw her snap to attention. Oh no, he thought. New plans for the evening—but what could be more fun than sex? It might be her good-for-nothing brother Alfie, wanting to go bowling at Bubba la Flubba’s Magic Lanes, five hundred feet from the end of Runway Five Zero at the international airport. If I drive, Alfie will spring for the shoes, plus a round of heart-burn hotdogs and all the diet soda we can drink.

Janice began to exhale as Ann continued, “That’s okay, don’t worry about it. Anyway, it got us thinking. How would you and Larry like to come over, sit in the hot tub with us?

Janice smiled and nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“And we can…do whatever. Henry and I are fine with this. Okay with you two?”

“I’ll ask Larry, but pretty sure the answer will be yes.”

“Your man Larry has a scrumptious ass, by the way.”

Janice nodded, smiled, flexed her toes.

Ann continued: “How about staying for dinner? We’ve got a couple of rotisserie chickens on the spit.”

Janice leaned forward in the chair. “Sure. Can we bring anything?”

Larry heard ‘bring anything?’ and groaned. This is worse, he thought, no one brings food to a bowling alley. Not even la Flubba’s. Sounds like dinner at her Mom’s. Tuna-noodle casserole buried in soggy potato chips, a basket of rock-hard biscuits. No beer or wine, only lukewarm tea with no ice. For desert, a mushy apple pie made from some cheap canned filling. Her father waving his arms and yelling about fantastic life was when he was a kid. How he doesn’t give a flip about computers, email, smart phones, Facebook, or texting. Janice’s brother griping because can’t find a job, doesn’t have a girlfriend, can’t drive more than 100 miles without putting two quarts of oil in his old Chevy.

His penis, shriveled and limp, lay like a jellyfish, stranded on the beach at low tide. How can I get out of this family dinner? Janice already said ‘yes.’ Isn’t it time for my prostate exam? Maybe I’ve got a couple more wisdom teeth that need extracting. Aren’t I supposed to be making ‘Bag Your Dog Turds’ posters for the Bird Club?

Janice nodded as she listened to Ann: “Bring some cucumbers and fancy tomatoes from your garden. I’ve got rice pilaf in the crock pot.” Janice saw the pained look on Larry’s face. “And bring towels, anything else needed for a fun evening—know what I mean? It’ll be the four of us.”

Janice nodded. “Sounds fabulous, more than fabulous.”

Larry stared at the ceiling. His charger, once stiff and hard like a hickory stick, had shriveled to nothing, lay hidden under its pubic hair blanket. How did this happen?

Janice smiled. “Okay, we’ll be there in thirty minutes or less. Bye.” She dropped the phone on the table, jumped to her feet, winked at Larry.

“You’ll never guess what’s cooking for the rest of the day, maybe the rest of the night.”

Dirty Harriet Explores the Internet By Dirty Harriet

I switched on my iMac, pulled my short black skirt up to my waist and sat down at my desk. The 27 inch screen glowed at me, and I quickly opened up the Safari browser and clicked on the link in my list of favourites.

I settled into the seat of my chair, the tops of my warm thighs sticking to the leather. I leaned forward a little, feeling my cheeks spread just enough and then I settled back gently, spread against the cool of the seat leather.

The fingers of my left hand gently stroked against my left thigh. My right hand flickered, controlling the magic mouse, shifting it swiftly across the screen, pulling up my favourite webcam website and logging in with just a few clicks.

I changed the basic view to my personal preference, and then found my saved performers. Almost a hundred photos sprang up, each time I hovered over a photo it turned into a live-view of the performer if they were online.

I scanned them all quickly. Mostly females, a few well-muscled men, half a dozen couples. That was what I was looking for, but none of my favourites were online.

My left hand turned into a claw and grazed my thigh.

I wasn’t in the mood to wait.

I clicked live-cams, changed the setting from girls (who I had been looking at a couple of night ago) to couples. There were about twenty to choose from. Some too old, some too fat. Some just not attractive enough.

I thought about checking out the girls, may be I could see one of them instead.

I checked my saved performers, but there wasn’t anyone there who would do it for me.

I could try downloading some porn, but I checked the time. It was late. My need was now.

My left hand continued to stroke, my right hand eagerly searching for someone to help get me off.

Then the notification popped up.

Bisexcouple1 had come online. They were one of my favourites. I couldn’t help but grin.

I clicked on the notification and it took me to their free live preview.

My left hand was working its way up inside my left thigh. I could feel the heat there buried between my legs, I could feel the ache. I tensed my thighs together, squirming in the seat.

I typed out hi, hru? (how are you).

They responded enthusiastically, I was a regular and they remembered me.

I’m wanting some nasty action, you guys ready for prvt (private), I typed.

For you always, they typed back.

I clicked on the button that said “private show” and the screen blinked and we were suddenly together. Just the two of them and me. No one else to annoy either of us or to interrupt.

She had long black hair almost to her slim waist. She wore a virtually see-through skin-tight body-suit, showing off her ample breasts and long slender legs. She had a pretty face and dark gorgeous eyes. He was slim, a little older than her at 26. Short hair and a big cock and loads of energy.

We wave at each other as my webcam clicks on, now they can see me and I can see them.

She blows me a kiss, then he disappears off-screen to work himself to hardness while she seductively removes the bodysuit. Her body makes me want to touch her, her alabaster skin looks so soft and clean. I want to lick her. To kiss her. To touch her and feel her body against mine.

My fingers press against the lips of my vagina as she undresses.

Then he is there. I can’t remember either of their names. If I wasn’t so horny I could talk to them and get to know them a little better. I know they are married and live somewhere in Romania, that’s as much as I remember. What I care about is that they are sexy as hell.

What you want us to do for you today darling, they ask me. It’s almost always her typing. I think her English is better, but both of them understand all of my instructions.

Just the usual I say, suck his cock as deep as you can for me. Then I want you to fuck doggy style and I want to see that pretty face up close and I want him to fuck you as hard as he can. And then I want to see him cum over that pretty face for me.

I put a smiley face after my instructions.

She looks at me and winks, and her husband has come back onscreen, his cock big and hard and pointing up at her face. She grabs it and takes it into her mouth. She devours it. She sucking the end of it, nibbling it, kissing it, licking it. Then she takes it deep into her mouth. All the way. She gags and releases it. Then takes it deep again. They know exactly what I like.

She continues with the deepthroat. Taking him as deep as she can, until she can’t take any more. She gasps and his massive cock pops out. Her breasts heaving as she wrestles to breath. My fingers feel the trickle of wetness between my thighs, then press against the lips of my vagina again.

He takes hold of her head and pushes her face into his crotch, his cock entering her mouth, going deep into her throat. She struggles to release herself but he holds her there as she struggles and my fingers enter me.

He holds her head and throat-fucks her. His cock moving in and out of her wide-open mouth, her head angled up so he can enter her as deep as possible and look down into her pretty eyes. She chokes and pushes him away, wiping tears from her eyes and spit from her chin. She smiles at me and I smiles back. She is so pretty. She looks beautiful with tears in her eyes and cock in her mouth.

Two fingers slip inside my vagina, my thumb and the palm of my hand resting against my clitoris, gently brushing it.

He pushes her head down onto his cock and holds it there while she struggles to release herself. Her hands pushing at his thighs. She looks like she is choking on his cock, and then he lets her go and she gasps in a breath. Her eyes continue to water, and she wipes her eyes as he gently slaps her cheeks with his cock.

You want doggy now, she asks.

You like to suck that big cock, I ask her.

I like it so much, she says, licking her lips. She’s so sexy without even trying.

Yes please, doggy style, and fuck her hard, that’s how I like it, I tell them.

Wish you were here, she tells me.

Me too, I tell them.

She positions herself in front of the camera so that she is facing it. I get a nice view of her face and her breasts are clearly visible. Her arse is there just in front of where he kneels, behind her. He gets into position, inserts his big cock and as he enters her I slip another finger inside myself, pressing more firmly with my palm against my clitoris.

He smiles at me, he is shy and quiet and not normally one for engagement.

Fuck her hard for me, make me fucking cum on your big fat cock, I type.

He nods eagerly. She licks her lips and smiles at me.

He slams his cock into her. Then another hard slam. Immediately they are fucking. Working their bodies against each other. Grinding into each other.  They work up the speed and ferocity, he is banging her hard, their bodies slamming together until I can hear it, his cock slapping deep inside her. Her face is a picture of pleasure and pain combined. My hand is slapping against my crotch, my fingers delving deep inside, my palm pressing against my clitoris. My right hand leaves the mouse and flicks against my blood-filled nub, pressing, pushing, flicking, brushing.

He is fucking her hard, her tits are banging against each other. Her face is screwed up, a little bit of pain, plenty of pleasure. He pulls her hair and her face lifts up, her back arches and her breasts heave towards me. She looks at the screen, watching me watching her. My hand flaps faster and faster.

The right hand fingers flickering, brushing against my clitoris. Pleasure building.

They briefly pause to get their breath back, big deep breathes, and then start again. He’s banging away into her backside. He pulls her arms back behind her, fighting to dig his fat cock deeper inside her. Her beautiful breasts slapping up and down. She is heaving against him, he enters her so deep it hurts now, but she’s enjoying it as much as I am. She is really being fucked now.

My fingers work my vagina, left hand slapping slapping slapping, three fingers working inside me, in and out, in and out. Like his cock inside her. My right hand working my clitoris. Pleasure bubbling.

Then he pulls out, he stands on the bed in front of the camera and she is there, kneeling before him. She quickly adjusts the camera and opens her mouth. He tugs on his cock hard, she takes his balls in her mouth, and then pulls him closer to her with her hands on his buttocks.

He cries out, sperm shooting over her pretty face and she smiles as the last of it drips down into her mouth. She licks it around her lips.

And that’s when the explosion in my groin takes over and I cry out, my fingers slipping out as my vagina tightens, my clitoris throbbing ecstasy through my entire body.

She uses her finger to collect his spunk and licks it from her fingers. My left hand goes to my mouth and I lick my finger, tasting my pleasure just as she tastes his.

Thank you, you sexy bitch, I tell her.

Always a pleasure for you darling. Hope to see you again soon.

I nod, they will see me again.

My leather seat is damp with my sex juice. I’d better clean up, I think and click off. My pleasure reached.

Work By M. Earl Smith

It was 11:30 on a dreary Friday morning in November. The thermostat had dropped almost thirty degrees in the past month, and the coolest days of fall were upon us. You were sitting at your desk, working away on some worthless spreadsheet, when the text message popped up on your screen. It was, of course, from me.

“Go back to the same locker room and take a selfie for me.”

Shaking your head, you looked at the clock and laughed. “Y”

“Trust me on this one.”

Sighing, you went to the aforementioned room and positioned yourself in the mirror. With an exasperated look on your face, you lined up the picture. Little did you remember that this was the weekend I was due back from Philadelphia. As you hit the shutter button, I clicked the door locked, and stepped around the corner, draping my arms across your shoulders as I did.

You started for a moment, but, upon seeing who it was, you grinned, and craned your neck upwards for a kiss. Our lips locked, and my hands slid from around your neck, starting at your hips, which I used to pull you against me, so you could feel how hard I was. Grinning, I slid my hands under your shirt, under your bra, and on to your breasts, where I teased your nipples between my thumb and forefinger.

“I want you. Right here, right now. It’s been a month, and that’s far too long.” By this point, I was whispering in your ear, nibbling as I did so.

Without a word, you reached behind you and, unzipping my pants, pulled my cock out, working it with your hand in slow, steady strokes. Someone knocked gently on the door, but we both managed to ignore it as I worked your pants down your slender hips and onto the floor.

The knock came again, a little more insistent, but we ignored it as the person let out an exasperated mutter and went on their way. After a few more strokes, you grinned, and slowly started to bend at the waist as I pulled your panties to one side. After rubbing your pussy with my two fingers a few times, I chuckled, and quickly slid my cock into you, reaching forward to take your hair and pull you gently back.

The month apart hadn’t killed any passion between us, as we both came hard and fast right where we stood. As we finished, the knocking started again, almost at a pound, as we both giggled and worked our pants up. I used your hair to pull your mouth around to me, and after a passionate kiss, I let go.

“Text me later.” I said simply, tossing the name badge I had used to gain entry to the building in a trash can. You followed me to the window as I crawled out, jogging across the parking lot to climb onto a motorcycle. Tossing my helmet on, I fired up the bike and peeled out.

 

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.

The Denaralan Way By Stephen Faulkner

Garrala followed Elsa’s slim, bright form up the darkened stairs to the young woman’s apartment, musing at how little the earthling girl understood of what was soon to transpire between them. From the time the first envoys of Denarala – that would have been Hakara and Nesor so many earth years ago – stepped out of their craft to become the first of their race to set foot on Terran soil, the earthlings had made immediate assumptions about their alien guests. Some were right, Garrala had learned, most were dead wrong.

Elsa turned on the light in the narrow hall so she could rummage in her handbag for the key to her apartment. The bright glare of the bare bulb at the oblique angle she stood to Garrala’s rising-from-the-stairwell height caused the shadow of blonde fuzz on her upper lip to glimmer damply. This, recalled the dark skinned Garrala, had been the first sign of arousal noticed – that of sight. Garrala recalled the warmth of Elsa’s hand as it pressed deeply into the alien’s supple burnished flesh. The quiet exhilaration of conducting the private conversation with a being from another world seemed to increase the earth girl’s seemingly frail strength almost tenfold. The heat of her hand and the pressure of the five fingers then, Garrala remembered as the girl found her key and turned it in its lock with a loud echo of clattering tumblers. The heat of the touch, the hint of salty perspiration transferring from her lined palm to the sensitive Denaralan skin; the second sing – that of touch and delight.

They had found a secluded alcove on the third floor of the newly instituted Denaralan Consulate while the party to welcome the members of the diplomatic mission from beyond the star system perimeter continued on the floors below them. Polite conversation there mixed with talks on trade negotiations and tourism rights; Russian caviar and French pate being served along with Denaralan kish brandy and hairy truffle balls. Garrala’s upstairs conversation with the frail, pretty Elsa lulled on past descriptions of Garrala’s homeworld with its juxtaposition of lush forests, expansive farmlands and sprawling habitats for the small world’s burgeoning population. The lulls grew wider until there was only silence and the electric heat between them like a moist, soft buffer. While Garrala considered whether the “signs” noted earlier might have been misinterpreted, Elsa’s unpremeditated kiss came as something of a shock. She did not understand its true meaning to a Denaralan as her tongue stimulated the sensors in their wet recesses beyond teeth and forward glottis. The signs were now very clear, Garrala realized; there had been no misinterpretation at all. Already the telltale fog was beginning to cover the Denaralan’s sight, removing accountability from both of their shoulders for what would inevitably happen next.

With one last burst of mental clarity Garrala had told her, this girl who was the daughter of the mayor of this pleasant Terran host city, what was known, what was certain. A coupling could be attempted, if that was truly her intention but, by Denaralan standards, there would necessarily have to be some changes for each to adapt to the possible physiological differences. Elsa, misunderstanding, giggled sweetly. Changes were fine with her, she said, as long as they weren’t too kinky.

In the fog brought on by sexual arousal that was as much as Garrala could offer before everything clamped down and became lost in the dreamstate of pure indulgent pleasure. Nothing more was said to dispel the earth girl’s misapprehension of Denarala sexuality.

They left the Consulate and the diplomatic party that was still winding its laconic way and their exit was not noticed. Elsa’s apartment was only four blocks and two turns away.

# # #

Garrala heard little of Elsa’s bantering descriptions of human anatomy, the functions and reasons for body parts as they undressed. The protuberant and slightly pendulous globes of smooth flesh used for suckling the newborn meant nothing to the alien. All that Garrala asked were the locations of areas of Elsa’s body that might best benefit from stimulation. She lay down on the bed smiling and offered one of those selfsame child-nourishers (breasts, she called them) as she groped in the general vicinity of the Denaralan’s bared, hairless crotch for signs, to her, that she was indeed desirable to her star-traveling lover.

She found the intricate folds of flesh that concealed the flaccid sheweef and a look of perturbment came across her smooth, lightly haired young face. “The taste,” said Garrala through a haze of abandon, “is what excites.” The Denaralan’s tongue, almost a twin to the hidden sheweef itself when erect though with many more sensor buds covering its long, tubular surface. Slithered over Elsa’s small breasts and pink nipples in search of more than the meager flavor of sweat and the cloying perfume that she wore. Elsa was moaning, her pleasures internalized, not evident to the sensitive tongue, the need fully swollen buds that rimmed and rowed the length and circumference. Kissing her deeply once again for a reminder that the signs had not been wrong or misleading, Garrala ran a four-fingered hand over the slender length of the girl, touching only damp and dry, nothing to corroborate the earlier testimony of sight, tongue and touch. Garrala was confused, the heavy mist of arousal already beginning to lift with the frustration felt. Then, Elsa took the wandering hand, guided it between her legs to the warm, lustfully sliding membrane there, covered with skin and hair. They hide it, thought Garrala, sliding the absorbent tongue hungrily to the spot to dig in the thick patch of blonde hair, find the gathering of richly flavored bodily relishes, all of them piquant and aromatic as a warm Denaralan forest breeze (Oh, those sinful days of youth in the rain moistened, woodsy air with your tongue extended to taste and savor the ambient signs like the fluids exuded from the very essence of a careful and attentive lover!) to lap and absorb the juices that were secreted from her depths as from a concealed spring. The tongue slid and, in its sliding, bumped and moved the malleable parts, found a thin, short button of hardened pink that, when nibbled by the opening in the Denaralan’s tongue, made the girl squeal and bounce her hips on the bed and cry out in spasms of hard breath and strangled voice. The tongue moved, out of control in its perseverance to find more of this heady and invigorating flavor and, with an instinctive lash and turn of its own, found the well of her keeping, the deep fount., the manufactory of her musky, lustful flavors that, with suckings through the tube of Garrala’s tongue, were tasted and held in the mouth and found fit and right. The last sign, the one of truth, was here. The message ran the ganglion paths through the tongue, mouth and neck, traveled at stellar speed to the ball of muscle that was Garrala’s sheweef, causing that muscle-tube of assimilative tissue to disengage from its concealing place to stand free from the Denaralan’s body.

Garrala crawled between the earth girl’s splayed legs, felt the rise and fall of the bellows of her breathing as the sheweef found its home and slid swiftly in to drink deep of her secretions, found good and nourishing the cast-off compounds her body produced only as lubrication and scent. Garrla’s age-old race memory cried out at the near insufficiency of the genetic materials the young woman’s body was offering but the internal complaint was soon stilled when the anterior vesicle behind the sheweef was slowly filled.

In a few moments, Elsa was unconscious and, as natural reflex demanded, Garrala pulled out of the girl before any real damage could be done. Through culture and evolution Garrala was decidedly one of the race of people of Denarala, this frightening aspect of love making was something that had always been difficult to fathom. “Why,” she thought as she lay resting beside her earthling lover. “Why must the male lose consciousness at the very moment that clarity returns?” Garrala looked at Elsa, the girl’s jaw under slung in her near-comatose sleep to open the small mouth in the shape of the “uh” vowel. Wistfully watching the girl’s even breathing, Garrala noted how much like the males of her own species – differences notwithstanding – these females of the Terran race seemed. Running a thick finger under the girl’s nose to gather the last of the perspiration drying in the light fuzz of Elsa’s incipient moustache, the Denaralan sighed. “Now that I can think clearly once again,” she whispered. “There would be so much that we would have had to say to one another. So much that I would have you know…. And which you probably would not want to hear.

# # #

Rumors of the incredible sexual prowess of the visitors from Denarala radiated through the diplomatic corps. Elsa, however, was not the original source of the stories that circulated about the dark skinned, four fingered race from across the galaxy. She was of an extremely discreet nature, given to keeping her own counsel. The singular occurrences leading up to and culminating in the orgasm received at the porous end of the Denaralan’s tongue were her own secrets to keep.  Add to this the fact that, after her climax, she remembered nothing of the coitus that she presumed had followed, her silence becomes even more understandable. The few times she saw Garrala later on she made no mention of their love making, not wanting to hurt the gentle Denaralan’s feelings with the admission of her apparent amnesia about the most important aspect of their time together.

The rumors that circulated came from other sources, other incidents, similar and dissimilar to the one which Elsa and Garrala had shared. Women spoke of the artful cunnilingus of the Denaralan “men,” of orgasms so intense that all senses were lost; men spoke of vaginas so vibratingly active and juicy that the man needed do nothing more than slip his pecker in and let the “girl’s” body do all the rest.

Garrala laughed when she heard that about Denaralan “women.” Those were the men of the species and that profusion of viscous juiciness was the stuff of their genetic offering to the sheweef to sip and absorb. What a backward place this is, she thought, where the females entice and receive the males, the males who possess the protuberant penis (the word rang falsely in her mind) which spits the seed of life rather than is used as a means to absorb that seed, the genetic soup of all reproductive possibility, into it.

Garrala lay on her bed in her room at the Consulate and placed her cumbersome four fingers to her abdomen, felt the almost gaseous rumblings of the new cells dividing and being created within her from the influx of Elsa’s vaginal discharges that the Denaralan’s sheweef had gathered. The four fingered hand snuck beneath the loose fitting cloth of her trousers to fiddle among the swirling folds of flesh to her crotch, then removed the hand when she was satisfied that the thickness of her sheweef had already shrunk to an imperceptible nodule in her body’s preparation for the birth of the growing child inside of her. Starting well, she contemplated approvingly; nature following its predestined course with clock like precision.

A gargling sounded behind her second navel and she smiled. Her interior sensitivities were sharp; she felt the child’s face forming nicely; the fingers where just beginning to grow away from the already well defined arm ends. It would be a boy, Garrala knew. Or, she mused giddily, a girl as the earth people would label it. Oh the strange wonders of the new world.

Suddenly a nerve twitched and her mind turned back to the fetus filling out its destiny in her womb. A definite movement there, a new, unexpected growth. The sensing mechanisms were clear, there was no mistake: a fifth finger on each tiny hand. “Earthling?” she asked the child within, listened with every nerve for an answer. “Are you to be an earthling, then? A Terran? If it is true, then what shall you be? A boy? A girl? Or some sort of strange hybrid freak?”

From deep within the Denaralan’s womb came a squeaking, querulous sound. “Oh my,” said Garrala, lying back to allow her mind to drift and fog in the third of her seven gestation cycles. “What will your father think?” she muttered, all sense leaving her as nature had devised it should be at this very moment. “My, oh my my my, oh what will she say?”

The mere mention of the female pronoun in association with the word father caused Garrala to shudder with the feeling of nature having gone irrevocably insane within her womb. Even her unborn child – whether male or female; even with her remarkably acute nervous system, she could no longer be certain which it would be – gave a mewling cry from within her that was most irregular for a fetus at such an early stage of development. Dread, that subtle blending of fears into one black, irresolvable ball – quite an extraordinary emotion for any Denaralan – began to crease pale shadows across Garrala’s richly colored brow.

Paradise Found By Steve Carr

I awaken feeling the warm breeze coming off the ocean through the open doors that lead out onto the veranda. The air is perfumed with the scents of salt water and lush island flora. I hear the waves ebbing and flowing on the nearby white sand beach and macaws chattering in the canopy of trees. It is early and the light coming into my bedroom is soft and hazy. The bed is surrounded on all sides by gauzy mosquito netting and a wooden fan rotates slowly in the middle of the ceiling. During the night I have accidentally kicked off the white satin top sheet which lies in a heap alongside the bed. Naked, I look down at my body, at the hardness of my pecs, the flatness of my stomach and the stiffness of my hefty cock. I tanned quickly, having been on the beach for only a few hours the day before, and looking down at my large feet they alone reveal the true whiteness of my skin; the tan lines from the sandals I wore clearly visible, separating white skin from tan. I swam nude, and afterward covered in tanning lotion I sunbathed nude except for the sandals on a flat rock on the edge of the beach, turning my body regularly like a roasting fowl. Lying here even after showering before coming to bed, I can smell the remnants of the coconut in the tanning lotion along with the subtle scent of my sweat. I wrap my large right hand around my member and slowly begin to slide it up and down from base to head, slowly, luxuriating in the moment and the pleasure my own body gives me.

When Nani opens the bedroom door that leads from the living room, I instinctively cover my erection with my hand and try to smile innocently at her through the netting. She says nothing as she carries in a tray with a plate of fresh cut fruit; pineapples, papaya and bananas, and places it on the stand at my bedside. She is not wearing a sarong as she did yesterday, and is now clothed in a simple cotton flower patterned dress that has buttons from her ample cleavage down to the hem at mid-thigh. Both the top three buttons and the bottom three are unbuttoned and even with her simple movements of walking or slightly bending over she reveals the outermost boundary of her dark brown areolas. She moves with unintentional sexiness, the dress clinging to and shifting over her large breasts, around the curves of her torso and between her smooth legs. There are no panty lines. Her long black hair hangs straight and shiny down to the middle of her back, and as she moves she pushes stray strands back from her beautiful face with a gentle flick from her hand. When she glances at my face, she smiles with perfectly white aligned teeth showing between full lips lightly touched with red lipstick.

“You are awake,” she says in a mixture of question and statement.

“Yes,” I say. “Good morning.”

She stands up straight from having placed the tray in its spot, the opening at the top of her dress between her breasts closing. “I hope you slept well,” she says.

“Very well, thank you,” I say feeling pre-ejaculate oozing in the palm of my hand covering the bulbous head of my throbbing dick.

“Breakfast will be in an hour,” she says as she begins to leave the room. “If there is anything you need Hori and I are here to serve you. Just ring the bell on the stand by your bedside.”

“Thank you,” I say as she leaves the room.

I take my hand from my dick and put the palm of my hand to my lips and lick it free of the salty-sweet juice. I lie here pondering my good luck, winning this trip to this tropical paradise in a radio station promotion raffle. I can feel the weight of my hard dick lying on my lower abs.

“I see you are ready for the day.” It is Hori. He is standing in the door leading out onto the veranda. He is shirtless and barefoot and wearing white cotton shorts. Like Nani, he has perfectly smooth caramel-colored skin and his hair is coal black. His body is trim and his muscles well defined. He is holding a broom made of bamboo and straw. He is pressing the broom against his genitals.  His thick hard cock is bulging and clearly outlined in the thinness of the material of his shorts.  He is glaring at me.

“Yes I am ready,” I say not bothering to hide my erection.

“You will be staying with us for a few days?” He asks still rubbing the broom handle against his swollen member.

“Yes I am,” I say. “I read in the brochure that I can get a massage. Would that be possible after lunch?” I ask.

“Certainly,” he says, “if it is okay that I am the one giving you the massage and not Nani.”

“That’s fine with me, Hori,” I say sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “I should get my day started.” I stand and my erect penis sticks straight out, pushing against the netting.

“I will see you after you have had lunch and give you the massage,” he says turning brusquely and walking off the veranda and down a path leading into the jungle.

I pick up a ripe banana from the tray and peel it and slide it into my mouth as I go into the bathroom.

# # #

At breakfast I sit at a small table by an open window looking out at the jungle and watch as blue and yellow macaws roost in the large branches of candlenut trees and carry out their unmelodious chorus of squawks. With a fan whirling about gently over my head I sit in a padded bamboo chair across from Nani. She sits with one foot up on the chair, her legs slightly spread, and between bites of macadamia pineapple pancakes I steal glances at the pink lips of her pussy surrounded by a thick bush of black hair. Beneath the table my immense hard on resists the cotton board shorts that tries but is losing the battle to keep my cock constrained. Looking down occasionally at my lap I can see the glistening head of my cock poking out the left leg of the shorts.

“We lived in the United States for several years,” she says, “but we like it here much better.”

“You don’t see many people on this island, do you?” I say.

“No, just the guests who come to stay. Usually they are older married couples. It is a treat having a single man like you visiting us,” she says, leaning back in the chair, her vagina bared between the golden hues of the skin of her thighs.

“How long have you and Hori been married?” I ask.

She laughs. “We are not married yet but soon will be, but not much will change when we are. What we share now we will also share then.”

“You mean the work and living in the servants’ house behind this one?” I say.

“Yes, what else is there?” She asks.  She reaches into the top of her low cut dress and adjusts atit and pulls her hand out. The hard nipples of her breasts are pronounced and pressed against the cotton material.

“You are not married?” She says.

“No, I date,” I say, “but no one exclusively. I have found plenty of sex but no love yet.”

“True love requires your heart and your body,” she says.

With my breakfast finished I remain seated hoping my erection will deflate as she goes about clearing the table. When I finally stand up the leg of my shorts and my thigh is wet with pre-cum. “I think I’ll take a walk,” I say and go into my bedroom and slide my feet into my sandals and go out onto the veranda and then down the path to the beach.  A slight breeze is being carried in from the turquoise waters and the ferns and coconut palms sway at the jungle’s edge. I stand on the warm white sand and watch Hori out in a canoe as he casts a small net into the water. His dark skin stands out in relief against the backdrop of the colors of the sea and the brilliant baby blue of mid-morning sky. I slide the boarder shorts off and carry them in my hand as I stroll down the beach feeling the warmth of the sun on my naked flesh.

A mile down the beach I turn off into the jungle and walk a short ways and come into a small circular clearing. There is a wall of jungle all around it, but along the periphery of the cleared space are four polished stone statues of female figures. The figures each have short thick legs upon which sits protruding stomachs and large breasts. I look at each one closely noticing that the stomach and breast of one of them is spotted with remnants of what looks to be dried sap. Behind me I turn quickly and see Hori standing in the path on the edge of the clearing.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I was just admiring the statues. What are they?”

“They are fertility goddesses,” he says. “They have been there for many generations of my family.”

“Your family is from this island?” I ask.

He comes closer to me and stands looking at the statue with the stains. “Yes, I was born and raised on this island.”

I look at the statue and point to the stains. “What are those?”

“They are my seed being offered to that goddess,” he says. “You are invited to offer yours to her also if you would like.”

I can feel my cock becoming engorged thinking about it, but turn to him and say, “maybe another time. I should get back to the cabin and take a shower and have some lunch before you give me that massage.”

“As you wish,” he says. “It’s your vacation do to with as you please. I will bring the massage table to your room.”

# # #

After lunch I am sitting in a wicker chair in my bedroom when Hori comes in from the veranda carrying a folded up massage table. “I see you are ready,” he says as he begins to unfold and set the table on its metal legs.

I stand, the towel wrapped around my waist slipping down just slightly to the top of my light brown pubes. “Yes, I’m ready,” I say crawling onto the table and placing my face in the hole at the table’s end. I can only see his feet through the hole noticing again the beauty of his skin coloring just as with Nani. I can hear him but do not know what he is doing until I see his shorts fall to his feet and him step out of them and kick them aside. When he begins massaging my upper back the apprehension of being massaged by a naked man quickly fades and I relax my body on the pad of the table. Wordlessly I hear him as he shakes a bottle of lotion into his strong hands and then returns to rubbing and massaging my skin. He reaches under me and undoes the towel and pulls it from my body and tosses it onto his shorts. As his hands caress and kneed the hard mounds of my ass and up and down my inner thigh I lose the battle to keep from getting a complete erection. With my one arm hanging over the edge of the table I feel the pressure of his thick hard cock as it brushes against it. When at last he has me turn onto my back, my dick is spewing a stream of semen. I look down and watch as he lowers his mouth onto the head of my cock and begins sliding his lips up and down on the fully swollen shaft. As I cum I wrap my hand around his massive cock and feel him shoot his ejaculate onto the floor.

# # #

At night as I sit on the veranda in the glow of a full moon I hear the frogs croaking from the nearby lagoon and watch butterflies dance from flower to flower along the border of the jungle. I am sipping a tropical drink of rum and mangoes and staring up at the night sky pinpointed with white shimmering stars. When Nani comes out onto the veranda from my room I almost do not hear her bare feet on the painted boards.

“It is a beautiful night,” she says.

“It’s paradise,” I say.

She goes to the railing of the veranda and turns and raises her dress high on her thighs and sits on it, her legs slightly spread. “Hori told me he gave you a massage this afternoon.” she says. “Did you enjoy it?”

I hesitate briefly, “yes, very much. It was different.”

“He is good with his hands,” she says.

“Yes he is,” I say realizing he did not tell her everything.

She raises her left leg placing her foot on the railing also, her crotch fully exposed. In the shadow between her open legs I try to see the crevice of her pussy. I feel my breathing become more rapid and my cock begins to swell in my shorts.

“Do you find me attractive?” She asks, placing her hand on the inside of her thigh.

“Yes, very,” I stammer.

She slowly unbuttons her dress and opens it revealing the fullness of her breasts that are tipped with large brown circles around pointed brown nipples. Even before I stand my penis is rock hard and as I slide my shorts down to my feet I feel the warm night air envelop my body. Stepping out of the shorts I walk to her and take her breasts in my hands and bend down and lick each nipple. She moans as I slide my large thick middle finger into the moistness of her vagina and begin to thrust it back and forth inside her. She grabs the back of my head and covers my lips with hers as I guide my big hard dick into her juice-dripping pussy. When we climax together she collapses against my bare chest with my cock still hard and dripping cum inside her.

“Do not tell Hori what you and I do,” she says. “If it weren’t for Hori, I could love you.”

# # #

During breakfast I watch rain fall onto the lush jungle growth. The moisture and humidity in the air is palpable and I can taste the salt in the air on my tongue. Nani has been mostly quiet, serving my breakfast and then removing the dishes afterward without saying much. She is wearing a sarong and her bare shoulders glisten with sweat. When I rise from the table I say “I’m going for a walk” and start to leave.

“Hori is gone also,” she says. “If you see him send him home.”

“I will,” I say, then walk through the bedroom and out onto the veranda and stand watching the rain dripping from palm fronds before stepping out onto the path leading to the beach. Without the cover of jungle I see the sky is full of billowy dark clouds. The waves washing against the shore are choppy and the seagulls are scurrying back and forth in the wet sand as if disoriented by the change in weather. I take off my sandals and carry them as I walk along the shell-scattered beach. Hori is nowhere in sight. At the path leading to the statues I turn and re-enter the jungle. On the edge of the small clearing where the statues stand I stand and watch Hori as he stands naked in front of the same statue as the day before, his massive hard cock in his hand, stroking it very slowly. I start to turn and leave and he turns, looking at me.

“Come give your seed to the goddess,” he says raspily.

I hesitate briefly then slide my shorts down and off and hang them on a fern along with my sandals. At his side, my arm touching his, I take my member in my hand and begin to slide my hand up and down the shaft and over the thick head until I am hard.

“It is beautiful,” he says looking at my hard dick.

“Yours too,” I say while looking at the goddess.

He places his hand on my chest and slowly slides it down my abs and into my pubes. I move my hand as he takes my cock in his hand and strokes my dick to the same slow rhythm as he is stroking his own.

“Make me your goddess,” he says as he puts his arms around the statue and slightly bends over presenting his smooth muscular ass to me. I go back to jacking my cock. “Not that way,” he says, reaching around and spreading his cheeks, revealing his pink starfish shaped hole to me.

“Are you sure,” I say.

“Yes, do it,” he says spreading his legs more and pushing his butt against the head of my cock. “Last night while Nani slept I jacked off imagining what it would feel like to have your big cock inside me.”

I add spit to the pre-cum on my dick and slowly slide it into him, opening him, entering him inch by inch until the full thickness and length of my member is completely inside him. When I begin to thrust back and forth with my hands holding onto his slender hips he moans with pleasure while he strokes his cock. When he cums on the statue my jizz explodes deep inside him. As I pull my cock out of him he looks over his shoulder at me.

“Do not tell Nani what you and I do,” he says. “If it weren’t for Nani, I could love you.”

# # #

On the speedboat leaving the island going to the mainland I look back at the beach and am not surprised that neither Nani or Hori are there watching me go. In these last few days on the island  I made love to both them frequently, sampling every part of their bodies and them sampling every part of mine. Last night while Hori lay naked on his stomach on my bed and I thrust my rod in and out of his smooth, firm hole Nani came into my bedroom and cried out in anguish.

“How could you do this to me?” She said, leaving quickly and slamming the door behind her.

While shooting my load deep into Hori’s warm insides I wondered who Nani’s statement was aimed at. Before I get into the boat they hardly speak to me, or to one another.

I imagined that each of them was waiting for me to tell them that I could love them also. On the boat ride from the island to the main island the young man steers the speedboat sitting with his legs spread, the bare skin of his smooth muscled chest glistening in the sun. From under his lava lava I see his huge hard cock bobbing up and down and dripping pre-cum with every bounce on the waves. He watches me closely, licking his gorgeous thick lips as I unzip my pants and take out my rock hard cock and offer it to him.

“I can love you,” I tell him as he stops the boat in the water and gets on his knees and takes my big cock into his mouth.

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.

Squirt on This by Charles E.J. Moulton

  1. Ava, Alienated

Maybe, I thought to myself, there is genuine interest there after all. I realized quickly, by the disinterested look in her face, that my answer would hang there like a “piñata” waiting to be smashed to smithereens.

“How’s work? Still singing?”

A personal question? Coming from Kayleigh? Miracles do happen after all.

Kayleigh expected positive simplicity, of course, not a complicated lecture. Polite small-talk carried out while giving me dirty looks, the kind of dirty looks this whole family seemed to be giving me: that’s all I ever would get.

“She has big tits, a tight ass, she is a famous star, she probably cheats on Kenneth, also: she’s arrogant.”

That was probably what they were all thinking.

I know how sensitive I was., but I just couldn’t help being sensitive with all those strange looks coming my way. I realized that having big knockers, liking to dance and being a popular stage performer actually worked against me among country folk.

I swallowed my damn pride, let the damn chick sneer at my good sexy looks and I told Kayleigh that I worked on the side in order to find artistic fulfillment, that there was stress and competition and bad attitudes and that, in spite of everything, I really didn’t know how I should find time to learn all that music. Her response was to yawn. Yes, baby. Yawn.

“Ah, yes,” I was expected to say. “Everything is great.”

So it was as if I had not even been saying anything at all. I felt like a fly landing on somebody’s damn leg, slapped away by an angry hand. I hadn’t spoken long, however, when my husband Kenneth came striding up with his usual confidence and interrupted my story.

“Look at what we experienced yesterday, my son and I,” Kenneth told Kayleigh. “He just loves the rollercoaster. We filmed the occasion with my small camera.”

Me? I was left there, looking like a beautiful and abandoned swan, following my husband’s tight ass with my eyes. Did he have any idea what he had just done? Probably not.

Kayleigh took the camera in question from Kenneth’s hand, willingly, and disappeared into the house.

God, I was angry at Kenneth.

Too many times now, I had wondered why so many swords of indifference cut into my innards. I saw them all leave, knowing that I was just simply the fifth wheel around here. This was my new family, but they understood as little about what I did for a living as a mouse could understand what life was like for a camel. My heart wounded, my pride felt penetrated by all kinds of virtual arrows.

Why couldn’t I just be respected by my in-laws? I spoke to myself, or to my higher self as they case might be. I left the garden going out onto the street, circling the block, wondering why I really felt this way.

“I’m good looking, I’m nice, I’m interesting, I have a great profession, but it matters more to me if I my family cares what I feel – and they don’t seem to. Why am not popular around here?”

I called it the hamster wheel. My anger rose to new heights, primarily because I spoke to myself and accordingly conjured up new emotions. My son loved me, I had brought him to world, breastfed him, changed his diapers, brought him to school every morning, but all he could talk about right now was my husband.

I returned through the garden gate again just as Kayleigh asked my husband where I was. I promptly interrupted her that I was back. Ava, the curiosity among the hoagies, Ava, the sexy but weirdly arrogant chick with the sexy looking ass, Ava, she had returned.

I sat there, watching my family work on making juice out of the peers I had helped pick from some tree today. My sister-in-law listened politely while I told her about my work. I was hurt, because I missed the general interest in my life or my general feelings.

When she threw a jibe at the expense of Kenneth and myself, “Little Ava with the big jugs says nothing about how much her beer-guzzling fool of a husband drinks”, I only answered that the world was a big place and that I was happy. She should be so lucky, I muttered to myself under my breath. Other people know who I am, but no one is a prophet in his own homeland. Kayleigh eventually stood up, without really giving me any actual comment about what I had told her, only telling me that she had to go back to the diner she was the manager of.

“I am my own manager,” I answered her.

Kayleigh laughed at this, oblivious to my pain, and left me with my hands in my knickers, squeezing pears and wishing I had more artistic things to do. In fact, soon almost everybody left for a stroll through the forest. Kenneth was left doing the kitchen and I, feeling like a silly child, walked back into the kitchen to tell Kenneth that I thought Kayleigh had been unfair in calling him a beer-guzzling fool and that I thought he was great.

His reaction was shallow, dismissive and rather arrogant.

“Uh-huh,” he moaned and asked me to help him dry the dishes.

Rednecks, I thought to myself. Damn Rednecks with capital R’s. How come that I, the daughter of intellectual Broadway artists, had married into this family filled with these damn Rednecks? Hillbillies. Fuck, I was steaming. I had to do something in order to feel better. Why had I married this man? He had been so understanding in the beginning of our marriage. Now he had become an asshole. I had to get him to want me again.

“Ava is a singer,” another sister-in-law had told her three year-old daughter last week. “She makes lah-lah. “

“It’s more than lah-lah, sister,” I chuckled.

“Even more than lah-lah,” she laughed. “Wow.”

Lah-lah? Jesus Christ, I thought to myself. What was that? I could, of course, have resorted to actually telling the woman off what professional music was about and that everything I had learned in the academy had a reason. But I had held the same lecture years ago at a party and Kenneth had told me off so harshly that I cried myself to sleep many nights. I felt like getting back at someone, holding my own, something, anything to boost my self-confidence. What could make me feel better?

If I was to get him back I would have to play hard to get. It came to me as I dried one of the longer glasses, one that looked like a very thick and short cock. Sex.

  1. Ava’s Physics

I dried the dishes like a good girl, then walked up to the upper floor of the house, changed into my training gear, turned up the stereo and punched myself into shape, constantly looking at my sexy boobs and hot ass, stretched my million dollar body, fondling my boobies in the process, and spoke to my higher self about what to do next.

This time I would not act out of frustration. I would have my husband eating out of the palm of my hand. Memories of logging into Facebook yesterday night appeared in my mind. I found myself silly in actually having confessed my erotic desire to a male colleague that was a self-confessed Casanova. He hadn’t answered me. I also knew that I could not tell my husband that I felt awkward about his family of self-confessed Ohio Rednecks. I knew that my nightly chatty PC excursions with the male Casanova colleague could not be openly discussed. I also knew that I had actually just contacted that brief acquaintance with the sexy eyes because I was frustrated.

My vacation this year felt like a row of board games and house chores.

Oh, yes, and barbecues.

That old song from “A Chorus Line” came to mind as I stood up there, “Who am I anyway? Am I my résumé?” Finally, I really got into a swing when the sounds of The Buggles’ old song “Video Killed the Radio Star” blasted through the speakers.

When Kenneth came up behind me, standing in the doorway, my confidence suddenly soared. He must’ve watched me there in my sports-wear for quite a bit, my E-cup knockers bouncing to the beat of the song and my pony-tail swinging to and fro. I felt like an 80’s crumpet, back in my teens, remembering my young years, stretching my legs and buns to the sounds of Duran-Duran. I felt transported back to the old days. I had found my recipe for success. “He likes to watch,” I told myself. “Well, I will give him what he wants.”

So I gave him the benefit of the doubt, a rush of confidence now rising in my soul. I kept dancing, shaking my arse, twisting my hips, stretching my tits just enough to give him a clear view of them and the nipples visible through my tight J-Lo T-shirt. My hunk of a hubbie did not move. He simply stood there watching me, probably getting hotter by the minute.

I could just picture his big cock growing as he saw me dance. I could picture him dreaming about fucking me. Hard to get, I just had to play hard to get.

Kenneth had an effective sperm factory working in his testicles. Would my provocation change that, you think? If I left him standing there and if I actually spent the day ignoring him, he would walk into the computer room at night, search the porn web and repeatedly squirt on a tissue. Then I would walk in and laugh at him just as I saw him squirting. That would be the thing, wouldn’t it: 40 year-old, confused and nervous milf, a crumpet with no self-confidence but a fantastic rack of jugs and a good-looking ass, playing hard-to-get. I sighed, yawned, smiled to myself and turned up the volume of “Ring My Bell”. Once last dance, I thought to myself, and then the real show begins.

I bent over, letting those sweet buttocks telling my husband to shove it. I swirled around, stretched, performed a kick-ball-change and a leap, enjoying it thoroughly, and promptly walked toward the doorway past Kenneth, grabbing my towel, drying myself off and slapping him on the butt as I walked by. Little cock-loving me, giving him no double whammies, not getting down on her knees pleading for his penis, not jumping down on the bed and spreading her legs in order to let him fuck her, not showing him her asshole so that he could stick in his big dick into her soaped and creamy love-hole. Little sexy me with the big jugs simply walked into the bathroom and stripped naked, Kenneth only watching.

From the corner of my eye I saw his shorts actually getting too tight for his comfort. He shifted in his step, wiggling his hips, pretending to adjust his belt. He would be taking out his dick at any minute.

I had Kenneth where I wanted him now: wanting me to suck his cock. I would keep him wanting me, pushing his desire rise to new heights. I would laugh at his erect cock a few times and then have him fall on his knees and let him beg. Maybe I would allow for him to fuck me then. Just maybe.

  1. Provocative Ava

As I showered off my sweaty boobs and dripping pussy, I heard my husband quietly mutter my name as he stood in the doorway, sort of hoping that I would answer him. I ignored him, like he had ignored me an hour ago. I stuck one finger into my snatch, masturbating just a little bit just to keep my desire burning and ready for his dick tonight. Then, happily horny, I turned off the shower and opened the curtain. Kenneth was still there, his cock now out of his pants, big and dangly. His cock was not erect just yet, but it was growing steadily by the minute. He said nothing, but he looked like a horny beagle, hoping I would get on my hands and knees as always and let him squirt on my tonsils.

“Why don’t you just lock yourself in the computer room, honey, and squirt on a tissue?” I looked up at him, wearing his cocker spaniel expression, his cock now erect, touching his own full length. “The web is so full of cum … uh, fun,” I said, feeling triumphant about showing him all this female independency. “Cumshots? Big Jugs? Kirsten Imrie? Torie Wells? Chloé Vevrier? Colt 45? Busty Dusty? Katie’s Load Delivered? Brandy Taylore? Tiffany Towers? Nina Hartley? What tickles your balls?”

Kenneth now masturbated like crazy, watching me rub my clit usisng my Hello Clitty towel. “You drive me nuts,” he panted.

I laughed, putting on my pink knickers. “I have licked more pussy than you know,” I lied, putting on my white 40E bra and shaking my knockers. Kenneth’s hand was now jerking off his absolutely enormous dick so fast that I saw the package only in a fast forward blur.

“Oh, please let me fuck you, Ava,” he moaned. “Please.”

I really honestly felt like saying yes, or my pussy did. My pride, however, remained steadfast. I wanted to be the winner once. So, accordingly, I played hard to get.

I choose the see-through dress with the daisies and the pussy-willows hanging on the small closet door and slipped into it. I ruffled my hair a little bit, checked the mirror for corrections, carefully added lipstick, rouge, eye shadow and the obligatory beauty spot on my left cheek. His one-hand merengue accelerated and now he used both hands to masturbate.

He panted again. Now louder than before. “I have got to have you.”

I shook my head, happily. “Have yourself, dear,” I laughed, arrogantly. “You know you like jerking off. That cock of yours just seems to adore your hand. It looks like fun.”

I searched the bathroom for a tissue, interrupting my cosmetic moment, found none and finally ripped off some loo-paper instead and gave it to him.

“Squirt on this,” I told him, dismissively. “Those sperms of yours like flying.”

Confused, he took it.

“Now, little guy, use my ass as a sex-object. I will grant you that much, baby.”

I kept on making myself up, carefully lifting my skirt and letting him look at my ass while he jerked off. I knew I had him now. Soon enough, his grunt grew more rugged. Then, only silence followed. Slowly, I turned around, looking at him with his schlong out of his shorts, that sticky liquid swimming on the loo-paper.

I smiled, opening the toilet-lid, and walking past him, more triumphant than ever before. “Don’t forget to flush,” I said, walking past him as fast as I could.

“I need your clit, Ava,” he said, desperately. “Even now.”

“You’ve had your sex for today, Kenneth,” I laughed seductively as I walked down the stairs, leaving him standing there like a kid with his hand in the cookie-jar. “If in doubt, fuck yourself.”

I just had to laugh to myself as I opened the fridge door and took out the cold Italian white wine that I had bought in Wal-Mart yesterday. I stood there for one moment, drinking that alcoholic liquid, feeling quite good about myself for getting back at my husband in this way. I was going to let him fuck me tonight, but only on my own terms. The chill of that wine slipped down past my boobs into my stomach, tickling my cunt, and making me giggle.

I had not been standing there long when I heard Kayleigh’s voice again, now with her entire family of Ohio Rednecks slamming with BBQ cutlery and walking in and out of the guest house, turning on the barbecue, laughing about bad baseball players and weird politicians. I left them to their shallow conversation and walked into the sitting room, turned on some Mozart on the stereo, leafed through a coffee table book about Rubens and masturbated to the painting of Rubens’ second wife Helene Fourment. I was very aware that anyone could come in here at any moment, including my son Joshua, but I kept fingering my pussy until I came during the third movement of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony.

I realized how lucky I was, not needing a tissue to squirt on while masturbating like my husband did. My knickers were a little damp and that was all.

  1. Ava’s Inspiration

With my underwear sticking to my clitty, I listened a bit longer to the music of my favorite composer, fully aware how sexual he had been as well. I had often sung the arias of the Countess from “The Marriage of Figaro”, knowing how erotic the story was of the adulterous Count Almaviva and the games everyone played with him as a culprit. The Count finally consented to excusing himself in front of the Countess, kneeling down in front of her instead of her kneeling down in front of him. I am sure that fellatio was common in Mozart’s day, as well, but I also knew that Beaumarchais’ play also had the Count kneel down in front of the Countess as a comment to Rococo feminism. The servant Figaro also had the Count kneel before him, because Figaro had helped the Countess get back at her husband.

I was alone in my sexual game, but I knew that when I sucked my husband’s dick tonight he would be following my every move, obeying every rule.

I refilled my glass in the kitchen and walked out into the garden, my cunt still dripping with female cum. The party was in full swing as I walked out. Beer was being guzzled, steaks were devoured, hot sauce was being poured over penis-like sausages, boob-like potatoes were slapped on the grill and vagina-like hot peppers were shoved into willing male mouths, There was no Mozart out here, just Billy Ray Cyrus and Shania Twain. No artistic coffee table books with Rubens paintings discussed, only the texture of the Beef or the length and color of the hot dog buns were analyzed.

I felt strong. I suspected that my husband was still upstairs, probably performing another acrobatic trick with his one-hand-girlfriend, letting his sticky juice squirt over another length of loo-paper. I now transformed completely. Knowing how I now was capable of playing a sexual game with my arrogant husband, I was able to joke about the things they joked about and even tell my in-laws about how it was to be a performer on an opera-stage without being interrupted. I now had these country folk eating out of the palm of my hand. Finally. Playing hard to get really gave me confidence.

My husband came down, probably having jerked off to the pictures of Amber Lynn a thousand times, his hands sticky with sperm. He guzzled a few beers, told a few jokes, but I was the star attraction. By the time evening came I was drunk with Italian wine. My husband was horny and very sad.

I didn’t care. I really did not care and it felt fantastic.

Heck, I even helped with the house chores; I even played a board game with those country bumpkins. I knew my husband had been holding his own dick a moment ago and now I was holding the sword and shield. Down by the riverside, my ass.

“Mommy,” Joshua came up to me toward the evening and said.

“Yes, dear?” I responded, sweet as could be, happy that he now was returning to me with a question instead of just going to Kenneth.

“Mike asked me if I wanted to sleep over at his house,” he sing-songed. “They have a new Star Wars-game on Wii and we also wanted to play some basketball.”

“Well,” I answered. “If it’s okay with dad and if Kayleigh is okay with that, I’m okay with that.”

Joshua looked at me with a gaze that spoke of surprise. He noticed that a new won confidence had arisen in my heart and recognized that something old and familiar now lived in my heart. “Kayleigh and her family have invited us all to join them for a round of scrabble at their house. So, we will all be going there. Dad won’t go. He has to finish his project on the computer, he says.”

I smiled to myself, knowingly. His penis-project, my mind mused, jerking off for the sixth time today and hoping I would fuck him like I used to fuck him. For hours on end.

“I will stay here as well,” I answered my son. “I want to paint a bit.”

My son nodded. “Will you show me the painting when it’s finished?”

I nodded, actually bonding with my son again after so long a time. Happily, I packed a small bag for him, putting in his favorite games and explained to Kayleigh what to think of and what not to worry about. Soon enough, Kenneth and I were the only ones left over in the house. That really felt good.

My cunt tingled with excitement, thinking about how his large cock would penetrate my asshole and cunny soon enough. I had to plan this well. I was going to make the rules.

  1. Ava Copulates

All the way up to the upper floor, I chuckled to myself. My canvas, my paint brushes and my acrylic colors waited, Kenneth was horny again. I heard that familiar faint thumping of hands against testicles, “Slap! Slap! Slap!”, rubbing a seven inch erect penis.

Getting more excited by the minute, the idea of Kenneth so damn frustrated, I took all the time in the world stripping completely naked, hoping he saw me. Soon enough, I stood there naked painting my landscape painting, now and then reaching down to rub my cunt, pushing my paintbrush into my vagina.

Oooh. Then, the moment arrived. The sensation of my husband’s erect seven inch penis touching my snatch aroused me in ways I cannot describe. I knew I had played hard-to-get long enough and so I bent over, showing him my butt clear enough for him to be able to stick his cock inside.

“Will you be a good boy, Kenneth, and respect me in the future?”

“Oh, yes, Ava,” he answered.

“Will you do what I tell you?”

“Well, okay. If you say so. Just, please, pretty please let me stick my dick in.”

“Oh, all right. If you really must then, by all means, stick your silly thing in.”

My furburger dripping wet with my own clitty-liquid, his hot precum turned my insides into a cocktail of sexual glory. I felt his hard groin pumping my ass and making my butt cheeks wobble like crazy in a kind of boogie-woogie-rhythm. I held my paintbrush in my hands, pretending to paint a tree and some dark green grass.

I had to be honest, though. I couldn’t concentrate on emulating William Turner right now. I had to concentrate on my husband’s hard hands gripping my waist and thrusting his long dick into my wet pussy. It really grew harder by the minute. That fabulous sensation made me see stars. We hadn’t fucked like this for years. Playing hard-to get was really the best way to enflame his desire. I even had to glance over my shoulder just to see if it really was Kenneth that was fucking me. But it was Kenneth and he was red in the face, just as red as his cock was.

Surprisingly fast, my husband withdrew out of my clit, slapped my butt really hard and threw me around. I was ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that I knew I could be.

Kenneth took my head in his big masculine hands and pushed me on my knees. This time, I obliged. I opened my mouth and he inserted his long prick into my obedient mouth. The helmet of his penis was now blue, all of the blood in his body pumping into his crotch. His brain was on leave. Right now, Kenneth was a sex machine and I loved it.

“You are such a good dick pleaser,” Kenneth finally said, his eyes glowing with excitement. Now I had to admit that I loved his cock.

“Oh, ah shuhsst lovvve schucking your cockh,” I mused like the prostitute I was with him penetrating all my holes, speaking with his big dick still in my mouth. “Bhutt youh gotta letth meeh bee the bossh occasionally, okhay? Letth mhe bhe yourh dhominatriksch onsche a dhay.”

“I will be submissive, you bitch,” he mused. “As long as you suck my dick once in a while.”

Kenneth banged his cock into my mouth harder and faster than I ever before. His helmet felt like one of those big hard walnuts and his big tasty cock had the hardness of a wooden pole. My cunny dripped like crazy. Cumming on the floor under my cunt while his gender pumped in and out of my word hole aroused me in ways that defied gravity. I felt like flying. I moaned and groaned in higher and higher tones.

I knew that he loved my voice range climbing into the extreme high range. Although I was a dramatic soprano, I had also sung Mozart’s Queen of the Night during my college years. I had even sung it once while he fucked me. Now I sucked his cock and exerted small staccato squeaks as he rolled over my tongue.

With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound that sounded like I had just finished a cocktail, pardon the pun, I took out his long dick out of my mouth and wiped off my own saliva off my chin and exclaimed: “Let’s go into the bedroom, you horny fuck. Lick my pussy long and hard – or else. Show me how good a pussy licker you are, baby. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy. Show me you are good for something other than to bitch.”

Kenneth didn’t have to wait long in order to follow my dominating orders. He lift me off the ground, his dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind. We passed the bathroom where he had squirted on the loo-paper for the first time this morning and entered the temple of our nightly sin. The sun was setting as he inserted his tongue into my snatch for the first time. I had the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into my clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of my pubic hair. I alternately rubbed my E-cup titties and his by now ruffled hairdo.

The sound he was making was quite similar to the sound he made when he ate spare ribs. The slurping and licking sounds made me think that there were gallons of clitty-juice in there – and there probably was. I laughed to myself, aroused by this amazing sensation. I loved the way my husband licked my clit. It really made me understand why I had married the man, arrogant asshole or not.

Now we were in the final stages of our copulation. Kenneth heaved himself out of my crotch, his face dripping wet with my cunt-liquid. When he thrust his prick into my hole, I sang. I really sang. I began singing not Queen of the Night, but Gilda’s “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto”. The tones just swam out of my mouth as my husband fucked me harder and harder, my tones wobbling as hard and as intensely as my pussy ached. Kenneth closed his eyes, humping me harder and harder. I sang, his cock getting harder and harder as his rhythm accelerated faster and faster. My pussy was sore. It actually hurt me, every part of my clit throbbing with pain. But it was a pain that I actually enjoyed, being fucked until I was sore. I knew that I would come out of this a winner. After this I was going to play hard-to-get again, but not right now. Now I just wanted to be fucked.

Finally, Kenneth withdrew his dick and stretched it out into the open air, jerking off like crazy, his insane gaze giving me the impression that he was in a sexual trance.

“Let me squirt on your tongue, baby,” he moaned. “Show me just how submissive I was. Give me your endless desire.”

I crawled about on the bed, looking like a seal, swirling around from my position on my back to a position under his dick, opening my mouth wide and sticking out my tongue, making little squeaking and horny tones as I did. I stuck out my tongue even further, pleading for his sperm. “Give me your cum,” I moaned. “Come on, baby. Squirt on my face.”

His hand movements now accelerated to arrive at an insane pace. I saw his thick arms tense up, his face grimace, his head bob, his dick grow even bigger and bluer, his muscles flex. Finally, his cock made a small dancing movement and erupted into a long string of cum that positively skyrocketed into my mouth and onto my tongue. The second portion shot onto my left cheek, the final dessert of this three course sperm-dinner landing on my nose. I licked it all off, swallowing every drop. A stunned silence now came over our mutual copulation. The bedroom became our symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of our burning desire. Every portion of my face was covered in cum.

I wasn’t going to go wash up. I was going to let the sperm dry on my face and then let Kenneth squirt on my face again. Now I had the recipe for self-confidence and erotic success. Playing hard to get, holding my own, so to speak, was my tool to be the best I could be.

  1. Ava, Consulated

I fell asleep pretty soon, but woke up sometime during the night with Kenneth squirting cum on my face. I can only conclude that married life really has its advantages, especially while being married to a man able to produce as much sperm as my wonderful and arrogant husband Kenneth. The best thing is that we actually began speaking about our marital problems after that. I rarely eat protein pills. You will probably know why. I have my own recipe for success: cum, cum, cum, cum and – boy, oh, boy – cum again. All night.

The Intern By Ben Rattle

“Oh my God,” said Clare, “That intern fancies you so much it’s ridiculous. He won’t stop staring.”

Ruth glanced at the young man stood at the bar. Their eyes met. He blushed and looked away.

Ruth shook her head, “Way too young.”

“His names Dom and he’s twenty one. Fresh out of uni.”

“Exactly. Too young. Jesus, can you imagine? He’d be like a rabbit in the headlights. I’d eat him alive.”

“Kinky bitch,” Clare grinned and sucked on her

straw, “Well if you won’t have him I will. I think he’s cute.”

“Be my guest.”

“Don’t be getting jealous now if he turns out to be some sort of super stud. Younger guys, they can go all night.”

Ruth sipped at her vodka and said, “I prefer quality to quantity.”

“Good for you.” Clare got to her feet and swayed unsteadily, “Ooh fuck,” she said, trying to find her balance and smooth down the creases in her skirt at the same time, “Now watch this. Textbook pick up.”

“Don’t do anything you’re going to regret in the morning.”

“As if,” said Clare.

But Dom wasn’t having any of it. And half an hour later Clare stumbled off with a few of the others, for a Friday night kebab. Alone, Ruth finished the last of her drink then picked up her coat and folded it over an arm.

Dom stopped her halfway to the door, dashing over from the bar and jumping in between her and the exit.

“Hi,” he said, his cheeks rosy and flushed.

“Hi,” said Ruth. Not returning his smile.

“You’re not leaving are you?”

“Ah-huh,” Ruth took a step to the side. Dom did too.

“Don’t,” he said, grinning, cocky and sheepish all at once.

“Oh,” said Ruth, “Why?” She gave him her best this had better be good face. The one she had learned from her mum.

“I mean don’t go yet,” said Dom, turning pale, “I noticed you looking over and I’m new and, we haven’t had a chance to talk. Why don’t I buy you a drink?”

Ruth glanced at her watch.

“I’m Dom,” he said, holding out a hand.

“I know,” said Ruth, not shaking it. “It’s late.”

“Just one drink.” Dom his clasped his hands together, “Please. Look, I’ll beg.”

“Don’t,” said Ruth, “That’s not cool.”

“Just one tiny, little, drink.”

“Okay,” said Ruth, “Listen. You do not want a drink with me. I am a bitch, okay?”

“I can take it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then. But I warned you. And just one then I’m gone.”

“Awesome,” Dom bounded over to the bar. “What can I get you?”

Ruth shook her head reached for her handbag, “I’ll get them.”

“Really?” said Dom, looking confused.

“Yes. I get paid more than you. You’re on like what, two pound an hour?”

“Five twenty.”

“I’ll get them.”

“So,” said Dom, after the barman had placed their drinks in front of them, “Have you been here long? Not here as in here-” he gestured around them, “I mean, at work.”

“I know what you meant,” said Ruth, placing her coat on a stool. “Look, let’s get one thing straight, you’re not my type. I’m just having a drink with you to be polite.”

“Wow. Okay. So, what is your type?”

Ruth shrugged, “Oh I don’t know. Rugged guys, I guess.”

“I’m rugged,” said Dom, frowning.

“Sure you are. With those pretty curls.”

“Dom put a hand to his head and ruffled his long brown locks. Your friend said I had nice hair.”

“My friend eats pork scratchings and listens to Justin Bieber.”

Dom shrugged, “Well you’re not my type. Too snooty.”

And stuck up. And this whole mega bitch thing…obviously an act. I bet you sleep with cuddly toys and wear Frozen pyjamas.”

“I so do not.”

“Prove it. Take me back to yours.”

“Persistent aren’t you?”

Dom smiled over the rim of his glass, “I always get what I want.”

Ruth narrowed her eyes. “Okay,” she said, tapping a scarlet nail against her glass, “You can come back to mine. But I have to warn you, I don’t do vanilla.”

“I don’t get you,” said Dom.

“I mean, I like things a bit, spicy.”

“Oh,” Dom’s face lit up, “You mean, like chains and shit. Like-” he leaned in close, “Like Fifty Shades. That’s cool.”

“Is it now?” said Ruth. “Well here’s how it is. There’s something I’d like to try with you. Something a bit…different. If you let me do it, afterwards, you can have me however you want.”

Dom’s mouth dropped.

Ruth stepped up close and whispered in his ear: “You can fuck my mouth, my pussy. Maybe even my ass. Any position. All yours.” She stepped back and held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“What is it that you want too-”

Ruth shook her head, “No questions, or the deal is off.”

Dom swallowed hard and said, “And you’ll let me-however I want?”

“You have my word.”

“Okay, deal.”

“Excellent,” said Ruth, her eyes glittering. “Come on then.”

Ruth took the drink from his hand and pulled him towards the exit. Outside, she hailed a taxi and they sat in the back not speaking. At a red light Dom tried to kiss her on the lips, but Ruth pulled away and wagged a finger in his face telling him, “Not ’till I say so.”

Soon Dom was sat on Ruth’s sofa with a grey and very old cat curled, dribbling, on his left shoulder.

“He likes you,” said Ruth, handing Dom a whiskey, “You should be flattered. Last time I brought a guy back Lucifer shat in his shoes.”

“Please don’t do that to me,” said Dom, tickling under the cat’s chin, “I only bought these yesterday.”

Ruth sat beside him and rested a hand on his knee. Dom shivered, the muscles of his thigh contracting under her touch.

“Relax,” said Ruth, running her fingers over his knee cap. “And drink up. I want you a bit pissed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just a bit though.”

“Okay,” Dom swallowed a slug of whiskey and began to cough. “Eurgh,”he said, “That’s minging.”

“That’s very expensive single malt whiskey.”

“Do I have to finish it?”

Ruth nodded and traced her finger slowly up his thigh, eyes fixed on the swelling in his trousers. She frowned and pulled away, “You’re not a virgin are you?”

“No,” said Dom, his lips pulled back over his gums as he drained the last drop of amber liquid in his glass. “Course not.”

“Good. So tell me,” Ruth rested her hand on Dom’s bulge and smiled as she felt it twitch and strain against the fabric of his chino’s, “How many girls have you fucked?”

“Eight,” said Dom, gasping, eyes half shut.

Ruth squeezed his balls.

“Ow. Okay, four.”

“Tell me about your first time.”

“I was seventeen.”

“How old was she?”

“Fifteen,” said Dom, after a moment’s hesitation.

Ruth shook her head.

“Naughty boy.” She unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock, “And?”

“We did it in a field. A corn field.”

“Really?”

Dom nodded. “Her Dad was a farmer.”

“Farmer’s daughter. Lucky boy. Did she have freckles and blonde hair?”

Dom shook his head.

“Fat with big tits. Oh Jesus,” he stared down at Ruth’s hand in his lap, her nails making a crimson ring around his shaft as she worked him slowly up and down. “Jesus,” he said again.

Ruth whipped her hand away: “You’re not going to cum are you?”

“No,” said Dom, his breathing shallow.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot.”

Ruth jumped off the sofa. “Okay, you need to calm down. Clothes off. I want you naked.”

Ruth folded her arms and watched as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. Soon he was down to shorts and white sport socks.

“My God,” said Ruth, shaking her head, “Do you live in a gym?”

“I like to stay in shape,” said Dom flexing his abs, “Not bad heh?”

“Whatever,” Ruth gestured to his feet, “You can keep those on, but the tighty whities need to come off.”

“What about you?” said Dom, wriggling out of his shorts and clasping a hand over his manhood.

Ruth smiled, “Oh, I’ve got something special to get into.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, stepping forward and getting down on her knees. She moved his hand aside and took him in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the tip of his cock.

“That’s just a taste of what you can have later,” she said, standing up and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “If you’re a good boy. Wait here. I’ll call you when it’s time for you to come in.”

Shutting the bedroom door behind her, Ruth kicked off her shoes and soon stood as naked as her victim. She stopped to admire herself briefly in the mirror, then reached under the bed for her basket of toys, rummaging inside until she found what she needed.

But would he go through with it, she wondered. The million dollar question. And how would she look him in the eye at work if he did? Assuming he came back at all and didn’t run away, scarred for life.

Bollocks. It would be a box ticked. For both of them. And the cocky little twat needed to learn you had to be careful what you wished for.

When she was ready, she lay on the bed with her legs spread and shouted his name.

The door opened a moment later and Dom peered in.

“Come in then,” said Ruth.

Dom froze in the doorway. “What the fuck is that?”

Ruth stroked the rubber cock strapped to her crotch, “What this?

“Yes. Exactly. What the fuck is that?”

“This is Tyson.”

“Why’s it called Tyson?”

“Well, it’s big and black. And if you want to fuck me-”Ruth got to her knees and crawled to the edge of the bed, “Then Tyson and your tight little arsehole are going to get very well acquainted.”

Dom’s face crumpled. His dick wilted.

Ruth chewed on her bottom lip and said, “Don’t be scared.”

“It’s huge.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“And what’s with all the…veins?”

“Sexy aren’t they?”

“They’re terrifying.”

Ruth sighed. “Okay,” she said, “We had a deal but okay. I guess you’re too much of a pussy. Fine. But then you can’t have this-”

Ruth opened her legs and hooked a finger under the leather harness, inching it to the side.

“Oh God,” said Dom, staring at her cunt. Ruth ran a finger up and down her lips, already moist and swollen. “Come here,” she ordered.

Dom stepped forward. Ruth grasped his hand and held it between her legs.

“Don’t you want your cock in there?”

“Yes,” said Dom, his fingers edging inside.

Ruth grasped his wrist, pulled him out of her and wrapped his wet hand around the dildo.

“So, is the deal still on?”

Dom took a deep breath, “I guess,” he said. He stared at the rubber shaft in his hand then, eyes widening, recoiled as though it were a venomous snake: “You won’t tell anyone will you?”

“As if,” said Ruth, mouth falling open in mock shock. She pulled him forward and put his hand back on her dick. “Scouts honour. And for God’s sake don’t look so nervous, you might enjoy it.”

“I doubt it.”

“We’ll see.” Eyes gleaming, Ruth grabbed a handful of his locks and tugged his head back, baring his throat. “Well now muscle boy,” she whispered, her teeth grazing his neck, “You are my little bitch, got it?”

Dom mumbled yes. Ruth yanked on his hair.

“Say it.”

“Shit. I’m your bitch.”

“Good boy. Now get down there and show me how you suck cock.”

“Wait,” said Dom, “I don’t know where it’s been.”

Ruth stood up and pushed Dom to his knees. She grinned down at him and said, “Don’t worry, it hasn’t been in any guys. You’re my first. Doesn’t that make you feel special bitch?”

Ruth grabbed the back of his head and began to screw his mouth, the harness pressing tight on her clit as she thrust her hips back and forth.

“Fuck,” she said, digging her fingers into his scalp, twisting them in his hair-loving the way his face had gone red and kind of puckered, like he was sucking on a lemon. She could cum like this if she let herself. His brown eyes staring up at her, pleading for the humiliation to be over.

No. Save it. She yanked her dick out of his mouth and said, “Ready little boy?”

He didn’t look ready. More like he was about to walk in front of a firing squad. But he stood up anyway and bent over the edge of the bed.

Ruth ran her hands over the ridges of muscle in his back and trailed them down to the cleft of his buttocks. He shivered as she peeled his cheeks apart and flinched as she ran a probing finger around his anus.

“You need to relax,” she purred, “Have you never done anal?”

“Once, kind of. We couldn’t really get it in.”

“You probably rushed it. You have to take your time and work up to it or it’s not good. Pass me the lube.”

Dom peered at her over his shoulder, “Is this going to hurt?”

Ruth dropped a pearly drop of jelly onto his arsehole, “Not if you get into it. There,” she said, pushing a finger half way inside him, “That’s not too bad is it?”

“Fuck.”

“Breathe. Relax, let it in.”

“Fuck,” said Dom again, burying his face in the duvet and sounding like he’d been punched in the stomach. Ruth smacked him on the arse.

“Turn around. I want you on your back. Legs in the air. Two fingers this time.” She locked her eyes onto his, “There, you like it. I can see you do.”

Dom shook his head. Ruth laughed and reached for his cock with her free hand.

“So why’s this so hard?”

“I’m not gay,” said Dom, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Don’t be a prick. Stop fighting it.” Ruth curled her fingers up inside him and said, “G spot bitch. Feels good doesn’t it?”

“Oh my god.” said Dom, his dick swelling as Ruth pushed deeper inside him.

“Just go with it. Surrender to me.” She yanked her fingers out fast making Dom shudder and poured lube on her cock. “Eyes open. I want you to watch it go in. And for fuck’s sake, wank yourself off,” Ruth grasped her shaft and held it in position: “I’m going to peel you like an orange little boy.”

Afterwards they both collapsed, gasping onto the bed, drops of cum drying on their naked bodies. Ruth lit a fag and smoked with her eyes shut. Dom just lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Forehead creased in a frown.

“Tell me that wasn’t the best orgasm you ever had?” said Ruth turning towards him.

“You said you’d be gentle.”

“I got carried away watching you moan.”

“My arse hurts.”

“You’ll be okay in a day or so. And if you ever you fuck a girl in the arse you’ll appreciate how she feels.”

Dom sat up and stretched the muscles of his arms. He gazed at Ruth’s curves, eyes drinking up the swell of her breasts, her stomach and the soft mound between her legs, with its tuft of brown hair.

“You know what,” he said, his cock starting to stiffen, “You are so right. I really will. Now, where’s that lube?”

“Hang on,” said Ruth, propping herself up on her elbows, “You’ve literally just cum.”

Dom shrugged and grasped his dick, “I can go all night,” he said. “Besides, we had a deal, remember? Now you’re my bitch.”