The Hot Flames By Charles E.J. Moulton

Man, that pissed me off.

I found it hard to calm down enough to get the key into the keyhole, my handbag slipping down my shoulder onto my underarm, drops of sweat trickling down my forehead, my boobs jiggling, my panties too tight for my even tighter cunny, my high heeled shoes causing my feet to bleed.

“Come on,” I spat to myself, “don’t let this creep get you down!”

Had I really thrown the content of my glass onto his face just now?

I believe so.

Had I left my job too early without permit?

Yes.

What did that mean?

How the fuck would I know?

Getting fired?

Bring it on, buster.

There were other jobs.

On the other hand, I could sue him for sexual harassment.

One question, though.

Did I really have to hide my beauty to be taken seriously?

I mean, yes, I knew I had a sexy D-cup-rack on my chest, knockers that the men loved to fondle – yes, I had raised a few cocks – but had I chosen to grow boobs? Had I chosen to be born a woman? In my eternal soul, maybe. Sociologically, no. No way. And even if, damn, were my superior looks a reason for my boss to dress me down as a mere decoration?

I know my ass looked like two ripe peaches, I know that my mouth had the appeal of a cocksucker-dream. But as Sting sang in his song on his album

“Ten Summoner’s Tales”: “That is not the shape of my heart.”

I believed that I was a relatively genderless soul born into a woman’s body. So what was sex if not just a method in exchanging emotional energy, becoming one body what was once two? Why not respect each other as equals at the same time as trading erotic vibes?

My boss seemed incapable of doing this. Respecting a sexy woman, I mean.
If my legs were long and my long fingernails red, did that mean I was also dumb? Just because I liked elegance?

I loved having a man sticking his dick up my butt, but I also loved being respected.

Why couldn’t my boss separate his dick from his brains? Why couldn’t he treat a woman he found sexy like a lady? Wasn’t that the treat beyond all treats?

If my boss was more than one thing, why shouldn’t I be so as well?
I found many men sexy, but it would not occur to me to look down on them because of their sex appeal.

Men. Damn it, they pissed me off.

Sex, to me, was no joke.

It was a revelation.

It deserved responsibility.

Wrath bubbled up within me and made me feel like a tornado in action.

In comparison, Shake, Rattle and Roll would feel like a snooze in Battery Park.

“BASTARD!”

I basooned that last word out so loud, my rich and cockraising mezzosoprano echoing way down the three floors of my apartment building, jiggling my funbags, so much so that my neighbour, curious little Mrs. White, glued her eyelid on her spyhole just to see if Victoria Badham now finally had gone totally nuts.

“It’s okay, Mrs. White,” I sing-songed ironically, play-acting calm cordiality while eyeing heavenward. “Nothing YOU have to worry about.”
I heard some grumbling noises behind the door, these noises sounding like “Foul language” or “The young people today, they have no manners” or something of that sort.

Me, trying to detect her Gruffalo-like mumbles calmed me down enough to open my apartment door, storm in and finally slam it shut vehemently.

“Chah,” I croaked, “Mrs. White, have you ever,” I said, raising my long middle fingernail at the door, throwing off my black high heeled shoes onto the bathroom floor, “been treated like a sex object? DO you know what that’s like?”

I waited, pretending the door was her, fixing my gaze at my own apartment spyhole.

“What? Oh, yes? Back when there were no cars?”

I sneered.

“Yeah, well, back then you HAD to shut the hell up and do the laundry. I don’t HAVE to be the …”

Throwing my hair about, walking into my living room, I threw my handbag onto the couch, happy I didn’t break my Chopard Wish flask in it in the process.

“… the … the … the …”

I searched in my head for the word.

“… the … damn.”

I screamed, finally slumping down onto my warm couch, numb with rage, feeling like a hawk after an explosive firestorm.

“I don’t have to be your dartboard.”

I really don’t know how long I sat there staring into the kitchen. It could have been about four minutes, but for all I knew it could have been four years. I had really drained myself of all energy.

My mind switched to numb disbelief, entering a weirdly comical version of a totally drenched Nirvana, utterly gobsmacked that there actually
were people as narrowminded as this. What had he told me, that creep?

“Stay in your corner, baby, it’s safer for you that way.”

Holy shit, now the worst thing about that was not his patronizing comment. It was the fact that he looked at my titties while telling me not to mix in. If my advice had saved the firm from bankruptcy before, why not now?Because of these Asian CEOs? I had studied in Asia, for crying out loud.

But relate to me as a bedspring and discard everything else.

“No,” I told myself, springing up and marching toward the kitchen, as if speaking to him, “my boobs don’t talk … and neither does my butt. But you go ahead and patronize your firm down the drain. I will give you the finger, you fucker.”

I flung open my fridge door and ripped out a beer. That creep of a boss, he would probably have peed in his Calvin Klein underwear if he saw his 38-26-36-sexy-hourglass of an employee acting like a regular homey. I gulped down half of my beer, brought it down to my hips and belched.

“After all I’ve done for the company,” I whispered to myself, “all the surplus hours amount to one thing. My boobs.”

Stay in your corner?

What corner?

I had my office right next to his.

In the middle of the top floor.

Oh, and by the way, who had the degree in economics?

Who had saved the company from extinction?

Who had convinced many clients to stay with the firm?

Who had worked too many hours without getting paid?

Me, me, me and me again.

And now, these Japanese tradesmen were not good enough for me nor I for them? After my year in Tokyo? After having lectured financial economics to a bunch of drunk Japs in Japanese?

I shook my head, grabbed the bag of chips laying on the fridge and slumped into the pillows.

“Calm down, Victoria,” I told myself. “He ain’t worth it.”

I figured that turning on some silly TV programme that made me snigger would help, but all I saw was Charlie Sheen admiring his girlfriend’s boobs in “Two and a Half Men”, Kenicky breaking his old condom in “Grease” and deciding to fuck Rizzo anyway. I switched to a game show, but what I saw there was a bimbo with big gazongas turning letters. I even switched to CNN, some political discussion about the White House, but the smart women there just looked like hookers. I even plucked out my 7 inch dildo and stuck it up my hairy pussy, looking at it and called it names, but it didn’t really help my frustration. In fact, it frustrated me even more. So I ended up eating too much for my own good, finally snoozing off at 7:39 p.m. just when Ally McBeal gave Robert Downey Jr. her last good byes.

I dozed off and dreamed about tieing down my boss to a bed and fucking the sweet salsa out of him, calling him my toy-boy.

When I woke up, I felt really bad about myself.

I wanted to be fair.

Revenge was not fair.

An old rerun of Dynasty was on when my smartphone exploded into coronary oblivion at 8:46 p.m., playing me Lara’s theme from “Doctor Shiwago”. Lara, who looked for love, looked for me.

Eyeing heavenward, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I plucked out the silly golden Samsung and looked at the display,

I pressed the receive button:

“Yes?” I groaned.

The voice on the other end halted, holding its breath and then found enough courage to continue.

“You sound distraught.”

I sighed, shaking my head,

“Men,” I moaned, sleepily, “they suck.”

“Uuuhm,” the other voice drawled. “Not all of us suck.”

There was a slight chuckle.

“There are a few exceptions,” I mused.

“What happened?”

I moaned. “My boss treated me like property. Although I am the one with the higher education, he told me to get back into my corner.”

I sniggered.

“The worst thing was that he inspected my breasts while putting me down.”

“What a jerk,” Tony croaked. “You deserve better.”

The warmth in my heart spread from my diaphragm to my stomach into my head. That sounded nice.

“I’m on your side, Victoria,” he crooned. “You know that. Get another job.

You’re too valuable for shit like that.”

“That’s sweet.”

There was a slight pause.

“Hey. Are you the mood for some Chianti?”

I waited, trying to decide if I was in the mood for company. I wanted to say to hell with all men, but what really surprised me was that something in me wanted Tony here. Now. Not just to fuck. Something needed to prove to me that there were good men, after all. Respectful men, friendly men, gentle men who saw women as equals.

Thinking of Tony, this guy whom I had chosen just to fuck now and then, a feeling of warmth came over me. We were more than just fuck buddies, weren’t we?

I deserved better, but Tony’s respect definitely deserved a blow-job.

“Come on up,” I said, “maybe I could use someone sane to brighten up my evening.”

“See you shortly,” he whispered, tenderly, moisturizing my cunny.

Funny thing, how we rarely said hello or good bye, we just gave each other snappy statements. But there was respect. Respect.

I looked around my couch and on my own self.

Chips on my blue skirt, beer on my blouse, chocolate stains on my stockings, loads of napkins on the pillows. Sexy? Messy was more like it.
I slouched myself toward the loo, went there and then redid my make up, threw away the messy stuff. I even had enough time to billow up the couch pillows.

Okay, I washed off my private parts with a soapy washcloth, sprayed some Chopard on my throat and brushed my teeth.

I mean, I had enjoyed so much fast and spontaneous sex with Tony in so many odd places, it was almost ridiculous: changing stalls at Primark, behind bushes in Hyde Park, in airplane restrooms. One or two squirts could only make my mood better.

As I got ready to look good for my “walking cock” as I called him, something very deep and profound hit me. Although we had agreed to keep our relationship sexual, for a long time now it felt like more, much more. He respected me. Normally, society would tell us that sexual affairs were respectless and irresponsible. This was neither. My boss had never hit on me – sexually, I mean – but, thinking back, he had always treated me as a sex object.

Tony and I had never ever exchanged a disrespectful word.
When I looked into his eyes, I saw love. That’s what I needed.

No slippery innuendos.

The question was why we had agreed on a sexual friendship at all.
Freedom. Maybe that was it. Freedom.

When Tony stood there, my favourite 2015 Italian wine in hand, naturally I embraced and kissed him, my tongue slipping deep into his mouth, his hands grabbing my buttocks, his huge groin swelling, my nipples stiffening.
It felt good to feel him around me once more, our on-and-off-relationship seguing into something that felt like love, not only just giving us some hot sex now and then. I really felt that I needed to commit myself now, find something real, at least after being treated like a slut this afternoon.
Was I searching for truth? Yes. Did I need to experience love and respect after having men patronize the hell out of me? Yes. Was that vital in order to save my faith in love? Yes. Unanswered questions:

Was I to blame? Had I spent too many hours putting on false eyelashes, buying tight skirts, blowdrying my sandré locks? I wanted to look good for work just to feel good about myself. But some men took that the wrong way, I guess. My boss, for instance. Him and his 100 % newly pressed Versace suit, his ivory white Pepsodent smile and Bruno Banani Magic Man cologne, he saw women as things.

In any case, embracing Tony was what my soul craved, his arms everywhere over me. I felt there was more there, which made me wish I had showered.
Tony didn’t seem to mind when I kneeled down in the hallway of my flat, unzipped his Wranglers, reached into his underpants, seeing his giant penis bobbing into place in front of me.

I carefully lay it on my tongue, licking its juicy length from balls to helmet, sucking on it like on an oversized lollipop. It tasted like salty pop corn, felt like a corn on the cob, growing stiffer on my tongue and making my pussy oh so wet. Oooh so moist.

In fact, his dick inspired me so much that I went further down and sucked on his hairy balls, as well. I put both his testicles in my mouth and sucked on them like candy while he masturbated over my face.

That inspired his testosterone to rise.

He grabbed me by the shoulders, lead me into the bedroom and smiled.
And as he ripped off his clothes, I ripped off mine. Soon enough, bras and panties shared floor space with a belt and a pullover.

My body tingled as he pushed me on the bed, grabbed my huge breasts and licked my nipples, licked my clitlips, buried his face inside my wet vagina. He came out soaked, his face dripping with female clitjuice.

As he finally lay down on me, thrust his rod inside me and fucked the crap out of me, I saw stars, whimpering in impossibly high tones, my Yin to his Yang, my moon to his sun, my sea to his land. His balls slapped against my butt, my huge jugs bounced and my legs lay wrapped around his hips.

His rod was bigger than my dildo and I must admit that having him thrust and slide the entire eight inch length of his prick up to his testicles into my body, up to my titties almost, made me squeal like a high coloratura soprano.

I came first, a real orgasm this time, followed by a really long orgasm on his part, long sticky strains of sperm in a seemingly unending row of squirts into my uterus. I was all respected woman. He was all hard and gentle man. Neither Tony nor I had really regarded the fact that we had just made love without even greeting each other nor that he had squirted into me without protection. Given the fact that it came on the right time, time itself would tell us if and what would happen, if anything.

We lay there in each other’s arms for a long while, cuddling, kissing, exchanging hugs and looks and caresses, but exchanging no words. It was then that I realized, in a moment of truth and enlightenment, that we were faithful to each other, although up until now we had enjoyed more of a sexual friendship, an on-and-off-agreement of sorts. I was not having sex with anyone else at the moment. I was sure it was the same for him. No, I knew it was the same for him.

And I could safely say that everything that society had told me about sex was a lie. The act that created us all was, at best, just an act of love that we were programmed to like. So who actually told us that sex was a sin? Could it be a sin to do something that was necessary for the survival of our race? As I lay there playing with his chest hair, in a positive Nirvana as opposed to the negative Nirvana I had been in before, I realized that our emotional energy bound us together, hurt no one and only made life better. So what was this whole problem with celibacy and priests? As far as I knew or had heard, even St. Paul had assumed the bishops should marry in order to understand the congregation. What was this sex-is-a-sin-thing? Power play? I drifted away into my own thoughts, asking myself why eternal souls living in bodies, travelling from body to body, really, could want to force each other to give over responsibility for a conscious creator to an organization. I was at one with Tony, a peaceful union.

As I thoughtfully played with these images in my mind, I wanked Tony up to another hard-on, sucking on his sticky and hairy cock and licking his on yummy balls.

“I love you, Victoria.”

Tony’s words were as humble and sweet as morning rain after a drought.
I looked up at his face, his penis half onto my tongue, me pleasantly smiling, surprised, joyous, my big and beautiful breasts pressing against his body, my commitment shining upon his trust.

“You are and have been the only woman for me ever since I met you,” Tony whispered.

I grinned, almost crying in the process of hearing his words.

“So this affair-just-for-sex was our mistake,” I told him. “It’s more …”
He nodded.

“Will you marry me?”

I took a deep breath, my eyes opening wide, my emotional energy tingling, the idea of marrying this gorgeous hunk of freedom fascinating. Me, the career girl out to impress the CEOs, dressed to the nines, had hit a wall, a slimy border where gender had been used as a power tool. It had driven me to beer, chips, chocolate and depression. Now I saw the faithful side of sex. Intimacy. Heat. Sensuality. Union.

Without a word, I crawled up toward his mouth and dived into his glory. The kiss we dived into was terrific, to say the least. It really felt like swimming inside his soul, two spirits literally swimming inside each other, for one instance ceasing to be two, becoming one. Our emotions reached such a zenith when his rod again entered my pussy, I fucked it blue, his hands on my buttocks, my hips rising and sinking onto his manhood. Believe it or not, he came into me again. Peace on Earth is two good shags with someone you love.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tony joked.

And together, we laughed.

I remember this day, years ago, as the evening I saw the good and bad sides of sex. My former employer’s belittling chauvinism, going down on me for being what he felt was a sex object. And then the mutual respect of true love, shown through fabulous sex and a huge and delicious dick.

I resigned from my job that next day. My former boss tried to keep me there, but I felt I couldn’t accept disrespect.

What became a tough time eventually paved the way for my own company

Mrs. White and I had a chat which ended in a careful handshake, so I guess all is well.

Now I am the mother of twins, they used to be cherubs, now they are working actors in California, Amoria, my girl, named after love, and Fidelio, my boy, named after fidelity. Was the birth of my twins the fruit of Tony’s two rounds of cum that day? Who knows? Maybe. Amoria and Fidelio are loving and funloving people. Maybe that is proof of our twin fucks.

Tony and I still have sex, raunchy and hot sex. I have ceased to call it dirty. I believe there is nothing dirty or sinful about a good nuptial shag. It might even be a necessity. Not only does Tony’s manhood still entice me, every time we meld and morph, as I call it, I also feel like I just entered heaven.

I can only encourage other men to respect their women. Remember that there is an individual looking out at you from inside that sexy brunette or blonde body. Any body. Any soul. We might look good, smell good, have pretty and tasty pussylips you love to lick and fuck. We might be good shags and sound great when you stick your schlong into us, but we are not your toys to play with and neither should we be and neither are you. We please you if you please us. We bring your babies to the world, we support you to be your best if you do the same unto us. So be old fashioned. Open up the door for us when we leave the restaurant and, for God’s sake, literally, let us be equal partners in professional life. Then we will suck your dicks. We bring your babies to the Earth. That should be enough of a reason to respect us. And why not? Painters have always loved nude women, composers have always loved writing songs about pretty girls, and finally, sex inspires art. We love to take care of our babies. Let’s love how they’re made, as well. We have a lot to learn from each other.

This mother of twins, namely me, will finish off with a few words I told my husband before driving to work this morning:

“I love loving you!”

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

Without love, we’re lost.

Let’s remember that.

The fact that our relationship continues to work so well is due to the fact that we occasionally give each other space and freedom.

Fidelity and respect are necessities.

Beyond that, his wanking to porn sites and my big dildo inside my pussy, those things need attention, too.

Then it’s time for him to squirt on my face in long and sticky strains of yummy cum.

I love my husband and I just cherish his long, hard and sticky cock.

My pussy is throbbing again.

My nipples are stiffening.

I would like to end with a few wise words by Moliére:
“The grand ambition of women is to inspire love!”

I know that I certainly have that ambition.

And I am certain I do.

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It’s All in the Words By Charles E.J. Moulton

I sat behind that incredible looking chick, flabbergasted. There was no other word I could use to describe her. Those humungous knockers, luscious like juicy watermelons. Enjoying the sight of her astounding boobs not only raised my dick about three feet, she had my heart racing like crazy. Dive into that cleavage, boy, I thought to myself, and vanish. Move into Chrissie’s wet and pouting little vagina forever.

I know, I know, I really was supposed to be concentrating on work. This short conference had a bunch of us together from the theatre that had not done the show before. Chrissie had been assigned to brief us through the moves by the way of a video of last season’s premiere. So I wrote down my notes in the textbook, moves and intensions and so on, but all I could think of was throwing this fucking cockteaser over the desk and ramming my hard penis into her pussy from behind, watching her voluptuous bumcheeks wobble like Jell-O as I thrusted toward a five-gallon-of-sperm-climax.

Even worse, she wore a tight blouse that really showed off her curves in such a delicious way, her bra pressing down upon her voluptuous titties under her striped shirt, pressing so hard into her Victoria’s Secret and so bad into her meaty boobies that I literally saw her rack eagerly hoping to hop out onto my happy prick.

And then the belly free bit, the open skin-space between her black blouse and her beige pants. A little bit of cuddly flesh, revealing enough to leave something to the dirty imagination: the wet dream of ripping off those cute little trousers, showing off two peachy apricotlike buttcheeks, welcoming enough to make me wanna fuck the shit out of her real hard.

That blonde, flowing hair, that friendly smile, those sexy dimples, that happy-go-lucky and very open dickpleaser-personality. All of that made me wonder how many men she had fucked and sucked or how many men – and women, for that matter – had wanted to fuck and lick her lucious little pussylips.

I bet you want dick real bad, you dirty  crumpet, I felt like telling her.

Her ass, oh, how it molded into those pants. Perfection. I really sat there, imagining myself reaching into her flower-decorated panties, fingering her throbbing and dicklusting pussy. As I seriously took notes, trying my best to concentrate on work – damn, boy, work, work, work, damn it – I imagined this slut sitting naked on her desk, spreading her legs, opening her three rows of wavey pussyfolds, showing me the pink inside of her wet cunnilingus, asking me to eat her vagina. In my dreams, she sat on my face and I drank her cunny willingly, drinking litres of clitjuice in the process through a five foot straw. How’s that for a smoothie? Holy cow, she really had me by the balls.

I walked away from work that night absolutely confused. The only damn thing I could think of was how to get into her beige pants. Fucking that hot cockteaser was probably the best thing that could happen to any horny man. I knew, however, that I could not fuck her. Okay, I would have adored to. But a married man does not fuck around, even if I had enjoyed daydreaming of having Chrissie’s pouting little lips surrounding and devouring my squirting cock. That face covered in cum. How wonderful was that? Wow. That’s how wonderful.

Okay, I told myself, take a cold shower, calm down, do some math, buy an algebra book, for God’s sake, do your taxes, anything just to get that cocksucking little whore Chrissie out of your mind.

I noticed that writing a made up story about Chrissie in my smartphone app sort of healed the aching testosterone levels. It felt, inside, like I really had fucked that babe long and hard, perhaps even sticking my schwanz into that teasing bitch’s butthole for a whimper and a squeeze, turning her office desk into Cock Ewing’s Giant Hot Dog Rodeo Ride.

Gee Wiz, I desperately needed a cigarette.

Whew.

There’s a hole lot of fun a red blooded wanker can have without ever being unfaithful.

It’s all in the words.

What did I need now?

Oh. Okay. Maybe a wank.

Or fucking my wife.

Oh, yes. Indeed. My wife.

The world’s best cocksucker.

She really knew how to please a man’s long dick.

So nice and easy coming home.

I feel my dick growing now.

I gotta go and get myself some really hot and wet little pussy.

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’s Yummy Chili Cheese Tasting 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 impeccible 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 discovered 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 cock-hungry 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 his long schlong and devoured it deep throat, balls and helmet and pubic hair and all.

“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 his 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. “I love the salty taste of sex. A real cock-tail.”

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, 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 continued. “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 disintegrate. 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.

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.”