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.

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Adventures Of A Sex Addict: Tributes By Mr E

Based on true events.

For those of you who have never heard of tributes in a sexual deviant/perve context let me explain:

Women/ladies/pornstars/wanna-be pornstars, models, horny girls; post suggestive and damn right erotic photos of themselves on social media: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, you know the ones. Most of these photos are nudes, some are headshots with bare shoulders, some are full-length body shots. And everything in between. Some cater to fetishes, so there are hands, there are feet photos, there are breast photos, and even close-ups of other lady parts. I think you get my drift.

So, the ladies post the photos. Then they wait.

Then the retweets start to flood in. The comments. And the likes.

Men take these photos, the head-shots, the boobshots, the nudes, the nakeds, the feet, and the knees (don’t ask me!), they print them out and they offer tribute. In the form of sperm, spunk, jism. They cum on the photos and then post photos of them back on social media.

Some of the girls like to have a little competition, posting their naked photos and giving “prizes” to the fastest shooter.

There’s a girl in London I follow on twitter. She seems to spend most of her day having her face spunked on. In real life, not just tribute. She invites men from Tinder to cum all over her face. Normally she likes more than one, so she’s properly covered. Her boyfriend joins in when he’s available, but when he’s not she’s not exactly fussy.

She makes videos. Sells them on manyvids. She does pretty well, judging from the jewellery, the Gucci shoes, the Porsche she drives. Her name’s Mariah, or at least that’s what she calls herself. Originally from Italy, but living in London most of her life, she makes money as an independent pornstar.

She’s one of many such girls I follow on twitter and Insta, along with hundreds of other pornstars, webcam girls, and escorts.

Mariah had a competition the other day. She posted while I was trawling through some porn pics and vids, so I thought I’d give it a go. I was there, looking at the photo on my ipad and printing it off, stroking away at my cock, when someone posted. The photo all spunked over.

I was too slow. My printer was still printing out, dammit.

I contacted her via direct message. Asked her if she’d be interested in meeting up. She told me a price. I thought it was a bit steep. I only wanted to cum on her face, I could get full sex for half that.

Sometimes I wish being a sex addict was cheaper. Actually quite often. I’d already spend two hundred pounds on webcams that month, and three on escorts, and it was only the tenth.

I needed a cheaper option.

There was this girl at work. She was cute, blonde, a bit chubby, but with big boobs. If I didn’t have a girlfriend, or if she didn’t know I had a girlfriend, then I may well have tried to shag her. As it was we were friendly. I knew she’d given a blowjob to one of the contractors, she knew I’d had sex with a woman older than my mum. We’d somehow got to the subject of sex and shared some stories, obviously I had plenty, and we’d bonded.

She was having a hard time at work, so I arranged a meeting and we had a chat. She told me how she felt. I listened and tried to comfort her. Eventually, fifteen minutes in, we started talking about sex. She was having it off with a married Frenchman who told her he didn’t like her having sex with other men. I told her about the tributes.

She was always complaining about how poor she was. I told her I wanted to do “live tributes” if only I could find the right girl. I said I’d pay, may be £50 for the right girl.

I left the seeds to grow.

A couple of weeks later I contacted her again. Told her how horny I was. Said I wasn’t getting any action at home and I needed to have a wank.

She asked me what I was going to do about it. I told her I couldn’t do anything in my open plan office. I asked her if she was busy. I asked if she wanted to earn some money.

She said no, and yes. She said she would meet me.

At lunchtime we rendezvoused. I took her to a meeting room, we locked the door and we sat down with a table between us, staring at each other for a moment.

“I’m not sure about this,” she said.

I pulled out my erection. Then my wallet. I put the money in her hand. She was just staring at my cock in shock.

“I’m going to wank, if you want to take off your top that would be so fucking sexy. I want to cum for you,” I told her, and then starting stroking my dick.

I left my trousers on, my cock pocking out through the zip.

She watched me for a few moments, then pulled off her jacket. She got comfortable on the chair. Then she pulled her top off over her head. She sat there half naked. Her full breasts barely contained by her well-fitted bra.

“Damn you are sexy,” I said to her and started stroking harder and faster. The head of my cock bobbing towards her.

She smiled and licked her lips as she watched me wanking.

I watched her, maintaining eye-contact as much as possible, but checking out her big round breasts. She squeezed them together for me. Then pulled one, then the other, over the top of her bra.

I stroked my cock harder and faster. The energy was building. I could tell this wasn’t going to last long. Being at work, the possibility of being caught, doing something with a friend, someone not my girlfriend, all added to the excitement.

I stepped towards her, my thighs hitting the table.

“So sexy,” I murmured and then groaned as my spunk shot across the table towards her. She looked down at my spunk, made a quick disgusted face and then stepped away.

She put her breasts back in her bra, pulled her top over her head while I wiped up the mess. A pocketful of tissues that I’d brought along coming in very handy.

I gave her a peck on the cheek and said: Same time next week?
She nodded uncertainly.

We flirted every day until we met again. It was three session of my wanking until she finally got completed naked for me. She was self-conscious and it was cute. We were standing there staring at each other. My cock in my hand, her fingers inside her pussy. Mutual masturbation is slightly weird, but fun. Standing there watching someone else cumming for you is still fucking hot though. Orgasms, like yawns, are contagious.

It was the fourth time that she let me touch her. I grabbed her boob and she gasped. The next time I got sticky fingers and licked her nipples.

The sixth time I bent her over the table and we fucked. It was hard and energetic. I pounded into her as fast and hard as I could. She groaned with pleasure as I leaned over her back, my fingers rubbing her clit as my cock sunk deep inside her. I grabbed her hips and pulled her into me while I thrusted. There was no way I could get deep enough inside her. I kissed the back of her neck and she swiped my face away with her fingers. Too much like boyfriend/girlfriend. It just made me thrust harder and faster inside her, trying to batter my way into her womb. One of my fingers hovered near her arsehole, but I didn’t push my luck.

I spunked all over her arse. I didn’t give her any money that time, we decided it was too much like prostitution if I paid her for sex.

Then she got a boyfriend.

She said she couldn’t have sex with me anymore. I asked her why, and she said we shouldn’t be doing it. It wasn’t fair on our partners.

We still did the tribute. Just no touching this time. I gave her fifty pounds again. She even let me cum on her tits every now and then, for old time’

Mr. 2:47 By Charles E.J. Moulton

Radiant. Indescribable. Mysterious. As rich as Spanish Corona wine, as full bodied as apricot brandy, as lucious as moist Irish cream, more mouthwatering than a tropical watermelon, yummier than any other sweet pussy on the planet: salty, sweet and cumming.

When Brandy, for she bore the name of that intoxicating drink, walked into the bar that night, my heart skipped a beat, her curves a violin, her jugs a sunrise over the hillsides of Wales, her butt a spectacularly rich and dark-red rose. More than anything else, her female forms resembled the soft sanddunes of Morocco.

Her physically perfect “S” enduced in my midst a perfect inverted “T”, a long pole reaching toward her wet and dripping cunt, long, curvey sandré coloured hair reaching way below her shoulders. A black unbuttoned light blouse with red flowers, underneath it a black V-neck T-Shirt that showed off that marvelous body, watermelon-sized knockers, a cleavage-blinking glory​, cum-inviting, ready to receive the distress call of any male energy in the room. The black skirt caressing her fabulously fuckable ass. My antenna wanted to plant itself into the holes of her roof, drilling up through her basement and working itself up to her top.

There she was, blouse and hair blowing in the breeze coming in from the outside of the briefly open door, remaining there for fifteen seconds, searching for someone, someone not yet there. I raised my glass to my lips, somewhat in a daze, the brandy in my glass making love to my tastebuds, Brandy by the door making love to my eyes, inspecting her, imagining what I might want to do to or with her, imagining what was like under her clothes, if she had shaved her furburger or not, if she was tight or not, if her pussy would hug my dick real hard or not while I fucked her and while she squealed like a hungry seal.

Just as I, for a moment, was about to disappear into the glass-dwellings of my second mistress, as lucious as the woman’s namesake by the large glass door with the bar’s initials, a maitre d’ stopped by Brandy’s side with a startled gaze. He’d been striding joyously across the floor in almost gay showbiz manner. When he saw Miss Nubile Nipples, the immediate change in his manner became visible: slow head movements, a transfixed gaze.

She asked him something, he answered in mumbles, Brandy seemed distraught, nodded, was shown to a table and sat down, ordering something rather, whatever it was, looking at her watch.

I knocked back my alcohol, ordered a second drink. My body made the decision for me … actually, I am sure it was my spirit, my intuition or whatever it was taking over my body and shooting up. I knew I had to talk to her.

With drink in hand, my feet strode up to her, a lump growing in pants, my masculinity bleeping proverbially like a radar, the helmet of my penis turning blue. She leafed through what seemed to be a folder of papers, at first pretending not to notice me.

“Miss?”

The deepest and brownest reindeer-eyes I have ever seen gazed up at me, formidable sea of lush promise feeling like a bed of roses, a bathtub of coconut cream, a pool of cocoa butter.

“Yes?”

“You seem quite …”

I half-smiled.

“… gorgeously lost.”

Brandy sat back in her chair, giving me a grin.

“There’s a pick-up line I haven’t heard befoah.”

A chick from Brooklyn? Her accent revealed as much.

“May I?”

I gestured toward the opposite chair.

“Uhm, Mister, uhh …”

I stretched forth my hand.

“Cleo, Paul Cleo,” I nodded. “Marketing Department.”

I could see the wheels turn in her mind, making her wonder what Marketing Department I spoke of.

“We work at the same firm across the street,” I laughed, “big building, 500 employees, nobody knows anyone, we just know the boss but he doesn’t know us. He just pays us. Ring a bell?”

She held on to my hand, twisting and turning it lightly, shaking my hand not up and down but sideways as some blowjob-worthy women tend to do.

”I have the office down the hall,” I added, chuckling.

I could see how the penny was dropping ever so slowly. I had said hello a few times and she had responded, but with hundreds of people working there, what would you expect?

Suddenly, a proverbial lightbulb lit up above her head. ”Mr. 2:47!”

I took a step back, almost spilling my drink. The twang in her voice caressed my enigma, at least for the moment. Had I fucked a Brooklyn crumpet yet? I didn’t think so.

“Mr. … wh-what?”

Brandy giggled, somewhat shyly now.

“The girls in our department call you that.”

This was obviously more humorous than I initially had thought. A dark secret known only to the chicks in accounting, with which I had nothing to do. Well, almost nothing.

“There’s way too little contact between the departments, I see that now,” I said, quite seriously.

“No, no,” she demanded,  “Siddown. I gotta tell you this.”

As I grabbed the chair, feeling a weird mix of eagerness and fear of being ridiculed, Brandy continued. Now I heard that something in her voice that didn’t quite match her Hollywoodesque Monaco-like appearance.

“Christmas, year befoah last, you drank yourself silly. I mean, none o’ us in gals in accountin’ knew ya, but …”

She shrugged and giggled.

“Us Brooklyn-nookies just thought you had a cute ass. We all wondered how … well, uhm … uhm … well, never mind …”

I smiled, feeling my cock rise again in spite of Fran Drescher’s voice coming from a supermodel’s body. I wondered what receiving fellatio from her would be like, Brooklyn fillies reputed to have nubile gums, also when shutting up.

“Ya know, every woman foah herself and awll that. Punch in, check out, lock down. Anyway, you were with all the Marketin’ guys. I’d been gigglin’ with mah colleagues in this huge joint they’d rented, remembah?”

I recalled that party. Huge gathering. That was when I had noticed Brandy for the first time, but only because of one of her friends called out her name real loud.

I nodded. ”I noticed you, too.”

“We were still about 100 people there, very late.”

She threw a glamorous gaze my way, one that spoke of wine, men and song. Oh, yes, and lots of sperm on those lips of hers. Maybe her complexion was so gorgeous because she had been given more than one cum-on.

“The band was playing slow dances. ‘How can I live without you?’ or sumthin’. You were dancing with a chick. Dunno who …”

“Uhm, uhm, Barbara. My ex-…”

“Ah,” Brandy said, pausing, looking at me with that inspecting gaze men take or mistake as interest, whatever the case may be. “Anywho,  out of nothing, you started shouting: ‘Damn, it’s 2:47 in the morning,’ and ya left. Your … uhm … ex?”

I nodded.

“She started laughin’ real crazy-like. Dunno why?”

“She …”

I gazed downwards.

“… always said I gave her too little attention. That everybody else seemed to be important but her.”

I looked up, grinning.

“That wasn’t true, though …”

Brandy shrugged, flashing her grin. “Anyway, after that night, to us, you became ‘Mr. 2:47′.” She popped a pink bubble. Smelled like strawberry. Probably just as pink as her furburger. “She caused quite a ruccus after you left, calling you names and smoochin’ with othah guys.”

I half-smiled, really aroused by the idea of squirting on a tongue so full of diphthongs.

”She broke up with me,” I croaked. “I guess I needed some excuse to leave. I was pissed like never before.”

“Angry or drunk … or both?”

I cleared my throat. “Drunk enuff to remember your name.”

“My name?!”

There came that look I knew so well. Too well, in fact. The look that said: ‘Am I in the hands of a psycho?’ Maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with getting laid with a gal sucking on my testicles in long vowels. I held up my hands in a gesture of forfeit.

“No worries. I remember it only because I just had ordered a brandy at the bar and one of your girlfriends called out your name.”

Another pause.

A faint smile. ”That’s cute.”

Fran Drescher Two blew a popping bubble again. If this wonder-woman could only be quiet I’d consider burying my head inside her salty snatch.

An awkward pause followed. Two people looking right and left, trying to avoid the obvious. I looked back at her, clearing my throat, sort of wondering what caressing her boobs with my blue helmet would be like.

“You waiting for someone?”

Brandy looked around again​, trying to detect someone she had missed. ”I volunteered to help with someone’s taxes, but it looks like that someone split the whistle.”

“I hope not my whistle,” I mumbled.

“Figure of speech,” she whispered, waving her eyebrows.

I have no idea how the next thing happened or why. I just knew that I sat there realizing how different your image of reality could be of the actual reality.

“Sorry I’m late,” a voice came from behind me.

I recognized the voice from all the slow dances, from a last scene at a Christmas party and from weird feelings of neglect on both sides. I know I didn’t mind hearing that voice because I had spent the past two years dreaming of it, dreaming of sweet blowjobs, chasing dreams and wanking my cock under the moonlight. I still had my manners, though, so I ended up popping up, aware of the identity of the other woman behind me.

Barbara, my ultimate dream … ex-fuck.

I think she was as startled as me, actually. She blinked, for a moment caught in a twilight zone between the current reality and the world that was. I looked at her. The edges of her sexy mouth twitched twice, an insecurity with the origin of a new life and a question of being confronted with an old one.

If I was totally honest, I think we both travelled back in time while gazing into each other’s eyes. This made me uneasily horny.

”Hi,” I said, softly.

Barbara smiled.

“Hello there,” she answered.

I pointed at Brandy, who flashed me a very quick and rather dishonest smile which disappeared as fast as it appeared. Raising my eyebrows in surprise, I shrugged at my ex- and wondered: “You getting help with your taxes?” I asked.

Barbara nodded, her C-Cups wobbling lightly inside her bra.

”Yeah,” she chuckled softly, “you know me and numbers. That hasn’t changed.”

Fascinating, how fast a situation could change and turn 180 degrees.
Inside, a very warm and cozy sensation spread from my diaphragm on to my belly and my face. No doubt in my mind what it was. Hungry for pussies.

With a very sensitive smile, I stretched forth my hand and shook Barbara’s hand. I nodded toward Brandy, who waved back with arousal. The hand I lay on Barbara’s upper arm was met by her own on top of mine.

”Nice to see you,” I blurted out.

She half-smiled, first in shock, the sides of her mouth twitching.

“Want to meet and catch up … sometime?”

She nodded.

“Why not?” she squeaked, letting her gaze travel down toward my groin.

This a time trip was one so surprising that I knew I had to fuck her now or split.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she continued.

“Really?” I answered.

She looked down again, bewildered.

“Really?”

When she looked up again, she smiled, a red blush spreading across her cheeks, a blush as red and the spanked buttcheeks I had slapped rosy while fucking her asshole two years back. Sweet memories, oh, sweet and overworked penis. Yes, she had adored mine.

Holy shit, I fathomed in my brain. Here I was, Mr. Horny, wanting to hump Miss Brooklyn Pussy, and my ex-filly turns up. Was I happy? I was blissful, memories came flooding back and I found myself dreaming of having my cock embraced again so fantastically by Barbara’s hot and lickable clit.

“You still have my number?”

“If it hasn’t changed?” Barbara asked.

I shook my head.

“I’ll leave you girls alone.”

The girls both watched me leave, open-mouthed with heaving jugs.

I walked away toward the bar, knocking back my brandy in one gulp, actually contemplating giving up the drink for something more healthy … like tea. I felt bad about leaving, but Brooklyn Pussy there had triggered an erection in me. Now Barbara came along and gave me a trip down mammary lane. I just had to grab some air before my head exploded.

“See ya tomorrow, Mr. Cleo?”

I looked up from the wallet in my hand, giving Scott, the bartender, a nod.

“If I don’t win a million bucks by then and quit my job,” I swooned.

I put two five dollar bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“You’re a good customer, Mr. Cleo,” Scott said. “Hope you find your true happiness one day.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“What makes you think I am not happy?”

I paused.

Scott waited.

He cocked his head.

”It’s not my place to mingle into other people’s affairs, Mr. Cleo.”

“It’s okay, Scott.”

“I guess the gals are busy.”

“Must be the brandy that has me blushing,” I answered.

“Brandy,” Scott mused, serving another customer a drink, “or your brandy?”

I looked over at the two fuckable ladies, leaning over folded papers and restaurant bills. The lonely bar behind me seemed to have my pawprints all over the woodwork and Scott’s ears had turned white from listening to my glum lilt of quickies and quick cumshots.

“Both,” I mused, feeling my dick throb.

I walked out into the evening sunshine that day, looking at the huge building I worked in. It made me wonder how everyone in there seemed to know only the people inside their own department. I crossed the street, on my way to my flat, only a short walk across the plaza. To my left, the gigantic building I worked in. To my right, five minutes away, my flat. My life within a few yards and Scott serving drinks to boot.

Barbara.

And Brandy.

Brandy.

And Barbara.

I pondered over that for a bit. Barbara had quit working at Lincoln Industries after we broke up. When I left the party that night, the night they obviously named me Mr. 2:47, Brandy remarked that Barbara went berzerk, smooching with lots of guys. She could only have known Barbara through me. Barbara worked in the diner downstairs and had made no effort to contact Brandy during the party. Which probably meant she didn’t know her. What that meant about the two chicks meeting now in a bar I regulary hung out in after work? I had no idea. I just know I left the plaza behind me that night, somewhat confused as to my own feelings: my libido vs. reality, my current reality vs. what I obviously still felt about Barbara.

I went home, grabbed a few beers out of the fridge, watched a few episodes of ‘Game of Thrones’ on my laptop out on the shady balcony. I got bored rather quickly, so I googled up Bangbros and wanked my hard dick, squirting my cum on a printed out picture of Brandy from the website of our company, along with another picture of my ex-shag Barbara. I went to bed, dreaming of strangers and strange friends. My sleep was deep, deeper than a hardcore meditation filled with Linda-Lovelace-clones.

The next morning, in my office, I was in for a surprise.

“Now, what?” I pushed the start button on my Macintosh again, but the darn thing did not and would not start. ”Hell in a hand basket,” I spat and I would have laughed at my own silly curses if I would not have to finish my marketing plan for the next year.

“George?!”

I knew plenty about computers, but how to fix a broken one? No idea. You could’ve asked me how to climb Mount Everest or solve a nuclear physics problem. That would’ve been easier. I shot up out of my chair, peeking into my colleague’s office, but I found only an empty desk. At the spur of the moment, as I criss-crossed my office carpet, I tried to think of someone to fix my PC. Running out into the hallway, my thoughts were centered only around getting my damn marketing plan ready for the coming year.

Obviously, I was not prepared to see what I saw. The two girls I had left alone in the bar yesterday were chit-chatting, standing two feet away from the soda machines. They were holding no papers, no tax forms, no envelopes. Just two girls, chatting about whatever girls chat about. Men, muscles, blowing long hard dicks, swallowing sperm, getting fucked, riding penis? Maybe not. Shopping new hand-bags was more like it.

I think I waffled to and fro for two seconds, watching my ex-girlfriend chat with a chick I had had the hots for. I did wonder, however, what Barbara’s new interest in Brandy was about. Instead of actually wandering over to them and acting like a schmuck, I decided to stay on my intended course and try to fix my workplace. So down I went, below upon the floor, next to the PC Tower, under the desk, checking cables, pushing buttons, pulling switches and, oh, yes, biting my fist.

“Paul?”

As so often is the case, my gut heard the voice and immediately ventured to look up who intruded my hard labour. What ashame the edge of my desk was in the way.

”Ow, holy shit,” I cursed. “Damn.”

I crept forth, rubbing my knuckle-like and now aching head.

“Oh, dear,” the voice exclaimed, “did I cause this?”

So, then I finally saw Barbara.

I grinned, shaking my head.

“Just male insanity,” I chuckled, looking back at my desk, still rubbing my bloodless wound. “I hate desks. Everyone should just work next to light plastic garden tables.”

Barbara laughed. She actually laughed. I’d forgotten about how she had laughed at my jokes. I really don’t know why. I never found myself very funny until I met Barbara. So I must’ve looked up at her with a kind of humorous bewilderment.

”What brings you here?”

I let go of my head and sighed.

“I’m … uhm … how do I say this? Back,” Barbara mused, causing me to widen my gaze an inch, “working here, I mean.”

“You’re kidding me,” I sing-songed. “Since when?”

Barbara looked down, smiled, looked right and left. Then she gazed back at me.

“Can I sit down?”

I was taken aback by this turn of events, but I do admit it felt like a blessing.

I ran up to the coffee table, showing her the chair, my dick throbbing again.

“Can I offer you a coffee, a tea, water?” I said, nervously pointing at the fridge and water boiler in the corner, wondering a bit why I was nervous. I did get my free weekly ration of Maxwell House and Lipton. Did I just want to fuck Barbara? I know I had cried for the first month after our break-up, but then I had buried my loss in brandy. Not the sexy chick with Fran Drescher’s accent, but the drink. You know, your worries are good swimmers. Anyway, Barbara held up her hands and shook her head.

“I’m okay,” she smiled. “Just had a decaf.”

“You still drink that shit?”

“From time to time.”

I had not forgotten Barbara’s contemplative gaze, her half-closed eyes, her concentration. I interrupted the silence with an offer to assist.

“Can I help you, Barbie?”

She looked up at me, sparkling twinkles in her eyes. Not a word was said, but I knew my old nickname for her brought back memories. Back then, calling her Barbie was met with a mix of mirth and irritation. It was my personal sign of affection. She used to answer that my name would have to be Ken. Now, it triggered something old in her. Something old that had turned new. It triggered something old in me: memories of squirting my cum into her gums.

“Uhm,” she chuckled, “actually, yeah.”

A pause, an ever so short one, before she looked up at me with those deep brown eyes. It was a direct gaze, very heartfelt.

She gave me a short smile. Then she started fidgiting with her hands. “It’s been a long time, it’s weird, I know, especially since I am the one who broke up with you.”

That warm feeling that came over me the day before now returned. Old emotions, hopes, how I had felt about myself back when I had been with her, all that resurfaced like foam rubber on calm waters, like structures revealed by the withdrawing of silk veils, like fishing hooks in Capri lit by the full moon, like sperm in bath water, like cum drooling out of a horny chickie’s mouth.

I saw her insecure gaze, her fluttery eyes, the way she bit on her lip.
Me meeting her at the bar had been a coincidence, or had it?

Barbara laughed, rather shyly, standing up.

“I’m being silly, I should go.”

I shook my head, laying my hand on her wrist.

“No, stay,” I answered, feeling like having my dick sucked.

She grinned, insecurely, sitting down again. “I  actually miss you.”

My heartbeat fluttered and I noticed how the warmth of her persona poured over me. I had even stopped believing that I could be with her again. Now that I knew I could, things started happening.

“I’ve … I’ve had a thousand one-night-stands since I broke up with you, fucking every guy I could find,” she began. “But the fact is that I was only trying to find someone with …”

She giggled, very shyly.

I stretched out my hand and lift her chin.

“Someone with … what?” I whispered.

There was that feeling again. Our gazes met, our heads, our lips. We almost fell off our chairs in the process. The warm rush of a kiss with lots of saliva and tongues. She reached for my groin and started rubbing my hard cock. Her hands, oh, those sexy red fingernails, they reached for my zipper as we smooched.

“A bigger and more lucious cock than yours,” she moaned. “There ain’t none.”

Her female hands reached past my suit pants and into my Calvin Klein’s, reaching beyond my hairy pubic region down to a stiff schlong. A groaning woman’s kiss, eating my tongue. A button opened, a buckle, and the awareness that I was in my office and that anyone could come in and witness us shagging was … fantastic. Barbara let go of my mouth and went down on her knees, forcing me up on my feet. I did what I always had done when she got that look in her eyes. I stood up, waiting for her to do her thing. Transfixed on my crotch, she spoke again:

“I have been looking all over, baby, for someone with one as good as yours, but …” She gave me the most astounding blowjob-point-of-view-gaze I had ever seen. “I want to feel your cock again, baby.” As my pants dropped to the floor and my big hard sausage bounced out of my underpants, Barbie gasped. “I’ve missed your penis.”

With almost meditative bliss, Barbara opened her mouth and lay my cock on her tongue, first letting it slide to and fro on it inside an open mouth, throbbing deeper and deeper toward her tonsils. Then she closed that mouth, embracing my helmet with her lips, painted in pink. Every sloppy plop of her mouth, every single moan, every raise and fall of eyebrows, every wrinkle of her nose, every deep throat, every button she unbuttoned to reveal a full set of sexy C-Cups, every move enticed me. She loved my cock and I loved the way that babe sucked it. Occasionally, my sex-object of a chickie looked up with enticement and blurped:

“Am I sucking it as well as back then, Master?”

I nodded, happily. “You are still the best cocksucker around, you sex object!”

“Better than the other crumpets you fucked in the meantime?”

“Much better,” I said.

“Then show me how well you can fuck me from behind,” she mused.

Without a single moment’s notice, she stood up, stripping naked, taking off her skirt, her undies, her bra, her stockings and shoes in record time. Suddenly, this bimbo stood there stark naked in my office and I got the jitters that someone would enter and see us. That would mean a probable end to my work here.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Big Cock,” she chirped. “I’ve put the “Don’t disturb! Conference!”-sign on the doorhandle. You can fuck me until I beg for mercy!”

I laughed, for then I remembered all of those fantastic sex-locations of ours. On the lawn behind bush on top of Colorado mountain, I had fucked her asshole. In the back room of a Disneyland museum, I had titfucked her, jizzing on her nipples. In the changing room at the Harrod’s clothes department, I had licked her pussy. In the airplane on our way to China, she had ridden my dick. Now, here in my office, I licked her boobs while she wanked me off. I dived into that cleavage, disappeared into it, grabbing those sweet little man-pleasers, those cockraisers, those little dickteasers. After that, I had no choice but to rip off my own clothes to the last thread, bend her over the fridge and fuck her, pounding my groin against her wobbling arse, her buttflesh bouncing like a “Toys ‘R Us”-ball.

I was in the middle of that glorious frigging-session when my office door opened. I think I shrieked like a schoolgirl with pigtails, but we all know that a man stops thinking when he is fucking. I was afraid of who actually barged in, but I kept on shagging Barbie’s butt, holding on to her hips.

Barbie, or Barbara, she gazed over, women being rather on top of things, as it were, knowing instinctively who was coming in. The door closed before I was even aware who had entered. Maybe my dick had the intuition of a second dream fuck entering my office, because soon I heard a key turning to lock the door. I kept on shagging Barbara’s cunt from behind, slapping her butt almost on automatic, while Brandy, chewing her bubble-gum, came over toward me and leaned against the wall. She nodded, raising her eyebrows, while I kept fucking that sexy ass, pumping my ex- like a machine.

“You’re right, Barbie,” Brandy crooned. “He is good.”

Barbara smiled, her head tossing to and fro as I banged her.

“He is, isn’t he?” she gasped. “Wanna try him?”

I really couldn’t stop fucking that clit. It was rather astounding what Barbara’s ass did to me. Her body had this addictive quality and I kept shagging, no matter what.

“Brandy wants to discover your cock, Paul,” Barbara mused.

So there I was, fucking like a crazy man, and I saw Brandy slowly strip off in the nude while I did. Off with her blouse, off with her bra, and oh, those cockteaser-titties. Off with her belt, off with her skirt, off with her undies, and oh the hairy pussy I was looking forward to lick. Soon enough, another naked female butt graced my office.

“You can switch pussy now, Paul,” Barbara chirped. “Compare us.”

Now that was an invitation I did not bother to neglect. What was even more amazing was the fact that Barbara sat down on my couch, fingering her snatch and masturbating while I slowly slid into Brandy’s body. I got the chance to be a real MCP, a Male Chauvinst Pig, a I believe these two dicklovers wanted it that way.

Here were my notes: Barbara’s cunt was not as tight, maybe some serious gang-banging had fucking opened it up, but it made more sloppy and wet noises while I shagged her. Brandy had a more trained ass, which meant that it did not wobble as much. Both pussies were unshaved and I liked unshaved: so much bush to fuck, so much hair to kiss and lick like diving into cotton candy. This was becoming a marathon.

“We want you to rate us,” Barbara sing-songed while she fingered her clit.

I was still in my frig-modus, unable to stop moving my groin, so I answered in blurts.

“Huh?” I moaned.

“Tell him, Brandy,” Barbara chuckled.

“Well,” Brandy began as I massaged her big boobs while I was fucking her clit, her big round earrings swaying as she got banged. “I knew you hung out at Scott’s Bar. After all, you were Mr. 2:47 and I knew Barbara since she broke up with you. We had shared some guys and eventually, one day after fucking a big black dude, we contemplated getting you back. I knew you wanted me and had secretly taken pictures of me bending over the soda machine. Barbara really missed you. Most of all, she missed your big dick. I was curious about your cock, so I staged this meeting at Scott’s and … you know the rest.”

There was a pause. I kept banging Brandy’s wobbly butt. She gazed over at Barbara, still masturbating her clittie.

“Shocked, you pussy-teaser?” Brandy chirped.

I laughed. “Uh-uh. Happy.”

Then, again with forewarning, Barbara stood up, followed by Brandy’s very decisive withdrawal. I don’t know where it all came from, but suddenly there was this notebook and a pencil and the girls laying up a list with different topics. I stood there with an erect and bouncing cock, looking at one page saying: “Pussy-Taste, Brandy vs. Barbara.”

“Your choice,” Brandy commanded, sitting down on one couch, spreading her legs wide opposite Barbara, also now back on her couch. “Lick us both and give us notes.”

Well, we men all know how decisive and commanding women can be. A man’s gotta do what I man’s gotta do, so wordless I knelt down and began licking Brandy off.

“And tell us what you think while you’re licking, Paul,” Barbara barked.

“Okay,” I answered, getting back to Brandy’s snatch. I opened her pussylips again and inspected it. “Dark-pink pussy with a light mid-core.” I licked. “Salty with a pleasant aftertaste. Easy to penetrate. Yummy aftertaste.”

I looked over at Barbara, who was taking notes. “Tasting of what?”

I licked again, sticking my tongue in deeper into her hole. “Salty pop-corn, I think. Lots of butter. Luciously wet.”

“Okay,” Barbara mused. “More?”

I started licking Brandy’s pubic hair a little, giving it small kisses, licking with my tongue back into her clit. “I like her pussy hair. It’s soft, sort of like silk.”

“How does she groan?” Barbara asked. “Or does she squeal?”

I heard Brandy’s horny squeal and nodded while I licked.

“A cute and horny sound,” I answered. “She squeaks.”

“Pussy rating from 1 to 10?”

I looked up at my ex-girlfriend boobs. “Is this a competition?”

The girls looked at each other and smiled.

“Just answer us with a judgment of points,” Brandy commanded and shoved me back into her hairy cunt.

“A full 10 points,” I answered. “Great taste, great hair, great colour, great lickability.”

Not a second was wasted. Brandy shoved my head away and pointed toward Barbara’s snatch. “Now lick Barbara’s pussy. I’ll take notes.”

This really felt like a university of fucking.

Off I went, running off to Barbara’s couch, Brandy following me to get the notebook and the pencil. I knew what to do. Barbara’s pussy was familiar. I had spent hours and hours licking it, but licking her again brough back fond recollections. Hers was a lighter colour, softer edges, more hair to fondle and a little harder and thicker hair at that. It was deeper and easier to sink into. It tasted sweeter, sort of like chili cheese nuggets. I gave Brandy the notes and Barbara’s cunt received a moist and horny equal 10.

Now the real fun began.

I had to judge the grabability and lickability, how wobbly or tight their tits were, how wobbly their butts were in fucking, the tightness of their assholes, the quality of their erotic dance, their qualities as cocksuckers, how good they were at riding my cock how good they were in swallowing my cum. Needless to say, I gave the two girls 10 points in all categories. They ended up licking off my dick for a full hour.

When my alarm buzzed I nearly jumped out of my bedsheets, tossing and turning a few times after banging fiercely on the clock. I lay my arm over my face and remained in that position for a few seconds until I realized what I had in my groin’s midst: a rock hard cock unwilling to limp down. I looked down onto my raised bedsheets and looked at my saluting One-Eyed-Willie, realizing I had just had my most pornographic dream, inspired by meeting those two ladies the day before. The orgasmic orgy I had just experienced twisted in snake-like patterns in my brain, causing me to gasp.

“Holy Gazongas,” I groaned. “What a dream.”

Upon stepping out of bed, I almost put my feet on the paper I had printed out the night before: pictures of Barbara and Brandy, now sodden with loads of male sperm. I gazed for a bit at my own dried cum and smiled, that cute little UK magazine named Breasty Fillies next to it, a gem with Chesty Summerville being banged senseless by a cool giant-cocked man named Kenny. Brandy and Barbara, Barbara and Brandy … and Mr. 2:47. Sighing myself into my shower, I wondered if something so incredible could come true.

I guess I wanked myself through breakfast, imaging my toast being Barbara’s cunt and my grapefruit Brandy’s left boob. It wasn’t until I reached my office a half hour later that I realized something was amiss – or at least different than usual. My secretary Amy, a buxom blonde I had titfucked now and then, jumped out of her chair, declaring seriously that I had guests in my office: guests who wanted to have a serious chat with me for an hour or so.

I shrugged, sort of taken aback by this strange turn of events. The CEO and his Vice President? Had someone found out I slept around? My hands started shaking and suddenly I feared being fired. Weird, though, because as I walked toward my office door, I thought I heard Amy giggle. I didn’t react to it, though. What I did notice, however, were the giggles and moans coming from the inside of my office.

Once I entered the room, my eyes caught sight of two stark naked ladies, fondling each other’s tits. They looked up, smiling happily. “Brandy here,” Barbara squealed, “has been hearing so much about your big penis, she just had to see for herself to believe it rules.”

At that very moment, my secretary wandered in, hanging the “Don’t disturb! Conference!”-sign on the handle, locking the door behind her. As she strutted over to my desk, giving me the sexiest strip-tease I have ever seen in my life, dropping her garments on the office floor, I realized I was going to have the time of my life. Soon enough, there were three naked women opening my fly and sucking on my balls. And I knew, right then and there, that reality sometimes offers you a better ride than any erotic dream: a fantastic and fucking fabulous foursome with constant switches between nine holes on three frolicking females. When you have three red mouths, three wet cunts and three tight assholes to fuck, you know that a sensual paradise is only a cumshot away. Mr. 2:47 was a lucky man.

And you know what I found out? That Brooklyn chicks do profit from mouthing in diphthongs. We all live together nowadays, the four of us, and I fuck them in rotation, they keep strict track of my track record, but that is an entirely different story. And, oh, yes, the Brooklyn Pussy has won my heart as the best dickpleaser on Earth.

Collections By Stephen Faulkner

__        Josey, you won’t believe what happened to me today, you just can’t. I’m not even sure I believe it myself, it was so unreal.

 

__        You’re right, Marie, I don’t believe it at all. It just can’t be true. Things like that just don’t happen. You must be lying.

 

__        How can you say that when I haven’t even…. Oh, now I get it. “Quit the preamble, Marie, and get to the point.” Right?

 

__        Words right out of my mouth. So tell me; what’s so unreal that you can’t believe that it actually happened? What’s the big revelation?

 

__        “Not a revelation, really, and not even so big as I made it sound. Well, anyway, get this…. I’m on the “preferred list” down at Aaron’s Collectibles, you know. Well, I got their “special issue” catalog for this month in the mail and it was just fantastic. You wouldn’t believe what they have in this month. I don’t know who the buyer had to bribe or sleep with to get all this stuff but whoever it was, it worked. Spode Limiteds, Lladro Numbered Editions, Hummel Originals. Can you imagine? Five complete sets of the Hummel “Band” collection – violinist, flautist, horn player, guitarist, the whole thing. Vintage 30’s – just incredible. And the envelope the catalog came in was only postmarked yesterday. Now, here comes the “you won’t believe it” part – aside from the fact that I almost had an accident in the car on the way down there, Anyway, are you ready?  Four of the band sets, all of them complete, were already gone by the time I got there and someone had bought the bowler hatted violin player out of the one set that was left, I tell you, Josey, I was just devastated.

 

__        Too bad. Did you buy what was left of the last set? Horn, flute, guitar and the rest?

 

__        What would have been the point? The violin makes the set. I just had to settle for something else, that’s all.

 

__        For what? For a Lladro?

 

__        No. All they had left was The Shepherdess and I already have that one. I really need the Goat Girl but all that they had of that one was a three incher with a chip out of the bottom. But let me show you what I did get, though. It’s really….

 

__        Don’t bother, Marie. You know my only interests in your knick-knacks come from your enjoyment of them. For myself, it’s all a waste of time. Just tell me what it is, that’s all. My pleasure is seeing the excitement in your eyes when you describe one of your acquisitions to me.

__        My pleasure is your pleasure, huh? It’s a pity I don’t have your own hobby to get really involved with, Josey. Instead of your always getting a vicarious charge watching my face brighten with the thought of a new piece I’ve just gotten or that I’m about to get, I could be delighting in your little triumphs.

 

__        I have my own triumphs; you know that. My hobby is social rather than material in nature. And for you to see the delight – rapture, really – on my face when one of my “acquisitions” have been truly successful, well, you’d have to have put yourself into something of a compromising position in order to do so.

 

__        Yeah, I imagine that I would. Not that I would want to be in one of your – ahem! – “acquisitions” when it happens. The trouble with your “hobby”” – and I have a hard time thinking of what you do when you collect as a hobby – is that what you have gained in the doing is so transitory that it can’t be enjoyed afterwards. Now look at this. Hey! Don’t make a face about it, just look. See? You can look at it, touch it, handle it, appreciate its beauty. I bought I, know that it’s mine, that it will last. In your “collection,” what do you…?

 

__        “Is that what you bought? A statuette of a naked woman? Marie, I had no idea. I mean, I didn’t realize that you, of all people, swung that….

 

__        Josey, what are you thinking? One track mind, that’ you, as usual. So all right, it’s a naked woman but there is nothing smutty about it. It’s the beauty of it that matters. Here, look at its clean, flowing line. Art Deco, 1920’s. I love it and always will have it to hold and look at….

 

__        Until you need some fast and ready cash. Then I suppose you could get a pretty penny for it, couldn’t you?

 

__        Give it a couple of years and I’m sure I could sell it for a lot more than I paid for it today, though I would hate to part with it. But that is a consideration. As long as the pieces in my collection re in mint or close to mint condition, the return I could realize could really be nearly astronomical.

 

__        The difference between us, then, is that you have to wait for your collection to appreciate in value while what I collect is given freely to me and what I give in return can be pretty damned valuable on its own to a man whose tastes are discriminating and he’s willing to show me how much what we do means to him….

 

__        Josey! You don’t mean to tell me that you actually…?

 

__        Don’t get all excited about it. It only happened once, and I didn’t even mean to. I just tossed off a silly suggestion while we were undressing each other. Something like, “Monetary considerations would be greatly appreciated.” You know, just a joke, really. I didn’t think the guy would take me seriously. I just did it to see what kind of reaction I’d get and if I could get away with it.

__        And did you…? Did he…?

 

__        Yes, he did. Fifty dollars. I think I must have felt the way an actress who’s in love with the theater feels when she gets her first paying role. Like I was stealing or something. Doing what I love to do and getting paid for it? It didn’t seem right somehow, made me feel kind of guilty. I went right out and gave the whole fifty to a priest at Saint Anselm’s for the church’s poverty drive.

 

__        You didn’t! I would have gone right out and….

 

__        And bought a Hummel violin player with a bowler hat. I know. But like I said, my collection’s free and clear. There’s nothing to buy; no money changes hands. Oh, well, sure, there are some things to buy like make-up, new clothes now and then, trips to my gynecologist and contraceptives. I would have gotten those things anyway. The big expense is alcohol. Six bucks a drink at Hunter’s but with their bartenders making vodka Collinses almost three to one, it’s really not such a bad deal. Six or twelve bucks on a bar tab and I usually get lucky. Like with your fancy bric-a-brac, I do it for the pleasure, so the money spent is worth it to me.

 

__        Bit like I say, Josey, after all is said and done, what do you have to show for it? A half hour or so of foreplay, maybe a full hour for the whole thing. A couple of orgasms and if the guy has something communicable maybe a case of the clap or something exotic that the doctors in the States haven’t found a cure for yet. All that done, your collection‘s all in your head, just some pleasant memories, that’s all. Joe, Jack, Jimmy, Bob, Bill, Tom, Dick, Harry – one has to be pretty much the same as all the others, I would think. All bunched up in your head as one face, one cock, two balls…. Like one man meshed together out of many.

 

__        Oh, no, that’s where you’re wrong. They’re all individuals. Sure, If I just trusted to memory they’d all become a single mass of faces and genitals in my head. But…. Have I you ever shown you this before?

 

__        A high school composition book? No, you never… Wait a sec. Josey; don’t tell me that this is your “little black book”? But why so big?

 

__        Look closer. It’s not a “little black book.” The phone numbers I want to keep I have elsewhere. I call this my “memory aid.” See? About a half page per each…. Well, call them conquests if you want to. I hate that word, Nothing is ever conquered when everything is given and taken freely. Except for that fifty I made that one time and that shouldn’t count.

 

__        Not if you gave it all to charity, I suppose not.

 

__        Anyway, see this sheet here? Two sides, four guys. That was last weekend’s tally of…. Well, of whatever you want to call them. Lover is a good word.

 

__        “Friday: Jason P.; Saturday: Gregory O. and Edgar R.; Sunday: Abdul Q.” Abdul?

 

__        Works for the Saudi Consulate. Young, dark and hairy as a gorilla, even on his back. Recited selections form the Koran as we undressed. Could barely keep it up, no matter what I tried. See the black X? Means loser. Sweet man, a little eccentric, but a loser all the same. Probably had some hang-up about making it with an infidel or maybe a Mommy complex of some sort.

 

__        And the red asterisk next to Edgar R?  What’d you use, a felt tip?

 

__        Edgar…? Ooh, yes, Edgar. Mmmm!  Red anything means definitely contact again. Asterisk is the highest, overall. With a name like Edgar you’d expect a bookish guy with glasses and who whispers instead of talks, shy and retiring, you know? Well, he was like that at Hunter’s – his first time there – but when I got him home…. Wow! Talk about passionate. That man could kiss. And hung like a Clydesdale. Shit, I tell you, Marie, with a shlong like that…. Ai-yi! I’ve never been split open so wide or plowed so deep I’m scared he might have hurt my cervix. If I get pregnant the kid would have to be his. Even with all my precautions – the pill, like always, and a diaphragm – I wouldn’t be surprise if his spermy flood got through and knocked me up somehow.

 

__        Josey…!

 

__        I know, I talk too much. Just read. Keep the book until I see you next, if you want. I only cruise on weekends, so I won’t be needing it for a couple of days yet.

 

__        Really, Josey, I don’t think I….  Hey, take a look here. What does “pos.” mean?

 

__        Hmn! Oh. That. It means positions. My own short-hand. But it’s all pretty self-explanatory.

 

__        “Pos. – missionary, fem-top-straddle, fem-top-lain, shower-standing-rear-vaginal, doggie-all-fours, wheelbarrow-hands-only-support, front-lain, pillow-raised-middle, side-lay-frontal, side-lay, fem-back/male-front.” Really, Josey, you expect me to believe…?

 

__        The man has staying power. What can I say? How many positions do you count there? Eight? Nine?

 

__        One, two, three…. Umm…. Nine of them.

 

__        I came like rockets with the first four. Broke the monotony with other things; it’s all there, you’ll see. The other five get all rolled together in my head. Like a space shot, all jets open to the max the whole trip, just one continuous orgasm. Notice the numbers in the right hand for Abdul, Jason and so on? I rate my orgasm with them on a one to ten scale – zip for Abdul, five and half for Jason, seven for Gregory, et cetera. With Edgar the scale exploded. I didn’t know what to put. Ten was too cheap. If it was a piece of porcelain you’d probably call it priceless. Anyway, read on; it gets interesting.

 

__        You mean where it says “Sans Int. Pos.”?

 

__        That’s it. “Sans Intercourse Positions.” It means, oh, any position that doesn’t entail actual cock and cunt screwing. You know: foreplay kind of stuff.

 

__        “Sans Int. Pos.: cunn., fell., fingers, hands, 69, athletic 69, G.S., sod. – doggie, sod. – frontal….” Athletic 69?

 

__        He sat up while I was blowing him and hoisted me so that I had my legs wrapped around his head and he tongued me crazy while I sucked him off. I was head down and getting dizzy but I loved every minute of it.

 

__        What about “G.S.”?

 

__        Golden shower.

 

__        He pissed on you or you on him?

 

__        Me on him. It was an accident, really. I was riding him, sitting up – fem.-top-straddle” is how it’s written there. I was playing with my clitty as I was going up and down with him way inside of me. Just as I was getting my first rush of an orgasm…. Well, I pissed on him. I didn’t mean to do it, it just happened. I don’t think he even noticed. He didn’t say anything and even if he did notice, it dried up pretty quickly.

 

__        And “Sod.” means sodomy, right?

 

__        Right. Don’t really like it but by the time he suggested it I’d already been laid three times – I think – and had been both the tongue-er and tongue-ee maybe twice, so I was willing to try just about anything to keep the ball rolling. So to speak.

 

__        Ball rolling. That reminds me – what about him? He was virile all this time. Nine instances of intercourse and however many of fellatio, sixty-nine, sodomy, masturbation….

 

__        What can I say? The man had staying power. I helped, of course – educated hands and an expert tongue. Five hours and he only popped three times. It didn’t seem fair to me but he said he was satisfied.

 

__        Sounds like he’s got you spoiled. Anything less will seem – hmmsh! – anticlimactic. So to speak.

 

__        Yes. So to speak. But it doesn’t stop me from trying to find better, though. Almost a lost cause, when you think about it. A five hour erection on that guy and with only two wilts. Sweet and affectionate almost to a fault when he wasn’t dreaming up some new, untried configurations. And just look at those stats.

 

__        Stats? You mean these? “Ht. 6’ 5”, Wt. 240 lbs.” Big guy, huh?

 

__        More than you know. Keep reading.

 

__        You tape measure them before you make love to them?

 

__        Don’t be silly. Just call it a trained eye. I’ve made it with enough weight lifter types to know a 45 inch chest from a 50. Those numbers are only approximate but I’ll bet if I’d asked I’d have found I wasn’t more than an inch or two off. But keep going, the best is yet to be heard.

 

__        What? Legs and arms?

 

__        They’re there, too. But something else. You know what I mean.

 

__        Oh, that. Yes, of course.

 

[PAUSE – A WHISTLE OF AMAZEMENT]

 

__        Kielbasa! Is your trained eye that good? I mean, couldn’t it possibly have been just eight or eight and a half inches?

 

__        No, it was a nine all right. Actually closer to ten but near enough to the halfway mark to make it iffy.

 

__        And six inches in diameter? Now, really Josey….

 

__        Well, that part was really just an educated guess.

 

__        Nine times in one night….

 

__        Day and night, actually. We got started at about five in the afternoon.

 

__        All right, then. Nine times in one five hour period.  And with that…?  My God, girl, how could you even sit down afterwards? Or even think of trying it later that night with mushy Abdul?

 

__        Hopes of one fantastic success being followed by another. Boy, was I ever wrong.

 

__        Still, though, a red asterisk for Edgar….

 

__        And he deserves every crossed line of it. Turns just about all the others I’ve had – or thought I had – rather pale by comparison.

 

__        You gonna call him? Set a date for the next time you’ll get together?

 

__        That’s what a red asterisk means.

 

__        And it doesn’t make you feel like a… like a….

 

__        A tramp? A slut? Whore? Nympho? Easy lay? Well, Maybe the last two. For myself, though, I prefer to call it simple eagerness.

 

__        Collecting eagernesses, orgasms, men. Quite a hobby you have there. Still, what it all really comes down to are tangibles and abstracts. For all you have written here, the main things you have collected are just memories. Abstracts. Nothing you can touch or see.

 

__        Don’t have to. The doing is the main thing: that seeing, that touching. Like an actress and her craft, once the play is over, the performance is a memory. But one which leaves her with a feeling of something accomplished, something given as well as gained. Anything of an abstract nature has that at its core. With your hobby you gain, but what do you give? Twenty five, fifty, a hundred dollars or more to Aaron’s Collectibles? Does Aaron groan in orgasmic joy and appreciation as you write out the check or place the crisp, new bills into his hand and walk out of the shop with your purchase?

 

__        You’re blowing a smokescreen over the whole thing. What it comes down to is the pleasure we derive from what we collect.

 

__        And as I collect my pleasures I also give pleasure in return. An equal exchange. The pleasure I give to the man – as much as I can find out from him about it – does too double my own. Interaction. You can’t claim that kind of satisfaction from your hobby, no matter how rare the treasure you buy.

 

__        No, I can’t. I really don’t know how to answer that, no matter what kind of defense I could mount to counter what you just said. Makes my own hobby sound like a petty, selfish thing. Get, buy, acquire, collect. All for my own satisfaction and nothing more. And it’s a pleasure which I don’t think that I could amply describe.

 

__        But that’s the whole point, don’t you see? For both of us. Our own satisfaction – owning or doing, it doesn’t matter – the pleasure involved, no matter how we go about attaining it. A shelf full of curios for you, a book full of names, stats, positions and memories for me. “Oh looky look at all that I have. Aren’t I just wonderful?”

 

__        You make it sound so petty and self-indulgent.

 

__        Well, isn’t it? I mean, maybe it is. I don’t like to think of in those terms, but I can see your point. Each of us satisfying some personal obsessive hunger. Material objects and sexual experiences. What’s the difference?

 

__        Matter of preference, I suppose.

 

__        That’s all? Nothing to do with style?

 

__        What does that mean?

 

__        What does that matter, you mean?

 

__        That, too. Style doesn’t mean anything if you’re not content with it. If you’re not content, why even do it? Style doesn’t matter a fig, then, either.

 

__        So there you are.

 

__        Just choices, then. Preferences.

 

__        All right then. That’s settled.

 

__        How about morals? Right and wrong. Something else you don’t think about, I suppose.

 

__        If it’s right for me, I try not to let it bother my conscience.

 

__        And the guys you sleep with?

 

__        Fuck with, you mean. Let’s call a spade a spade, Marie dear. I figure that if they do it and accept my terms – and they are indirectly agreeing from the first flirty glance – then it must be all right with them, too.

 

__        So, then there’s no worry what’s right or wrong as long as it’s right for the individual. That’s your story?

 

__        In a nutshell, yes.

 

__        Relativist.

 

__        You want to talk philosophies? Fine, but don’t expect anything earth shattering from me.

 

__        So, then, it’s my Hummels, Spodes, Lladros et cetera and you with your collection of cocks, balls, missionary, doggie straddling sixty niners and what not. Yours is yours and mine is mine and we’re friends because we don’t compete.

 

__        Well, that’s not the only “because,” but it is one factor of our friendship, I guess. We go for different things. Something of a harsh assessment, but fitting, as far as it goes.

 

[PAUSE]

 

__        Still, Josey, with your “hobby,” there’s nothing to see, touch or feel after the – what do you call it? – the transaction is completed.

 

__        Ah shit! Are you still harping on that?  I thought we finished with that point a while ago.

 

__        It’s not a point, it’s the point as far as I’m concerned. Look, here’s the result of my little obsession for this past week. Late 20’s Art Deco, semi-glazed female nude figurine. You can see it, hold it, feel its weight and texture. And what do I have from you? Words on paper, descriptions of penile dimensions and how it cleaved you open upon entry into your vagina. Nine orgasms, whoopee! I wish you had some pictures to show me, at least.

 

__        I’ve got an old Polaroid around here somewhere but that would mean employing a third party as photographer. Changes the whole…. Oh, what is the word I’m looking for? Ambiance? Sounds like a word you’d find in a restaurant guide but I guess it’ll have to do.  A third person changes the whole ambiance of the situation. Spontaneity goes right out the window with a flash going off in your face every so often. You feel like you have to pose instead of just enjoying what you’re doing. And who would be taking the pictures? A woman? I’d be spending half my concentration wondering whether or not she’ll want to get into the action. A strange kind of jealousy when you think about it. A man? I’ll be mentally sizing him up for his possible inclusion thereby causing the guy I’m shtupping to lose his concentration wondering if and when he’ll have to share me with the other guy.

 

__        An odd kind of dilemma. Nothing like that with my hobby. Except when another collector’s got his eye on the same piece as I do. On the whole, though, as soon as the purchase is made, no more worries. The piece is mine, it’s there in my hands, neatly and safely done up in bubble wrap for protection from any accidents. At home, proof of purchase is right there on the shelf or in the hutch. Three-dimensional for all to see. No pictures needed, no description or written notes. There it is, and that’s all.

 

__        Very nice, I agree. Pleasure to the eye – most of them, anyway. Like men, it’s all a matter of taste.

 

__        That’s the final measure then? Just taste?

 

__        Probably not. It’s a good starting point, though. But we’ve been tossing this back and forth now for what? How many years has it been?

 

__        Since high school graduation. You celebrated by going down on Mister Sulgrave, your old tenth grade math teacher – or so the rumors had it and you told me later – and me by buying my first Hummel. “Busy Student.” I still have it in my collection. Seemed appropriate at the time, besides the fact that I’d fallen in love with the sweet chubby face of that little girl concentrating on her ABC’s.

 

__        And you think that “taste” or “style” or any one word you might come up with would do any of it justice? Yours or mine?

 

.__       Well, we could chalk it up to “lifestyle.” Is that better?

 

__        Same terminology. It’s just us, Marie. Each with her own peculiarly personal preferences. Let’s just leave it at that.

 

__        I guess you’re right.

 

[PAUSE]

 

__        Josey? You busy this weekend?

 

__        Hunter’s again, I guess. Or maybe the Red Orange. Their Happy Hour is the best that I’ve found for drinks and their male clientele.

 

__        No chance of your company then, I suppose. Over at Aaron’s Collectibles or at the South County Flea Market.

 

__        It depends. Any cute guys?

 

__        I thought you’d say something like that. Cute guys? Mmm, sometimes at the Flea Market, I guess. I don’t pay that much attention.

 

__        You wouldn’t. I see that you’ve still got that old Bel Aire in the driveway. A regular tank, that car.

 

__        Always was, you know that. So?

 

__        And a back seat that could comfortably sleep two.

 

__        Uh-huh. I’m beginning to get the drift here. Keep talking.

 

__        Tell you what. You’ve got me for Saturday on one condition. Or, at least, one that will sound like two.

 

__        Whatever. Just say it.

 

__        I’ll bring my Polaroid. After the shopping is done and I find myself a likely candidate for the continuation of my “hobby,” you be the photographer.

 

__        I see. I pick up the porcelain, you pick up the guy. No competition.

 

__        You kidding me? With your figure and that adorable face? I’ll expect I’ll have to fight like hell to even get a guy to look at me with you nearby.

 

__        Thank you for that. Now about the photography…. You’re talking about you and whoever in the back seat, pants around his ankles, you pantiles with your skirt hiked up to your belly button, doing the hot and nasty while I’m hanging over the back of the front seat snapping candids…. Have I got the gist of it?

 

__        Very astute girl. That catches it perfectly.

 

__        All right. I’ll do it. But on two conditions.

 

__        I think I saw this coming. One, of course, will be that I’ll have to buy something.

 

__        Right.

 

__        And the second?

 

__        You clean up the back seat afterward of anything that might cause stains.

 

__        Fair enough, I guess. Fairer still would be the old rule of “She who makes sticky mess with man shall be the one who does the cleaning.” And I wouldn’t be surprised if you and I will have to share that little chore equally.

 

__        You mean that you think that I…?  And doing it while you and your guy are in the back seat as I and…?  Oh, please, sister, just don’t hold your breath for that little scenario, that’s all I have to say.

 

__        And don’t you expect me to spring for forty or sixty bucks on a Lladro or a Royal Doulton or something. Not the first time out, at least. Remember, dear, I’ll be a virgin in your little world, too.

 

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.”

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.

 

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

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

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

A Renaissance Woman.

That’s what the press had called her.

Freddie?

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

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

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

Pamela? Writing another story on her Samsung laptop.

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

Success, heck, yeah, lots of it.

A husband she loved, sure as hell.

But also a husband that drove her nuts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A lovely spiritual reality.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shook his head.

“You wanna try tasting my glory?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reality, as of yet, cold, but expectant.

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

Did it matter?

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

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

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

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

“Fred?”

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

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

“I love you!”

Pamela shrugged.

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

They never misunderstood each other again.

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

And Pamela’s wet dreams were exuberant.

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