Tag Archives: blindfolded

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.

The Pyramid By Michael Fontana

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Did it matter… in the long run?

There was no question that it hurt.

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

In the long run.

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

Twenty years without Jenny?

Could he live without her?

Could, yeah.

Wanting to, no way.

He wanted to keep loving her.

No, wrong: he needed to keep loving her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had given him a wink.

“Cum on, you know that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Torture.”

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

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

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

“Come back!”

Damn, how sappy was that.

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

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

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

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

True fuck?

That, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe not.

Who knew?

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

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

“You’re here?” Cedrick croaked.

Jenny lay her white handbag onto the table.

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

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

“I’ve been miserable,” Cedrick mumbled.

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

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

She shook her head.

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

Baby. She had called him … baby.

How nice that sounded.

How promising.

How hopeful.

Did he dare to… hope?

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

She smiled, bitterly.

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

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

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

“Just promise me one thing, Cedrick.”

“Anything you want, Jenny!”

“Never call me bitch again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PIANO By M. Earl Smith

It was the last day of my summer job as a grant writer at the community college we both called home, and oddly, that Friday was the same day that the last of the student straggled in to return their books. Normally, I worked only half a day on Fridays, but seeing as I was trying to finalize all of my contributions before leaving, I agreed to work the full day. You, on the other hand, had left your gig at your dad’s store around 3:30, as you always do, and headed to return your books. You knew I was there, I knew you were coming, and nobody else knew that we’d be within reach of each other. It was a perfect storm.

I finished my work early and jogged over to the main college hall, just in time to gather all of your books from you with a grin. The assistant dean, with a wary eye, followed us out and, without a word, climbed into her car and left. Settling your books into your car, I watched her go with a mild disdain. “She is not the friendliest of people, that’s for sure.”

Shrugging, you glanced around quickly before pulling me in for a kiss.  I was surprised, yet I returned it with as much enthusiasm as you had given it with. Chuckling, I looked around.

“The main lecture hall is unlocked, and there’s a piano in there.” I grabbed your hand and pulled you in that direction. “Come play Fur Elise for me.”

You giggled as we made our way into the lecture hall. As we slid in, I managed to lock the door behind us. The blinds were pulled shut, the doings of the maintenance department, for an event the night prior. As you sat down at the piano, I laughed, and pulled up a chair, as I always did, right next to you. Without warning, you produced a blindfold, and pulled it down over your eyes. True to form, you ran through half a dozen songs before playing Fur Elise, and, with little effort, nailed it.

Pulling the blindfold off, you grinned. “I can play regardless of the distraction,” you boasted.

It took me all of three seconds to slide out of the chair. Pulling the bench out, while still leaving you within arm’s length, I slid under the piano and grinned. Pulling the bench back into place, I pulled your thighs apart and began to run the tips of my fingers down them.

“Play.” I commanded, as I felt your thighs tense under my touch.

Reaching for the piano, you started to play again, the notes solid and true. In the beginning, all I did was run my fingers along your thighs, but as you started to play the second song, I slid my left hand up your shorts, rubbing your pussy through your panties.  I felt you tense, even as you became wet under my touch, and yet the notes did not falter.

Grinning, I increased my efforts as the third song started. My left hand slipped inside your panties, and continued to work on your pussy, using two fingers to run circles around your lips as I hummed along with the song. Meanwhile, my right hand slowly started to work your shorts off, inch by inch.

You finally faltered, and shook your head, yet you refused to let me know that I was distracting you, even as your shorts fell to your ankles. Undeterred, and as you started a new song, I pulled your panties to the side and moved in, inserting a thumb into your pussy as I did so. I started licking you, in slow, agonizing circles, as you slowly began to work your hips.

Somehow, you made it to another song, one that was beyond complex, and involved a lot of movement. You managed to work yourself against my tongue and fingers, although you barely miss a note. Even still, your thighs were shaking at this juncture.

You barely finished the song and started the next, when, in an explosion, you came harder than I can ever recall. Your cries of passion echoed down the hallways, and in a final moment of defiance, you banged against the keys violently, almost rendering me deaf in the process. I didn’t mind, however. Feeling you abandon the keys and grab my hair in double handfuls, to pull my eager mouth towards your pussy as you come all over my face, was reward enough.

After a moment, you sighed, panting, and looked down at me.

“Okay, you win,” you said lightly.

Wiping my chin, I grinned. “I’m not the only winner here.”

Squirt on This by Charles E.J. Moulton

  1. Ava, Alienated

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

“How’s work? Still singing?”

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

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

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

That was probably what they were all thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I was angry at Kenneth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reaction was shallow, dismissive and rather arrogant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava’s Physics

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

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

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

Oh, yes, and barbecues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Provocative Ava

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confused, he took it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava’s Inspiration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava Copulates

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, Ava,” he answered.

“Will you do what I tell you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava, Consulated

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

The Sexiest Man in the City By Steve Slavin

I’m an eighteen-year-old college student, and I’d slept with just one guy. Jason, my high school boyfriend, was OK I suppose. I mean, who could I compare him to? But I know that there has to be more – a lot more.

We made it for the first time on the night of the prom, and then a few more times over the summer. Weeks before he left for college, we had both kind of lost interest. Still, he’ll always be my first, so I’m glad we parted as friends. But I keep asking myself – is that all there is?

The thought never crossed my mind to go to an out-of-town college. Since my freshman year in high school, I wanted to be a film maker. And that meant studying at NYU. My parents, who are loaded, were delighted that I would stay in the city. So they bought me a nice two-bedroom condo just off Washington Square Park. Their only stipulation was that I have a roommate – a female roommate.

Some of the guys in my classes were nice, but maybe subconsciously I was looking for a somewhat older guy – someone who knew a lot more than I did. It was definitely time to take things to another level.

So when my roommate Tara suggested that we go to a party she’d heard about, I thought, “Why not?” We got there and saw a few dozen people blabbing away to one another – business types, hipsters, and a sprinkling of what we called “the bridge and tunnel crowd” from New Jersey, Long Island, and the outer boroughs.

Then the door opened, and in walked the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. Tall, with bushy prematurely graying hair, what appeared to be turquoise eyes, high cheekbones, a deep tan – well, you get the picture. He was wearing a powder blue summer suit and an unbuttoned white shirt — and I could just make out what appeared to be a silver peace medallion. Silver and turquoise: I wondered if he could be part Indian.

I glanced around and saw that I wasn’t the only one staring at him. Soon he was surrounded by four or five fawning women.

He was clearly enjoying this adulation, and I wondered if that might be all he wanted. Did he actually want to get laid, or was he addicted to the social foreplay? My friend Sara knew an extremely handsome priest who was always surrounded by worshipful women. But that was as far as he permitted things to proceed. Perhaps this party guy belonged to the church of latter day narcissists.

I enjoyed watching the women make complete fools of themselves. They were laughing at some probably inane remark he had made. But as I stared, I too could begin to feel the rapture.

I know I’m good-looking, because guys are always hitting on me. But a couple of those women were really pretty, and they all looked hot to trot. If I joined them, why would he choose me – or any one of us, for that matter? Unless maybe he was planning a threesome, or perhaps an even larger grouping.

Then I had an idea. I laughed to myself, because it played to his narcissism. I took out my iPhone and very, very discretely, began videoing.

Over time, one or two women would leave the group, and one or two others would join. This continued for more than an hour. I had far more footage than I would need. So I joined Tara to tell her about the role she would have in my plan.

“That guy over there? You want me to hand him a note?” She asked incredulously.

“Exactly.”

“Why don’t you give it to him yourself?”

“Because your doing this legitimizes the mission.”

“Katlin, could you just lay it out for me in plain English? We’re not living in a spy novel.”

“Fair enough. Tara, you are a beautiful woman. And, a great actress.” I paused to watch her preen. She was a year ahead of me at NYU, and had already appeared in two or three off-off-Broadway plays and a breakfast cereal commercial.

I continued: “So a lovely young actress approaches a very attractive older man, and she tells him she has been asked to deliver this note. She leaves before he can reply.”

“OK Katlin, that I follow.”

“So he reads the note written by the mysterious woman.”

“And even if he thinks I’m gorgeous, he feels compelled to meet the woman who wrote the note. But what did you write?”

“Here’s the note.”

Tara laughed as she read, “I’m a film student at NYU. I’ve just discreetly shot a video with my iPhone. You’re the star. If you’d like a private screening, call me in a couple of days. Katlin”

“Do you think he saw you videoing?”

“I doubt it. He and his concubines were far too occupied.”

# # #

He called two days later. I played it cool, letting him do the talking. He really wanted to see the video. And me!

“I’ll come to your place, say in about an hour?”

He gave me the address and when I arrived, the doorman told me that I was expected. I could tell from his smirk that Apartment 16R was a popular destination.

When he opened the door, he looked very pleased. “I remember you,” he said.

“And I certainly remember you!”

He invited me in and played it real cool, sitting opposite me.

“So you’re studying film making at NYU?”

“Yeah, I just started last month. And you’re my first leading man.”

“I’m flattered.”

“So would you like to watch my video?”

“You bet I would!”

After I set up, he dimmed the lights and we sat back and watched the show. It was eight minutes long, and had been very carefully edited. Ryan was indeed the star. There he was with a shifting group of supporting actresses. It was a silent movie modelled on our solar system, perhaps the first ever set at a singles party.

At the end he declared, “I love it! You will be great! No, no! You are great!”

Thank you!” I stood up, and then he stood. I went over to him and put my arms around him. He hugged me. Soon I felt his erection. I reached down and began to fondle him through his pants. He moaned. Then I felt his tongue in my ear.

I unzipped his fly. OMG was he big! I smiled to myself, knowing that he knew exactly what I was thinking.

With a practiced hand he unbuttoned my blouse, and then unhooked my bra. Did he know that he would be providing the on-the-job training opportunity of a lifetime? Was he aware that this was the first time I had actually tasted a man’s cock? Or had my toes sucked? Or that this was the very first time that someone had actually licked every inch of my body?

We made love all night, and I then left for school. On the walk to the subway, I thought that maybe I should ask him if we could record any future sessions for a sexual instructional video series: The Great Ryan, and his innocent young assistant, Katlin. Hell, I’d be the first on line to buy it!

Within a few weeks we had worked out a convenient arrangement: Every Tuesday we’d go out to dinner, and then stay up most of the night. Ryan never talked about what he did for work –or even if he did work. And neither of us ever said anything about what happened during the rest of the week.

I didn’t care. I mean, what difference did it make? We both knew that what we shared was a schedule – not a relationship. I’m not saying that I was sexually addicted to him, or that I even liked him. But I did know that when we broke up, it would be very hard to find someone else who was such a skilled lover.

Sometimes we’d lie in bed just looking at each other. Once, I asked him what he was thinking. What he said really surprised me: that he was loving me with his eyes. And that he was making a video of me in his mind — one that he could watch when I wasn’t with him.

I did love how he looked at me. Maybe part of it was how his eyes slightly changed color under different lighting. But most of the time, they were truly turquoise.

Later I thought about what he had said of always having an image of me in his mind. Was this his way of saying that our arrangement was just temporary? Or that he would never forget me? Or both?

My own motivations were much more transparent. Making the video was part of an elaborate plot to get Ryan to go to bed with me. And many years from now, he’ll probably still be watching it. But as much as I loved having sex with him, if I had to choose between having made the video or being with Ryan, my choice would be a no-brainer.

It came down to love. I really liked sleeping with Ryan. But I loved the video. So did my classmates and our professor. He entered it in a schoolwide contest – open to all undergraduate and graduate film students. When my video placed first, my parents were so overjoyed that they made a large contribution to the film school.

In a way, Ryan had made everyone happy – and certainly me most of all. But then, one night as we lay in bed, he told me that he would be going on a business trip to China and would be gone for six weeks.

Was he really going to China? Or was this just his way letting me down gently? And then I thought: Does it really matter? By now he may have taught me everything that I could learn from him. Maybe it was time to move on. Still, I counted the days till he would return.

Had I missed him or just the sex? Soon after the six weeks passed, it became clear that he would never call. And surprisingly, it didn’t matter. A few months later, I spotted him in the sports department of Macy’s. When he caught me looking at him, he smiled, walked over, and asked, “Come here often?” He made chitchat, but said nothing about China, or even about not calling me. Still, some kind of apology, however insincere, would have been nice.

I imagined how I might have reacted if we were meeting for the first time. Surely I would have felt the same impossibly strong attraction I had felt when I saw him arrive at the party. Perhaps he would always be the sexiest man I would ever meet.

All the while, he continued his patter. But then, he really surprised me. His tone changed from matter-of-fact to purely seductive. He told me how beautiful I was, and how he had never felt so attracted to anyone in his entire life. Then he whispered into my ear, “My dear, may I have your number?”

I was in shock! He misread my expression and persisted. “I know, I know! You must think I’m crazy! You don’t want to give out your number to a complete stranger. OK, at least let me give you my card. I’m a podiatrist.”

I stared at him, and then just shook my head “No!

As I walked away, he called out, “Please wait! Just tell me why you won’t give me your number. And why won’t you even take my mine?”

I stopped and slowly turned around. “Fine. You already have my number.”

He just stood there with his mouth open.

I continued. “Yeah, you already have my number. And… I have yours.”

Dinner For Two By Cristiano Montanari

Needing assurance that nothing would distract her from that pivotal moment, she reached for the little black radio she kept by the kitchen counter. With a twist of her wrist the dial went down, snuffing the mellifluous voice chanting that week’s Top Forty like a mantra of sorts. Even music, her favorite distraction be it classical or bubblegum pop, had to be sacrificed for the sake of that one crucial, precious slice of time in which she would finally find out – am I good enough? Have I studied hard enough? Am I wasting time and money on nothing more than a mirage, an illusion?

Once again, the last of several instances, she considered the edge of the knife. Holding the instrument in her hand, she indulged with her eyes but dared not pass a finger along the line. She knew it was sharp, she made sure that it would be so. Nothing less would suffice.

Gathering all of her concentration, she held the flesh in place with her left hand, checking that she was not applying any more pressure than strictly necessary, while the right accompanied the blade on its way down, slicing the tissue with a single and effortless motion.

One. Two. Three. Six. With the square head of the takohiki she gently scooped up the thin slices of mackerel, a rosy pearl tone crowned by the blues and grays of the skin. She arranged the three slices in a fan, over very little garnish, and sprinkled just the right amount of sauce over the dish, now complete. She adjusted the square piece of ceramic before her, her eyes inquisitively moved from her piece to the illustration on Japanese Cooking – A Simple Art by Shizuo Tsuji.

No mistake. Her cured mackerel sashimi was a masterpiece, in everything identical to the ideal form sketched by the master chef himself. Passing her tongue across her shapely plump lips, she realised her mouth was salivating ever so lightly, and it wasn’t only because of the food. The whole process, the procession of her hands from tools to flesh, and now the finished product before her, it all led her to a kind of elation that she did not feel often; surely not while travelling, watching a movie or laying in bed with her quarterly catch. This was better than most things, and surely better than sex.

The time had come. She reached for her lacquered wood chopsticks, a costly present to herself shipped straight from Japan years before. Next to the sashimi, a kelp salad that nearly threw her flat mate into an hissy fit.

“Bwah! Seaweed?” she had blurted on her way out, slinging her cheap knockoff purse and nearly falling off her heels. She had, of course, ignored her. They did get along just fine, on most things; just not on the respective definitions of ‘classy’ or ‘worth living for’. Nothing serious, when all was said and done. Maybe that kelp salad could be a metaphor for conflicting worldviews. Some saw a delicacy, some saw seaweeds.

Itadakimasu. She picked up a slice of sashimi with the tips of the chopsticks… and the doorbell rang.

… what the?

It was nearly nine in the evening, and no one was meant to come bothering her. Hell, she had chosen this evening specifically because she would be alone in the flat. She had woken up way too early and dashed to the Asian market that very morning, in order to make sure to have the best ingredients. She had selected and cut for herself a nice little slice of peace and quiet.

And the doorbell rang.

She slid carefully the plate into an open slot in the refrigerator, hoping it wouldn’t spoil the taste too much, and jumped down from the stool she had been sitting on. She slid into her slippers and made her way to the door – a handful of steps away, given how small the flat was.

Laying against the door, she put her eye to the peephole. On the other side, a crew-cut guy in jacket, sweater and jeans was staring into the little glass eye, as if something could actually be seen from outside.

“Minnie’s out” she blurted, hoping for the nuisance to simply disappear. She never liked her flatmate’s boyfriend much, and he really had no business being there anyway. Couldn’t they at least bother to keep tabs on each other?

“Really? Didn’t know. Can I come in a sec?” she asked unassumingly.

Now, she might not have been the prettiest, most popular or most in demand among them all, but she had at least a reputation for politeness. Still pining away from her sushi platter and seeing no way out of an awkward five minutes of conversation, she opened the door and silently gestured for him to come inside. He obliged, removing his jacket and casually slinging it over the coat hanger by the entrance. That was one thing she didn’t really like about him – how he felt as if he was the master of wherever he went, and how he made no effort to dissimulate it.

“So, Minnie’s not here, huh? Though she’d at least let me know.”

“Yeah, she should have.”

The two stood then by the door, facing each other. Although he donned a rather simple attire, one could tell it was not the kind of thing that would be found in a thrift store; unlike hers, a woolen  sweater and jeans she had paid a grand amount of £10. How could she afford fresh fish and Asian ingredients otherwise?

He stared at her for a while, as if waiting for a cue she had no intention to let off. Finally, he sighed and locked eyes with hers.

Was that a tingle down her spine? Come on, let’s be serious. Not my type, she thought. Better leave Holier-Than-Thou to chicks like Minnie, who could afford reverse high maintenance.

“The polite thing to do is to offer a cup of tea” he suggested, bending his chest toward her and closing the distance between them a bit. She instinctively recoiled, which did not seem to bother him too much as he produced a mischievous grin.

“Yeah, the polite thing. Minnie won’t be back for a while I think” she spelled out.

Implied suggestion: no reason for you to hang around.

“I’ll just drink my tea extra slow.”

She didn’t bother retorting; she vaguely gestured toward the living room, in which he had been numerous times already, and went to the kitchen to do the polite thing. While putting the kettle on the flame and arranging tea bags into a pair of cups, she took time alone to stew her irritation.

Not only he interrupts her long planned Japanese dinner, but he also comes in and makes himself at home just like it was – his – home, which it wasn’t. Just because he had been dating Minnie for a few months it did not mean he could just kick back and relax in their living room, while she served him tea like some kind of housemaid. You ask ‘is Minnie here?’, I answer ‘sorry she’s out’ and you go after her. Simple.

She conveniently ignored, at first, the aftertaste of that tingling sensation, stinging like fresh wasabi and equally difficult to ignore. Was there any specific reason why, since the very beginning, she could not simply dismiss this one guy as the latest nobody, one more name in the procession of cute assholes Minnie had brought over in the two years in which they roomed together? Something that plucked a string she had always hoped not to have in her?

It would have been better for all of them if he just guzzled his tea and left. There was a slight chance Minnie could be back early, and she was notoriously jealous about her boys, sometimes violently so.

She poured the boiling water into the cups, which she put on a battered tray along with the sugar jar and the carton of milk. Balancing the whole on one hand, she made her way to the living room, in which the light was on. Well, at least he had the sense to save on electricity and left the corridor lights off. Minnie always ‘forgot’ to pay her own share of the bills on time.

Just before entering the living room, she stopped on her tracks. As silently as possible she laid the tray on the floor, crouched by the door slightly open and observed the fairly unexpected scene before her.

Now, neither her nor her flatmate were particularly tidy people. Clean, yes; tidy, not so much. No matter how hard she tried to look after the well being of her own possessions, random stuff always seemed to find its way in the most random corners of the flat – brushes, shirts, empty cups of tea, you name it. Shoes, especially. Shoes seemed to have a life of their own.

And it was a shoe that he was now holding in his hand, while sitting cross-legged on the fluffy carpet. And not any shoe: it was the left one of her only pair of real good shoes, low-heel red sandals she bought as a present for herself two birthdays ago. He manipulated the object as if it were some kind of precious foreign artifact, in his eyes a glimmer that was difficult to interpret, something between elation and cautious, measured fascination.

She stood there, watching him. What the hell was he doing? What… what’s the deal? Yet, she felt no compulsion to barge into the living room and stop him dead in his tracks. She had completely forgotten about the delicacy waiting for her in the fridge, the tea getting cold or the fact that she could no stand the guy. In fact, for the first time she felt… interest. Apparently, his mysterious gesture had managed to do what his arrogant attitude could not achieve.

She saw him holding the shoe in his hand, cradling it between his slender fingers. Then, without as much as a look behind his shoulders or any attempt to dissimulate, neared the red sandal to his mouth and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible kiss to the insole. It made no sound. He passed the tip of the tongue upon his lips, a triumphant look in his eyes.

He did it again, this time with more impetus. His lips – which were, she had to admit, somewhat plump yet rather well shaped – produced a little snappy sound this time around, as they parted from the leathery surface.

What was he so happy about?

Well, of course she did know. She wasn’t born yesterday, and she did know that a grown man passionately making out with a shoe could only mean one thing. But, in her house? With… with her shoes?

A third time he neared the piece of footwear to his mouth; yet, this time, a chaste kiss was not enough. He stuck his tongue out and carefully moved it across the insole surface, with calm and controlled movements. From the point where string and leather crossed, all the way to the heel, he covered the distance in one swift movement. The living room was tiny, and so she could see all the way from her hiding spot the glistening of his saliva on the insole.

Ok, that was more than enough. She picked up the tray and entered the room, trying to look as calm and nonplussed as possible.

“Those are my shoes, not Minnie’s.”

She had not expected any kind of embarrassment or awkwardness from a guy like that. She had expected arrogant misdirection.

“I thought so.”

She had not expected that. Neither she had expected a kind of gentleness, of tenderness in his voice, a change from his usual smug register.

“… Still want that tea?” was all she could muster as a reply.

“In a bit. Why don’t you come a little closer?”

He invited her with a gesture of his hand, and she obliged. This would have been the time to yell, to punch him in the face, to kick him out of her flat and maybe tell Minnie on him. But she did none of that, and she had no intention to.

Because, she admitted to herself, she was curious. She was curious to see where this preposterous scene would lead her. Where it would lead them.

“Minnie is all about platforms, stilts and the likes” he continued. “She could never have the class for these.”

“You shouldn’t take like that about your girlfriend.”

“My girlfriend? The one who is currently fucking one of her classmates, and will do so for the whole night?”

“I knew it would only be you here and… don’t look at me like that! Had no intention to make a move but, now… those” he said, gesturing toward me with the shoe still cradled in his hands. “I was dying to see you wearing them.”

“I had them on at the last group party” she objected, though she fully know what he really meant. She sat on the secondhand armchair, crossing her legs so that her left slipper was hovering mere centimeters from his face.

Minutes of awkward silence, before she spoke.

“Just so we’re clear, I decide when it’s too far” she said, injecting as much ice as she could in her voice. “In case you didn’t notice, I am not that kind of girl.”

“Oh, I noticed plenty” he replied. “Stern, serious, dedicated to her craft, always sitting two arms apart from the nearest person at parties. A rare find, nowadays.”

She gestured as if to remove her slipper, but he coiled forward and put his hand, bony and nervous, between hers and her foot.

“Nope. I get to do it, thank you very much” he blurted out, sounding actually concerned. Pretty specific we are, she thought while giggling to herself. If she made sure to be forceful enough should things go too far, this could actually turn out quite entertaining.

Blame it on my artist’s inspiration, she thought.

“See, I can read the kind of person one is from the shoes she wears” he mused while he removed her slipper and woolen sock, tossing them in a corner. He held in his hand, with the same gentleness he displayed to the shoe, her left foot – contemplating it as if it were a holy relic, just as much as the sandal.

“Sandalomancy? That has to be a new one.”

He smirked. “Already, the choice of a sandal displays a keen sense of balance, knowing exactly what and how much to show. The low heel gives your ankle just the right inclination needed to reflect your balance personality, your sense of measure and restrained, yet flowing sensuality. The woven nature of the strings also lighten up what would be, otherwise, an excessively serious piece of footwear. I’m sure you can lighten up too when needed, right?”

She pressed the sole of her foot flat onto his face and pushed forward; he had to prop with his arms in order not to tumble on the floor. Playful banter, since she hadn’t pushed very hard, and for him it probably had been more of a treat than a punishment anyway. He resumed his position and grinned, taking hold of her left foot with a slightly stronger grip.

Part of why she wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as she should have been, she realised, was that she had always liked her own feet. They were the one part of her body she really had nothing to blame for: they were fairly long yet neither flat nor excessively arched; the toes, lined so to form a perfect curve, were slim and perfectly shaped. Thanks to her obsessive body hygiene, the soles were only slightly rougher than the skin of the back and her nails left their natural color but trimmed and polished. Strong in the conviction of having feet much better than he deserved, she stretched the left one in his hand, so as to give him a better grip.

More than you can handle?

He conjoined foot and shoe, an enthralled look on his face. Letting go of the former, he slid it into the sandal until it fit perfectly and effortlessly; then, proceeded to tie the strings around her ankle, with a calm and gentleness she couldn’t help but admire. In spite of her reservation, she was almost starting to like the guy. Almost.

Once done, still kneeled on the floor, he stood back a little so to enjoy his own craftsmanship. Between his hands laid her left foot, perfectly clad in that red, low-heeled sandal.

“Fantastic” he muttered in amazement. “Although I could object on the rather commonplace choice of colour.”

“This sandal’s heel could hurt more than my bare foot” she retorted way too gently, letting her hands run from her knee to her ankle, grazing the shoe’s laces. He reached with his own hand, hesitated for an instant and then met hers just where ankle and laces crossed. From his lower position, he looked at her with eyes that still retained a tinge of their former arrogance, yet were now touched by a hint of – hope? Expectation?

“I’m hungry.”

… Huh?

“I said I’m hungry”

How was she meant to interpret that? Well, she hadn’t meant to let him go that far but, at this point, she thought, I might as well give him a little more before closing the lid. After all, it’s not like we could really see each other again… after that. Her stern self-righteousness would never allow that.

Reluctantly, she moved her sandal-clad foot forward a bit, closer to his mouth. He showed no intention to do what she assumed he wanted to, namely lick it or at least suck on her toes. Instead, he got up and moved as if to leave the room.

“I will be back in a second” he said, and disappeared in the hallway.

The next couple of minutes were, without a doubt, the most nervous lapse of time she had experienced in quite a while. Not even the trial of slicing sashimi to perfection could compare. Aside from life drawing class, she never took anything more seriously than cooking; yet, those two minutes were the most serious she had in quite a while, as she stood sitting on the armchair with one foot in a sandal, and one in sock and slipper. A ridiculous, comical sight for someone who hadn’t seen the whole. Kind of like most moments in life, she thought.

He came back into the room with a plate and a tiny bowl. He sat once again in front of her, laying the plate and the bowl onto the carpet with great care, so that none of the content would spill. Inside the bowl she could see a dark, brownish liquid; it was the soy and sesame sauce she had prepared just a while ago. On the plate…

… Her sashimi! He had stolen her precious masterpiece!

She very nearly jumped off the armchair, and would have done so if not for fear of knocking over the culinary display on the carpet.

“Who told you you could touch that?”

“It’s all there was ready inside the fridge” he answered with absolute calm. “I will take you out for dinner some evening, to make up for it. Deal?”

The sashimi had gone in and out of the fridge once, already too much. Besides, it had to be eaten one way or another.

“Fine. But we split even.”

“Alright” he proclaimed cheerfully, picking up the bowl of Asian sauce. He dipped an index finger into the opaque liquid, and then let it drip over the back of her foot. The droplets ran down her smooth skin until each encountered a string, forming little pools all over the surface.

He extended his tongue and ran the full length from toes to ankle, digging in every crevice and nook, moving in circles or serpentines according to the path designed by the leather lace. With each movement he picked up a droplet of sauce, which he would then let run all over the tongue, savoring it gently.

“Me too” she muttered, hardly dissimulating the pleasurable sensation of feeling her skin explored by his tongue. He once again dipped a finger into the sauce, and then raised his arm to let it drip on her tongue.

“Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“It’s pretty good.”

“Tastes even better along with the dish it’s meant for.”

“I bet.”

He had been thoughtful enough to bring also the chopsticks. He picked them up and held them nimbly in his hands, opening and closing them a few times as if to test the grip. He gently picked up the sashimi, one slice at a time, and laid just about half of them on the back of her foot. Following the previous procedure, he sprinkled some more sauce both on those slices, and the leftover ones.

“Those are for you” he said, gesturing toward the plate. “If you manage to stand still.”

Wouldn’t have taken much effort, she thought. The fish itself, and the sauce made for rather sticky surfaces. She would have to actively try screwing up, and she had no intention to. This was the kind of game that was only fun if both of them won.

She stood perfectly still as he took hold of her ankle and gently neared her foot to his mouth. He puckered his lips and, one by one, he sucked in the thin slices of sashimi. Each subtle movement of both the food and his tongue across her skin surface, by now entirely moist, sent waves of squirming please up her leg, all the way to her crotch and torso. A few times she had to forcefully tighten her lips as to not let out a faint sigh.

She had done the right thing, letting things play out for once, going with the flow. Even after the sashimi on her had all been eaten, she pressed her foot forward attempting to squeeze every final drop of pleasure from his tongue. Once there was nothing left to savor, he stood up with the plate of leftover in his hands.

“You’ve been pretty good. Have you done this before?”

“Hmm, not exactly this.”

She wasn’t going to spill the beans on her private life so easily, but truth to be told there wouldn’t have been much to spill. A couple of episodes of forceful sex, blindfolds here and there, tied wrists once; none of those even compared with the pleasurable amusement she had just experienced.

“Well, good job. Now it’s your turn” he chimed, picking up a slice of fish and some kelp with his fingers. He moved forward and pointed a knee on the armchair, pressing her against the back. They were now at centimeters from each other. She could feel his breath, a clean and fresh smell mixed with the acrid aroma of the sauce. Surprisingly pleasant.

She opened her mouth wide, sticking her tongue out; he offered her a slice, putting it in her mouth along with the tip of his fingers. Her lips closed down on them, sucking them dry as he pulled them out. The second slice went in, and her mouth suctioned even harder, as if trying to restrain him.

Then it was the turn of the final slice. As his hand moved forward she grabbed his wrist and forced his fingers deeper inside her mouth, all the way down to their final joint. He had to actively pull out, and left her slightly gasping for air, her eyes gleaming behind the glass frames.

“You are a pretty good cook.”

“I practice a lot.”

“Perhaps you could cook for me again, someday.”

“Don’t forget, you owe me a dinner first.”

Out of the blue, close to each other they both burst into laughter, a cathartic diffusion of the accumulated tension. Necessary, she thought. It would have been either that, or raw sex on that very armchair, and she wasn’t up for the latter. He was someone else’s boyfriend and, in spite of what had just happened, she still had a soupçon of self-respect left in her.

“I should get going now” he said, getting up on his feet. “Before, you know… we let ourselves go too far.”

“Yup.”

“We are both way too decent, aren’t we?”

“Debatable.”

“You’re right! Where are my manners!”

He walked across the room and picked up the sock and slipper he had thrown away casually moments before. He brought them over to her, kneeled again.

“Please allow me to.”

Slowly he untied the heeled sandal, making sure to pull the shoe gently. Yet one more time he pulled her foot to himself, and with great care licked every single inch of it, until there was no trace of sauce left on the skin. Then, he straightened out the sock and slid her foot inside it, ruffling the wool around the ankle. Finally, the slipper, back in place.

He helped her off the armchair, and the two reached the apartment door. She opened it for him, he made his exit but not before indulging a bit on the doorstep.

“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

“Huh?”

“The shoes. You can’t leave them like that.”

“Ah, yeah. No problem, I can still afford that much.”

“Cool. Well, then… if there will be a next time.”

How could she know? In twenty minutes she went from annoyance to almost wanting him to stay. Too much stuff to think about.

“We’ll see.”

He then turned around and went down the staircase, disappearing from sight. She shut the door, and set about straightening up the mess. She picked up the plates, the tea tray and brought them over to the kitchen sink. She ripped a corner from a piece of paper and stuck it at the mackerel sashimi page of Shizuo Tsuji’s cookbook. She then perched on a stool by the counter, and laid her head upon her crossed arms.

Moved her tongue up and down her lips. Felt the taste of her supreme cuisine, of his fingertips.

Not bad at all.

 

Penance By Lee Todd Lacks

On the third Saturday of Lent, Sister Claire McKenna arrived at the office of the Reverend Mother Martha Clancy, promptly at half past six, as she had done every Saturday evening for nearly three years. “What have you done this week, Sister Claire?” the Reverend Mother asked. For the first year or so, the confessions came easy to the young novice, but after a while, they had to be contrived.

From the time she was young, Claire had taken pleasure in being spanked, first by her widowed mother, then by the nuns at school. The Ursulines who taught at St. Angela’s struck a delicate balance between compassion and severity, a balance which Claire found most alluring. One day, during her sophomore year, Claire had given sweet Sister Helen cause to keep her after class, yet again, for a dozen with the strap. Having tended Claire’s bottom to their mutual satisfaction, Sister Helen looked up at the clock, and noticed that she was late for an appointment with the Reverend Mother, at which point, she suddenly became alarmed. Without waiting for Claire to inquire, the middle-aged nun confided in her young pupil, “Let’s just say that I won’t be sitting comfortably for the next week or so.” Sighing ruefully, she then left the classroom in haste. Claire could hardly believe what she had heard. The thought of Sister Helen having her ample backside paddled by the Reverend Mother seemed inconceivable, and yet, inexplicably arousing. At that moment, Claire realized that she wanted to join the Ursuline Order.

There’s never been a student at St. Angela’s who has graduated without visiting the Reverend Mother’s office at least once, and during her thirty-seven-year tenure as abbess, Mother Martha had chastened the bared bottoms of nearly every one of the nuns, from novices younger than Claire, to the eldest sisters of the convent.

The Reverend Mother knew what motivated Claire to be such an eager penitent. In fact, she had known for quite some time. Loathe as she was to admit it, Mother Martha had enabled Claire’s self-indulgence because she derived a commensurate satisfaction m from strapping, paddling, and caning her. Though she knew that it was sinful to take pleasure in Claire’s pain, the Reverend Mother persisted in doing so, thereby abetting Claire’s sin. Tonight, however, she was determined to put an end to it, for Claire’s sake, as well as her own.

Claire approached the desk of the abbess, stopping just a few inches short. All too familiar with the chastening ritual, Claire proceeded to unfasten the black woolen belt which secured her habit, and handed it to Mother Martha. She then removed her scapular, folding the apron neatly before placing it upon the Reverend Mother’s desk. Next, she reached down to the floor and grasped the hem of her white tunic, raising it well above her waist, till it draped over her back. Then, she turned up her long black underskirt, thereby revealing the opaque woolen stockings and voluminous cotton bloomers customarily worn by members of the Order. Finally, she took down her bloomers, placing them upon the desk, next to her scapular.

Claire could feel her excitement growing as she presented her bare bottom to Mother Martha. While she had never been able to explain her longing for the proverbial rod of correction, she knew that it awakened her nether regions in unspeakably impure ways.

Claire could barely suppress her enthusiasm, as she waited for Mother Martha to pronounce her penance. Mother Martha held herself accountable for the piety of her female charges. To this end, she regarded the administering of corporal punishment as being one of her most sacred duties, a duty which she had faithfully discharged for nearly four decades. ”Twenty-two with the paddle, one for each day remaining in Lent.” Claire gasped. Accustomed as she was to the paddle’s wicked sting, the Reverend Mother’s pronouncement seemed frighteningly severe. “Oh, my God! Twenty-two?!” the young novice fretted. For the first time in a long while, the solemnity in Claire’s voice seemed wholly genuine, as she uttered the obligatory refrain, “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

Bending sharply at the waist, Claire reached out and grabbed the oaken edge of the Mother Martha’s desk, once again marveling at the myriad indentations formed by countless fingers, desperately struggling to maintain their grip. For Claire understood that the urge to let go often seemed irresistible. However, the consequence of having to restart the count served as a most effective deterrent. While Claire savored the Reverend Mother’s attention, she dared not test her limits by letting go intentionally.

Moments later, the young novice heard a resounding thwack, accompanied by a sudden, searing pain, as the Reverend Mother put the sturdy maple plank to her backside. The sting of the first two or three strokes never ceased to amaze her. With each successive stroke, Claire’s cries grew more fervent.

“Unnnoooooohhhhhhh!” While cognizant of her acute discomfort, Claire began to notice herself becoming highly aroused. Upon receiving the twelfth stroke, her whole body shook in an effort to throw off the pain. Mother Martha knew that Claire was nearing her threshold for punishment, and yet, she felt obligated to rid the young novice of her craving.

“Uuunnnnooooohhhhh!!” Claire wailed, as the fourteenth stroke lit into her. Just then, Claire become aware of a forbidden sensation welling up inside her. Dread mixed with shame, as she realized what was happening. Her all-consuming pain, awful as it seemed, was being transformed into that most carnal expression of femininity. Try as she might to keep the wave from breaking, Claire’s rapturous outbursts shook her to the core. As the seventeenth stroke seared her tenderest parts, Claire could feel every muscle below her waist tensing in anticipation of the impending release. Recognizing Claire’s condition, Mother Martha swung the paddle with even greater force. The sound of its impact echoed loudly within the close confines of her office. That very same moment, Claire let go a piercing shriek, which quickly morphed into something much more primal. Mortified by her body’s inability to repress itself, Claire felt it rush past the point of no return before she finally broke down. The Reverend Mother stayed her paddle for just a moment, as she watched the young novice undergo her catharsis. Though she did her best to seem appalled by Claire’s lack of inhibition, Mother Martha couldn’t help but feel similarly aroused. Steeling her resolve, the abbess exacted the remainder of Claire’s penance.

Just then, the young novice regained enough composure to cry out. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!” The Reverend Mother’s voice turned icy, “What have you done, Sister Claire?” “Oh, Reverend Mother! I’m so sorry!” “What have you done?!” repeated Mother Martha, struggling to sound condemnatory. “Oh, Reverend Mother!” Claire pleaded, her confession in tears.

Mother Martha brought the paddle down upon Claire’s frightfully distended bottom once more. “Unnnnooooohhhh!!! Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!!” she pleaded. “Say it again, Sister Claire!” Mother Martha demanded. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!” “Again!!”shouted the abbess. “Let this wickedness out of you!” Sister Claire did as she was told, veritably bursting with pain and shame. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!!”

The paddle found its mark for the twentieth time. Suddenly, in spite of her dire distress, Claire became aware of the Mother Superior’s strident voice calling out with hers. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!!” The Reverend Mother delivered yet another stroke, once again professing her guilt. Raising the paddle for the final time, Mother Martha swung with a zeal that astonished even her. Claire screamed, as the dreadful plank caught her full upon that very sensitive region just above her stocking tops. This time, however, she did not hear the Reverend Mother repenting in unison.

“Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!!”cried the young novice, choking on the words. Moments later, Claire was startled by what sounded like a bellow through clenched teeth. Mother Martha had succumbed to her own womanhood. Not daring to look back, Claire listened in disbelief, as the Reverend Mother Martha Clancy came completely undone. “Oh, God! Oh, God!! AAAAGGHHHUUUNNNN!”

Claire suddenly realized that she wasn’t the only one sobbing. The Reverend Mother’s fall from grace only led Claire to feel even more ashamed. Defying every convention, young Sister Claire reflexively stood up and let her underskirt and tunic down, so as to maintain some semblance of decency, before turning to face the Reverend Mother. Realizing that Claire had borne witness to her abject humiliation, Mother Martha accepted full accountability for her role in the young novice’s folly. “Please forgive me, my child. I have let you go astray for these many months, solely to indulge my own impure urges.” Please forgive me!”

Though her bottom was throbbing, Claire rushed over to embrace her beloved Mother Superior. “No, Reverend Mother! Only I should be seeking forgiveness. I willfully exploited your duty to correct me, because I craved the penance. It was a terribly wicked thing for me to do, and I’m so, so sorry!”

“Oh, Sister Claire. I’ve known your reason for seeking absolution ever since you first started coming to my office, and yet, I did nothing to deter you. The sin is mine as much as it is yours. Now, I’m afraid we both must accept the consequences of our wrongdoing.”

How, Reverend Mother?” Claire asked. Mother Martha let out a deep sigh. “By paying a penance that will seem wholly disagreeable to us both, I’m afraid. “

“What will be our penance, Mother Superior?” Claire asked. The Reverend Mother paused before answering, “Starting tonight, and for the next twenty-two nights, you will administer correction to me, as I have done to you, during Evening Services, just prior to the Act of Contrition……in front of the entire convent.”

Claire gasped in horror. “Oh, no! Please Reverend Mother! I could never…cause you suffering…Oh, please! Don’t make me do this!” Mother Martha’s voice became firm. “You can, and you shall, Sister Claire. The time has come for us both to relearn the divine purpose of punishment!” Claire resumed her sobbing. “Now, put your bloomers back on, and bring the paddle. Come along. We mustn’t be late for Evening Services.” With that, Mother Martha proceeded to exit her office, with Claire following closely, if ever so reluctantly, behind. Stepping outside of the vestibule, both women began their sorrowful march towards the chapel.

 

 

The Hero By Charles E.J. Moulton

Most nepto-killers were crushed at the most a year after entering the arena. I had seen them come and go. Above all, I was adamant in leaving my current stature, embarking onto new horizons. No question, I really knew that if I was killed, I was done for, gone for good. So, all I could do was keep fighting until my cult status catapulted me to a better place.

I had become somewhat of a legend. With my almost seven feet height, strong muscles and excellent killing techniques, a neptorod was yet to vanquish me. Wofaria had never seen a fighter as stubborn and hard as myself. So here I am, here to tell you how my world changed.

My preparation for the fight, the day everything changed, had almost come to a close, my muscles flexing, my body ready and my mind concentrated on its task. Of course I enjoyed my work, but killing a neptorod for the 472nd time would have seemed too dull a task, had it not been for the size of the thing.

Well, of course they had told me that I was about to fight a bigger beast this time. With its 25 feet in height and 13 feet in length, it gave even me the shivers. I believe, on your planet they call them dinosaurs. The difference, over here, is that they still exist alongside us. If no one else could, I would beat it, right? After all, I had killed bigger and yet bigger neptorods. Hell, I told myself, why not this one?

“Eventually a Neptorod gets everyone,” the people had told me four years earlier, back when I had been a so-called rookie-killer. That was, at least, until I proved my stamina. I think you knew my kind as gladiators, at least back in what you called the Roman Empire. After that first year of my time as a killer, every fight turned into a guessing game. Was I going to make it again? Then, after two years, I had to come up with more amazing stunts to entertain the people. Otherwise, they would become bored. They knew I was going to win. By now, on my way toward the fifth year as a beast-crusher, it was merely a question of how I would be killing the beast. By strangulation? By shoving two knives into its eyes? By numbing it with a head-punch and then shoving a spear into its belly? There were regular bets going on amongst the people about what technique I would use this time. People were betting gold, money, their pets and even their wives on my daily chosen methods of beastly execution.

Some of the time, I even got to fuck some guy’s wife because he had lost his chance on a bet. I’d say that half of the time there was some bimbo waiting there, naked, her legs spread eagle after a fight. I even had five girls waiting there once in my dressing room, all waiting on their knees, mouths open, their eyes expectantly wide, eager to see if I was as big as the other girls had told them. Was my nickname “Mr. Squirt” justified? Was my erect hard penis really ten inches long? Did I have as much cockjuice in my balls as the experienced girls had told their girlfriends? All they wanted, those cockteasing chickies told me, was five portions of my cum. I granted them all my squirts of my sperm, of course. How could it be otherwise? I am a gentleman. I aim to please.

Life had become predictable, I will admit that. In fact, it consisted of life in two places: my elegant but confined flat and the arena. I had all the privilages of a superstar – cyber-cinema, food, waterbed – but I was not allowed to leave. Ever. All the willing girls came in through by way of the spectator-tunnel, which was of no access to me. Right at the moment of the fight, my guard waited for me by the Neptorian Entrance, the one that was saved for my kind. Anyway, the day of my 472nd neptorod-combat, someone had assigned a weaponbearer and a costume-girl for me. I don’t know who it was that had sent them at first.

When I strode in to my arena dressing room, they were waiting for me. One guy and one girl. I humbly asked them what they wanted and they responded that they were fans. I chatted with them for a few minutes about neptorods and the live bait I used in my fights, hamsters and rats and the like, before the admitted to being fans of my sexual prowess.

Both rather handsome, I must say. No, I am not bi, but sharing chick with another guy has always been fun. At least when the babe gets down on her knees and points her butt at me, it just helps when I can fuck her forward into another hot dick.

That’s what we did. The boy, Nagat, was a fine fellow with a penis half the size of mine, but rather sturdy and very thick, just my width. The girl, Inia, had the nicest size ass I have ever seen. It wobbled so beautifully when I stuck my cock inside it. When we both finished on her, granting her swell portion of our pistol-proteine, she spent ten minutes licking off the juice off her boobs.

I knew the truth, though. I had been a ghetto-boy from the slums of Wofaria’s suburbs. I only fought to stay alive. They were no different. So I told them I had been chosen to fight after having been falsely accused of murder. The beast-crushing business had become my life, but if someone offered me a way out, I would hang my weapons on the hook forever and leave this fighting business to its destiny. Nagat and Inia told me very little about their fate. They inserted the weapons into my leather back-belt, adjusted my cape, put on my spike-gloves and tied my shoes. I kept asking them if life was diffiult for them, but all they did was answer me how damn lucky they were to meet me.

There I was, knowing fully well how Inia’s pussy tasted and felt, seeing how soulfully Nagat had fucked her, knowing that their spirits wanted what I wanted: freedom. You see, in our world sex is a part of spiritual freedom. Fucking is one of many ways we use to express who we are, what we want or if we have found our fate in our incarnations. Not until much later did I understand that there are planets where that is not the case.

When I walked out into the arena that day, my electronic ankle-brace squeezed my skin especially harshly. I had experienced hardships with my leg after falling from a neptorod one week before. The brace had detected that and was set to increase any pain. I remained steadfast and stoic, trying to concentrate on my task. One hundred thousand spectators greeted me with cheers, screaming my name: “Igure, Igure, Igure!”

I responded my usual armraising greeting, stretching my hands way up into the air and screaming my customary chant, a chant my audience knew about and joined into, I must add. I said: “Death to the neptorods!”

It was my revenge on the government, just like all the girls I kept fucking before and after my shows always was a way of finding myself. King Lurtuish had offered me this position almost five years back in order to serve my sentence well. I had agreed, not really knowing what I was facing. Now I had become a huge megastar, but with no freedom. The public demanded that the king let me go. Nobody had responded to my claim as of yet.

Just as my ankle twisted my skin even more, the monster arrived, drooling, spitting, its red eyes half as menacing as its glowing green skin, its spiked head half as menacing as the slow bobbing tail that sought to crush me. My hands clutched my cybersword, the beast’s eyes flashed, its nostrils flaring with smoke oozing out of every pore. We were two creatures, destined to duel, one victor, one bevictored.

Then, all at once, we both rushed toward one another, like beasts destined to embrace in combat, mortals lovers caught in a death-dance. It flew toward me, I grabbed my spikes, jumped onto its throat, crawling up while screaming, shoving them into his nostrils, climbing up on its head, clawing its eyes, producing hell-holes of purple bleeding. It screamed. Oh, how it yelled. Then, when it died, the audience broke out into fits of cheers. And I? I stood up, alone again, addicted to victory, depressed when victory had passed me with flying colors.

Back in my dressing room, melancholic again, she was there. No Inia, no Nagat, just a very, very elegant woman. Black long dress with beads hanging down from both shoulders. I twisted and turned, trying to find my previously fucking guests.

“Where are my new friends?”

The woman took some elegant steps up toward me, swaying her cute derriere and wagging her boobies at me. “They were escorted out through the tunnel.”

I cocked my head, critical as to who I had before me. There had been many women offering themselves to me. This one seemed more in control, more superior. I don’t know why, but she scared me. “And who are you?”

I put my sharp sword in my holster and stretched my muscles, pretending not to care, probably looking like I did and not knowing the fuck why.

“Princess Lidea,” the woman said. “I am here to set you free.”

I looked up, stunned. For one singular moment, time seemed to stop. Free? I had only known this life for … well, too long now. I was a star, sure, but one that never saw anything but the confines of singular spaces. “You’re kidding?” I waited, trying to detect the cheat. “Why are you setting me free? Who are you?”

Princess Lidea walked up to me and knelt down, helping herself to me groin. “King Lurtuish’s daughter. He spoke of you as ‘Wofaria’s most famous man’ and added,” she said, dropping my trousers and giving me a hand-job, “that something had to be done. So he’s setting you free.”

I smiled, enjoying her treatment. “Does he know you are giving me a handjob?”

Lidea giggled, wrinkling her nose. “No.”

By this time, my huge schlong had been pumped up to a singularly humongous size. Lidea, the dirty princess, didn’t fail to insert my cock into her cherry red lips, embracing it, hugging it hard, making it look like vanilla cone travelling into a strawberry salad. She closed her eyes, grabbing ahold of my butt, making me wonder if she had alterior motives.

“What do you want from me,” I chuckled while moaning, “except my huge dick in your mouth?”

Lidea took out my cock, rubbed it back and forth. “My dad wants to see you, so you’re coming to the palace to speak to him.”

“The palace?” I inquired, for the first time realizing that this crumpet actually meant business. Up until now, she had only been a possible escape route from my guard.

“Why?”

“You’ve become a legend,” she answered with a wink.

She reached into her cleavage, fumbled a bit, my cock bobbing like crazy and waiting for some more female mouth. After fumbling for a minute, she began unbuttoning her dress. “Ah, what the fuck, you’re gonna fuck me, anyway!”

“What are you getting out?”

There were three glories revealed. Lidea’s fantastic D-cup gazongas and the key to my ankle-brace. After she released me from a lock that would’ve exploded had I broke it, I licked her sexy and fleshy titties, fucked her like a maniac and squirted on her butt.

We left for her personal carriage out the royal way and I had never seen that entrance. What was more surprising was the disappearance of my guard. Flabbergasting, it felt like dancing on clouds. I had not seen these sights, the city itself, in five years. The Gaoshs High Street with the fifty statues of the Ingfas kings, the Ahgso Waterfall next to the Üpja-palms, the Temple of Opidgd and the Theater of Zuafsfsa. The crowds, well, what can I say, they noticed that their hero was free. So, the shouts grew louder than I had ever heard them. A few of my fucklovers were there, too, and they were smiling, hoping for more of my cock. My dick glued to my leather pants by way of dried sperm, though, and I couldn’t leave the princess.

As soon as we entered the royal grounds, my heart nearly stopped, my breath grew shallow, my eyes teared. That’s when it dawned on me that I might really be free, after all. But what were they planning for me? Working as a government official? Becoming their military leader? Had I been freed of the charges? Had they realized I was not guilty?

Anyway, eventually I wandered into that pink palace with its 165 towers and 40 entrances, greeted by welcoming, blue-clad courtiers, taking me to the biggest and most impressive dining hall I had seen. When I sat there with King Lurtuish, I couldn’t help but feel bribed. The food simply overwhelmed me, meat of every kind, stews and soups, the alcohol soothed my senses, and underneath place at my table, two blonde girls knelt below me under the table, taking turns giving me blowjobs. The king offered me a position as a military leader. This had to be fake.

So, it was a weary and intoxicated head that I wandered to my suite, pondering over this incredible change in my life. I had been pampered, caressed, fed, complimented and fucked. I don’t know what it was, but I was sure King Lurtuish was jealous. So I sat there on my marble terrace overlooking the red, white and blue plains of Ikugas, wondering if I should let this conspiracy come to a close or if I should do something.

I tried to sleep, I tossed and turned, I called for food, I ate it, I drank some more wine, I called for three girls and fucked them, squirted on their faces, but whatever I did, this feeling of restlessness only grew more intense.

At three thirty at night, my cock again glueing to my leather pants by way of cum, I decided to take a stroll in the vast palace garden. The roses smelled fresh, the full moon reflected its white light on my large frame. I couldn’t help now owning what I thought was the last piece of my puzzle: freedom. They hadn’t even mentioned my alleged crime. It was completely gone. I vowed to ask Lidea or Lurtuish that tomorrow.

Just as I wondered what to do, I heard screams echoing through the night. I turned around, witnessing two people running through the night, followed by guards. I don’t know what they were screaming. I do know that I recognized them. It was Nagat and Inia, the couple I had fucked with before the fight with the Neptorod this morning. Panic in their voices, speed in their joints, mortal fear in their bellies, they obviously attempted escape from… yes, from what? The guard caught up with Inia, ripped off her dress and dragged her back to… wait a minute, that was a dungeon down there. A prison cell. In the midst of this gorgeous garden, sorrow in the midst of wealth. That seemed cheap, vile, evil, even.

I watched the guards drag down my carnal shagmates down into a deep hole, closing the door, shutting it and dawdling away laughing. One moment of silence protruded, prevailed, and I was left in the midst beauty, listening to screams. And my feet, almost on their own, approached darker areas. Soon enough, I walked down mossy steps, finding myself by their sides, crying, naked, desperate.

“King Lurtuish has called you here to fool you,” Nagat began, drying his eyes of tears.

“Tomorrow,” Inia continued. “You will be presented in front of the court and the public, and tested.”

“Tested?” I inquired, bewildered as to the meaning of these words.

“We,” Nagat said, “will be thrown at your feet and you will be ordered to kill us. If you don’t, you will die. King Lurtuish has lured you here to get rid of you.”

“He is envious,” Inia concluded.

I bade farewell to my lustful companions, seeing the sun rise before my eyes, not having slept one wink. With tears in my eyes, the huge corpus that had killed 472 neptorods was unable to rebel against the crown. Why? Fear of authority.

So, there I stood, shortly after the royal breakfast, in front of large crowd of revellers. The king had spoken well of me as the new military leader. For the first time, though, he said openly that my crimes of late were pardoned and forgotten. The condition being if I could, myself and completely, mortally wound two criminals. Enter, Nagat and Inia.

So, there I was, actually wishing to be back in my arena, being escorted to my elegant prison. Nagat and Inia lay there at my feet, I was given a sword with which I was expected to execute the people I had fucked not yet 24 hours ago.

“Stop this nonsense!”

The voice that reverberated from beyond the king’s throne possessed way more authority than the king’s. Accordingly, my sword raised, my huge hand trembling, my mind wondering why I couldn’t kill a fuckbuddy when I had killed 472 beasts, I turned around, the sword tumbling down on the ground. I turned around again, fearing that the sword had wounded my friends. Not so. They lay at my feet, crying.

“You have taken this far enough!”

The woman that strode up toward me was dressed in red, a bloody antidote to the king’s bland grey. She reached forward her hand: “I am Gertrude, the queen!”

She turned around and faced her husband.

“The real queen!”

She strode back toward the king’s golden throne and pointed at him.

“You know as well as I that my father was the king, that I am the real monarch and that this man,” Gertrude said, pointing at me, “is innocent of killing Nagat’s father.”

Nagat looked up at me. I looked at Nagat, Inia shrugged and I think the king cringed.

“Who are you, Nagat?” I asked.

“My father was murdered by the king,” he answered. “You were blamed, because you were close by the crime-scene.”

Suddenly I remembered being in the Wofarian capital on the day of the royal parade, five years ago. I remember witnessing a fight between the king and his assistant, five years ago. I remember being the witness to someone getting a knife shoved in a belly and realizing that the man had been a royal assistant. I had not seen the face of the murderer. I had just known that they had disappeared into a side street to fight. I was dragged away, given the position of nepto-killer. I had been told to keep my mouth shut, fighting beasts and living like a king, never getting out of my misery, but trying.

I looked at the king, saw him being dragged away, and wondered why fate twisted and turned the way it did. Queen Gertrude pardoned me, Inia, Nagat and Lidea joined me in the back room. We needed love, so we gave each other exactly that. Although Lidea and Gertrude seemed melancholy about the king’s recent abdication, Gertrude eagerly wondered to see if I was as big as her daughter had claimed.

Soon enough, there was that one moment when I stood in the palace, so close to the throne, hearing the groans of happiness from three girls being fucked in turn by Nagat. While Gertrude worked on my large dick, Lidea came over and kneeled below Nagat’s gender, licking on his balls. I now soared in seventh heaven, two girls on their knees, giving me blowjob point-of-views. Inia, that raunchy little crumpet with deep dimples and twinkling little eyes, rubbed her big titties while walking up to me, the old beast-crusher.

Without even opening my eyes, I found Lidea’s willing mouth, my own cockjuice spreading across my gums, her tongue wrapping around mine, her saliva travelling back and forth between my cheeks. Lidea’s lipstick tasted of cherries, her tongue tasted of woman, her cheek tasted of perfume and her hair smelled of mandarine scented perfume.

The helmet of my cock, blue and hard, smiled at Inia with its happy one eye. She took the length in her mouth, closing her eyes, sucking deeper for every blow, enjoying the salty taste of my throbbing manhood. She caressed my ass as she gave me a hot blowjob, I grabbed her head hard, pushing my hot cock into a red and willingly harlotlike facehole.

I moaned, groaned, sighed, sang, laughed and cried, all at once, while giving my sexy mistress her well-earned blow job. Man, it felt good to get a good blowjob.

Time stood still as I, almost in slow motion, reached down and got ready to fuck the chickies in turn. Gertrude threw her head backward as I entered her from behind, smiling, groaning, moaning, grabbing her tits and caressing her nipples. Inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, I worked myself down toward the temple of her innermost glory, while Nagat fucked Inia. With the gorgeously lustful sounds of the birds in the garden, I pulled myself toward Lidea’s sweetly tasting vagina. Digging deeper and deeper into her body, I found myself actually filling my entire face with her juices before humping her, while Nagat now shagged Gertrude.

We took turns fucking all of those three lovely pussies, switching holes, sharing glory, laughing, those genders making wet noises. With a fantastic smacking sound, I slid out my cock out of Inia’s pussy and injected it into Gertrude’s asshole, only to finger Lidea’s cunt. It was tighter than I expected, but Gertrude seemed to enjoy the feeling of having me fuck her butt in the backside of the throne-room to the sounds of Nagat squirting on Inia.

The girls ended up lying on the floor, licking cum off their tits and chatting.

Nagat and I, we discussed what possible things we could do with the kingdom, how we could improve the lives of the people, how we could eliminate poverty and what we should do with King Lurtuish. We agreed that all we had to do was follow what our hearts told us to do. So, King Lurtuish received a position tending to the garden, but living in a confined area at night.

I went back to the arena today. As a king. Yes, I am king of Wofaria now. The crowd cheered. I had been one of them. We are freeing the country as we speak. And feeling fucking lucky every bit of the way.

The neptorods still exist, but we have confined them to a seperate place away from the dangers of the arena. Nobody enjoys fighting anymore. We do two things instead. We make love and we make music. After all, sex not only creates babies, it’s also a lot of fun. In fact, it’s sheer heaven. We travel the galaxies, trying to find out more about you humans on Earth. So I am sending you this letter, sending you a message by way of one of rockets. Another species tried to inspire you to believe in this truth back during one of your wars. I believe you called the era your power of flowers, or something of that sort.

Didn’t you want to make love and not war?

What’s happened to that?

It’s time to remember love.