The Glorious Cockteaser By Charles E.J. Moulton

To be honest, I’d had the hots for Sally ever since she was a senior in high school. Back then, I had just completed my doctorate in literature as the youngest of my age group. I only taught English for a year at Seaside Coast igh School, but I walked away battling a massive hard-on more often than I could tell you. Sally always dressed like a dirty old man’s dream cum true. I was only 30 at the time, but Sassy Sally made me feel like that uncle that asked her home to show her his stamp collection. I mean, that girl came in her blonde pigtails with pink ribbons, short cheerleader skirt, open shirt with cleavage, popping her Yankee Doodle Bubble Gum every fucking day. She sat there in the front row arching her back, begging for me to look at her swelling nipples. I went in to the teacher’s rest room to masturbate so often I think my colleagues thought I had a health problem. Every time I taught English for the seniors, I went in to jerk off beforehand because I knew I would be having issues with Sally’s cum-ons.

Anyway, I got a position as college professor at the end of that year. I was happy that I had not been caught humping a high school girl, as Sally had been only 17 at the time. I spent the next three years teaching college, fucking lots of bimbos, receiving quite a few blowjobs, but pretty much forgetting Sally. Okay, not really.

Four years after I left Seaside Coast High School, I fell in love with Amy, a teaching C-Cupped black haired chick from my neighborhood. We literally devoured each other. She would let me squirt my sperm into her mouth at breakfast, fuck her ass during lunch hour, titfuck her at dusk, she would lick my balls as I ate supper, suck my cock while I made business calls, surprise me with surprise blowjobs as I corrected tests and papers. Then she would let me fuck her from behind again as she fried my bacon by the stove, naked except for the apron.

One thing alone drove her nuts:  the fear of having to share me with someone else.

New students arrived at our State College that year and I prepared for them like I always did: diligently.

When I saw Sally again, though, I was back at Seaside Coast High School again, jerking off in the teacher’s loo. She had come of age, her boobs had grown and her ass was the sexiest and peachiest piece of female flesh I had seen in a long time. She was a real cockraiser.

Needless to say, I had my problems concentrating on my work.
After class, we spoke and she told me I was the reason she had chosen to study English Literature after studying Sports Instruction for three years. She had never forgotten me, she told me as she arched her back.

Now I wished I had fucked her pussy in her senior year. Amy and I were serious about our engagement. Fucking Sally now? Maybe not so good. So I kept the conversation going for a bit and then said good bye. Little did I know what was about to happen.

Amy knew I had to stay and organize the college computer files that night after work. It was long overdue, so she had arranged a girl’s night out, telling me she would let me work and spread her legs for me over the weekend.

I had been working for only one hour  when Sally came in, stripping ever so slowly, confessing as she undressed that she had wanted to fuck me forever.

I pleaded with her to stop. I had a girlfriend. We were going to get engaged. Sally, however, was adamant. She told me that all she wanted was to suck and fuck my cock. No worries, she said. She just wanted me to fuck her.

Oh, man. So there I was, my seven inch penis pumping Sally’s pussy from behind, her buttcheeks wobbling like marshmellows, and Amy called me on her mobile. I answered as I fucked Sally and Amy told me her girlfriend had cancelled. Was I okay? Yes, I answered, humping Sally, I was. Overworked, but fine. She should go home. I would be there shortly.

I hung up, switching holes, Sally’s butthole, Sally’s pussy, Sally’s butthole, Sally’s pussy and so on. Until I heard Amy’s voice in the hallway outside. Gee wiz, she was here.

Sally and I clothed real quick. Sally ended up under my desk, giving me a fantastic blowjob, as Amy walked in, telling me she had to come here just to relieve my tension. She needed a college fuck, she claimed.

I had never felt so afraid and so horny at the same time. Sally really worked my dickie, deepthroating it. I tried my best to pretend to work. Amy asked me why I was not standing up to greet her. I told her that my legs were tired. When she heard Sally’s sloppy blowjobbing noises under my desk, Sally moaning and raving about what a great penis I had, Amy’s face dropped an inch. Sally literally pushed me out of my seat and into a standing position. There I was, Sally sucking my cock and Amy watching it. Total confusion. I enjoyed the fellatio, but feared the worst, closing my eyes. Gosh, Sally sucked so well. Amy sucked well, too. Who would I choose?

I feared losing Amy, until I opened my eyes after feeling two female tongues circling my shaft.

“What the…” I spat.

“Shut up and let us fuck you,” they said in unison. “We planned this all along.”

I laughed, happy to now have to cocksuckers at my feet, not just one.

We now all live together, but that is a totally different story.

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

Harry was uptight.

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

Harry was no loser.

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

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

His parents had taught him to be impeccable.

The parents themselves?

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

What goes around, comes around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that moment, Harry’s phone rang.

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

“Lucy,” Harry whispered to himself, thoughtfully, carefully wanking his penis, thoughts criss-crossing his mind as to why she called him now after work … in private.
Harry’s trembling hand swooshed across the display, causing the red receiver to turn green. Harry carefully raised the phone to his ear.

His dream fuck.

Harry was terrified.

“He-… Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy exploded out into an insecure laugh.

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

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

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

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

“You live not far from here, right?”

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

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

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

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

“See you soon.”

“Bye,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tha-… thanks.”

Harry took the bottle of wine, shaking his head.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

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

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

“I’ll get two glasses.”

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

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

“Oh, my God.,” she exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No response. “Uhm, uhm…”

She looked up, licking her lips.

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

Harry nodded slowly, clutching the plate.

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

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

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

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

Harry nodded. “Yes, I do. Often.”

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

Harry nodded again.

“I like that,” she said.

Harry chuckled nervously.

“What’s that in your pants?”

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

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

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

“Uh-huh,” he groaned.

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

“Gosh,” Harry croaked. “Dunno …”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry moaned something unintelligible.

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

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

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

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

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

And fuck her, he did.

Hard.

Harry did not recognize himself.

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

“Yes, Lucy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yummy sperm,” she swooned­. “I love the salty taste of sex. A real cock-tail.”

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a sin,” he said.

Lucy laughed. “Who says?”

“Society,” Harry says.

Lucy sighed. “Who are we hurting?”

Harry looked over at Lucy, surprised.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

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

Harry looked away, wondering silently to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

“And faith.”

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

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

Harry did.

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

“Here’s to Kama Sutra,” he giggled.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry lived a good and very fulfilled life.

The Wonder of Women By Charles E.J. Moulton

I have always been psychic. Feeling people. Spiritually, I mean. I go into a room and immediately feel the atmosphere. If it’s good, I am flying, baby. If it’s bad, I am down to the ground.

To top that off, I admire the female anima, the suave caress of the female soul, the force that inspires us to create art, make music, make love, write poems.

Often, when I sit in the bus, and a beautiful woman comes and sits down, that female anima comes gleaming and glittering over at me. So, ever so subtily and carefully, I study her, looking at the curve of her breasts, the swaying of her buttcheeks, her lips and how they would feel around my hard cock. In my mind, I spread that girls legs, lick her pussy only to shove my hard dick into her throbbing clit. I have made love to hundreds of women in my mind like that, squirting cum into their hot and willing mouths.

But it isn’t just their bodies that arouse me. In fact, it’s the anima that raises my prick: that endearing magic of elegance, eloquence and arrogance that signifies the female spirit. We men love to obey them, kiss them, unwrap them and fuck them until they beg for more. Their beauty is endless and therefore endless in arousal, always begging for more. The female energy invites you into endless copulation, just as endless as the soul is endless in conciousness.

Wonder, oh, the wonder of wonderful women.

As I was sitting in the bus today, not only did I study the girl that came up and sat opposite me, the curve of her boobies and the swaying of her arse. I also imagined what it would be like to be her, have a hot and bothered male with a growing cock studying you like a meaty and marinated steak.

Then I closed my eyes. I imagined myself not having a penis, but a vagina. Then I imagined having round hips, big tits and erect nipples. I imagined myself making myself up every day, choosing a bra and panties and a skirt and then walking out in high heels and having all those men rubberneckin’ me, looking at my tight butt, dreaming of sticking their fat schlongs in my hot little fanny.

I imagined what it felt like to have that long hard dick shoved into me like I had shoved my cock into dozens of pussies before.

Had I been my dream fuck, having my stern rod catapulted into my hot cunt, what would I have felt? How does it feel to have a long hot banana shooting up and out of your crack?

As I sat there, fantasizing about my dream fuck, I realized that, believing in reincarnation, that I might have been a woman in a previous life, with all that entails, the ups and the downs, the periods and the hormonal outbursts.

And I realized that sex connects souls. It focuses two people’s emotions with one purpose: symbiosis. Unity. The act that binds a couple, at best, produces a baby. Sex is nature’s necessity, a foundation for our survival. It is peaceful and built into our DNA.

I believe in reincarnation, in the existance of the afterlife and in a concious and emotional God that put his energy into everyone’s emotions: a source we can tap into whenever we want. A source we need no religion to find.

Soul.

I also believe in logic.

What was before the big bang and where does the universe end? Microcosmos vs. Macrocosmos? These questions have one answer: a divine intelligence.

I also believe in Jesus’ resurrection.

Jesus chose a woman to spread the word of his resurrection: Mary Magdalene.

There were more gospels that were not published. The patriarchal priesthood would have been out of a job if the anima had ruled as it would have deserved.

The male priests grabbed the trophy of priesthood, although women clearly were wiser.

Adam and Eve’s shame was their downfall. Or does an animal feel ashamed when creating a baby? So why do humans love babies but discard how they are made?

Sex is kissing, hugging, loving.

Why do we cheer in movies when someone is killed and cringe when they make love?

Weren’t we taught to love one another?

Violence is sin.

Faithful sex is not.

Think about it.

It’s just simple logic.

Beverly Hills Rebel By Charles E.J. Moulton

I glanced at my Rolex, shifting into second gear, waiting for the moron in front of me to decide if he wanted to fall asleep by the wheel or not. Drumming with my fingers at the steering wheel, I conjured up even more impatience in my soul as to how long it would take to get there. My watch told me that Betty was in the last half hour of her shift. I would make it, too, if there weren’t so many snails stopping traffic.

“Yo, bozo,” I yelled, rolling down the window of my Lamborghini, “what did ya do at your driving exam? Take sleeping pills?”

I drove past the guy, an old codger swallowing the gearshift, who gave me the finger as I drove by. I waved back, returning the favor. “Fuck you, too,” I spat, “I’ll be a lawyer in a year. Then I am gonna sue your ass.”

The inner city hustled, bustled, just like it always did on weekends, assisted by the blasting of my stereo, playing a tune that was by now an oldie: “We Built This City” by Starship. Friday nights kept their promises. Although I hadn’t officially begun my professional life yet, I certainly had a long working day in court behind me. That gave me the right to have my share of relaxation.

I swung delicately into my destined street, my previous anger subsiding, realizing that these secret visits to “Bobbie’s Big Burgers” had become an important part of my life. Betty was different, funny, cute, a good listener and, damn it, a far less arrogant than Wendy.

Fun. That was the key word now, wasn’t it? Wendy? Fun? No, slow. Had Wendy been my choice of partner? No. Had I chosen her? No. As far as I went, she was dull. Wendy was money. To my father, that meant a lot. No. Everything.

That and power.

I parked my expensive car in the only spot that had been left free, across the street from the diner. I sat there in the silence for a bit, hearing the cars whizz by and the occasional dog bark at a pigeon. I gazed up at the phoney photo of me and Wendy hanging from the front mirror. It had been taken at the official engagement party last month and was the biggest and most valid example of phoneyness I knew.

I remembered the buffet, the band, the speeches, the public peck on the lips that Wendy had given me, the press photo with that damn famous client of my dad’s, the rapper DJ Ice. It had all been a show that we put on for my father.  Good food, nice drinks, great music, pretty lies.

Wendy sent me a text message at about eleven o’ clock that night, outlining our upcoming marriage. She had used the words “strictly for the money.” There was a big problem with that phrase: I agreed with her. Our daddies had joined together in order to form an axis of power. The two richest lawyers in California, how good would that look if their kids married. Man, that would just make them totally famous and totally rich.

I unwrinkled my Armani suit in the back, stepped out of my car, wondering how I could improve the situation. The slamming door felt like the ultimatum my father slammed in my face. My way or the highway, he seemed to tell me. No Wendy, no college degree. So, what was this? I was between a rock and a hard place. What did the literature students say? Scylla and Charybdis? My soul told me I loved another chick, that Wendy could go screw herself. But where would that leave my degree? I would be over my frigging head in debt if my father cut the money for law-school. No Wendy, no inheritance. Was I really so dependant on my dad?

The slight salty breeze in my face, my Ray-Bans firmly reflecting the UCLA logo on my white shirt, a wide smile appeared on my lips. Betty crisscrossed the tiles in there, delivering her burgers and fries, serving those milkshakes with a sensual smile. Although I must say that I preferred her own personal milkshakes to those her boss made behind the counter.

I held on to the doorhandle for a bit once I arrived, the metal literally glowing from the heat, watching my sweetie bounce about before I wandered in. When I entered, a short round man greeted me with a smile.

“Mr. Blake,” he crooned in a broad Brooklyn twang, reminding me of how many New Yorkers I knew that had ended up in California. “I thought you were gonna stay out there clutching that doorhandle forever.”

“I like to watch,” I joked and sat down by a table by the window.
“You eat burgers, you don’t watch them, buddy.”

“Burgers are like paintings,” I crooned, contradicting my family’s obsession with hors d’oevres, escargot, dom perignon and Pata Negra varieties. “Their mere appearance triggers a desire to awaken the internal tastebuds. Hence, they are art.”

“We have a connoisseur on her hands,” he sang. “Betty, would you do him the honors?”

“Yes, Mr. Kaplan,” the lust of my life smooched in a melodious tune.

Her two glorious black pigtails swung up and down as she came striding up toward me.  Finally arriving at my table, her back to Mr. Kaplan, she carefully unbuttoned one button on her blouse and let me gaze into that gorgeously huge cleavage. She gave me a half-smile, licking her red lips.

“The usual?” she crooned, winking at me.

“The usual,” I answered with a smile, waving my eyebrows.

“With or without cream?” she said, giggling.

“Lots of cream,” I swooned. “The more, the better.”

She smiled, closing her button and turning around back toward the kitchen with a seductive swing of her frilly skirt. For one moment I got a glimpse of her upper leg. She wore a négligé for me. The red one I’d had the honor of lifting up to hip level last week for the quickie in the back room. It was a wonder Mr. Kaplan hadn’t noticed the cum dripping down her legs as she walked out into the diner. I don’t know how we did it without being noticed.

We literally reeked of sex.

So there I sat, trying to inspect the best fuck of my life as discreetly as possible without having any of the other guests or Mr. Kaplan notice me. There was this old woman in the corner who eyed me, but, heck, I was a lawyer, we kick ass for a living. So I didn’t really bother about what the old woman thought. I just imagined in my head what I would be doing to Betty later that evening, if I succeeded with my plans. I had promised Betty a really royal fuck in my princely waterbed over at my father’s mansion.

“There you go, Sir,” Betty said, handing me a king size chili cheeseburger and a Special Kaplan Chocolate Shake with added Extra Cream, as delicious as Betty’s much smoother white boobies.

After handing me the food, she also handed me a small note, opening her lips and sticking her tongue firmly in her cheek.

“Justin. Eat fast, baby,” it read. “I need you. See you by your car.”

The food melted in my mouth as lusciously as Betty’s lips melted into my rod when we had sex. The cream on my shake also tasted almost as good as Betty’s vulva. I thought I knew what Betty meant when she told me that she needed me. Well, I did know. So I ate fast, gulping down that shake while my love stood by the bar, giving me hot cum-ons.

“Was the food okay?” Betty asked me once had devoured it all, belching like a Renaissance king.

“Wonderful,” I nodded, laying a twenty dollar bill on the table. “Keep the change.”

“I’ll keep it and change,” she said, “but I bet you have something else for me, Mister!”

“Like what?” I said, sparks flying.

“Real cream?”

“Home made stuff,” I answered, blowing her a kiss, waving goodbye to Mr. Kaplan and entering the brilliant sunshine, hoping to find myself fondling my loved one’s jugs soon enough. Kaplan waved, Betty winked, the old lady in the corner sneered and me? I went to my Lamborghini, closed the door, rubbing my crotch.

I couldn’t really see the diner from here. Okay, it was across the street, but a tree was in the way. Pretty secluded spot. Maybe that was good. I don’t know.

Well, I kept listening to the silence, sort of depressed about my situation.

The moment my dear one appeared from the other side of the street, now wearing a frilly pink blouse and a private white skirt with that pretty red négligé under it, I forgot how deep in shit I really was. She opened the car door and literally sunk into the passenger seat, rolling over me and giving me a tongue kiss that had my socks flying off and my breath whistling like frigging teapot.

“Honey,” she told me in her comely, ambivalent voice. “Is it okay if I just give you a blowjob now and we can fuck later tonight at your house?”

I nodded, my voice trembling.

“Sure, babe. Whatever you say! You have an appointment?”

Betty unzipped my pants and fingered out a cock that immediately began growing in her hands.

“My jackass sister needs help with her taxes, but I will be with you at nine o’clock.”

Betty took my schlong in her mouth and gave it the suck of its century.

“Great,” I groaned.

“Your parents are leaving the house tonight, right?” she mumbled with the thing half in her mouth.

I nodded, faster this time, yelping and making a tortured face. “They’ll be at Wendy’s parents’ house out of town. They’re staying over night.”

“Where’s Wendy?”

“At a seminar,” I responded. “Or so she says.”

Betty unbuttoned her blouse and displayed her glorious cleavage, heaving her massive boobs out of her négligé and bra.

“Just for the effect.”

She leaned over, sucking on my cock a couple of times, making me groan and moan and throw my head toward the roof of the car. Then she took my erect dick out of her mouth again and continued talking while jerking me off.

“What’s with this Wendy girl? Do you love her?”

“No, I love you, Betty,” I said, doing my best not to squirt – yet – trying to answer the question as well as I could. Betty leaned over again and continued her blowjob, really getting into it now, her head bobbing to and fro like a rose in a storm, while I uttered the words I had wanted to utter in Betty’s presence for a long time. “The relationship with Wendy is strictly for the money, Betty. She knows it. I know it. We both fuck on the side. The only reason why we’re together is because our parents are business partners.”

Betty stopped sucking, giving me the original blowjob-point-of-view-gaze, licking my balls. “You’ve hinted that,” she said, taking one of my testicles between her teeth and lightly nibbling on it, smiling. “Let me guess, your father will not pay for your college degree if you don’t marry this bimbo.”

“Bingo,” I nodded, almost barking now with lust.

She took my cock in her hands, making racing car noises and pretending my penis was a joystick. When the helmet of my pole firmly lay between her grinning teeth, she laughed, spitting out a witty: “My Lamborghini Gearshift!”

After a moment’s break, she added a contientious: “Sorry!”

Again, she sucked, harder and deeper this time, with me now producing noises that sounded sort of like my Lamborghini on the highway.

“God, you are the best damn cocksucker in the world,” I said, my voice sounding like a wheezing weasel.

“Better than Wendy?” she spat, sucking away.

“Wendy and I don’t sleep together.”

“If you and I marry each other,” she crooned, my hot dog half into the sexy bun of her cheek with lips that had the color of ketchup, “I could give you blowjobs 24/7.”

She giggled, her now cherry-nippled marshmallow knockers wobbling with excitement, her eyes wide with for frolicking mirth.

“I could even suck you while sitting under your desk at work,” she blubbered, handjobbing me. “I could be your homebound call girl.”

“Convince my father of our relationship first,” I sighed, grabbing the leather seats of my car and biting my lower lip. “He’s very conservative.”

“Does your father like blowjobs?” Betty mused, again giving me fucking fabulous fellatio. “Justin, this is your decison. You fuck who you wanna fuck.”

With that, my sex princess gave her work complete attention, embracing my entire length, caressing it with every inch of her lips, up, down, jugs wobbling, hair shaking, pink earrings swinging. While she sucked it, she massaged my balls, managing to circle my shaft with her tongue during her expertise sucking work. I felt my testicles pull together, my rod tighten, my heartbeat accelerate, my breath tremble, the wet, warm feeling in my crotch turning the experience into a divine miracle, the plopping, smacking sounds of her mouth bringing a smile to my face, the smell of her floral perfume tickling the edge of my shaft, the sight of her knockers turning my manhood into a steel lamppost.

The explosion was just a second away now, Betty’s head bobbing faster and faster by the millisecond. Betty deep-throated my dick, not prepared to take it out for the orgasm, wanting to swallow every drop. I came, shooting my load into the back of her mouth with a groan, cumming again and again.

Betty swallowed, not letting any of that free portion of protein get lost. After all, since I had begun cumming in her mouth people had given her compliments about her increasingly gorgeous skin color. I had, on her request, shot about twenty loads into her mouth the last month. As the storm subsided, Betty pulled away, panting, drying her lips, eyes closed, leaning against her seat, sighing a happy sigh of sexual relief.

“Man, you’re good.”

“You, too.”

My dick shrinking, her boobs slowly heaving back into her bra, we closed our garments and drove off to join the crazy traffic of Los Angeles. Before I dropped her off at her house, she half-smiled at me, giving me a tongue-kiss, one cum-drop left on her chin.

“I want you to shag all my holes tonight, okay? Are you up for it?”

“My machine’s reloading as we speak, baby,” I answered.

I humbly stole a sneek peak at Betty’s bottom as it swung to and fro into her apartment building, her stomach full of my happy little sperms.

It didn’t take long, though, for the blues to catch me. No sooner was I back on the highway when I again seriously began wondering how to tell my father that Wendy and I were bound to divorce sooner than anyone could scream “fake.” I had to tell him, introduce him to Betty, tell him that she was the love of my life. I wouldn’t tell him about the cumshots, though. I would tell him that it was Betty or the highway.

As I left that highway again, for Beverly Hills, reminded of how excited I’d been to move here, meeting the stars. Hell, going home to the stars. All because the press called my father “America’s Lawyer Number One, Trusted by the Celebrities.”

I cruised the streets, happy that people didn’t wave anymore or stop my car to get my autograph, causing an accident. I was a lawyer, not a pop-star. All because of my dad’s megalomaniac attitude, putting the family name Blake on the map. I now resented this fame, forcing myself to live a lie. Wendy and I, we hated each other.

Driving myself to a frenzy into our lot, parking my Lamborghini in garage number four, it took me about five minutes to calm down. I had just received the blowjob of my life, but it only took me driving into Beverly Hills in order to depress me.

I loafed out of the garage into a florally scented day, my gaze meeting my parents bouncing down the stairs. My father’s wide, bleached toothpaste grin flashed at me, his tanned skin beaming with the fake joy called greed. Mom? She cleared her throat, waited for his greed to subside.

“Justin,” my father said, slapping my arm, his casually priceless short sleeved shirt thrown over a muscular tennis-corpus. “What’re you going to be up to today in this lonely house?”

I smiled. “Hi, dad. Thesis work, law study,” I lied.

“That’s my boy,” he cackled, the dollar-signs magnetically reflecting in the Ray-Bans stuck above his grey hair-do.

I looked at my parents, putting one arm around each of them. “See you tomorrow, right? You’re staying over night with the Wilkins family? Wendy’s not there?”

“No. She’s not. Regina,” my father husked. “Better get going.”

He embraced me, greed beaming into my soul.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he laughed, stepping into his Rolls-Royce.

My mom eyed heavenward. “He’s getting worse by the day.”

I put my hand around my mother’s waist, realizing that if anyone could change anything, Regina Blake could. “It’s very difficult.”

“Justin?”

“Yes, mother?”

“You love Wendy?”

One look was all it took for my mom to understand. I said nothing, smiled painfully, the edges of my mouth twitching.

“Regina,” my father spat. “We got to go.”

“I will see that this situation changes for the better,” my mother said.

As my parents drove off, my heart soared into new heights. My father was in seventh heaven, sure. My mother? She understood where the cookie crumbled. She knew. She’d been through it all. The highs, lows, middles, love affairs, crisis, the love, the hatred. For the better. What did that mean? Not having to marry Wendy? That would be fabulous.

So, I remained outside for a while, watching Antonio Banderas car drive by after George Clooney’s. I strolled through the rose garden, admired the Japanese fountain and sat for a bit by the replica of Michelangelo’s David. To be honest, I lost the track of time. I walked in through the lobby with the red carpet of marble tiles. I played a tune on our white Bösendorfer grand piano. I went to our champagne fridge and opened a bottle of Boulanger Vielles Vignes 2004 for $ 1090, walked through the painting gallery, admiring original Rubens works and Dali replicas, realizing why I had chosen a burger broad instead of a rich bitch. I was getting tired of this arrogant, snobbish attitude.

At first, “Bobbie’s Big Burgers” had been a last minute decision during a stressy day. I found so much friendliness in Betty’s response, so much fun and good conversation that I realized that this woman could make me happy for the rest of my fucking life.

I spent about two hours dawdling in our huge house, praying to God, waiting for an answer how to solve this damn problem.

Suddenly, the waitress named Elizabeth Browning rang my expensive Big Ben-bell, her smile wide, her cleavage clearly visible, all her lips wet, nipples hard, perfume sexy, her tongue longing for dick, ass wobbling, hair tousled, car parked far away. Me? I loved the fact that she was here: honest, fair, lovely, horny, fuckable, friendly.

I took her up the marble staircase, her eyes wide, voice giggling, breath shaky, mouth open. When I took her into my bed chamber, kissed her neck, gently unbuttoning her dress and letting that cute thing drop to the floor. She stood there in a red négligé, massaging her boobs, displaying two of the most gloriously beautiful breasts known to mankind.

I did her a favor and stripped off every single piece of clothing I had on before unclasping her bra. Before we knew it, we were as stark naked as the animals. Adam and Eve, as unashamed of the fact that we were animals. Sex, the ultimate creational experience, a means to connect, had been created by God to express love and bring lovers together. We were naked, two beautiful people who honestly loved each other. The Beverly Hills Rebel and his waitress, the big boobed and beautiful cocksucker named Betty Browning.

So, I did the only thing I could do, stripped off my expensive clothes: I lay Betty down on my waterbed, spread her legs, licking her deliciously sweet, salty pussy, her juices overflowing me with physical love. My tongue entered her deeper and deeper, her hands caressing my head. She sucked my cock, I fucked her from the front, against the wall, from the side, we licked each other in a sixty-niner, only to explode into a glorious doggie-position, me fucking her wobbling ass, Betty on all fours.

My father’s voice in the lobby of our mansion first scared me, Betty wanting to grab her clothes and cover herself. My cock already deeply stuck into Betty’s asshole, it gave me one helluva chance to prove to myself what I believed in. I just kept fucking her.

“Justin,” Betty growled. “Your father.”

I kept my dick inserted inside my loved one.

“My mom’s on my side. We can solve this. Trust me.”

“But we are fucking in your father’s house!”

“Sex is not a sin,” I spat. “Keep shagging!”

As I kept making love to Betty, we overheard the conversation that took place right in front of my mansion bedroom door.

“I can’t believe Wendy was openly unfaithful to Justin in her parents’ house,” my father groaned. “I never want to see that family again.”

“Larry? Will you now let Justin choose who he wants to marry … himself?” my mother sing-songed in her usually liberal tone of voice.

Our door opened wide. It seemed that I had to hold on to Betty’s butt extra well and especially hard whilst shoving my cock inside her this time. My father shrieked. I had never heard him shriek before. I was adamant. I groaned, fucked, shagging Betty like crazy.

My mother? She laughed. I don’t know why, but she laughed like a crazy woman.

“Who is this?” my father screamed.

“I am fucking the woman I love, father,” I answered back whilst seducing Betty. “Meet your future daughter-in-law: Elizabeth Browning.”

Stark naked and while being fucked to smithereens, Betty raised one hand and waved at her future father-in-law.

“Hi, Mr. Blake,” she chirped. “Your son has a great cock.”

“I’m disowning you,” my father screamed.

“Oh, shut up, Larry,” my mother said. “We fuck all the time. You love blow-jobs just as much as she does.”

I think my mother had some convincing to do before she could lower my father’s pants. I have no idea how it happened, but soon enough my father and mother were naked, as well. I had never seen it before and it was quite daunting, but I squirted on Betty’s face at the same time my father squirted on my mother’s face.

I later found out that Wendy deliberately had jumped into bed with her part-time-lover while my parents were in the house. My mother had simply aided the situation.

I got my college degree, my inheritance, married my Betty.

We now have four lovely children.

Oh, yes. Betty, now years later, still gives me fantastic blowjobs.

She still swallows every drop and claims it is great medicine for her complexion.

From what I hear, Betty and my mom compare dick-stories in secret.

That, though, is a completely different and very fuckable story.

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 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.