Tag Archives: charles e. j. moulton

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

Harry was uptight.

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

Harry was no loser.

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

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

His parents had taught him to be impeccable.

The parents themselves?

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

What goes around, comes around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that moment, Harry’s phone rang.

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

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

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

His dream fuck.

Harry was terrified.

“He-… Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy exploded out into an insecure laugh.

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

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

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

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

“You live not far from here, right?”

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

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

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

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

“See you soon.”

“Bye,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tha-… thanks.”

Harry took the bottle of wine, shaking his head.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

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

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

“I’ll get two glasses.”

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

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

“Oh, my God.,” she exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No response. “Uhm, uhm …”

She looked up, licking her lips.

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

Harry nodded slowly, clutching the plate.

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

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

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

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

Harry nodded. “Yes, I do. Often.”

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

Harry nodded again.

“I like that,” she said.

Harry chuckled nervously.

“What’s that in your pants?”

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

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

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

“Uh-huh,” he groaned.

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

“Gosh,” Harry croaked. “Dunno…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry moaned something unintelligible.

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

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

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

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

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

And fuck her, he did.

Hard.

Harry did not recognize himself.

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

“Yes, Lucy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yummy sperm,” she swooned­.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a sin,” he said.

Lucy laughed. “Who says?”

“Society,” Harry says.

Lucy sighed. “Who are we hurting?”

Harry looked over at Lucy, surprised.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

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

Harry looked away, wondering silently to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

“And faith.”

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

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

Harry did.

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

“Here’s to Kama Sutra,” he giggled.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry lived a good and very fulfilled life.

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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.

A Dream’s Reality By Charles E.J. Moulton

So it came to pass that Sophie Fernandez again lay in her Kensington art-studio loft, sleeping. She looked like a Goddess, maybe Aphrodite, maybe Artemis, maybe Hera. In any case, her custom of painting in the nude had resulted in a dormant oasis.

After finishing her work, she simply passed out, her jugs full and ripe, her unshaved pussy wet, the locks of her pubic hair curling and waiting for a long and hard cock, her fuckable body resembling mountain-hillsides of creamy canyons.

One empty bottle of Ribera del Duero 2004 stood on the table, a remnant of a solitary celebration. She had made sure to buy the best and favorite Rioja for the completion of a fine artistic reproduction. After all, a British lass of Spanish decent should always drink Rioja wine. So, Olé! Or as the case may have been: Voila! Her painting was finished. She was ready for sex. That was a sweet cause for celebration, indeed.

She looked just as much like a work of art as what she painted. Tall, brown eyed, nougat complexion, enticing hair, long fingernails, soft seductive eyelashes, pink cheeks, her aura peaceful, as peaceful as the softer passages in the Water Music by Händel that had been playing on a loop for God knows how long.

It soothed her subconscious as she slept on that old large couch with no back or ends. Alone, sleeping out an afternoon hangover, dreaming interesting dreams where a man she did not know visited her and told her that he had written a story about her.

Sophie’s one leg lay across the green cloth, emulating the position she lay in within her dream, the foot resting on the fabric, and the other plopped down upon the parquet floor, her pink nailpolish catching the light of the sunrays as her toes twitched. her right hand stretched back above her head and the other softly touching her sleeping cheek, her bare skin sprinkled by little specks of paint, her nipples now bearing a small coat of greens and reds, parts of her tits sprinkled in blues and yellows, wishing for that strange man to come and add some sperm to the color.

It was as if Sophie Fernandez was a part of the art she painted.

It seemed decadent, of course, painting in the nude, drinking wine, eating chocolate, but the kicked off blanket displayed a tanned body: two orbs of glorious mammaries, lickable, shagable, soft, round, bouncy, hot, cool, spermhungry, tit-job-willing, softly leaning to each side, her shaved genitals heaving and sinking along with her suntanned stomach. That slight snore, audible only if a person stood completely still next to her, transporting serenity, sexiness, fertility and, ultimately, love.

She didn’t know it, but someone was in there with her, flying in and out between her dreams and her reality. That spirit, the Goddess of love, Aphrodite, someone that knew more than she did about who she was: someone watched her intently as she slept. That spirit heard Georg Friedrich Händel’s Water Music blasting through the speakers, the tired body of that struggling artists strained, limbs aching, eyes numb from the endless concentration of gazing on a large canvas.

Meticulously, Sophie had spent the last three weeks perfecting a replica.

“The Arrival of Maria de Medici at Marseilles”, on display in Paris at the Louvres, was still her favorite of Rubens entire cycle of 24 paintings for the Queen and mother of Louis XIII, so it came as no surprise that she jumped at the chance to reproduce it. Her rich customer in Oxford, who had ordered the painting, would sure get his money’s worth.

Sophie Fernandez lay there like a drunken swan, the London breeze tickling her aching muscles, the reproduction on display in a room, empty of furniture, filled with paintings, wine and, yes, a stereo.

Sophie woke up, gasping for air, realizing that she had passed out after that last gulp of the delicious wine, the glass still on the table. She felt the breeze caressing her body, the chill feeling a bit like a tongue finger caressing her shoulder. Sophie ruffled her hair, uttered a well formed: “Oooh!” and closed her eyes, protecting her sensitive eyes, and leaned against her hands. Breathing into her palms, she sat there for longer than she could recall, and thought about the dream. Had it been a dream at all?

She looked up, realizing how loud she had set the CD-player and wondered that she had been able to sleep through all of that. She walked across the room and turned down the music, saw her white kimono hanging on the wall, put it on, but kept the recording running in its own loop.

Blinking into the open room, Sophie wondered. Two hours? Three? Four? What time was it? Sophie glanced over at the Dali clock, closing her robe, studying the clock, designed to look like it was melting, and saw that it was five in the afternoon. Sophie had fallen asleep, drunk, at one. Oh, my.

Mom only knew that Sophie was very successful, but living a free and bohemian lifestyle. Not that she emptied a bottle of Rioja and a box of chocolates every day, but only in order to celebrate the finishing touches of her painting. The gentleman paid £ 4500 for the replica, which gave Sophie something to celebrate. She would buy her mom something special. A computer or something. A good one. Or a tablet. Maybe she would ask her dad to come over alone and she would paint a portrait of him for mom. Maybe she would paint them both. Maybe she would create a sculpture for them. A sculpture of love.

Dazzled, tired, half-drunk, aching and a bit dizzy, the sunrays triggered those dark lucious eyes. Sophie stood there for a moment, basking in the sunshine, letting the silhouettes of the London houses seduce her. London seemed like a good way to celebrate a good month’s work, catapulting out into the familiar funloving life.

Then she remembered her dream. The man. The story. She felt like researching who this charming man had been who had visited her in her dream. It seemed so real and yet like a mystery waiting to be solved, especially since the man in her dream had told her that Sophie had him in the painting.

In that Rubens painting? She had added a face of her own, to be sure.
Mischievous, to be sure. Mischievous to paint an extra face on a painting that was supposed to be an exact replica. But people expected it by now. Ever since grade school, even then she had tried to copy other work, adding something of her own in it. Now it had become her trademark. Even in her replicas of Mona Lisa, her fans tried to find out what element was new in her replica. A tree that wasn’t there in the original? A mountain that had another color? A river that meandered east instead of west? Her fans had become almost like Hitchcocks fans, who waited for his appearance in his own movies. What has Sophie Fernandez planned now?

That’s what they were saying.

Now, in that Maria de Medici painting, Sophie had painted an extra face: the face of a sea-man, a merman if you will, not a mermaid, splashing around next to King Neptune and his chubby sea nymphs. This face had been totally her own invention. She hadn’t even chosen a friend or an associate to pose for the painting. The sea creature had a sympathetic, intellectual face, one that would be her own signature, her own trademark for this special replica.

The new owner of the replica, the rich man from Oxford who paid her £ 4500 for the artwork, had in fact kept saying how eager he was to find out where the new element would lie hidden.

Now, this man in her dream claimed that this face was the face of the dream man named Charles E.J. Moulton. Thoughtfully, Sophie Fernandez walked up to her canvas, reaching for the Mozart-Kugeln, looking thoughtfully at the face, how it smiled at her. Those chocolate covered candy sweets, that lay so a sensually on the table next to the canvas, seemed to be screaming: “Eat me!” at the top of their lungs, as if they had any. They were as candescent as the dream, as rich as the wine, as lucious and her own breasts, as mysteriously candescent as sin.

That face, could it be the face of that person the woman had spoken about? Charles E.J. Moulton? Did a person like that exist? Was this the face of Charles E.J. Moulton? Hmm. Sophie let the chocolate melt in her mouth slowly, picking up the wine and looking at the bottle. Some of her friends claimed that only French wines were real wines and that anything else was a fermented grape juice. Be that as it may, to Sophie Rioja was a work of art. A dangerous work of art, it seemed. After all, one bottle of alcoholic fermented grape juice could produce quite a few strange hallucinations. The effects of wine, however, were just as mysterious as the effects that dreams had on the soul. The names were real memories from dormant dreams though, and Sophie kept remembering those names.

A dream man had just fucked her in her sleep.

Who was he?

As Sophie stepped into the shower that day, rubbing off the paint off her naked body, she wondered. Sophie slipped into her Victorias Secret lingerie, floated into that black Gucci skirt and let that white Versace blouse produce the crowning glory of her looks. Like a perfect recipe for a successful apple pie, Sophie, with that Water Music by Händel still blasting through the speakers, put on her L’Oreal eyshadow and her Revlon lipstick and her Jade rouge and sprinkled herself with some Chopard perfume, turning herself into a work of art, just as much a mystery as a dreamy wine.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she glanced one last time on her reproduction and smiled. She did not have the answers as to what the dream meant, but she maybe the answers would come to her. Maybe she would take some time tomorrow and research who these people were and if they existed at all.

“£4500, she whispered to herself. There’s a good reason to fuck.”

Turning off the stereo and letting that German dude from Halle take the royal break of his sexy afternoon and let King George be a stranger, she strode royally, like the sexy Queen she could be, toward her penthouse door, ready to leave her art loft, ready to experience amorous salvation.

The small “bleede-leep” of her laptop indicated that someone waited for her. Sophie wanted to ignore that someone and just leave, go where ever the wind took her, take her Porsche and just forget about the strenuous detail-obsessed paintbrush-picking and the endless chit-chat of her neurotic voices. After all, London waited for her to rediscover her.

London, the mistress, the casanova, the blowjob.

Sophie glanced over a well formed shoulder, looking over at her Samsung PC, how it blinked and winked at her, telling her that perhaps a new customer was knocking at her virtual door, hoping that she would say yes to an offer.

That familiarly uneasy feeling of being drawn between profession and leisure kept her doing a small fandango of sorts in her doorway, back towards possible work and forth towards a possible one-night-stand. Sophie looked at the decending sun, inspecting it for a moment, making believe that it spoke to her:

“Come to me and I will lead you to my friend: the night, the sun said. Come and dance, wine and dine, sing and laugh. You’ve earned it.”

This time, though, Sophie Fernandez really knew in her heart that this mail couldn’t wait. She quickly walked up to the PC, her heels seductively clicking on the parquet floor.
Impatiently clicking on the keys of the keyboard, Sophie finally and proverbially arrived in her mail programme in an art forum she had joined a month ago. Commercials for a seminar. Her mail site had gone bing just to show her how great a companion this art forum could be. Spam? Nothing but spam?

Sophie pursed her lips, both pairs: facial-lips and pussy-lips, shaking her head in anger, and was just about to close the computer when she saw a strangely familiar name flashing across the screen. It was familiar to her, at least familiar within her dreams. It was an anglo-saxon name, but she was not really sure if the person bearing that name actually was Anglo-Saxon. This man could be British or Australian. International.

Charles E.J. Moulton.

If he existed, was he worth a fuck?

At first the name seemed distant, as if she hadn’t dreamt about that man at all.
Slowly and ever so carefully, Sophie sat down and read the excerpt that was flashing across the screen. The New Members section of the info mail from the art forum now had a new budding trainee: a man in the prime of his life who displayed his paintings in a British art forum. At first, it scared Sophie. She could feel her heart flutter. How come then that this man now appeared on the flashing computer screen in her penthouse? Thoughts of hallucination and conspiracy came to mind. Scary thoughts of possession and obsession meandered through her brainstem and hit her fluttering heart.

Her hands began to shake, her forehead produced light sweat drops that now trickled down her elegantly made up face, ruining her make-up. Sophie felt herself stiffen like a corpse. She felt like laying down, curing the hangover that she again felt. Had she heard that name prior to the dream? No, she had never heard that name. Then why was this name now here on the screen? She didn’t know why, but this scared her.

Carefully, her painted fingernails shaking so hard that they clicked repeatedly against the keys of the computer keyboard, she clicked on the painting that came with the name: a Bob Rossian kind of painting with the red and yellow colors mingled together and black silhouettes of elephants and palm trees gracing the front. The screen waited, bleeped and searched for its source and soon the artist bio presented itself.

The text ran on for quite a bit and she saw that the man was a Renaissance Man of sorts. Sophie felt herself gasping for air, leaned back in her chair and slapped her right hand against her mouth. Uncontrollably, she began laughing. It was a high chuckle, one that helped the initial fear actually transform itself into joy.

Someone was here with her. Aphrodite. How could one otherwise explain the fact that two such unique names presented themselves to her in her sleep and then showed themselves in black and white on the screen.

It didn’t take long to find out that Charles had written a short story named “A Venus Born in London” about a succulent British-Hispanic reproductive artist named Sophie Fernandez. What was this? Demonic possession? Angelic magic? A sign from above?
Had this man been prying in on her life? On the other hand, with the web as prominent as it was, it was not difficult to guess that he had found something about her and decided to write a story about her. But … Sophie winced, looked out toward the London dusk and tried to figure this one out. How could that be?

Sophie completely forgot about time. She walked in to her kitchen and brought out another bottle of wine, a French Bordeaux one this time, a 2006 Chateau Latour. Taking her first sip with her right hand, she clicked on Charles Facebook-site with the other.
She clicked on Charles name, requested for him to be a friend, not really knowing what was happening to her and why she was so afraid. She actually wanted to run out into the open street and leave in her expensive car and forget that this was happening.

She nearly jumped out of her seat, jumping almost as high as her art studio ceiling, when she saw that Charles not only answered her request, but also that he was online.
Sophie laughed again, this time even more uncontrollably.

And suddenly, the urge to eject into the London party scene vanished with the afternoon breeze and was replaced by solving a mystery.

“Hello, my name is Sophie Fernandez,” she wrote. “I would like to be your friend.”
“Hello back,” Charles responded, “that sounds nice. Do I know you?”

“I am not sure,” Sophie answered.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Charles added.

“I live in London,” Sophie wrote, “this is all very confusing, Charles. Who are you?”

“I am an actor, an author, a singer, a painter. I’ll ask you again: do I know you?”

“I would think so. I mean, you wrote a story about me,” Sophie laughed.

“What? How so?”

“Your story ‘A Venus Born in London’ is about a British-Hispanic artist living in London. She paints replicas of famous paintings. That is what I do. That is who I am. You must’ve done a lot of research about me.”

Charles crooned: “Hold on, Sophie. I made those characters up. That all came from my own imagination. I even made sure that the website that I made up in that story didnt exist. I checked and double-checked it. You’re telling me you exist?”

Sophie shook her head and spat: “This is spooky. You mean, you have never really heard of me? That can’t be. You’re putting me on.”

“No.”

“Look, I dreamt about you, Charles. In my dream, I heard your name and a spirit told me I had painted your face into my replica of the Rubens painting.”

The long wait in the online conversation had Sophie thinking that Charles had left for good. Then, the shock. The amazing coincidence. Aphrodite’s prediction. The dream man.

“Sophie,” Charles wrote.

“Yes?”

“I’m in London right now,” he said. “If you tell me where you live I could come over. I mean, if I wrote a story about you and you painted my face into the painting, we should meet. I mean, I would love to meet you.”

“I just showered,” Sophie mused. “I could get naked for you. I mean, I was sort of looking for someone to fuck.”

“Okay.”

“Kensington High Street 45. Fernandez.”

“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

Sophie trembled like a crazy cat in a snowstorm for that remaining half hour. This had to be real, though. She looked at the pictures of Charles in the net and realized she had painted his face into the painting without knowing it. Then he must’ve invented the story about her without knowing that she was real. Aphrodite had been here.

Sophie stripped naked and waited, combing her pubic hair and massaging her tits a bit, ruffling her hair. When the doorbell rang, Sophie jumped, feeling like a schoolgirl meeting the man of her dreams for the first time, his voice mellow, his face grinning. Crazy thing to strip naked for a strange man, but Aphrodite had brought her someone she could fuck.

The mystery man.

He arrived, that mystery man, saw her naked and smiled. They kissed, he touched her breasts, two strangers who had met before. Sophie showed Charles her painting and his face gracing the corner. Then and there, they realized it was time to fuck.

Fate had brought them together.

Sophie looked down upon the growing bulge in Charles’ jeans.

“What’s that?”

Charles shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Is it Christmas?”

She wrinkled her nose a bit, making her cheeks dimple, her tongue licking her lips.

Slowly, she took a few steps up toward Charles, her high heels clicking against the floor. As she dwindled down upon her knees, her ass swayed in a way that reminded Charles of a flowers swaying in the wind. Using her long nails as tools to unzip his pants, she made him feel like a lamb on the way to the slaughter. If that hadn’t been enough, she now pulled down the trousers all the way to the ground using only her mouth.

Red elegant fingernails grasping glory, she opened her eyes wide, making a very indicative “Ooh!”-movement with her lips upon seeing what was waiting for her. Her one index finger grabbed the buckle of his belt and seductively felt how hard it was.

With a very spiritual and candescent looking grin, a six inch gender literally catapulted out of his pants into her face.

“It’s huge.”

“20 centimetres.”

Sophie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around his shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process. That fabulous sensation made her see stars. She licked his cock, gave him deep throat, sucked on his balls, ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that she knew she could be.

With enthusiastic lips and swirling tongue, Sophie boobing her head back and forth like a regular slut, she gave Charles the blowjob of his life, tasting that salty sausage and feeling its length tickling her tonsils.

The sun was setting as he inserted his tongue into Sophie’s snatch for the first time, giving her the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second, probing her like an oil-drill. So deep, in fact, that Sophie soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of her pubic hair. The sound he was made was quite similar to the sound a man made while drinking beer. The slurping and licking 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.

Soon enough, Charles turned Sophie around and stuck in his cock from behind. Sophie knew that her ass-cheeks wobbled as he fucked her. Well, Charles fucked her through and through right then and there and she bet he really enjoyed seeing how wobbly her butt could be while he pounded her. No tightness there. Just a nice wobbly butt that loved being fucked like the cocklover’s ass it was.

It didn’t take very long for Charles to change holes, so to speak.

For every thrust Sophie’s horny lust grew more insatiable and Charles’ dick harder, Sophie’s back entrance tight and lovely. They were getting into a steady rhythm now, sort of a marching beat: thrust in, slide out, thrust in, slide out. For every time he thrust in, her boobs bounced to and fro, causing her to look only to moan and yelp and their almost choreographical dancing beat giving her a second orgasm. Charles bent over to lick her back as he fucked her ass. It turned into an amazing ballet of cock and butt, tongues and tits.

With a fantastic smacking sound, Charles slid out his cock out of her asshole, jerking off quicker and faster than Sophie had ever had seen anyone jerk off before. His manhood grew so big that she literally felt like watching a tower erupt out of the ground.

“Come on, mystery man,” she gasped, “squirt on my face!”

Shockwaves of bloodshots came racing down from his chest, the sperm factory now preparing for a spectalar lift-off.

“With pleasure, fictional fuck!”

One gigantic load pinpointed her open tongue, sliding down into her throat. The second shot spread onto her happy laughing cheek. The third came flying across her forehead, landing on a lock of her hair.

It was then that Sophie woke up, realizing that she had been dreaming.

That evening, she turned on the computer and found Charles’ name in the web.

The rest is history.

Strawberry Cheesecake By Charles E.J. Moulton

Julia’s strawberry cheesecake melted on my tongue and devoured me in bliss. Absolute bliss. The delicious purity of the berries mixed with a crispy crust brought back memories that had me swinging. I had not tasted something this good since I had been a child here back in Wicklow. Our mutual memories of childhood, sitting by the seaside and devouring her mom’s cake, watching that sun set, laughing at silly jokes until the stars came up: all of that came back in a spur of the moment. All of that joy lay imbedded in a strawberry cheesecake.

I looked up at Julia and smiled. She gently lay the spoonful of cake on her tongue and giggled. That splendid new hairdo fluttered in the Irish breeze, one swift lock of blondish red hair falling across her chest and landing on her bosom. The wind threw me a scent of sensual magnolia by the way of a perfumed memory of expensive eroticism.

“Julia?” I asked, seeing this woman in the light of the setting sun just where we had played so many years ago.

“Yes?” she mumbled, swallowing the bite of her seductively tasty cake.

“Why did we take so long to reacquaint?”

Julia looked up, the beauty of her brown reindeer eyes glittering in the light of that red candle. She shrugged, her flowery dress losing one ribbon and letting it drop down toward her breasts. I saw that woman’s beautiful Irish shoulder and compared it to the sound of the waves behind her. Wicklow, I thought to myself, thou art a memory recollected, a new life relived, a girlfriend well met.

“Will you marry me and give birth to my children?”

Julia stood up, laying her spoon aside, fixing me with that stare, grabbing a lock of her hair and gently putting it in her mouth. Circling the table, she ended up on my side and pushed aside all the other things that lay on it. Soon enough, her feminine scent turned more intense and I found myself actually wanting her more than I ever had wanted anyone in my entire life.

I stood up, embraced her face with my hands and tenderly, ever so tenderly, moved my lips in slow motion toward her mouth, seeing those cherry flavored lips moving nearer to my vision by the second. As we met, our lips and our hearts and our souls reacquainting, our eyes closed. I could still taste the strawberries on her mouth and smell the magnolia on her skin.

We breathed out through our nostrils, feeling the heat of our embracing bodies mingling and intertwining. I leaned over her, sweetly opening the buttons of her dress, one by one. Their soft cotton clad covered plastic textures were symbols of her soul. Beautiful and handcrafted, feminine and graceful. A white brasserie met my gaze under that dress, roses decorating the white bliss. I reached over to her shoulder and pulled down the straps, pulling them down a few inches below her bust, displaying openly what I could guess would be a healthy and lucious C-cup.

Time stood still as I, almost in slow motion, reached down and put her pink nipples in my mouth, circling them with my tongue. Julia threw her head backward, smiling, groaning, moaning, grabbing my head and caressing my hair. Inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, I worked myself down toward the temple of her lust. With the gorgeously lustful sounds of the ocean waves against the Irish coast swooshing into my eardrums, I pulled down her soft cotton underpants and landed my tongue in her sweetly tasting vagina. Digging deeper and deeper into her body, I found myself actually filling my entire face with her juices. Her tasty clitoris reminded me of the salty air of the English coast or a delicious garlic paste that I had eaten down in the Provence.

Her juice literally dripping down off my face, I stood up again, grinning like a crazy man. While gently massaging her breasts, she sat up on her terrace table and rubbed my gender. She slid off the table with a horny thump like a seal sliding into the ocean from its home on the rocky hills of the German coast.

Julia went down on her knees now, waited patiently for my gender to swell some more. She knew that it ached to plop out and say: “Hello!”

Slowly raising her hands, those fantastic hands with red elegant fingernails, she opened her eyes wide, making a very indicative “Ooh!”-movement with her lips upon seeing what was waiting for her. Her one index finger grabbed the buckle of my belt and seductively felt how hard it was. As hard as my cock? That were her thoughts at that moment, I was sure of it. With a very spiritual and candescent looking grin, Julia opened my belt and pulled down my zipper with a sexy howling sound. When she finally pulled down my pants, the revelation of my erect penis inside those white drawers caused her to whimper. Ever so acutely, Julia pulled down my drawers and caused my six inch gender to literally catapult out of my pants almost into her face. It dangled there a bit befor she did anything. It seemed she was inspecting it like she would inspect a painting by Vermeer: as a work of art.

Her open mouth, pulled wide open by the pure awe inspired wonder of seeing my flagpole swaying in the wind, ejected a chuckle. With a happy moan, Julia took that erect penis into her mouth, hugging it with her lips and swallowing it inch by inch. I lifted spiritually into bliss, my soul literally rising to the heavens. My old girlfriend from Kindergarten, my school pal with whom I had played chess on this very porch, now knelt before me just feet away from where we had eaten ice cream and read comic books at age 9. Her closed eyes indicated her absolute recovery from her painful past, my erect cock in her prosperous mouth. Me, her first male friend. Me, her first painful loss at age 14. Me, her hopeful lover gone astray. Me, living years and years abroad. Me, getting a job in Ireland after a difficult divorce. Me, remembering her. Me, seeing her face in the local Irish paper. Me, here with Julia, living alone in her family’s old house by the coast. Me, here with Julia, another divorced soul. Us, happy at last.

In what would be a musical largo, Julia got up from her knees and gave me a kiss, her lips now tasting of precum mixed with strawberries. When she turned her flabbergasting ass toward my cock, I parted her butt cheeks and slid in my dick into the hot glory, at first very slowly pounding her butt and making those wonderfuls buns wobble, her hair blowing in the breeze, a couple fucking in the open Irish springtime.

When we accelerated, we lost our touch with reality and disappeared into ecstatic lust. The speed of our frenzy caught the wind and made our hearts fly. Soon enough, my explosive sperm caught the wind and shot its load into her fertile body.

I felt like flying.

We rested together for a while on her comfortable terrace chairs. When we were ready to look into each other’s eyes again, sweaty and lucious and relaxed and juices dripping off our bodies, naked Julia turned around and faced me.

“The answer to both of your questions is yes,” she smiled. “If we’re lucky, my body will accept your sperm and catapult it into the glory of my pregnant future.”

I smiled.

“Where do you want to marry me?”

“Here in my house on the terrace, where we just fucked. Where else?”

Naked, laughing, horny and hungry, we walked into the house again, brought out some ice cream, read comic books, played games all night and tickled ourselves to sleep just like old times. After we fucked for the sixth time that night, we made arrangements to turn our horny bliss into a nuptial paradise.

After all, we had a lot of matrimonial fucking to do.

Once our kids arrived, we couldn’t fuck outside any more.

So we did the only sensible thing, even when she was diagnosed as pregnant.

We made love in every possible corner of the house and my wife rarely needed to eat breakfast. She had all the protein she needed right in my fabulous and very explosive gender.

Ah, Irish bliss.

Moonshine Ember By Charles E.J. Moulton

My lusciously rich beauty. My fabulous cocksucker kitten.

I secretly wondered if the museum now worked on displaying live and moving artwork. In that case, I would probably have walked up and touched the treasure. What parts? Well, I would’ve started with the knockers and slowly fumbled myself down to her ass. The crowning glory would then be trying out her damp snatch. Ah, artistic bliss. Ah, wet pussies.

The living artwork in question? More opulent than a 9 feet by 9 feet Rubens painting, more tranquil than a Monet, more exquisite than a William Turner and more crazy than a Jackson Pollock galaxy spread. Her beauty certainly outshone most artworks that I had seen in my days. And I had seen a lot of art in my young life.

At that point, though, when I saw her first in that art museum in Vienna, she was all new, all sexy, all cockraising and all flabbergasting.

I would’ve fucked her right there on the spot.

I had done quite a bit of tit examination in my day. Having chosen to specialize on baroque art was no coincidence: my love for buxom vixens really went into the extreme. I just loved big tits and round asses.

This time, I hit the jackpot.

Damn it, I told myself. I had come here to do some research for my thesis, study the details in Rubens paintings, take notes and map out a plan for my literary work. After all, my final exam was coming up and I needed to get plenty of material for my paper. Vienna’s Art Museum provided me with all I needed, including several experienced colleagues with inside information of all those fantastic baroque painting techniques and anecdotes as to who painted what in which of Rubens’ artworks? Snyder, Jordaens, Bruegel?

Rubens’ art was like sexual intercourse: a collaboration.

Well, I put my thesis on hold that spring day. My cock only cared about making itself comfortable inside its new home: her wet pussy.

I had to have her. It was as simple as that. I saw that woman and I was lost.

I wondered why the guards didn’t ask her to stand back and watch the paintings from afar. Her inspection of Rubens’ rather voluptuous and naked second wife Helene Fourment, wearing only a fur, bordered on the obsessively meticulous. Somehow, though, something told me that the guards had hard-ons as well, every male trouser in this room bulging like crazy. I could actually see them drooling.

Okay, I drooled, too. Her tight black skirt embraced her ass in a way that had my sperm factory working overtime. I really didn’t know where to look first: her ass, her boobs or her long flowing hair? It also really did not help that her skirt ended in stockings with patterns of flowers and butterflies, elegantly positioned silvery decorations squirted on the fabric. They reminded me of cumdrops or small droplets of flowing clit juice. It made me seriously wonder if her panties were as pink as her pussy. On the other hand, pussies never had the same color, but all of them tasted good.

I really did try to go back to the studying of the painting. I worked really, really hard at it, too. I even went to the length of actually turning away from the woman and going to another part of the museum just to spite myself. I mean, I couldn’t be gawking at her like a silly sophomore, could I? I mean, I was no teenager. I was close to my Master’s Degree in Art History. An art master with a hard-on? Okay, we men all have hard-ons, but during scientific research? Sexual research, maybe. Stranger things have happened.

No matter how hard I tried, though, and I did try hard, I constantly went back to where she stood. Every time that woman bent over to look at a painting, I swooned. I could see the buttcrack and it sung an aria by Mozart to me:

“Oh, art thou sweet, thou noble derriere. My rock of ages in her cleft so fair.”

It made me want to rip that skirt apart and stick my dick inside her wobbly ass, pumping her like a fucking rabbit, watching the buttcheeks bounce like two balls in unison.

It got stranger and stranger, actually. I kept finding reasons to follow her just so I could study the size of her boobs. As I said, my reputation as a boob-man became renowned even early in high school. My best friend found a couple of copies of Penthouse in my sock drawer in my room, a magazine filled to the brim with big, luscious jugs. We ended up wanking all night, telling my mom that we were working on a school project.

Anyway, after following this incredible woman for about an hour I decided that I really had to fuck her. I didn’t know how, but my cock would definitely land in her cunt eventually. Oh, how fantastic she looked when she studied those paintings, her breasts dangling down, her elegant black blouse hugging her tits like crazy. Those things had to be C-cups. D? Mmh, I dunno. Getting my hands on those lucious breasts would, in any case, be like dying and going to heaven.

So, accordingly, I had discreetly glanced over and see if the blouse had a cleavage. When I realized that it did, I tiptoed over to where she stood more than once just to sneak-peek into that wonderful oasis of mammary love and cockteasing bliss.

Long and sensually curved hair, her black locks gently falling across her gold necklace, spilling over those large round earrings. It made that precum pop out of my dick with a happy: “Hello, swallow me!”

I knew what those big earrings symbolized, as well: her love-holes. Sexy women always wore these round earrings to show men how willing they were to fuck. This girl had big round earrings, so I felt fucking lucky.

The lipstick made me feel like shoving my entire manhood onto her tongue and shooting my loud load onto her tonsils, giving her wet stomach the protein dose of its life.

While my testosterone battled with my brain about whether to leave the museum and go home or just study her buttcrack for the rest of the day, her phone rang. Everybody in the room looked up. It wasn’t as if nobody had noticed her. She was probably the most fantastic looking woman in the room, the country, the planet, the universe, whatever. Some chick in the museum, a dowdy looking things, even gave her boyfriend a dirty look for giving that fuckable lady a half-smile.

When the sexy woman’s phone rang, however, it gave that other chick a reason to think how much of a slut this girl actually was.

She didn’t care, did she?

Any man would’ve been unfaithful for Miss Perfect. She knew that.

When the girl threw her head to one side, letting that marvelous head of hers float and dangle and curve and sway, I melted. I think I came twice, actually, my sperm making little squirts in my Gucci underwear.

“Natalie Imrie here,” the woman chirped. Her accent sounded British. Hot damn, I told myself. I am in the hands of an English lass. She gave the caller a sexy laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, if you want to, sure. Where are you right now?”

This girl spoke with a posh London accent that had me want her even more.

I think I flied and went to Brazil when that woman, whom I had wanted to fuck for over an hour now, actually came and sat down on the couch next to me. Yes, I’ll admit it. I had my notepad and my pencil in my lap and I had written lots of gibberish in silly letters about the paintings I had been looking at, just so anyone wouldn’t think I was just here to study how incredible an ass that woman had.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said and smiled again, throwing me a shot of her Chopard perfume my way just by throwing one of her sexy arms onto the seat next to me. “I’ll go right ahead. No, no, that’s no problem. Well, I’ll see what happens, okay?”

Who was she talking to? Her boyfriend? An associate? Her father?

What was she going to do?

“Maybe you’ll get some good ideas. Yes, dear. I know who you mean.”

The small pause and the obviously sexy chatter by some man at the other end – and it obviously was a man – had me wondering what she was talking about. Was she going to be unfaithful? British girls, however, had the reputation of giving spectacular blowjobs.

“Bye,” the woman that I now knew to be Natalie Imrie told bid her caller farewell.

As if she had just been given a signal of some sort, Natalie Imrie with the fantastic jugs turned to me and looked me straight in the eye.

I grew red in the face at first, but then I got lost inside the color of her eyes. They were brown, but with an interesting quality that had me think of ember, the glowing, hot coal made of greatly heated wood. Her eyes glowed like a campfire on the night of a full moon, the moon being the seas of white round her ember iris in each eye. Actually, her gaze made me feel like a werewolf. Natalie looked like a kitten, her long eyelashes curved outwards with more black visible toward the edges of her eyes.

I stammered a quiet: “Hi there!”

“Hi,” Natalie sing-songed, making me tremble. “You American?”

I nodded, giggling, now feeling that I rushed steadily into the welcome parade of Natalie’s cunt. “Yes, I’m from Michigan, but I am studying art here in Vienna. I’m about half a year away from my Master’s Degree. What about you?”

Natalie arched her back, obviously giving me a closer look at those absolute incredible looking breasts. She knew it, too. “I work here.” She shrugged once, glancing over at me with a knowing glance. “I am already finished with my Master’s. I came here a year ago. My mum’s German, although I grew up in London. When I was offered a position here as an Art Director, I took the job. I have the best of both worlds.”

She looked at me for what I really felt to be three hours, although it probably just amounted to three seconds.

“What brought you here?”

Well, although I looked at her boobs all the time and not into her eyes while I spoke, I told her that I had painted since childhood, that my family had taken me on a trip to Vienna when I was a boy and that I finally decided to move here in order to study art.

When I looked up at Natalie, she glanced at me with that disarming look that had me screaming for sex. She started chuckling. Out of nowhere, she put her hand to her mouth and giggled in such a knowing way that I almost felt insulted.

“What?” I asked, feeling ashamed of myself and not knowing why.

“You,” she finally said, putting her one hand with its long red fingernails on my leg, “are so easy to see through. Mr. Transparent.”

My mouth twitched a bit. I now felt insecure. Was she toying with me?

“Why?”

“Mr. Bulge-in-his-pants.”

I cleared my throat, feeling like someone just caught jerking off in a public place.

She shook her head. “What’s your name?”

“Uhm, Kevin.”

“Okay, uhm, Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“You have been following me around this museum for over an hour!”

“You noticed?”

She laughed even harder now, her boobs jumping up and down as she did. A couple of visitors looked her way as she did, probably thinking she was just a stupid slut and not the Director of the Vienna Art Museum.

“Uhm, Kevin, the moment I walked into the Rubens Room, you made me feel like a painting by Rubens,” she added provocatively. “I bet,” she added, leaning over to whisper in my ear, making me smell that Chopard perfume even more intensely, “that you have had lots of fantasies about me over the course of this hour. Me, naked, pouring honey over your cock and licking it off with my elegant lips …”

I started chuckling nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come on, uhm, Kevin,” Natalie whispered again, now touching my ear with red lips, “you wanna fuck me, don’t you?”

Her sultry gaze had me cum again.

I nodded.

Natalie continued: “I don’t know why I am doing this, but I might be willing to let you inspect my pussy a bit closer.”

She now put her hand on my lap and rubbed it gently.

“It’s shaved, you know.”

I giggled quietly and frantically, if such a thing is possible.

“Where do you want to fuck, Natalie? Here?”

I kept looking behind me, above me, to all sides, just to see if anyone overheard our conversation. Everyone seemed to be busy studying art, while I was studying Natalie’s C-cups. She shrugged.

“Let that be my concern. Fancy a shag, love?”

I giggled again and nodded, feeling like a little schoolboy.

“Then cum!”

Natalie stood up, shook her tits a bit, took my hand, looking like Venus. I literally felt like a school boy being pulled by his mom to art class. Natalie escorted me through the Monet rooms, the Rubens gallery, the Bruegel chamber, past the Van Eycks and Vermeers and Velasquez paintings of the Spanish Habsburg Infantas. When we arrived in a rather posh office with a large chandelier, Natalie closed the large white door and locked it.

Surrounded by silver trays and expensive art, I held a woman’s hand who had been just a wet dream a moment ago. Natalie still had not arrived where she wanted me to be, obviously. She escorted me into an even smaller room, equipped only with a bed-like couch, a nighttime table, a few books and a lamp.

She locked that door, as well, once we came in. I think I lost my nerve, because I started shaking. My legs shook, my hands shook and my shoulders shivered.

And I got the biggest hard-on of my life.

Natalie, who up until now had been amused by me, looked down on the growing bulge in my jeans and couldn’t stop groaning.

“What’s that?”

I shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Look promising,” she mused. “Is it already Christmas?”

She wrinkled her nose a bit, making her cheeks dimple, her tongue licking her lips.

Slowly, she took a few steps up toward me, her high heels shuffling against the carpet. As she dwindled down upon her knees, her ass swayed in a way that reminded me of a flowers swaying in the wind. Using her long nails as tools to unzip my pants, she made me feel like a lamb on the way to the slaughter. If that hadn’t been enough, she now pulled down the trousers all the way to the ground using only her mouth.

“Holy shit, uhm, Kevin,” she moaned. “It’s huge.”

“9,4 inches,” I said proudly. “24 centimeters.”

Natalie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around my shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process.

That fabulous sensation made me see stars. She licked my cock, gave me deep throat, sucked on my balls. She 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 she could be.

The helmet of my penis was now blue, all of the blood in my body pumping into my crotch. “Oh, ah shuhsst lovvve schucking your cockh,” she mused.

I banged my cock into her mouth, my big tasty cock dripping like crazy. I felt like flying, moaning and groaning in higher and higher tones.

With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, it sounded like she had just finished a lollipop, she took out my long dick out of my mouth and wiped off her own saliva with an exclamation: “Show me how good a pussy licker you are, baby. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy.”

I didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders, my dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind.

In fact, Natalie Imrie stripped faster than I have ever seen a babe strip. Her boobs made my dick laugh, sing, holler, dance, squirt, love and cha-cha-cha all at once. I think I disappeared into that cleavage for an hour before moving down to drink me some pussy. I had the feeling that I buried my face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw her shaved pussy as pink as her knickers.

The sound I made was quite similar to the sound I made when I ate me some spare ribs: sloppy. There were liters of salty clitty juice in there and I was going to drink it all. I laughed to myself, aroused by this amazing sensation.

I heaved myself out of her crotch, my face dripping wet with cunt-liquid. When I thrust my prick into her cunt hole, Natalie sang, actually sang Gilda’s “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto”. She seemed to ache with excitement, her grunting telling me that every part of her clit throbbing with pain, a pain that she actually enjoyed.

I withdrew my dick and stretched it out into the open air, jerking off like crazy, her insane gaze giving me the impression that’s she was in a sexual trance. Willingly, she crawled about on the couch toward my throbbing cock, looking like a seal, swirling around from her position on her back to a position under my dick, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her tongue, making little squeaking and horny tones.

“Give me your cum,” she moaned, sticking out her tongue. “Come on, baby. Squirt on my face.”

My hand movements now accelerated, my face grimaced, my head bobbing, my dick even bigger and bluer than before. Finally, my 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, our mutual copulation inspiring us. The office became our symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of our burning desire.

Then, she laughed.

There she was, naked, full of sperm, shouting with laughter.

First, it felt cool. Then, I wondered what she was laughing at.

Laughing with me or at me?

“Man, uhm, Kevin, you were the best fuck of my life. Wait until my husband hears about this.”

It felt like I had been stuck with a pin, my cock almost immediately shrinking down to the size of a peanut.

“Your husband?”

Natalie sat up, rubbing her boobs as she did.

“That was the guy I talked to on my phone when I came and sat down next to you,” she began. “We go to lots of swinger clubs in our free time and keep looking for things to spice up our sex life with. He called me on my cellular and told me to try to get you to fuck me. It wasn’t hard, though. I think he got some good tips in how to fuck me well.”

“He saw me watching you.”

She caressed my cheek. “He’s a security guard here.”

Natalie raised her voice.

“Wolfgang?”

In a jiffy, a back door opened and another naked man wandered in, holding a camera.

In a thick Austrian accent, he said:

“Fantastic fuck, uhm, Kevin!”

Flabbergasted by this turn of events, I started laughing as well.

Not only was Natalie’s husband naked, his equally long cock raised, a film obviously now available on DVD for our mutual viewing pleasure. He had also brought something else with him from the back room: three naked ladies, one blonde, one brunette and one redhead, all of them with huge boobs, all of them ready to have themselves some dick.

I definitely knew that if I played my cards right, I could get a job here.

After all, I would have fucking nice colleagues.

Ah, my moonshine ember and her wonderful friends.