Occupational Hazard By Stephen Faulkner

If asked, Carl would not have been able to say what style or technique he used in his writing. All that he knew was that he did it, that it came to him – plot, theme, dialogue and motivation – and, as if in a trance, he recorded it all in a flurry of near-blind touch typing.  Others would be astounded to see the pile of manuscript pages he poured forth in barely a month’s time: 200 to 250 neatly typed pages of unadulterated dreck, “Easy as can be,” he would say if asked how he did it while he rapped out yet another sentence, formed another paragraph almost as if by telekinesis; his fingers seemed barely to touch the keys, his eyes never to consider the words on the computer screen that was slowly filling with the product of his imagination. “But let me finish this thought first before I say anything more, okay?”

His fingers flew on the keyboard, tracing another of the numerous athletic couplings of his insatiable, shallowly drawn heroine. “She watched him approach with their drinks,” Carl wrote. “She noted with satisfaction how his meaty cock hung between his strong, hairy thighs. She could not help but think what a waste it was to have him with her, both of them naked and sheening with lusty sweat on that very private beach, and not do anything about it. ‘Let me,’ she offered as she took the drinks and put them aside. Then, in one smooth, fluid motion, she took his fat tool into her mouth and began slowly to suck its sausagelike thickness. It felt like something magic the way the soft putty of his fat cock stiffened and grew in her mouth, the knobby head of it sliding over her tongue to touch and massage the dangling uvula at the back of her throat. She had known his rod was big but when she drew her face back to see what her mouth had accomplished, she was amazed to behold that it had grown to the thickness of a beer can and the length of a child’s forearm and the solidity of stone. She wondered how she had been able to accommodate such a massive wanger in her mouth without choking.

“Like falling off a log,” Carl would say with a shrug regarding the speed of his composing, “once you’ve got the basics down pat. And let me tell you I’ve had plenty of practice at this kind of stuff.”

The fact of the amount of practice he had had over the past several years since he began writing his “pieces” was not a point of pride with Carl. At the beginning he had considered himself to be a “serious” writer; an unknown writer, too, which meant unpublished, unread, that peculiar type of pariah of the publishing industry that gets nowhere without “connections” in order to find a sympathetic ear for his particular brand of talent. The connections that Carl was able to foster grew out of his friendships with several junior editors at what are known in the magazine trade as “men’s sophisticates,” and not those of the more high toned variety, either. The editors he knew and whose business he received worked for the more raunchy of the men’s magazines, each making it clear that they were not looking for quality of theme and characterization in the stories they bought as they were for quick, three and four page vignettes for their respective publication’s “letters” columns that made the most of the sexual shenanigans of people like Carl’s latest heroine, her friends and male counterparts in the most explicit of terms. “Remember,” he was told at the outset, “a penis is never a penis but a cock or a rod or a shaft or some other cylindrically phallic item. A vagina is always a cunt or a pussy or twat or a snatch, maybe even a ‘love tunnel’ if you’re hard up for a synonym. Use words like fuck and suck and ream and poke and thrust a lot and you’ll do just fine.” So much for stylistic integrity. With the how and what already predetermined, all that was left to dicker with was the who; and it was a sure bet that the readers of such simplistic drivel wouldn’t care a whit for that, one way or the other.

Those editors had been his preliminary connections; it was the secondary one that got Carl to where he later found himself. After about six months of selling his letters to three different editors and having developed a reputation for coming up with the goods without a hitch, one of them put him in touch with a publisher of “sophisticated adult fiction,” paperbacks which were often advertised in the mail-order sections of the editor’s sleazy rag, or sold in adult bookstores and occasionally off the top tiers of candy store magazine racks, away from the curious eyes of adolescents. The publisher put his wares out under several different imprints with names like “Squeeze,” “Skintight” and “Lip Service.” Carl was immediately interested and purchased a few such books to familiarize himself with their particular approach to what had become for him a habitually worked subject matter.  He finished the first draft of his first book-length manuscript in two months, the final draft two weeks after that. He sent off the “work” to the publisher with the same kind of pessimistic trepidation with which he had mailed out his serious submissions to Triquarterly, Esquire, Shenadoah, Prairie Schooner and The Atlantic, expecting to receive the ever familiar form rejection letter in due time. Three weeks later he received a check in the mail for a thousand dollars and the request by the publisher to see more of his output. A sample copy of the book, (under the spuriously chosen pseudonym of “Oscar Putznik) said the letter, would be forthcoming in about a month and a half.

So began a career that, so far, spanned two years and five months with a new “work” required by two different publishers on an average of once a month. Since that first sale his asking price had gone up to fifteen hundred per book length piece and, more recently, to two thousand, so the money was at least somewhat livable. Along with the letters he still wrote for a few editor friends (usually excerpted from whatever book he had in progress at the moment and transposed from a third person to a first person format) at a rate of about twenty to twenty five dollars per letter, Carl’s current yearly earnings reached about a few hundred dollars shy of thirty thousand.  This, coupled with his wife, Lena’s, income from her job as an editorial assistant at a small women’s magazine, had them in a pretty comfortable financial position.

Carl’s output, he would be the first to admit, was fairly prolific and mostly quite easily attained with his “write it and forget it” habit of working. Let the editors do the editing, he figured; he was just a writer.  And he never fooled himself into believing that it was anything even remotely akin to being serious writing. “At least it’s honest, though,” he would say if asked what he thought about his subject matter. “Not like the stuff Lena copy-edits for – what’s it called? – oh yes, Ladies’ Choice. Now there’s real crapola for you.  I call a vagina a cunt? Well, listen to this: she has to call it a ‘ripening fruit’ or a ‘tender flower’ or some damned nonsense. Now you tell me: which is the more honest? I’ll leave that up to you.”

***

Lena moved the ruler down to the next line of type and lazily read the words in the narrow column. This is not what I had envisioned for myself, she thought. I’ve read this paragraph three times already, the whole story in fact, each time looking for typos, inverted e’s and transposed adverbial clauses. Then, I’ll look at the next one for the fourth time and five others as well and won’t find anything more than a missed comma and a misspelled word or two for every thousand words or so. Not what I had banked on when I took this job; certainly not.

Lena recalled what had been promised (or what, at least, had been alluded to) when the final interview was over and the job was hers. “Don’t let the title fool you,” said Mrs. Halbistam, the woman who in a week’s time would be Lena’s boss. “Editorial Assistant is a misnomer; you’re really going to be on your own much of the time. The job will be whatever you make of it.” What she was to make of it, she found, was precisely what was given to her each day and no more: taking other people’s writing, shifted around and worked over to suit the stringent format of the magazine by one of the Senior Editors (usually Mrs. Halbistam, sometimes Ms. Kramholtz) and reading it all very closely to be sure that the typesetters hadn’t screwed it up too badly. If the story or article was readable and made sense after four runs past an Editorial Assistant, several bouts with SpellChek and the typesetter’s CompuGraphic, then it went to press, ready for inclusion in the next issue of Ladies’ Choice.

Lena sighed, thinking that it was a small blessing that she wasn’t doomed to read and reread diet articles, health articles and how-to articles on pleasing the eye with an artfully appointed dining room spread. At least she had the fiction section to work with, somewhere in the middle of the preference list among the assistants on the magazine. Judy, in the cubicle next to hers, had the most sought after section to edit: the sex articles on how to attract a man, how to keep him interested, the how-to aspects of where, when, how and what to do when you got down to actually making love, and advice on how to gain the most pleasure from the entire scenario. There was at least one such piece per issue and since the entire staff always started working on an issue at least four months in advance of press-time with four readings of every piece to be included in the magazine, Judy had her hands full of flesh, lacy lingerie, dildos and condoms (figuratively, of course) from the time she walked into the office in the morning until she went home at five. Lena was occasionally tempted to check Judy’s seat for damp spots or other signs of excitation brought on by such continuous exposure to the licentious and lubricious, the baser instincts of the human species. (What else would you call an article that discussed the different types of orgasms to be experience, depending on the type of sexual position you were engaging in with a man?) Such temptations never lasted, however, and were usually replaced by musing reveries on her own sex life with Carl.

The ruler remained on the page, unmoved for several minutes as she recalled her previous night’s scrambling for a balance of passion and equality of result. She had demanded tenderness from him and had gotten it, hearing the tension in his voice as he whispered his endearments. He had wanted to call her a slut, she knew, but he yielded to her wishes, calling her “sweetheart” and “sugar bear” and other conservative coochy-coo words as he labeled them. It was what she had asked for, sweetly demanded, and was surprised when they were no longer sufficient and hadn’t been for some time. Was the honeymoon so long past? Her orgasm would have been rated a 5 on the scale developed by one of Judy’s “expert” authors on the subject; as a muted hum in her crotch that never had a chance to grow to the previously accustomed roar before it was all over.

Lena shook her head, clearing it of the disappointing memory and dipped her eyes to the line on the page which was underscored by the ruler. “…the roseate aureole shadowed under the filmy fabric of her peignoir. Her firm, round breasts rose and fell with her breathing as if on the lever of her growing excitement. ‘You know you want it,’ she told him in a husky, sultry voice. ‘Just take it and it is yours.’ His hands reached….”

“Right for her crotch,” Lena extemporized, not bothering to read any further. She looked out the window and let her train of thought develop. “His finger slid into her cunt to the second knuckle, serving to kick her libido into overdrive. Now all she wanted was for it to continue, to feel his fat cock where his finger now was.” She laughed and looked back down at her work. With a deft stroke she deleted “roseate aureole” and substituted the word “nipple.” She nodded at the change. At least that’s honest, Carl would say. Taking the idea further, she crossed out “breasts” and penciled in “tits.” She looked at the revisions she had made and then shook her head with a sigh. “Now that,” she told herself. “Is getting a little too close to his sort of thing.”

She erased the penciled changes, leaving only shadowy remains of the squiggly delete marks and the two words hovering to the right of the printed column. “Honest or not,” she muttered to herself, “this kind of thing could easily get me fired. Out on my pretty ass, bouncing all the way to the unemployment line.”

***

After making love, they talked; it had become something of a hallmark of their marriage. They both agreed that their willingness to communicate with one another was the glue that bound them together. Sex was a beautiful thing, they seemed to say as they talked of many things after the bed was no longer a field of foreplay and tussle, but it was not the whole and only. There were other things in their lives to indulge in and discuss.

“How did work go today?”

“You know how it was,” said Carl as he rezipped his fly. “Same old shit.”

“That’s what I’d call it, too, “Lena answered, nodding. Her fingers wrestled with the top clasp of her bra behind her back, always the hardest for her to reach. Carl stepped forward to lend what aid he could. “Six, seven years ago and you would have spun me around, kissed me like you meant it and we’d start all over again,” she said over her shoulder as he cinched her into her garment.

“Six, seven years ago I did mean it,” he said and spun her around to deliver an affectionate smooch to her cheek. “But then we were newlyweds, it was all brand new, being married and in love, and we were as hot as smoking pistols. And what do you mean, ‘That’s what you’d call it, too’?”

“Shit,” she replied. “That’s what you said about your work and I agreed with you.”

“Are we going to start that again?”

“We never really stopped,” she said calmly, answering the groaning query in his tone. “You know what I think about that crap you write. I’ve told you often enough.”

“And I’ve agreed every time. It’s crap, garbage, dreck, whatever you want to call it. But it brings home the bacon.”

“That’s not the only reason that you continue with it. You could do something else.”

“We’ve been over all this before,” he said, his voice tinged with frustrated anger. They had been over it all before, true, and he knew what little worth anger was when the outcome was almost a fait accompli no matter what emotion he displayed. “And I never know how to answer that except to say that now that I have the contacts it’s easy money and I’m stuck in a rut.”

Lena had her blouse on and was reaching for her skirt. They were going out; it was Friday night and dinner and a movie had sounded like a good idea when they had made the plans earlier in the week. “Still, you know how I feel about it all.” She turned and smiled at him. “What I wish could happen.”

:That I’d join the staff of some magazine, read manuscripts all day, ten out of eleven of which would be written in barely readable English – if you could call it that – and the eleventh one wouldn’t be up to the editorial standards or format of the rag I’d be working for.” His answer, in spirit, was nearly memorized. They had been over all this before.

“There is some good stuff out there, though. You could be one to make a difference.”

“Wasn’t that your dream when you started at Ladies’ Choice? Make your mark, make a difference? And so what are you doing there now? Reading spinsters’ trashy fantasies about being ravaged by pirates on the high seas or in the jungle by some Great White Hunter. Checking their spelling, dotting their i’s, changing all the dirty words for less objectionable ones so that your ‘lady’ readers can get a vicarious jolt without feeling cheapened.”

“That’s for now,” said Lena defensively. “But I’ve only been there five months; things’ll get better. And you make it sound so – I don’t know – so tawdry. It’s romance fiction and that’s what it’s all about, getting your thrills from reading about someone doing it right against the odds, no matter how unrealistic the circumstances. Romance: it’s beautiful, sensual and it takes you away from reality for a little while. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he said, surprised by the sudden heat of her reply. “But why so serious? When you started the job you’d come home laughing, telling me about what this writer or that one you were reading called a vagina or a clitoris or fucking….”

“I don’t see anything wrong with using an objective correlative,” she snapped.

“They’re called euphemisms, Lena,” he corrected. “And you only use them if you’re either trying to be cutesy, poetic or to get past the censors. Or if you’re too damned embarrassed by sexuality to call a cock a cock and instead have to have some virginal bimbo ‘gaze longingly at his phallic instrument.’” His eyes rolled comically as he recited the remembered phrase.

She eyed him coldly, or at least tried to; a smile began to form at the corners of her mouth. “You’ll always remember that one, won’t you?”

Carl’s smile was already at full shine. “You’ll  have to agree it was pretty bad. Personally I would have said ‘his stiff, drooling member’ and made it a point to spell out its dimensions. But hey, that’s my stock in trade, telling it like it is.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said facetiously. “Like it is, you pervert.” She slapped him playfully on the behind as she sauntered past him through the door to the hallway. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

***

Lena gave her husband a photocopy of the manuscript she had taken with her from the office. “Strictly against the rules, taking work home like this,” she told him as he began to read. “But I thought you’d get a kick out of it. And anyway who’s going to know? We’re certainly not going to plagiarize it for publication.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Carl said absently as he slowly turned the pages. “This stuff is pretty damned close to my own shit, just taken from a different perspective.”

“’Bodice ripper’ type garbage,” Lena said, identifying the sub-genre. “Virginal young woman finds herself in a compromising position with a lusty-horny older man; she finds it exciting and feels driven to give in to his advances. But she must yield to decorum to maintain her reputation – as if anyone really cares these days; people will say and think what they will no matter how loud you scream.”

“Yeah,” Carl interrupted. “They might think that’s the kind of noise you make when you’re coming.”

Lena had paused to allow for his comment then went on as if he hadn’t even spoken. “And so she puts up a brave fight,” she continued. “Gets her clothes all ripped and messy in the process. In the end, the randy d.o.m. has his lusty way with her and she gets her thrill with the added plus that she can say it wasn’t her fault, wasn’t her choice. Reputation soiled but not irretrievably lost, or so she thinks. You see, because of the loss of her virginity she becomes, by nineteenth century standards, unmarriageable.  Result: she marries her erstwhile rapist, though she finds out on their honeymoon that his predilections run only to virgins. Being that he has already deflowered her, he views her as soiled property or some such chauvinistic horseshit and she is no longer desirable to him.”

“Leave it up to the reader, then, as to why the hell she even married this son of a bitch in the first place,” sniped Carl. Lena shrugged; she couldn’t figure out that part, either

“Anyway,” she said, summing up. “She lives a sexually unsatisfying life until the old boy dies afterwhich she is a rich but still unsatisfied widow. Moral of the story: she got what she deserved, as do all young virgins who give into temptation with horny older men before the gold ring is firmly placed on the left hand ring finger. The conclusion to be drawn for the impressionable young women reading this claptrap (no pun intended): it’s always your fault, no matter what the outcome, so beware the man with the tempting way and empty hands.”

Carl had been listening to this with a thoughtful, if sarcastic, air of interested respect. His response was anything but flattering. “You about finished?”

“That’s about it,” said his wife evenly, having expected such a reply. “Sounds kind of medieval, doesn’t it?””

“I don’t know. Change a few things around and it could have some glint of truth in it.”

Lena laughed. “You’d have to revamp the whole thing to make it sound anywhere near reality.”

“Not really. I mean, take away the virginity angle, make the girl a bit more experienced, knowing that the rape part was just a game to keep things interesting and you might have a pretty good story.”

“One of your stories, you mean.”

“Well, that would take a little more work.” He was silent for a moment, then: “Mind if I try?”

“That kind of thing is second nature to you,” she said. “Just a walk in the park. Just for fun, though, why don’t I try? I’ve always wondered how close the stuff you write is in the spirit to this kind of thing. It’d be an interesting way to find out.”

Carl had no complaint with the suggestion. He gave her a few pointers in composition: lists of vulgar words for genitalia and coition, an admonition that the focus of the tale should be on the act and that any conclusions should be limited to a defense of the beauty of the orgasm and continued desire. Finished with his little lesson, he watched as she repaired to her computer to begin her first trial run at pornography.

Lena’s resulting story was longer by several pages than what Carl would have concocted out of the raw material, much shorter than the original. She had focused on the sexual aspect, as advised, and had skillfully used a number of the epithets her husband had listed for her. Her one main failing, in Carl’s estimation, was the last page, her summing up. She made decided conclusions far beyond what he would have deigned to be fitting to the subject at hand. Her heroine did marry the old roué and their sex life continued on, orgasmically fiery for the both of them. Her reputation was shot in the end, however, its plummet brought about by her insatiable need for more and more couplings and her later dissatisfaction with her husband as a lover. Instead of an unsatisfied spinster living on the memories of a few passionate experiences she became a single-minded bitch-slut, seducing young men in back alleys, spending all her money on a downward spiraling series of affairs that turned into a caricature of seedy sensuality.

“Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?” he asked as he laid her efforts aside. “Cut the cheap moralizing in the bud. It’s supposed to be a story of the sport, the acquisition, not the rotting corpse after the kill has been made.”

Lena had been standing beside Carl’s chair as he read her rendition of the rape story. She was wearing the sort of loose fitting blouse and skirt ensemble that had become a comfortable habit when she was at home; in the warm months of summer, as it was now, underwear was rarely worn, seen as just an unnecessary annoyance. “It’s real,” she insisted unsurely. “At least it tries to be.” Maybe I should have toned down the part about the woman enticing young studs into back alleyways, she considered in hindsight. Even without that the point would have been clear enough.

This is real,” said Carl and without warning he brought his free hand up and under Lena’s skirt. Her legs were slightly akimbo so that his fingers found easy access to her crotch. He moved his hand deftly, massaging her firmly, this thumb rubbing and insinuating itself between her labia as if motor driven. She squealed at the sudden intrusion, then giggled and squatted in compliance to give his fingers better, deeper access. “The rest,” he said as his middle and forefinger worried their way into her vagina. “Is all unnecessary chatter signifying nothing.”

“Nothing,” Lena whispered, intensely excited as she leaned forward to fumble at the fly on her husband’s pants. This was truth, she thought, here and now. Without thinking about it she felt that she understood what Carl had been talking about. Though she missed the foreplay, the slow build up, the tender beginnings that would have proved this to be a loving rather than a simply carnal experience, she indulged herself without any real consideration. That other way, she told herself somewhere in the back of her mind, could wait for another time. This time it had all come about too suddenly, had become too immediate, too intense all at once for niceties to be applied. As her hand grasped his erect cock and his hand had her on the brink of orgasm while she still stood next to him in his chair, right then she understood too well his lesson and what its outcome would be.

In the spirit of the immediacy of the moment, however, one so impetuously begun, outcomes did not come as promptly as Lena would have liked. As soon as her sliding hand had Carl shooting his jism onto his slacks his hand had slowed its work, then stopped. When her needs weren’t being met as she wanted them to be she told Carl what he needed to do in the most vulgar terms, surprising herself at how honestly insistent her voice sounded. Sure of its purpose, the lewdly worded demands that he do her, eat her, fuck her, seemed to have come from the mouth of a woman she did not know.

***

She came home several weeks later close to tears.

Carl jumped up from his writing desk to ask the reason why or, if no reason was to be given, at least to be near enough to be of help when comfort was needed, and she needed it right away. They embraced; the shoulder of his shirt was immediately soaked through with her tears. It was a moment that he would remember for some time to come since it was the first really tender moment they had shared in a very long time. He only wished that the circumstance were brighter. What he would recall, besides the tears and the ensuing embrace, would be the story she would tell, tearing little pieces of it from her harrowing day to offer to him in scraps. He would later recall the way it came out as being a strange rush of non-sequiturs pinned to a common theme: the last story.

It was titled “Red River Meeting” and was about an encounter between a man and a woman (what other kind of tale ever appeared in Ladies’ Choice?) on a bridge over the river in the title. The main theme of the story was the unspoken yet implicitly smoldering sexuality that passed between them as they greeted one another, shared pleasantries and local gossip. They had been lovers once, their affair having ended some years before; they had been engaged when it was abruptly called off because of some misunderstanding and they went their separate ways. They both continued to live in the same town, each ever aware of the presence of the other, just across the river. In the story they singly, silently revel in their memories of the relationship they once had together, indulge in fantasies of continued love, lust and moral lassitude with the other that, even as they had dated and been engaged they had denied themselves.

“It was the best thing that had come across my desk since I’ve been there,” Lena nearly wailed, her tearful distress having turned to anger and frustration. “And she turned it into a cutesy little melodrama about how the two characters had had a chance at love and had blown it in favor of ‘safe’ relationships with other people. God! It was revolting to see.”

“What’s so revolting? It sounds like a pretty good story to me.”

“Sure; one that’s been done a thousand times before and much better,” Lena huffed as she struggled to control her emotions. “But I had seen the original manuscript. It was great, it was daring. They still wanted each other – nothing bittersweet about it – they had to have each other. She made a grab for his balls, for Christ sake!”

“Don’t yell at me. I didn’t read the thing, you did. Just tell me…. What did your Mrs. Halbistam do to it?”

“Tore the guts out of it is what she did. The girl reaches for the guy’s nuts, right? So what does Mrs. Goody Two Shits do? Has the girl’s hand flutter helplessly at the guy’s shirt while she fights the temptation to just touch him one more time, lay her hand on his chest to feel the thump of his heartbeat. Yuck! And I have to read this crap, make sure that the typesetters spelled ‘tempestuous’ right.”

“So you got a good story made bad. But that’s part of the territory of your job, isn’t it? So what does this have to do with your dramatic entrance, all the tears and yammering about – what was it? – your career going down the toilet?”

“I’m getting to that,” she said, then stopped to give him a questioning look. “Was I really yammering?”

“Blubbering is more like it. I couldn’t catch more than a phrase or two. ‘Career going into the shitter’ is the way I think you put it and then something about wanting to break something over Mrs. Two Shits’ head. Would one of the everyday dishes do? The good china is kind of expensive to be used for mayhem.”

“That’s not necessary now. Just let me talk.” She took a deep breath and seemed to deflate as she let it out. She sat down and shook her head. “I couldn’t believe it while I was doing it,” she said as she recalled her day. “I even tried to blame it on someone else when it went through.  You ready for this, Carl?”

“I guess I am,” he said, not sure at all that he was. Do what? he thought. Blame what? He sat down and pulled his chair along the floor until he was directly opposite her, knees to knees.

“I changed it back,” she said.

“Changed what back? The story?”

“Yep, just the way the author wrote it, nut grabbing, passionate kisses, hands getting lost under the clothing and all. The only reason it was caught was that it ran over the limit that Mrs. Halbistam had set for it.”

“Caught? You mean it never got to typesetting?”

“Oh it got to them, but they bounced it right back to her to make sure the length was okay. The original ran over by a good ten lines of type.” She sighed and shook her head again, still not believing what had happened. “It was only the second edit so it was really kind of stupid of me. I should have waited until the final came by me. Even so it probably would have come back to her with question marks all over it. My only defense was to demand an explanation from the old bat why she’d bought the piece in the first place if she knew that she was going to rip the heart out of it.”

“She called you on the carpet? What happened? Don’t tell me you were….”

“Fired,” said Lena solemnly. She paused and gave him another quizzical look. “Didn’t I mention that before?”

***

Time soon became Lena’s own.

There was only so much of it she could spend each day in hunting for a job, only so many ads per week she could answer, interviews that she could go on. By the end of the first month it became evident that all time thus spent was a bleak exercise in futility. Despite a rather impressive resume interviewers brushed her off as soon as her references came through. It was not long before references were not needed at all; the offers of interviews stopped coming altogether. The phone only rang with calls from friends, family members and Carl’s associates. It seemed that Mrs. Halbistam’s influence in the industry was quite considerable. The word had gotten out and all those concerned were listening attentively to what the old bat had to say: Lena was not a “team player.”

Despondency did not become Lena’s naturally active demeanor nor did the role of the harridan or common scold that she thought she might become in those first few weeks of being at home with her husband day in and day out. No; instead she began to foster an interest in his work, much as it pained her to admit it. The manuscript of Carl’s present work-in-progress was daily growing in bulk and Lena began to read it, to give thoughtful suggestions on how this wording or that might better serve the licentious action building in a given paragraph. Carl listened and then patiently explained that style did not matter so much as long as the simple point was gotten across and the scene became visually, tactilely, even tastily vivid to the reader. “Put the reader there on the edge of the bed where the action is taking place, make him know what it feels like to be there and doing it,” he said of the purpose of his prose. “That’s the whole point of the thing; just get him as horny as hell.”

“I don’t think ‘tastily’ is the right word,” she remarked. “But I know what you mean.”

“What I do,” he said, having warmed to the subject. “Is elicit the simplest response from my audience. And I have to have it done by the end of next week. You know something about deadlines, so may I…?”

“But what about the letters,” she asked. “You usually do four or five of those each month for that editor friend of yours.”

“I’ll use parts of chapters four, eight, nine and fifteen, maybe thirteen, too, if I have the time,” he answered. “Just switch the perspective to first person, change the names and maybe the setting and nobody’s the wiser.”

“But how do you manage two deadlines like that?”

“The magazine’s deadline comes two weeks after Squeeze Publications’.  Plenty of time.”

“What if your magazine editor got ten letters from you? Would he still buy them and pay the usual rate?”

“Sure. He’ll snap up whatever I send him, check in the mail upon acceptance.”

“Then let me try my hand at chapters – what? Four, eight, nine, fourteen….”

“Thirteen and fifteen,” he corrected, looking at her as if at a total stranger. “You serious about this?”

“I might as well be doing something,” she said simply as she lifted the stack of typed bond paper from his desk to extract the needed material. “See you later.”

She came back to him that first day in only four hours, her work complete on three of the five chapter/letters. “Editing is editing” was the way she explained the alacrity with which she had transformed the chapters into self-contained vignettes of first person porn. By the time he had finished the novel she had done with the final two excerpts as well as five more letters of her own. “Just let your fantasies run free,” she said with a shrug. “Really nothing to it.” Carl read her efforts, made some comments but, on the whole, had no complaints with any of them.

They had to call several other editor friends of Carl’s with whom he had not been in touch for a while in order to sell Lena’s output. She was cranking out as many as five new letters a day when she was really on a roll. By the end of the second month they celebrated with a trip to the theater and dinner in the city. Their financial status, though not too much healthier due to Lena’s involvement in her husband’s work, had improved enough for the splurge to be justified.

Lines had been drawn and, for a while, they seemed to hold. Carl wrote the book-length material and Lena concentrated on the short stuff for the magazines. When Lena’s pieces began to reach the ten and fifteen page mark (deliberately; they brought in from $250 to $400 per piece when sold) she began to pester him about her helping with his own writing.

“An experiment,” She finally offered when hints did not seem to have any effect. “Alternate chapters, man’s point-of-view and woman’s point-of-view of the same affair. How does that sound?”

Carl did not have to think about it for long. The editors at four different men’s magazines loved her for her ingenuity and profligacy and she could write a steamy sex scene with the best of them. “What’s the underlying plot?” he asked.

She held up the wrinkled, well-thumbed photocopy of a manuscript. “’Red River Meeting,’” she said of the pilfered piece. “Start on the bridge, the meeting, the memories of a torrid affair, an open marriage where anything goes, lovers galore for both of them, every position and kinky twist we’ve used and that are still being used in every porn novel around. End with two quick chapters – his version and her version – of nuts being grabbed, the impassioned grappling on the bridge. Leave it open – do they get back together or is this the final heaving sigh of a failed relationship? – maybe work out a sequel on what happens next.”

Carl nodded thoughtfully, liking the idea. “Let me see story again first,” he said, reaching. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Just talk?”  Her excitement for the project turned to sudden disappointment.

He flipped through the pages, stopping quickly to scan a paragraph here, read several lines of dialogue there before flipping again. “Talk about how we’re going to go about it,” he said distractedly. He tossed the manuscript onto his desk and rose to approach her. He pulled her into a bearlike embrace and slipped his hands under her slacks to massage the buttocks and insinuate his fingers between them while continued to knead and massage. The pleasure of his warm, strong hands on her ass drew a moan from her throat. “Something like this takes more time to work out than just sitting down at the computer and banging away,” he whispered in her ear. “Something like this takes a bit of thought and planning.”

Lena undressed slowly, said nothing as if her actions were answer enough. For this, she knew, coming to him hungrily, no thought was necessary.

***

Slow and languid, that was the way she remembered him from the last time. She looked deep into his soft brown eyes, gently traced the line of his strong jaw with her finger and saw from his expression that he remembered, too. It had been more than two years and yet she recalled their last meeting so long ago as if it had taken place only hours, perhaps just minutes before.

            “Tell me that he still makes love the same way,” she thought. “Let me believe that he hasn’t changed in that regard.” She wanted to believe that his kisses would come slow and sweet, hot against the skin, sensuously defining the hollow at the meeting of her shoulder and neck, that he would still slowly, maddeningly, slide his tongue over her breasts, muttering sweet yet mildly vulgar words of appraisal as he took her brown nipple into his mouth to work it to a tingling hardness, an excitement that would wind serpentlike through her body until she would be just about ready to scream. If that was so then she knew that she would be the same as she remembered, stifling her instinct to howl and keen, muting her voice down to a guttural moan that would serve to pique his desire further, get him to continue his ministrations, make him want more, want to push her to the limit, have her grapple him, pull him closer (though that would be near to impossible), have him make her demand what they both knew that they would have of the other in that slow, languid, wonderful way that he had.

Lena stopped reading aloud and looked up at Carl. He had been listening intently; his only comment now was a disinterested shrug. “I got tired of the ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’ stuff I was writing for the magazines,” she said, defensive against his obvious indifference. “This is going to be book length so I figured I’d do it a little differently, with a slow build-up, kind of like the way I used to like it. Know what I mean?”

“Of course I do,” said Carl. “But you’ve got to realize, book length or not, it’s all pretty much the same thing as those little pieces you’ve been doing for the men’s rags. A major sex scene per each chapter. That’s the nature of the beast. You don’t want to risk losing your audience in the second chapter. They expect sleaze; that’s why they buy this crap in the first place.”

“I know that, but I thought….”

“Look, we’ve agreed to twenty-two chapters: ten for you, ten for me, an intro and a tie-up at the end where they break things off with a vague promise to see each other again, kind of hinting at a sequel. Now, the intro’s pretty good, draws’em right in. Then…this. Ba-bing! The reader puts the book down – and I’m talking about the reader at the publishing company here – and says that it’s too slow, so no sale. Don’t call us, et cetera, et cetera. Lena, you know the rules….”

“No way to break them, be creative?”

“Not if we want to sell this thing to Skintight Press. The form is the given, no way to play around with it.”

“It’s not fair,” she complained. “I mean, I’m trying to write this from a woman’s perspective. When a woman’s recalling a sexual encounter she focuses on the kisses and the build-up, what makes the man special. Sure I can do the heavy breathing suck and fuck stuff but I figured this being book length we could ease into it more slowly, give it a glow of realism… people….”

“Uh-uh, not for Skintight. All their stuff is pretty much the same with very little variation from the tried and true. All heaving bodies and musky damp sheets, cocks and cunts and asses and tits being used in imaginative ways. Remember their motto: ‘Every page guaranteed to scorch your fingers.’ With this….” He patted his wife’s draft chapter. “You barely warm the skin. Remember your audience and what they want. That’s the first rule.”

Lena nodded glumly as she picked up the sheaf of paper. “So,” she said dejectedly. “Try, try again, eh?”

“That’s my girl,” he encouraged lamely.

***

The actual writing of the novel took only one month to complete with both Carl and Lena working separately on their respective chapters. As with Carl’s first book, more than two years before, though, it was the editing and rewriting that required the most effort. An additional month was needed in actual collaboration to segue their alternating chapters into one another and to write the tie-up last chapter together. The time factor was further lengthened by the fact that each of them were, at the time, also writing the shorter, letter pieces to provide them with walking around money since the added month’s worth of work on the novel was taking a healthy bite out of their customary income. In effect, they would only be getting a month’s worth of pay for two months of work. That averaged out to about thirty letter pieces needed from each of them just to make up the month’s deficit that the additional novel writing was costing them.

In the end, though, the effort and mild hardship seemed worth all that they had put into it. They couldn’t us the title “Red River Meeting” as they both would have liked for fear of bumping up against some copyright law against employing a previously used title for a book that bore at least a superficial resemblance to the original, shorter piece. Old Goody Two-Shits Halbistam would be just the person to find out about it and take legal action against Skintight Press and the pseudonymous “Carla Lenz,” as Carl wished to have the author of the work be known.

When the photocopied acceptance letter came through for “Rivers of Lust,” Carl and Lena celebrated in their usual, low-key style: dinner and a movie. At Lena’s suggestion they went to an art-house showing of Casablanca. Lena cried at the airport parting of Bogie and Ingrid Bergman as she always did (she had seen the movie three times already, this being the fourth).

“What a thing to do,” Carl commented as they emerged from the little theater. He said that he wasn’t sure whether to respect the Bogie character for letting go of the love of his life for noble reasons, or to call the guy a foolish idiot. “It always gets me,” he said.

“That’s romance,” said Lena, still teary eyed.

Back home she would call that which she and Carl almost immediately engaged in by the same name—romance – ignoring the stark differences. The build-up of the foreplay was the way she used to like it: slow and languid. Carl was ever the perfect lover; he knew exactly how to turn her on and keep her body humming at near peak excitement until he was ready to apply just a bit more friction, more pressure, more intensity to tip her over the edge to orgasmic oblivion. Used to like it, she realized. Now, the going was much too slow. She told her husband what she wanted in no uncertain terms. She did not giggle as she used to when he heaved her onto the bed and projected himself on top of her; this was serious and not to be taken so lightly.

She did not notice the vacant gleam in Carl’s eyes, the fact that he was doing all by rote. It did not matter to her that he was a thousand miles away, indulging in the simple, animal essence of one of his (their) many sex stories, If asked she, too, would have had to agree that Carl was not her real lover that night. The man she was with had the cock the size of a donkey’s pizzle and it was splitting her cunt ecstatically wide with every pounding, vigorous drive of his hips as he forced himself into her further and further, ramming home, pushing her deeper into the mattress as his massive dong prodded and bruised her cervix with each propulsive thrust. Just the way that she had come to need and want it.

Words were moaned and growled; there were no endearments. Words uttered, meant to sting, to hurt and arouse one another to the steepest pitch of those feelings that were by nature the most basic to all mammals. Cunt, pussy, whore, bastard, cock, fuck, ream, shove, bang, ball, pound – words of anger and incendiary lust without true meaning; there was no reality shared between them. Their meeting was completed individually, inside of each of them, Carl and Lena, singly and without reference to the other.

“Ram it into me,” she moaned heartily, huskily as she thrust her hips at him for yet another exquisitely forceful entry inside her of that massive hot cock she had dreamed for her pleasure. She was playing the character in one of their stories with no real mind, no past, no ambition save for this. “That’s it,” she encouraged greedily. “Fuck me harder. Harder, I said! Make me scream!”

And he did, puffing and cursing mightily with the effort.

And when it was done, their orgasms spent like money paid, they lay separately on the tangled, dampened sheets of their connubial bed, each breathing heavily, exhausted, staring at the ceiling in wonder. And this is what it was, the thing they each had sought in the air above them, the thought and memory that had escaped them and which they would not fully realize: that neither of them was truly satisfied. Yet the driving, heady desire was still keen within each of them.

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Awesome Threesome By Charles E.J. Moulton

A bouncy laugh here, a suggestive low-note there, a surprised wail, a husky lilt. Their chatter sounded like a jazz bar tune on a Steinway, a smooth classic, maybe, played at King Cole’s Bar in Manhattan.

These elegant vocal waves had me turning around. I couldn’t see the terrace from here, just the bugs, not the jugs, the lake and the sunset, but at least I had a nice view of mosquitoes dancing across the water in the light of the setting sun, waltzing dots lit by the blues, the yellows, the reds and the purples, mixing together with the darker indigo of the oncoming night. The insects not quite hitting the water, they seemed to tease the water just like the girls on the terrace teased me with the sound of their giggles.

I looked back at the screen and the blinking cursor, blinking like Danielle had blinked at me just six minutes ago.

My wife, who nearly threw a frying pan on my head after catching me wanking my nine inch penis to a photo of Kirsten Imrie, that had me nicknaming her “Killer Kimmie”, by the way, would she be willing to join me in seducing her girlfriend if I sported an erection?

I looked out across the water again. Above the hillside forest, the sky’s light of evening waves entailed a mystery. An invitation for a solitary gang-bang, to be sure. There were three other houses by the lakeside, but the owners were all gone away. The Hamptons to Malaysia, I think, the Indian author and his kids and wife back in New Dehli for the summer and that gay rock star and his lover on tour to somewhere rather. Our son had flown with grandpa to Toronto. So, yes, we were alone.

I flipped the document pages from front to back and back to front again, correcting a mistake here and there, shifting in my seat, looking at my written notes, leaning forward, scratching my chin.

It would have been great had I been sitting with pictures of Danielle, getting hot and bothered, but I sat working on an article about the island of Phuket. But the more I endeavored to concentrate on Phuket, the more did my wife’s girlfriend come into my mind.

Danielle’s dark eyes, that long black hair, that fantastic tush, my eyes watching her buttcheeks wooble as my helmet entered her arsehole, D-cup knockers dancing helplessly in the breeze. No, no, no.

“Damn it,” I whispered to myself, “You can’t fuck your wife’s best friend with your wife in the house.”

Or could I?

In secret?

Hold on!

What was that suggestive chatter about?

It sounded… inquisitive.

Danielle had been working on her second bottle of Champagne that evening when I left the table, the Tzatziki rolling down her chin like cum on ice. It had me wishing for being reincarnated as Greek bread.

Giggle and get drunk, just like back in college? It seemed like a promising enterprise if it hadn’t been for my constantly growing erection in her presence. I might enjoy the idea of joining the ladies for the spectacular Jennifer Aniston marathon they had planned with a predominant fuck as an aperitif. The guest room daintily arranged, the bed made, enough pizza to last us for three days, all of it reeked of girls weekend with me along for the ride. I wondered what would happen if I sported the most prominent erection of the galaxy looking at her best friend while she sat there herself.

I lift my Count Basie-decorated cup of coffee to my lips, recontemplating the birthday party. Kimberley had conversed with Danielle’s husband Jorge all of that evening, their conversation circling around Spanish politics. That seemed just as innocent as as Danielle’s accounts about comparing airplane models. We shared the hobby of model making, frequent flyers both of us, hobby builders of Boeing miniatures.

I ended up fucking the crap out of Kimberley in our water bed afterwards, squirting my one gallon of cum into her mouth for a very clean swallow, indeed.

Phuket all.

I poured more coffee into my cup, slurping it loud to drench Danielle’s fuckable voice, swallowing the Scottish butter cookies like I dreamed she would chew on my dick.

“I wanna fuck Danielle’s butt,” I whispered to myself, looking at the dry butter cookies left over from yesterday.

Danielle’s super sexy alto laugh finally made me switch on my Google Chrome. I soon stood there with my Uncle Reamus pointing toward the screen, wanking at babes being face-showered with sticky sperm.

It was in the middle of that delicious wank that I heard the sound of my wife, sweeter than usual, almost ethereal in character.

“Bob,” she sang, so magically and huskily that my heart almost melted, “you coming back, Sweetie?”

My right hand stopped its wild activity, fingers clutching my personal joystick, my heart beating like nuts, blood reaching my throat and clogging up my brain.

I froze.

Strip shows, facial fests, ass fucks, ball chews, foot jobs, tit shags, foot jobs, cum swallows, handcuffs, nurse role play, they all came to mind. Was this a bitter heart, a refusal to offer me bitter-flavored camembert-tasting pussy suppers?

“We wanna talk to you,” Kimberley crooned.

“Pretty please,” Danielle pleaded.

I desperately shoved my hard cock into my Wranglers, trying to think of Mikhail Gorbachev, Nikola Tesla, Saddam Hussein, farm tools or anything unsexy enough to make sure I did not enter the terrace with a massive jeans throb.

I stood up, looking down at my crotch, slapping it hard with a strict demand, shaking my head.

“Sure,” I sang, finally summoning enough smut to walk toward the terrace.
There they were, two gorgeous women, dressed in casual shorts and loose T-shirts, four D-cups waving at me, nipples waving hello.

“Sit down,” my wife whispered, raising her Dom Perignon at me,
Kimberley and Danielle exchanging ambivalent gazes.

I did, gazing at my wife and then at Danielle, sensing female conspiracy lurking in the shadows.

“You were chatting with Danielle at her birthday party last month,” my wife began.

“Leaning over,” Danielle smirked. “Like this.”

Danielle leaned over, giving me a glimpse of her cleavage.

The edge of my mouth twitched.

“You were all red in the face,” my wife added.

I shook my head.

Danielle shrugged, her titties wobbling. “We thought you needed help.”

I smiled.

“I was fine.”

“You hardly looked me in my face,” Danielle chuckled, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

I sat back in my chair.

My wife chuckled, looking at her best friend, shaking her head and eyeing heavenward. She whispered: “You spent the entire evening looking at her titties, you wicked perv.”

I cleared my throat.

My penis began to swell.

“Hey,” my wife growled, “listen…”

Now my heart was really pounding.

I had films playing in my brain of moving trucks and divorce lawyers.

“Who’s gonna start?” my wife mused, gazing at Danielle.

I shivered.

“You came up with the plan,” Danielle sing-songed.

Kimberley sighed.

“My tit crazy husband jerking off just to avoid having to deal with two randy women.”

I swallowed hard. “What?”

“Bob,” Danielle began, having woken me up enough to have me gaze at her boobies again.

“We have been comparing how you guys perform…”

“I haven’t played the saxophone in years,” I joked.

The girls broke into fits of giggles.

I raised my eyebrows, happy to hear this, feeling my fear settle and sink.
Danielle grinned at me. “My husband’s dick is six inches long. Kimberley said you… uuh… are… nine inches long.”

There was a long pause after that while I looked at my wife.

Kimberley smiled.

I laughed in relief.

“I knew you wanted to fuck Danielle when I saw you two at the birthday party,” she whispered. “I figured turning a meeting into a gang bang would be better than having you go behind my back and fuck her in some back room.”

Kimberley shrugged.

“Show her your dick.”

I hesitated.

“You threw a frying pan on me when you discovered me masturbating over Kirsten Imrie,” I said.

Kimberley gave me long sensuous tongue kiss.

“Show her your cock,” she mused.

I nodded.

I stood up, strolled up to that big jugged woman, biting my lip.
The horny whore unbuckled me, unbuttoned and unzipped me, letting my jeans flip open. As she reached into my undies, my dick plopped out like a jack-in-the-box into her face.

Danielle gazed up at me, at Kimberley, and back at my cock.

“It’s enormous. You are such a lucky lady, Kimberley. I bet you suck it a lot.”
Kimberley laughed.

Danielle lift my tan banana, put it on her forehead, gazing at Kimberley.
“Look, Kimmie, I’m a unicorn.”

They both giggled, which made me gaze at my wife, who, to my surprise, now had lift her skirt and was fondling her cunt.

“Can I suck your husband’s cock?”

“Be my guest,” Kimberley answered.

“Thanks, girlfriend,” Danielle said, ever so sweetly. “I’ll start licking his balls, okay?”

“Okay.”

Danielle now started licking my hairy testicles. No, not licking. Eating. She left me senseless, putting them both completely in her mouth and playing with them with her tongue. Kimmie never ate my balls like that. I hadn’t shaved my pubic hair, but Danielle, that horny slut, seemed to like that. She plopped my balls off her tongue and lowered my long dong, kissing and fondling my cock hair with her entire face, eating my dick wig.

Kimmie was now totally naked, having thrown off all her clothes onto the terrace floor, sticking two fingers into her furry furburger and whining like a fucking hyena.

Danielle sucked my one eyed willie so well and with so much saliva it looked like a sailor protecting the mast of a resting sailing ship with a wet, oily cap cloth.

“You blow his dickie so well, Danny,” my wife told her. “Do you like sucking my husband’s cock?”

Danielle now nodded, my schlong half way into her mouth like a regular prostitute. “It’sh the tashtiest womb brrhoom I’ve ever shucked. Shhoooo damn loooohnng.”

I really was in heaven. The woman I had longed to slap bellies with for so long now was short circuiting my banana boat like a space port docking in a rocket. And my nuptial three vulva on legs was watching us, masturbating her clit and loving it.

Kimberley took in about a third of my cock in her mouth. Danielle managed to stick in over half of it, stretching her tongue forward and licking my balls. It made me smile. The best sight in the world was still a beautiful woman with a cock in her mouth.

Now Danielle began stripping while sucking. I don’t know how she managed to do it, but she kept sucking all the while giving the best whore blowjob of my life.

It didn’t take long for my wife to join her girlfriend. Soon enough, Kimberley and Danielle were both on their knees, taking turns in giving my nine inch mouth pleaser the tongue ride of its life.

“What a fantastic sight,” I groaned.

My wife, who right now sucked on my right testicle while Danielle sucked on the tip of my lollipop, added, smiling, male hairy ball still inside her right cheek: “Did I promish you too much abouth hish penish? It’sh tashty, ishn’t it?”

“Uhmh-hmmm,” Danielle moaned.

I think it was then that I disappeared into a dream land, closing my eyes while the bimbos took turns who got to play with my marbles and who got to swallow my XXL chili dog.

In my mind, the wind caressing my bottom, my long dong in a two girl heaven, I reviewed my sexual experience, initially remembering how much I had jerked off as a teen. Sex objects like Suki from Men Only, the Eurasian crumpet with the short pussy hair, big boobed and black haired Natalie from Oxfordshire from Club International, her combed vulva had the pages sticking together every day, 60 inch knockered Jo from Mayfair, British Julie Hart with the fuckable mouth and yummy hairy cunt, dark pussied Sophie Fernandez, all those babes paved the way for my first blowjob. Conny knew how to suck in that high school back room. Not quite as fair juggied as Charlotte, whose milky-ways I squeezed after the disco one night. My first fuck, blondie babe Marie, was nice, because the bimbo had a cute butt that wobbled while I banged her from behind. She was my girlfriend for a while. Simona, a Polish babe, after a long marathon shag, said my cock fit perfectly in her pussy. Lena was a charming woman from Montreal, whose 36C tits I squirted on, who, when seeing my nine inches, exclaimed: “I don’t like you, I love you!” Tatanya from Moscow was afraid my dick wouldn’t fit in her pussy, but it did. Olinka from Madrid was my favourite pussy for a while. She was a cute and small little chick with a very sweet tasting clit that I adored shagging. We met just to fuck and drink champagne for about a year. Olga from Mexico was a big breasted thing who laughed while being shabanged. Then there was Kerstin from Hannover who asked me what we should do next, so I suggested she go down on her knees and suck my dick, so she did. Monica with the 60 inch balloons, Viola, whose ass I kissed, MILF Bertha where my condom broke, Bionda from Florence whom I fucked six times in one night (her moans, vibrating titties and happy complaints of sore cunt were gorgeous), fifty-something rock-groupie Kim sucked on my balls for ten minutes, Suzanne, who refused to go down on her knees for me, Dora, who grunted during sex, Zoe, who deep throated me, Chloé, who begged me to fuck her asshole, Mila with the longest tongue I have seen and Amanda, who exclaimed: “What a great idea!” when I suggested she take my nine inch penis in her mouth. Oh, sex. Oh, women. Oh, sperm.

Now, all that dreaming had me forgetting reality. When I returned, the bitches were still at it, sucking and licking, slurping and deepthroating. My two little whores really knew their business, it made me understand that a woman is at her best when she has a prick in her donut shoot. I had fucked Kimberley repeatedly by the stove while she cooked, slapping her butt, telling her what a good little obedient housewife she was, cooking me a meal while I stuck my Boeing in her damp little girlie snatch.

Oh, man.

I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I took out my humongous clarinet out of their Wurlitzers and threw them across the terrace table.

There they were, two buxom bitches, their rear ends waiting to be slapped and penetrated like horses at an auction.

I took turns fucking one and then fucking the other, back to Danielle and then Kimberley, then Danielle’s asshole and Kimberley’s pussy and vice versa. Oh how their asses wobbled. Dickpleasers. The sight of their bottoms wobbling, their moans high, the sun powered terrace lights now filling up the night, the stars shining, the bright full moon glittering in the lake, me leaning over to reach for the bottle and drink the rest of the champagne.

Finally, the chickies let me hump them one by one as the lay spread on the table, me squirting my sperm on their faces. We fell asleep in one bed that night, me waking up in the morning with the girls giving me a blowjob.

I can only say we had a magical weekend, my long cock getting more attention than ever before.

Jorge joined us that next day, but that is a totally different story. I can only say that it was a joy to see my wife being fucked by another guy while I shagged her big boobed girlfriend under the stars.

Bites By Michael Fontana

She sported a brushy black bob above a boyish neck and then there were the ears, spangled with silver circles.  I had a penchant for the taste of silver on my tongue, wearing a silver stud in it, so first came a lick of her lobe, then the slightest nibble, then a full-on bite.  She turned as soon as I did it, moving from her calm position kneeling on the bed with her back turned to me, praying or meditating perhaps, a mantra escaping her lips with soft sibilance, like a beautiful blue and gold serpent hidden in a mound of grass, alerting you to its presence, not to strike fear but to draw your proper wonder.

When she turned to me, her nipples stood erect, buds of tiny breasts.  A thin line of dark hair ran from her navel down into her more abundant pubes.  I kissed her and she kissed back, her arms wrapping around me like a sarong around a body too large for it.  Also naked there, I took the time to remove the silver circles from her ears so that not even an apparition of ornamentation remained on her beyond her own innate beauty.

As she kissed me, she rolled her tongue in my mouth and then took a bite of her own, my lower lip between her teeth.  The skin broke ever so slightly under pressure of it, and a new silver flavor, that of blood, reached the tip of my tongue.  Still I didn’t falter.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes as if resuming her prayer.  I bent my head down and kiss between her breasts.  She breathed deeply and seized my hair, pulling my head further down, past her navel, down into her thighs and there pressed my face against her.

I might have entered a rainforest since everything seemed so lush, so fragrant with ripe fruits.  Meanwhile the sounds cascading out of her were primal, animal, guttural.  This exploration went on for eternal moments, until my face grew soaked, and then the urge to bite again, this time the ripe berry that clung to the top of her opening.  With this she shuddered, bucked against me, initially pulling my head closer, holding it tight there, before pushing it away.

Leaning back, I witnessed her as if for the first time, eyes sealed, mouth open, head tilted back, hands over her breasts as if to protect them from further onslaught.  The hissing resumed.  I caressed her precious ears and nibbled at them once or twice to watch her flinch with pleasure or pain or both, I wasn’t sure, before she pulled me completely onto her and the forest opened itself to further exploration: fingers, fist, my body becoming consumed by hers in increments, until it seemed there was no separation then or ever before or ever after, as if we had become the ouroboros, the snake eating itself alive, bite by bite, into infinity and nothingness all at once.

Adventures of a Sex Addict: Hamburg Part Two By Mr. E

The next day I wasn’t intending to go to the Sex House. I wasn’t intending to go back to see Anna. She was gorgeous, she was soooo sexy. But there are hundreds of other options for sex on my doorstep in Hamburg.

And if I went back what would I do with her?

It was a wet and rainy day and as usual I had a free afternoon. So I decided I would buy a toy from the sex shop that was constantly open next door to my hotel and have another play with the lovely Anna. I bought a toy, a bullet on a string with a controller to go up my butt and give me pleasant vibrations. The bloke in the shop asked if I wanted it taken out of the wrapper, so I said yes for ease of transport and put it in my pocket. He told me to have fun, and I smiled, intending to. I popped a quick Viagra, not that Anna needed any help making me hard, but I wanted to enjoy myself as much as possible and the stimulant always took a bit of the pressure off.

Round the corner and straight up the stairs to the first floor. I wasn’t particularly worried if Anna wasn’t there, I could always find someone else to give me a hand.

But she was, a few other girls were in her corridor too.

I walked straight up to Anna, she smiled at me and asked if I wanted to go in. I was half way through the door before she’d finished speaking.

I gave her a hundred euros, there was no point messing about.

She asked if I wanted the same as yesterday. I showed her the toy and then realised there were no batteries in it. Damn.

She said she could use her fingers. I nodded, yes please.

I stripped off and lay down beside her. She started by kissing me all over, kissing my neck and chest and working her way down my torso. It was hot and sexy and tender and sweet. It made me like her more.

She slipped a condom over two fingers, and although her hands were pretty small I was a little worried. She dripped oil on her hand and then positioned herself next to my hips. I raised one knee and tilted towards her. Anna positioned her fingers right there, between my buttocks, and then pushed.

My cock stood straight up and she began working it with her other hand. She pressed in deeper into my anus and then pulled my cock hard, working me from both angles. Almost immediately I was gasping and panting for breath, the sensation almost overwhelming.

Watching this sexy young woman kneeling between my thighs, one hand on my cock, the other between my butt cheeks: it was incredible.

She worked me hard, my cock was so close to bursting I was sure my cum would hit the ceiling. But I didn’t. There were so many times I wanted to cum, but stopped myself. I wanted to feel her mouth on me again. She wanked me hard, I was gasping at every stroke. Then she stopped and asked if I wanted her to suck me. Oh yes, oh yes I wanted it so much.

She changed position, kneeling beside me, her head facing away from me, her bum easily reachable. My hand wandered all over her body as she sucked my cock. She went deeper, taking almost all of it into her mouth. She sucked harder and for longer than the day before. I just lay there enjoy it.

Then I asked her to lay next to me, I snuggled into her hot, sexy body. Her curves so soft. And I hugged her tightly as she wanked me. Then I wanked and hugged her tighter. As I came I cried out her name involuntarily. It was only after that I thought about how weird it was, especially as I work with someone called Anna. Who was I thinking about when I closed my eyes and hugged that gorgeous body to me, kissing her chest, and yanking my cock until I came all over myself.

Anna chatted to me again afterwards, but also let me know we’d gone over our time. I was happy to give her another fifty and a tip on top. Every minutes with that girl was like visiting heaven. She made me feel amazing, unlike any woman I’ve been with for a long time.

If only I hadn’t broken my cock (over-used and slightly sore) and had more than an hour on my last day I would have visited again. Good job I wasn’t there for a week, my bank balance wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

The Hot Flames By Charles E.J. Moulton

Man, that pissed me off.

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

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

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

I believe so.

Had I left my job too early without permit?

Yes.

What did that mean?

How the fuck would I know?

Getting fired?

Bring it on, buster.

There were other jobs.

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

One question, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men. Damn it, they pissed me off.

Sex, to me, was no joke.

It was a revelation.

It deserved responsibility.

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

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

“BASTARD!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sneered.

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

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

“… the … the … the …”

I searched in my head for the word.

“… the … damn.”

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

“I don’t have to be your dartboard.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay in your corner?

What corner?

I had my office right next to his.

In the middle of the top floor.

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

Who had saved the company from extinction?

Who had convinced many clients to stay with the firm?

Who had worked too many hours without getting paid?

Me, me, me and me again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wanted to be fair.

Revenge was not fair.

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

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

I pressed the receive button:

“Yes?” I groaned.

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

“You sound distraught.”

I sighed, shaking my head,

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

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

There was a slight chuckle.

“There are a few exceptions,” I mused.

“What happened?”

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

I sniggered.

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

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

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

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

You’re too valuable for shit like that.”

“That’s sweet.”

There was a slight pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked around my couch and on my own self.

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

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

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

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

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

No slippery innuendos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That inspired his testosterone to rise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Victoria.”

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

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

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

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

“Will you marry me?”

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

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

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

And together, we laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love loving you!”

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

Without love, we’re lost.

Let’s remember that.

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

Fidelity and respect are necessities.

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

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

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

My pussy is throbbing again.

My nipples are stiffening.

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

I know that I certainly have that ambition.

And I am certain I do.

Adventures of a Sex Addict: Hamburg, Part One By Mr E

I was heading back to my hotel, a bit tired from lots of walking. It was about five-ish and I still wasn’t hungry. Wasn’t really in the mood either, but I hadn’t found any erotic massage places nearby when I’d searched earlier and couldn’t be bothered to go back into the centre of town. I saw this Sex House place the first night as I’d walked to my hotel. It was dark, but not late and I thought it wouldn’t be too busy. Stuff gets started pretty late in Hamburg. Also, I walked passed an SM club that looked interesting but that was shut. I’d wanted to check out the brothel, it’s one of those where you go in and walk the corridors, like a big hotel where the girls sit in the doorways in lingerie. There weren’t too many people walking passed (it’s is on the main road!) so I thought I’d take a quick look.

Went up a few stairs to the first corridor, empty, but only three rooms that way.

Up the stairs to the first floor and there’s a bored looking Romanian girl who didn’t even look up from her phone. I went left and further down the corridor there were a load of English blokes chatting to the first girl in the corridor, so I turned around and went to the opposite corridor.

The lights are red and you can’t see too much until you get up close and I saw this blonde girl at the end of the corridor, so I walked all the way down. There was a brunette in front of the blonde and no one behind. The dark haired girl said hello, I said hello back but I hadn’t taken my eyes off the blonde. She asked me something in German. I asked if she spoke English. You want to come inside, she asked. How much I said. 50 euro suck and fuck. I said yes. She went inside her room and I followed her, she closed the door behind her.

Her room was better lit and she was really very pretty, and super hot. I handed her 50. Her name was Anna. She took off her bra. Big natural boobs, tight flat stomach, peachy butt, long legs. Although she was six inches shorter when she took her off heels.

I told her I just wanted her to watch her play with herself and I didn’t want sex. You want blowjob, she asked. It took me a whole minute to think about that, then I said no thanks. She got on the bed and I pulled down my jeans and sat on a chair and watched her. She was sexy as hell. Damn! She asked if I wanted to come closer. If I wanted to touch her. I did, I wanted to touch her a whole lot. I lay on the bed and watched as she pushed a toy inside her and kept licking the finger of her other hand to touch herself. I touched her flat stomach, I could feel her abs. I touched her breasts and she smiled at me. It’s good, she asked. I nodded, words failing me. She was gorgeous.

Anna shifted on the bed and made more room for me. I was half laying back in the bed, jeans around my knees, stroking myself as she played with her toy. One hand on her boobs. We did that for a little while, then changed position and she asked if I wanted her to wank me, so I said yes. She got some oil while I took off my jeans. One hand started working my cock. It’s good, she asked. I nodded and she smiled. I was lying on the bed, she was kneeling down next to me. Her hand working me expertly. Another few minutes and she pressed her other hand against my balls and I gasped with pleasure. She squeezed gently, working away at my cock, the oil all wet and slippery.

She changed arms, changed position, kneeling on all fours next to me. Telling me I could touch her if I wanted. While I watched her my hand slid over her slim body, her skin so smooth, her curves so well proportioned. I wanted to touch all of her, my hands not enough. She changed hands a few times and then she asked if I wanted a blowjob. When I’d gone into the brothel I wasn’t sure what I wanted (things were going fine with my girlf and I was even missing her a bit).

I’d been in there twenty minutes, my time was up. I said yes, I want a blowjob. She asked me to wash my cock, the oil doesn’t work well with condoms. I paid her some more money and we had little chat. Then I took off my fleece and T-shirt. I lay back on the bed, she asked me if it was good and I said yes. She slipped the condom on and took my cock into her mouth. She sucked me, her fingers pressing against my balls, I was groaning and gasping and writhing beneath her lips. Then she used more pressure, I could feel her lips hard on my cock. I could feel the shift in tension and it felt incredible.

I could remember the last time I’d had a blow job like that, it was about 15 years ago!

Anna continues to suck hard, my hand explored her body as she knelt on all fours beside me. She kept looking back at me out of the corner of her eye. So sexy.

The enjoyment continued to build and build. I wanted to cum but I didn’t want it to end. She was so hot. She sucked, her lips so hard on my cock.

I came. The condom filled, and Anna gently removed her lips. She gave me a little stroke of affection.

You need to wash up, she asked, but I said no, I would go round the corner back to my hotel. She went to the bathroom as I got dressed. I was still hard, so I kept the condom on but used the kitchen towel she gave me to wrap up my cock in case of spillage. As she was washing her hands and mouth she watched me as I got dressed in her bathroom mirror. I can see you, she said with a smile. We continued to chat for a few minutes. We’d been chatting despite her bad English almost all the time I wasn’t gasping or she had her mouth full. I gave her a tip and told her I might be back tomorrow if I had any energy left. I literally gave her everything in my wallet, which was probably only about 100 euros, so I had to get some more money out. She said I’m welcome anytime. Very sweet girl.

Breathing Space By Time Barrow

Through the darkness, I could see her rocking slowly, rhythmically in the hand-crafted chair, just off-center atop a small, round rug I imagined she’d woven with skills passed down from her mother’s mother. The chair’s soft creaking reminded me of the aged wooden door she’d opened to me, only hours earlier.

I’d had no agenda and actually hoped to reach the western Ireland hostel before sunset. But when she’d beckoned hesitantly from her front porch and with the sun almost down, I rerouted that plan across the small field. Maybe I wasn’t that attached to my destination, maybe it was that simple beckoning invite that hinted at a need I might assist with, maybe it was because the light behind her detailed her lower figure through her floral dress. Regardless, I easily found myself playing the part of a weary traveler, just looking for a respite from the rain.

We didn’t share a word, not even awkward small talk, before I’d shed the backpack and she began removing my wet clothes. When she shifted her attention to unbuttoning her own top, we started the feverish exchange of intermittently helping each other and removing our own items. The subsequent hours passed, actively.

I watched her in the chair, as Connemara’s nearly-full August moon extend through the wooden blinds, casting symmetrical stripes that rose and fell, ebbed and flowed across her small, nude body, strong and toned in a way daily labor produces. I’d spent my 15th summer on my uncle’s Missouri farm, learning to feed, milk, and shear sheep by day, and to whittle their likeness at night, while watching my aunt prepare full meals after a long day’s work in the field and barn.

She slowed the chair and leaned to light a wide candle on the side table. The match’s flare and resulting glow exposed her beauty in a way I’d not seen before. She was young, far younger than I’d first assumed. Her jaded, albeit kind, face belied an aged existence that had not likely seen twenty-three full years.

The men’s clothes I saw hanging might not be those of her husband, but rather of her father. It mattered little, he was the same character, serving the same role: older, quiet, distant, cruel… a rare cruelty I’d now seen twice in my life, delivered flippantly, even unconsciously, in a way that at best sidesteps—at worst exceeds—physical and verbal abuse, that takes youth and shelves it in a place so secluded that if you’re lucky enough to find it again, it’s so diseased and deteriorated and unfamiliar that you no longer recognize it, remember what it was or what do with it, and don’t want it, anyway. So, you go back to the cruelty that took it away from you, because that’s all that you know.

In the flickering light, atop the side table, lay a buck knife, a hand-whittled sheep, and a framed picture of four people, one of which could have been her.

She rose from the chair. As she walked to the kitchen, a single, glistening drop of perspiration ran down from beneath her hair and disappeared in the small of her back. My own salty liquid reawakened the fresh nail-borne stings on my shoulders. I sat on the edge of the low bed, forearms on my knees, imagining sweat was blood as it ran down onto the already-sodden sheets.

She returned with two mugs of tea, set one by my feet, and ran her still-warm, callused hand across my back, bringing a welcomed sting to my scrapes. Her touch brought an emotion that dominated the discomfort by far, especially being she’d left the bed so quickly after our experience, not staying to cling, an act I’d always rather enjoyed. I remained in a delirium of pained satiation until she felt the impromptu massage complete and returned to the rocker with her own mug.

Taking a small blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around my waist, I picked up the tea and walked over to her, sliding down the wall until I was sitting on my heels. To warm my hands, I held the coarse mug between them in begging bowl fashion and sipped from between my thumbs. She gazed into her own mug. Since she continued to distance herself, perhaps she wanted me to leave.

“How long should I stay?”

She appeared uncomfortable, glancing into my eyes, then looking down, and replied, “He was due back this morning.”

Neither of us spoke until we finished our tea and then found ourselves in an effusive series of discussions on flowers, clouds, rain, sharks, tattoos, and wooden flutes. Eventually, we fell silent. She stood, took my hand, and led me back to the bed.

Before the sun rose, we enjoyed one more lengthy encounter. I imagine both my attention and performance were at least mildly affected by the sound of every passing truck that might telegraph his return. We slept late, and I awoke with her sleeping head upon my chest and with an elation her face had likely not seen in years. The smile was enough to quell both my perceived distance and any feeling of wrongdoing.

I let her sleep, while I made a late breakfast of eggs and ham, which we completed largely in silence, though amidst a sea of smiles and a giggle or two. After, she hand-washed the dishes and hummed songs unknown to me, while I collected my things and stuffed my backpack, including the whittled sheep I hoped wouldn’t be missed,

Just inside the door, I held her, and kissed her long on the neck until she gently pulled away. I knew nothing about her, but I felt something genuine for her. Whether it was her taut body I’d welcome waking up to for the next 40+ years, the rural lifestyle that seemed a bit too inviting, or something deeper, like never knowing if this one is the one, I would miss her… more than I should.

For a moment, I considered inviting her on my directionless Ireland journey, away from a situation I couldn’t know to a path I didn’t know. I quickly shed the idea. I’d done enough. She was no wounded wren that needed any uninitiated care. At least, I didn’t think she’d suggested such in voice or action.

Wandering into what was indecipherably either late morning mist or lightly falling rain, I pulled the carved sheep from my pack’s side pocket, clutched it, and headed North.