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

Harry was uptight.

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

Harry was no loser.

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

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

His parents had taught him to be impeccable.

The parents themselves?

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

What goes around, comes around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At that moment, Harry’s phone rang.

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

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

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

His dream fuck.

Harry was terrified.

“He-… Hello?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lucy exploded out into an insecure laugh.

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

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

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

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

“You live not far from here, right?”

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

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

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

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

“See you soon.”

“Bye,” she whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tha-… thanks.”

Harry took the bottle of wine, shaking his head.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

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

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

“I’ll get two glasses.”

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

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

“Oh, my God.,” she exclaimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No response. “Uhm, uhm …”

She looked up, licking her lips.

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

Harry nodded slowly, clutching the plate.

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

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

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

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

Harry nodded. “Yes, I do. Often.”

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

Harry nodded again.

“I like that,” she said.

Harry chuckled nervously.

“What’s that in your pants?”

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

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

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

“Uh-huh,” he groaned.

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

“Gosh,” Harry croaked. “Dunno…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry moaned something unintelligible.

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

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

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

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

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

And fuck her, he did.

Hard.

Harry did not recognize himself.

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

“Yes, Lucy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yummy sperm,” she swooned­.

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a sin,” he said.

Lucy laughed. “Who says?”

“Society,” Harry says.

Lucy sighed. “Who are we hurting?”

Harry looked over at Lucy, surprised.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

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

Harry looked away, wondering silently to himself.

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

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

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

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

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

“And faith.”

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

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

Harry did.

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

“Here’s to Kama Sutra,” he giggled.

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

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

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

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

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

Harry lived a good and very fulfilled life.

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Paradise By Ty Vossler

An island paradise, all-inclusive, water sports, yoga, massage, aromatherapy…

The advertisement went on to describe a rich, natural experience waiting for adventurous couples.

After fifteen years of marriage, we deserved it, needed it. Lucia and I lived busy lives trying to balance work with family so that our three-year-old, Rita, would have memories of energetic, fun-loving parents when she was older. Yet, sometimes our best efforts weren’t sufficient to stave off evening lethargy. Lovemaking became ritualized, so that that every two weeks Lucia obligingly opened her thighs and said, “This’s just for you, Mr. Costner.”

Sixteen years ago Lucia obtained an educational visa from her native Mexico. I had just published my first novel, and was invited as a guest speaker for an English class at an adult school. I noticed Lucia right away sitting in the back, flashing her thousand-watt smile. She had inscrutable almond-shaped eyes, and short-cropped black hair. It all boiled down to chemistry—even as I delivered my lecture and started the class on writing project. There was just something about her. I pursued, she let me chase, and after a good amount of time, she slowed down enough for me to catch her.

# # #

After all these years, Lucia and I still love each other. After time, marriages evolve into a series of agreements, and sometimes they’re not healthy—companionship without passion, a sexless friendship. We were determined never to allow this. Middle age was upon us and we determined not to evolve into old fogies.

We live on a small family ranch in Tlaxcala, Mexico with Lucia’s mother, her stepfather and a younger half-brother. As teachers, we enjoy a simple life. Our combined earnings allowed us to travel a bit. Yet, disconnectedness had crept into our relationship—a natural consequence of responsibility. Occasionally, Lucia’s mother babysat, allowing Lucia and me to catch a movie, enjoy a quiet dinner, or sneak off to a motel for a few hours. Those stolen moments were spiritual, magical, yet far and few between. Just as we reacquainted, the date ended and we were thrust back into our busy worlds.

Clothing optional, said the ad, rekindle your passion, make new friends––couples only…

“It’s worth a try,” I said.

“Two days and nights—but it’s so expensive.” She countered.

“We’re worth it.”

“Rita will be in heaven. She’ll be the center of the universe for her grandparents.”

“Spoiled rotten when we return.”

“I’m going to try and lose my belly,” Lucia determined. Her figure was matronly after the birth of Rita.

“I think you’re just right,” I said.

“That’s because you still love me. I don’t want to walk around naked on a beach looking like this.” She went into the kitchen.

As Lucia blended a green drink to begin her diet, I set about booking tickets, and with a ceremonious final click our decision became irrevocable.

# # #

It was surreal, departing from temperate Puebla and arriving to the humidity of the Mexican Riviera. We boarded a ferry in, Playa del Carmen, which floated us to Paradise Island, a tropical spit of private land cut off from the mainland by ten miles of turquoise water.  Dressed in a thin, flowery skirt and a red cotton blouse, Lucia looked younger than her forty-five years, and I was still fit at fifty-five.

There were about ten other passengers aboard the ferry. We conversed with an elderly couple that said they’d been returning to the island for the past fifteen years.

“What’s it like?” Lucia got right to the point.

“The fountain of youth,” said the woman.

“Like being a kid again,” said the man.

Lucia and I went to the front railing of the ferry and let the ocean spray mist our bodies. Rita dominated our conversations until we docked at the island. What was Rita doing at that moment? She was getting so tall, wasn’t she? We’ll have to find something to bring back for her. Should we call to make sure everything’s all right? It took some time for the jungle atmosphere of the island to trickle its way into our consciousness.

Attractive young men dressed in linen shorts and a Hawaiian shirts welcomed us at the dock. Waiters carrying a tray loaded with extra large margaritas followed him closely. Each visitor got the royal treatment. They all spoke Spanish, yet my grasp was good enough by then to understand.

Our host had large, brown eyes and an easy smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Costner, on behalf of our entire staff, welcome to Paradise. I’m Mario, and I’ll be showing you to your bungalow.”

“Thank you. Please call me, Wyler, and this is, Lucia.”

He shook my hand and kissed Lucia on the cheek. We gratefully sipped as Mario took us on a walking tour.

“Your things will be placed in your room for you.” He pointed out gravel trails leading to various locations on the island. We saw naked couples, young and old, walking hand in hand. Most were just like us—imperfect bodies. Yet none of them seemed self-conscious.

“I feel better now,” Lucia whispered. She had managed to lose some of the puffiness in her tummy, yet not as much as she’d hoped. Squeezing her hand, I smiled and bumped her hips with mine.

We were led to our bungalow, a handsome whitewashed stucco affair with a thatch roof, French doors, and large windows all around. Dominating the bedroom was a king-size bed covered with colorful throw pillows. Snuggled in an ice bucket was a bottle of champagne. The ambiance was beginning to humidify any concerns we may have had. The bathroom boasted a walk-in shower that doubled as a wet sauna, with a tiled bench wide enough to lie on.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the garden,” Mario said, opening double doors to the back yard. Orchids dripped from privacy walls—there was a large outdoor table with cushioned chairs and a private Jacuzzi surrounded by thick candles. Between two ancient Jacaranda trees hung a hammock built for two.

“Here’s my card,” the Mario smiled, “If there’s any way I can be of service, don’t hesitate to call.” He gave Lucia an uplifted eyebrow and excused himself.

“Mario wants to service you,” I chided.

“Mmm,” she moaned, “shall I call?” She held out the card.

I shook my head, “You’re all mine, Mrs. Costner,” and took her into my arms. Of course, I wanted her straight away. Lucia suggested that we stroll the island to allow the champagne to chill. We followed a trail—not remembering where Mario said it would lead. The island was small enough that we couldn’t get lost.

Being surrounded by so much flesh was intimidating at first. Yet everyone was very friendly, stopping to ask where we were from and how long we’d be staying. One man was strolling alone and he stopped to smile at us.

“Bit hot for clothes,” he said, “isn’t it?’

Lucia didn’t skip. She was out of her clothes in less than a minute. I followed her lead, not wanting to appear prudish.

Much better,” the man said, nodding at Lucia.

We continued on the trail. Songbirds filled the perfumed air and we heard the chattering of monkeys and parrots.

“Wonder what Rita’s doing?” Lucia asked.

“Enjoying a vacation away from her parents,” I said.

“Touché.”

The humidity made us perspire, yet the ocean breeze cooled like a ceiling fan. The trail terminated abruptly at a lushly forested oasis, fed by a ten-foot waterfall. On a manmade flagstone embankment beside the cascade, a couple was making love. We spied from a camouflage of orchids. A handsome middle-aged black man was attending to a beautiful brown-skinned Polynesian-looking woman. She groaned deeply and dug her heels into his lower back as he plunged forward.

“Oh god, that’s good,” she moaned, “I love your cock…mmm.”

They were sweating and oblivious to rest of the world. I stepped behind Lucia to put my arms around her. Their primitive utterances meshed seamlessly with the forest sounds of water, birds, frogs, and the clattering forest animals.

We watched for another minute before withdrawing soundlessly and finding the beach trail.

“That was—

“Pretty sexy,” I finished.

“Yes. Did you see his—?

“Very impressive.”

“She liked it.”

“Like to try it out?”

“Let’s find the beach.”

Along the way, I stopped to kiss her beneath a canopy of trees, smelling the ocean and feeling like Adam. I wanted her on the forest floor, yet she tugged me toward the sound of the sea.

There were about two-dozen others laying beneath the sun, or shaded by large umbrellas at wooden tables. Others swam in the clear waters of the Caribbean. A quaint little grass hut bar served refreshments, and cheery waiters kept everyone hydrated. It was all part of the package.

Lucia drew plenty of notice as we walked. Her large brown nipples were stiff and the gentle swell of her tummy curved down into a dark, natural thatch.

We walked to where the sugary beach ended in a border of large boulders. A natural stone archway led through to a thin, sandy path. We followed the weaving footpath around more boulders and stumbled upon another couple blocking the path.

“Oops,” Lucia said.

The woman stopped churning over her partner, “Hi…oyyy,” and she resumed, sending him in and out of with graceful, ballet-like movements. “Don’t go away…mmm!” She was a beautiful black woman with straight dark hair flowing midway down her back. Her Latin lover urged her on in Spanish.

“Que rico, ay si, eso se siento bien!”

“Like that baby?”

“Ay si…me vengo!”

“Yeah baby, cum…let me feel it!” She gave us an enigmatic smile as he growled and spurted. She lay for a moment on top, and then lifted off of him. “Let’s let these people by.”

The man got to his feet and smiled as Lucia and I walked past and found a plot of sand between two boulders by the end of the trail. I kissed her, and the memory of what we’d seen so far made my cock into stone.

Lucia and I assembled our clothes into a makeshift bed. Yet, rather than lying down, she bent over, placed her hands on top of a low boulder and splayed her legs. I opened her ass-cheeks, bent my knees and slipped in easily between the mocha-colored folds of her lips. She groaned deeply and reached a hand between her legs to massage her tiny pearl- drop. Within minutes her pussy was quivering. She gasped and I felt her flex around me. I watched her asshole contracting with each successive spasm.

“Ay-ay-ayyy,” her pussy squeezed as I drove to the hilt, tapping at her  tissue boundary.

The other couple watched. Lucia bent her knees so that I slipped out, and then she lay on the makeshift bed. I settled between her brown legs and she waved over my shoulder to our audience.

Provecho,” said the man.

I lifted Lucia’s knees, scooted forward and pushed inside. The natural sunlight illuminated every detail of her snatch. Again, Lucia found her tiny clitoris. Our climax coincided and I cupped her ass, pushed in all the way and growled, spurting over and over. I stayed hard until her final shivering follow-up. When I pulled out, a stream of semen tangled in the pubic hair around her slit, and dripped on our clothes. We were both sweating profusely.

The onlookers blew kisses and walked back toward the beach. I brushed sand from Lucia’s backside and she wiped semen from her trickling snatch with my underwear.

“Hey, why not yours?” I complained.

“You’re responsible for this mess, Mister Costner,” she reprimanded.

We followed the trail to the beach. Ironically, both couples we’d seen earlier were cooling off in the shallows. The black woman waved for us to join them.

“I need to rinse off anyway,” said Lucia.

It seemed odd being introduced in waist deep water to people we’d just watched fucking.

The waterfall lovers were William and Tasha. Enrique and Maribel were the beach couple. The men’s eyes roved over Lucia and I have to admit, she was the prettiest fish in the sea.

Lucia is able to carry out a conversation about almost anything, captivating others with intellect, humor, and her unconscious sensuality. She has what the French refer to as, je nais se quoi. I’m more of a listener, although I can hold my own if I have to. We briefly shared personal essentials. William was a retired professional baseball player. I knew enough about baseball to recognize his name, and impressed him by recalling that he’d won a batting title. Maribel was an architect, Tasha owned an import store, and her husband, Enrique, was a real estate broker. Obviously, they’d come to an adult understanding regarding the sharing of spouses. William laughed when Lucia told him she was a math professor.

“When I was playing ball, I couldn’t even figure out my own batting average.”

I shared a blog site where they could purchase or download my books and short stories.

“Brought my Kindle,” said Maribel, “I’ll check you out tonight.”

“Not tonight, baby,” reminded William.

“Oh, that’s right,” she nodded.

Enrique turned to Lucia, “We have the leisure hall reserved for tonight. Would you and Wyler like to join us?”

“What’s happening there?” The look of innocence on Lucia’s face was priceless.

“Ah, well, you never know what might happen,” answered Tasha.

Lucia smiled and waited for my input. The warm water was full of colorful fish and the moment was intoxicating. “Sure, we’d love to,” I answered.

The island leeched anxieties from our minds and a crisp, cool breeze whispered of adventure in Paradise. After a time, we said our farewells and agreed to meet at nine in the leisure hall.

On the journey back to the bungalow, we wondered about Rita. After a cold shower, we called home and listened to her adorable rendition of, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Then my mother-in-law gave us a delightful summary of her day with Rita.

We optioned for clothes to have dinner. Lucia wore a spaghetti-strap red dress that showcased her smooth brown back, cut low in front to reveal other assets. I’m admittedly biased, but Lucia was the most delightful looking woman in the dining room. I opted for a simple pairing of beige linen slacks, and a black cotton shirt. We sipped a cold, refreshing white wine and ordered seafood dinner salads.

“What do you think will happen tonight?” Lucia asked as the setting sun painted the sky a bright orange.

“You never know,” I repeated Tasha’s words, and arched my eyebrows.

Lucia glanced at her watch. I held her hand, kissed her fingers and told her how much I loved her. She returned my sentiments. After dinner, we took a trail that the waiter said would terminate at the leisure hall.

I wondered if the other two couples had children. The subject hadn’t come up. Lucia and I loved each other, and our beautiful Rita completed us. The island was bridging a gap. The others were probably patching up holes too. Their means were unconventional, yet Lucia and I had enjoyed watching the unfettered freedom of their pleasure, and our subsequent lovemaking was spontaneously stupendous.

“Darling,” Lucia said as we walked, “what if something does happen?”

“How would you feel about it?”

“We love each other, right? It would just be—

“For fun,” I finished. “Let’s see how it plays out.”

Two monkeys darted in front of us, chasing each other. I was reminded of three brittle threads: Fear, Ignorance, and Guilt—puppeteers of modern society. On Paradise Island, primitive instincts were encouraged to frolic and chase, like the monkeys. Eating, fucking, and sleeping were the only valid currency.

Dense forest, heavily scented orchids and jasmine vines surrounded the leisure hall. Forest noises filtered through a light ocean breeze. A double door entrance was open and the inside was illuminated by dozens of candles. Hidden speakers played ambient music.

“Wow,” Lucia whispered. A small man-made cascade splashed from a wall into a pool filled with freshwater tropical fish.

Centered in the room was a large, circular raised platform covered with supple, black leather padding and throw pillows. A hookah pipe with six hoses and an ember pot sat to one side.

“I want one of those,” I gestured to the pipe.

“You had your chance when we visited Istanbul.”

“They sell them in Mexico too.”

We heard distant laughter, and soon the others entered. They were also wearing clothes.

“I never grow tired of this,” William lifted his hands in the air.

They climbed the dais to greet us warmly with hugs and cheeky kisses.

“Ah, the pipe, have you ever tried?” Tasha queried.

“In Turkey,” Lucia answered.

“Are you Turkish?” she asked.

“Mexican. Wyler and I visited Turkey a few years ago.”

“You have such a great look,” Maribel added, “You could be Indian, Japanese, Italian, Middle-eastern…”

William set up the pipe with tobacco that he’d brought with him. “Ah yes… the pipe,” he said.

The fragrance of the pipe was sweet as we sat around it. I put the tip of a hose to Lucia’s lips and she inhaled deeply. When she exhaled, the cloud dissipated rapidly and she said it tasted of rose pedals.

The power of the vapor flowed quickly into our brains, and after three or four pulls the candlelight seemed to sway rather than flicker. Lucia leaned her head on my shoulder.

“What’s in this stuff?” I chuckled.

“Mind cleanser,” said Enrique.

“Spirit awakener,” added Mirabel.

“An aphrodisiac,” added William.

Lucia played her fingers in the air, “I’m floating.”

Enrique was kissing Tasha’s neck and shoulders as he slowly unbuttoned her blouse. Mirabel opened William’s shirt to trap a nipple with her front teeth.

I lifted Lucia’s face for a kiss. The mysterious vapor made our lips super-sensitive. I lowered a strap on her dress and took a brown nipple into my mouth.

Within the vaporous mist moans issued, along with sighs, and moist sounds. We observed each other. Enrique saw Lucia lift her dress over her head. Tasha’s eyes followed as I lowered my pants and Lucia leaned back on her hands and lifted her ass for me to pull her panties off.

“Gotta love that,” William smiled and nodded slowly as he gazed at Lucia’s snatch. Mirabel whispered something into his ear and his smile broadened.

I took Lucia into my arms and peppered her with kisses. My cock was pulsating— lifting with each beat of my heart. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Tasha take Enrique into her mouth. Lucia watched William lift Mirabel’s thighs to bury his face between them.

Time slowed to a single pulse. There were no questions, only answers lying everywhere around us. Moments focused and blurred as Lucia’s hand closed around my cock and jacked me back and forth. Then, there was movement—bodies shifting. Somehow I was on my back and Tasha was giving me head. Enrique was pushing into her from behind. Lucia was on my left with William between her legs. Her hands were flat against his chest as Maribel sucked her nipples. I saw William slide his knees forward. His mouth opened as if he’d found something he liked.

I didn’t remember us wanting this, yet we must have. Tasha was painting my cock with her tongue and I shut my eyes tightly. When I opened them, Mirabel was grasping William’s broad shaft and teasing it up and down over Lucia’s outer lips. She was thrusting desperately against him.

“Get inside…ohhh, get inside me,” she begged. Her eyes were glazed and she groaned deeply, rubbing her calves over his ass.

“You think you can handle this cock? You’re such a tiny little thing…” Mirabel teased.

“Ay, yes…I want it,” Lucia answered.

William pushed—Lucia’s head jerked back and her mouth opened wide. She gasped and drew a deep breath. Her eyes were tightly closed as William gradually disappeared down and in.

“Ahhh, now that’s some tight pussy…ahhh, Jesus.” He smiled over at me as reached Lucia’s boundary. She let out a long, staccato groan, and Mirabel kissed her.

“You did it…you took every inch of that big cock. Feel good?”

“Ayyy, yes…huh…ugh, ayyy…”

“Mmm,” William moaned. He pulled back and stroked forward.

Tasha paused on my cock because she was cumming. Enrique’s balls slapped against her ass and her orgasm was a high seagull cry. I reach up to twist her nipples and turned again to watch Lucia with William.

William drew back his impressive length and Lucia pulled him back in with her legs. He leaned forward for a kiss her and Mirabel was there—all three tongues lashed hungrily as he continued relentlessly, back and forth. Lucia was panting now—circling her hips—delirious.

“Ohhh… ayyy… huh, guh… oh, oh…” she crested and spilled over, “Oh guh… ayyy!” Her head thrashed side-to-side and she ground against him.

Tasha straddled me and lowered over my cock. Enrique put a dab of jelly on his cock and pushed into her asshole. I felt Enrique’s cock through the thin separating membrane. Tasha twisted her nipples and shouted, “Ohhh my god…ohhh, shit!”

Mirabel straddled Lucia’s face now, and Lucia was licking but had to stop when another climax loomed, “Hyyy, ohhh, ay, ay, ayyy!” Her climaxes was monumental. Her head jerked back, as William thrust harder.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” He grunted with every forward thrust.

Lucia gripped his shoulders, “Oh, uh, guh.”

Mirabel urged him on. I heard his balls slapping as he drove into her. Then Mirabel grabbed Lucia’s attention again. “Keep licking, baby…that’s it…yeah…don’t stop…lick my pussy!” Mirabel stiffened, shuddered and then bucked, “Yeah, ohhh yeah, oh right there… ooo, huh… ohhh, oh, oh, ohhh!”

Lucia’s tongue lashed at Mirabel’s clit. She tasted salty and smelled musky. She managed to free a hand and inserted two fingers into her cunt, curling them so that she could stimulate her G-spot. Lucia’s face was soaked with Mirabel’s juices. She turned her head and saw Enrique and Tasha watching her, mesmerized by the spectacle of so much primitive passion spilling out all at once into the room. She felt her juices traveling down her outer lips, into the crack of her ass. Her pleasure combined with everything that was taking place around her and she was surprised to hear herself crying out.

Within the misty vapors, a cacophony of moans sighs outbursts of pleasure. They were awash in the smell of sex—musky and intoxicating. They had become one, adding to the oneness. She heard Wyler growling as he spurted. Lucia transcended mere pleasure now. It was if she were experiencing a strong, continuous orgasm.

William shouted, “I’m gonna nut…oh Jesus…!” He arched his back, pumped his hips, “ohhh, oh shit…oh, oh, awww!” His ball sack lifted and flexed with the force of his ejaculation. Lucia was still cumming, forcing air and semen out from her taut lips.

Enrique grunted, pushed deep into Tasha’s asshole and let out a long groan. Cum dripped to my lower thighs and when he slipped out, it splashed on my legs. We collapsed into an exhausted heap of tangled arms and legs. William pulled back, and my ears were so sensitive that I heard the breaking of suction as his cockhead popped out of Lucia’s gaping cunt. Then there was the sound of semen-laden air frothing out of her. William lay on his side to watch.

Mirabel had her face there, watching her husband’s semen flowing from Lucia. “Dear god…that’s amazing. Push, Lucia…push it out honey.” Lucia pushed. There was the sound of more air escaping wetly. “Jesus, Will, you’ve been savin’ this up.”

“Come here you guys, you gotta see this,” William gestured.

The rest of us gathered to watch the spectacle of a seemingly endless flow of cum seeping from Lucia’s yawning cunt—stretched out by the thickness of William’s cock. Mirabel rubbed my back. “Don’t worry, baby, it’ll shrink back down in a few hours.”

Enrique used two fingers to gather a good amount of semen from around her cunt, and then placed it back inside Lucia. “Oh man, that’s so sexy.”

“Jeez,” said Tasha, Enrique’s ready to go again.”

Lucia’s mouth was still ajar. Her eyes were half open. She closed her legs and began wagging them side-to-side. “Think I’m finished,” she said.

Amazingly, I was hard again. Mirabel looked away from Lucia’s saturated snatch. “Wyler…somethin’ happening there?” She sidled toward me and pushed me to my back. Enrique stilled Lucia’s legs by placing his hands on her knees. Then he opened them and climbed between.

Tasha giggled, “After William… you’re gonna fall in.”

# # #

The cycle was sustained throughout the night. Whatever was in the vapor allowed continuity. When I finally had a turn with Lucia, her pussy was still gaping, and saturated with sperm. I easily slipped in and added more a short time later. Soon after, my cock was eased into Mirabel’s asshole with Enrique on bottom filling her cunt. It all became a blur after that. The last thing I remember was Lucia’s voice saying, “Slow… go slow… uhnn…”

# # #

I awakened within a tangle of arms and legs. Mirabel and Tasha were snuggled into William and Lucia was sandwiched between Enrique and me. She had her back to me with a leg draped over his hip. My cock immediately hardened, and I scooted closer. She twisted her head around.

“Wait,” she whispered. Lucia lifted her leg and I saw that Enrique was still inside of her. She gingerly disengaged and his cock slithered out to slap against his thigh.

Without a word, we wobbled to our feet, found our clothes and padded out into the beginning rays of dawn.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” Lucia complained with each step.

“You okay?”

“I think so. Nothing permanent.”

The sky was turning from pink to orange. Once outside, I took Lucia into my arms. She disengaged for a moment and used her panties to wipe fresh semen from her seeping snatch. Dry sperm covered her pubic hair, her thighs and ass. Even her tits were dotted with dried remains.

“Love you,” I whispered, holding her again.

“Te amo,” she returned, her head fitting against my chest so perfectly.

“Can you walk okay?”

“Think so,” she answered.

Returning to our bungalow, we showered and fell into a deep slumber, arms and legs akimbo. Late afternoon, we awakened and began the day with a long, lingering kiss. My hardness stabbed into her belly.

“How can you even…?” She pulled back and slapped at my cock.

“Guess the effect of the pipe hasn’t quite worn off yet.”

“That was––

“Amazing,” I finished.

“Can’t believe we…”

“Just did that,” I concluded.

“Wonder what Rita’s doing? Should we—?

“Let’s hold off a while longer.” I jabbed her playfully with my cock.

“Darling, I can’t possibly. I’m not even sure I can walk.”

“William,” I said.

“Mmm.”

“Did he fuck you in the…?”

“Mmm.” She nodded. “That’s the sorest part.”

The phone rang and Lucia answered.

“Hi…we’re both fine…tired and sore…yes, I think we can…okay…about seven… okay… ciao.”

“Let me guess—our new friends want to get together?”

Lucia nodded, “Just dinner. They’re exhausted too.”

“Don’t look at me,” I put up my hands defensively.

We took another shower, and as Lucia was soaping her pussy, she said, “It’s not as tender as I thought.”

I took her soapy body into my arms and kissed her. We were reconnected.

 

Squirt on This by Charles E.J. Moulton

  1. Ava, Alienated

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

“How’s work? Still singing?”

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

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

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

That was probably what they were all thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I was angry at Kenneth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reaction was shallow, dismissive and rather arrogant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava’s Physics

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

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

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

Oh, yes, and barbecues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Provocative Ava

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confused, he took it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava’s Inspiration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava Copulates

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, Ava,” he answered.

“Will you do what I tell you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava, Consulated

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

The Intern By Ben Rattle

“Oh my God,” said Clare, “That intern fancies you so much it’s ridiculous. He won’t stop staring.”

Ruth glanced at the young man stood at the bar. Their eyes met. He blushed and looked away.

Ruth shook her head, “Way too young.”

“His names Dom and he’s twenty one. Fresh out of uni.”

“Exactly. Too young. Jesus, can you imagine? He’d be like a rabbit in the headlights. I’d eat him alive.”

“Kinky bitch,” Clare grinned and sucked on her

straw, “Well if you won’t have him I will. I think he’s cute.”

“Be my guest.”

“Don’t be getting jealous now if he turns out to be some sort of super stud. Younger guys, they can go all night.”

Ruth sipped at her vodka and said, “I prefer quality to quantity.”

“Good for you.” Clare got to her feet and swayed unsteadily, “Ooh fuck,” she said, trying to find her balance and smooth down the creases in her skirt at the same time, “Now watch this. Textbook pick up.”

“Don’t do anything you’re going to regret in the morning.”

“As if,” said Clare.

But Dom wasn’t having any of it. And half an hour later Clare stumbled off with a few of the others, for a Friday night kebab. Alone, Ruth finished the last of her drink then picked up her coat and folded it over an arm.

Dom stopped her halfway to the door, dashing over from the bar and jumping in between her and the exit.

“Hi,” he said, his cheeks rosy and flushed.

“Hi,” said Ruth. Not returning his smile.

“You’re not leaving are you?”

“Ah-huh,” Ruth took a step to the side. Dom did too.

“Don’t,” he said, grinning, cocky and sheepish all at once.

“Oh,” said Ruth, “Why?” She gave him her best this had better be good face. The one she had learned from her mum.

“I mean don’t go yet,” said Dom, turning pale, “I noticed you looking over and I’m new and, we haven’t had a chance to talk. Why don’t I buy you a drink?”

Ruth glanced at her watch.

“I’m Dom,” he said, holding out a hand.

“I know,” said Ruth, not shaking it. “It’s late.”

“Just one drink.” Dom his clasped his hands together, “Please. Look, I’ll beg.”

“Don’t,” said Ruth, “That’s not cool.”

“Just one tiny, little, drink.”

“Okay,” said Ruth, “Listen. You do not want a drink with me. I am a bitch, okay?”

“I can take it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright then. But I warned you. And just one then I’m gone.”

“Awesome,” Dom bounded over to the bar. “What can I get you?”

Ruth shook her head reached for her handbag, “I’ll get them.”

“Really?” said Dom, looking confused.

“Yes. I get paid more than you. You’re on like what, two pound an hour?”

“Five twenty.”

“I’ll get them.”

“So,” said Dom, after the barman had placed their drinks in front of them, “Have you been here long? Not here as in here-” he gestured around them, “I mean, at work.”

“I know what you meant,” said Ruth, placing her coat on a stool. “Look, let’s get one thing straight, you’re not my type. I’m just having a drink with you to be polite.”

“Wow. Okay. So, what is your type?”

Ruth shrugged, “Oh I don’t know. Rugged guys, I guess.”

“I’m rugged,” said Dom, frowning.

“Sure you are. With those pretty curls.”

“Dom put a hand to his head and ruffled his long brown locks. Your friend said I had nice hair.”

“My friend eats pork scratchings and listens to Justin Bieber.”

Dom shrugged, “Well you’re not my type. Too snooty.”

And stuck up. And this whole mega bitch thing…obviously an act. I bet you sleep with cuddly toys and wear Frozen pyjamas.”

“I so do not.”

“Prove it. Take me back to yours.”

“Persistent aren’t you?”

Dom smiled over the rim of his glass, “I always get what I want.”

Ruth narrowed her eyes. “Okay,” she said, tapping a scarlet nail against her glass, “You can come back to mine. But I have to warn you, I don’t do vanilla.”

“I don’t get you,” said Dom.

“I mean, I like things a bit, spicy.”

“Oh,” Dom’s face lit up, “You mean, like chains and shit. Like-” he leaned in close, “Like Fifty Shades. That’s cool.”

“Is it now?” said Ruth. “Well here’s how it is. There’s something I’d like to try with you. Something a bit…different. If you let me do it, afterwards, you can have me however you want.”

Dom’s mouth dropped.

Ruth stepped up close and whispered in his ear: “You can fuck my mouth, my pussy. Maybe even my ass. Any position. All yours.” She stepped back and held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”

“What is it that you want too-”

Ruth shook her head, “No questions, or the deal is off.”

Dom swallowed hard and said, “And you’ll let me-however I want?”

“You have my word.”

“Okay, deal.”

“Excellent,” said Ruth, her eyes glittering. “Come on then.”

Ruth took the drink from his hand and pulled him towards the exit. Outside, she hailed a taxi and they sat in the back not speaking. At a red light Dom tried to kiss her on the lips, but Ruth pulled away and wagged a finger in his face telling him, “Not ’till I say so.”

Soon Dom was sat on Ruth’s sofa with a grey and very old cat curled, dribbling, on his left shoulder.

“He likes you,” said Ruth, handing Dom a whiskey, “You should be flattered. Last time I brought a guy back Lucifer shat in his shoes.”

“Please don’t do that to me,” said Dom, tickling under the cat’s chin, “I only bought these yesterday.”

Ruth sat beside him and rested a hand on his knee. Dom shivered, the muscles of his thigh contracting under her touch.

“Relax,” said Ruth, running her fingers over his knee cap. “And drink up. I want you a bit pissed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Just a bit though.”

“Okay,” Dom swallowed a slug of whiskey and began to cough. “Eurgh,”he said, “That’s minging.”

“That’s very expensive single malt whiskey.”

“Do I have to finish it?”

Ruth nodded and traced her finger slowly up his thigh, eyes fixed on the swelling in his trousers. She frowned and pulled away, “You’re not a virgin are you?”

“No,” said Dom, his lips pulled back over his gums as he drained the last drop of amber liquid in his glass. “Course not.”

“Good. So tell me,” Ruth rested her hand on Dom’s bulge and smiled as she felt it twitch and strain against the fabric of his chino’s, “How many girls have you fucked?”

“Eight,” said Dom, gasping, eyes half shut.

Ruth squeezed his balls.

“Ow. Okay, four.”

“Tell me about your first time.”

“I was seventeen.”

“How old was she?”

“Fifteen,” said Dom, after a moment’s hesitation.

Ruth shook her head.

“Naughty boy.” She unzipped his trousers and pulled out his cock, “And?”

“We did it in a field. A corn field.”

“Really?”

Dom nodded. “Her Dad was a farmer.”

“Farmer’s daughter. Lucky boy. Did she have freckles and blonde hair?”

Dom shook his head.

“Fat with big tits. Oh Jesus,” he stared down at Ruth’s hand in his lap, her nails making a crimson ring around his shaft as she worked him slowly up and down. “Jesus,” he said again.

Ruth whipped her hand away: “You’re not going to cum are you?”

“No,” said Dom, his breathing shallow.

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s hot.”

Ruth jumped off the sofa. “Okay, you need to calm down. Clothes off. I want you naked.”

Ruth folded her arms and watched as he pulled his t-shirt over his head. Soon he was down to shorts and white sport socks.

“My God,” said Ruth, shaking her head, “Do you live in a gym?”

“I like to stay in shape,” said Dom flexing his abs, “Not bad heh?”

“Whatever,” Ruth gestured to his feet, “You can keep those on, but the tighty whities need to come off.”

“What about you?” said Dom, wriggling out of his shorts and clasping a hand over his manhood.

Ruth smiled, “Oh, I’ve got something special to get into.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said, stepping forward and getting down on her knees. She moved his hand aside and took him in her mouth, swirling her tongue around the tip of his cock.

“That’s just a taste of what you can have later,” she said, standing up and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, “If you’re a good boy. Wait here. I’ll call you when it’s time for you to come in.”

Shutting the bedroom door behind her, Ruth kicked off her shoes and soon stood as naked as her victim. She stopped to admire herself briefly in the mirror, then reached under the bed for her basket of toys, rummaging inside until she found what she needed.

But would he go through with it, she wondered. The million dollar question. And how would she look him in the eye at work if he did? Assuming he came back at all and didn’t run away, scarred for life.

Bollocks. It would be a box ticked. For both of them. And the cocky little twat needed to learn you had to be careful what you wished for.

When she was ready, she lay on the bed with her legs spread and shouted his name.

The door opened a moment later and Dom peered in.

“Come in then,” said Ruth.

Dom froze in the doorway. “What the fuck is that?”

Ruth stroked the rubber cock strapped to her crotch, “What this?

“Yes. Exactly. What the fuck is that?”

“This is Tyson.”

“Why’s it called Tyson?”

“Well, it’s big and black. And if you want to fuck me-”Ruth got to her knees and crawled to the edge of the bed, “Then Tyson and your tight little arsehole are going to get very well acquainted.”

Dom’s face crumpled. His dick wilted.

Ruth chewed on her bottom lip and said, “Don’t be scared.”

“It’s huge.”

“I’ll be gentle.”

“And what’s with all the…veins?”

“Sexy aren’t they?”

“They’re terrifying.”

Ruth sighed. “Okay,” she said, “We had a deal but okay. I guess you’re too much of a pussy. Fine. But then you can’t have this-”

Ruth opened her legs and hooked a finger under the leather harness, inching it to the side.

“Oh God,” said Dom, staring at her cunt. Ruth ran a finger up and down her lips, already moist and swollen. “Come here,” she ordered.

Dom stepped forward. Ruth grasped his hand and held it between her legs.

“Don’t you want your cock in there?”

“Yes,” said Dom, his fingers edging inside.

Ruth grasped his wrist, pulled him out of her and wrapped his wet hand around the dildo.

“So, is the deal still on?”

Dom took a deep breath, “I guess,” he said. He stared at the rubber shaft in his hand then, eyes widening, recoiled as though it were a venomous snake: “You won’t tell anyone will you?”

“As if,” said Ruth, mouth falling open in mock shock. She pulled him forward and put his hand back on her dick. “Scouts honour. And for God’s sake don’t look so nervous, you might enjoy it.”

“I doubt it.”

“We’ll see.” Eyes gleaming, Ruth grabbed a handful of his locks and tugged his head back, baring his throat. “Well now muscle boy,” she whispered, her teeth grazing his neck, “You are my little bitch, got it?”

Dom mumbled yes. Ruth yanked on his hair.

“Say it.”

“Shit. I’m your bitch.”

“Good boy. Now get down there and show me how you suck cock.”

“Wait,” said Dom, “I don’t know where it’s been.”

Ruth stood up and pushed Dom to his knees. She grinned down at him and said, “Don’t worry, it hasn’t been in any guys. You’re my first. Doesn’t that make you feel special bitch?”

Ruth grabbed the back of his head and began to screw his mouth, the harness pressing tight on her clit as she thrust her hips back and forth.

“Fuck,” she said, digging her fingers into his scalp, twisting them in his hair-loving the way his face had gone red and kind of puckered, like he was sucking on a lemon. She could cum like this if she let herself. His brown eyes staring up at her, pleading for the humiliation to be over.

No. Save it. She yanked her dick out of his mouth and said, “Ready little boy?”

He didn’t look ready. More like he was about to walk in front of a firing squad. But he stood up anyway and bent over the edge of the bed.

Ruth ran her hands over the ridges of muscle in his back and trailed them down to the cleft of his buttocks. He shivered as she peeled his cheeks apart and flinched as she ran a probing finger around his anus.

“You need to relax,” she purred, “Have you never done anal?”

“Once, kind of. We couldn’t really get it in.”

“You probably rushed it. You have to take your time and work up to it or it’s not good. Pass me the lube.”

Dom peered at her over his shoulder, “Is this going to hurt?”

Ruth dropped a pearly drop of jelly onto his arsehole, “Not if you get into it. There,” she said, pushing a finger half way inside him, “That’s not too bad is it?”

“Fuck.”

“Breathe. Relax, let it in.”

“Fuck,” said Dom again, burying his face in the duvet and sounding like he’d been punched in the stomach. Ruth smacked him on the arse.

“Turn around. I want you on your back. Legs in the air. Two fingers this time.” She locked her eyes onto his, “There, you like it. I can see you do.”

Dom shook his head. Ruth laughed and reached for his cock with her free hand.

“So why’s this so hard?”

“I’m not gay,” said Dom, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Don’t be a prick. Stop fighting it.” Ruth curled her fingers up inside him and said, “G spot bitch. Feels good doesn’t it?”

“Oh my god.” said Dom, his dick swelling as Ruth pushed deeper inside him.

“Just go with it. Surrender to me.” She yanked her fingers out fast making Dom shudder and poured lube on her cock. “Eyes open. I want you to watch it go in. And for fuck’s sake, wank yourself off,” Ruth grasped her shaft and held it in position: “I’m going to peel you like an orange little boy.”

Afterwards they both collapsed, gasping onto the bed, drops of cum drying on their naked bodies. Ruth lit a fag and smoked with her eyes shut. Dom just lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Forehead creased in a frown.

“Tell me that wasn’t the best orgasm you ever had?” said Ruth turning towards him.

“You said you’d be gentle.”

“I got carried away watching you moan.”

“My arse hurts.”

“You’ll be okay in a day or so. And if you ever you fuck a girl in the arse you’ll appreciate how she feels.”

Dom sat up and stretched the muscles of his arms. He gazed at Ruth’s curves, eyes drinking up the swell of her breasts, her stomach and the soft mound between her legs, with its tuft of brown hair.

“You know what,” he said, his cock starting to stiffen, “You are so right. I really will. Now, where’s that lube?”

“Hang on,” said Ruth, propping herself up on her elbows, “You’ve literally just cum.”

Dom shrugged and grasped his dick, “I can go all night,” he said. “Besides, we had a deal, remember? Now you’re my bitch.”

The Sexiest Man in the City By Steve Slavin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Exactly.”

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

“Because your doing this legitimizes the mission.”

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

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

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

“OK Katlin, that I follow.”

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

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

“Here’s the note.”

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

“Do you think he saw you videoing?”

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

# # #

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

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

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

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

“And I certainly remember you!”

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

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

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

“I’m flattered.”

“So would you like to watch my video?”

“You bet I would!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just stood there with his mouth open.

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

Travelling the Horny Moon By Charles E.J. Moulton

Xavier’s fingers raced across the keyboard, his mind working faster than his hands could follow suit. The light of the full moon journeyed from outer space through the stratosphere, hitting that computer, the ticking clock on the wall remaining as much an object as the machine in front of him.

The clock, however, was, as ever, too slow for his taste. It was almost as if Xavier worked to fill the seconds with more words, as well as with more than words. And yet – and yet – the slow and solemn night, combined with Xavier’s quick inspiration, somehow changed his perception of time. Fast became slow and slow became fast, time transformed into merely organized digits and eternal timelessness arose from the depths into his spirit.  It reminded him of his grandfather’s successful promises kept, fabricating clock upon clock in his workshop back in Lyon.

He had created this clock for Xavier. It still hung there, ticking, constant, reliable. And yet Xavier’s mind worked faster at night. Like Xavier’s literary work, his grandfather’s craft thrived on detail. Every clock had been a masterpiece. Every one was an original. Like he had been one: him, the grandfather. Like his grandfather had claimed Xavier was unique or every person was unique – every man and every woman.

“Ah, oui,” his grandfather had said. “The women are fascinating! So elusive and mysterious, quite a riddle, but a lovely one!”

This clock, eternal although time-constricted, had a picture painted on its surface of landscape, a shore with a beach and trees lit up by a moon. It was spiritual and yet sensual. Xavier’s wife had fallen in love with that clock and hung it up at that very place where it hung now. It had hung there since their honeymoon, or the “horny moon”, as she lovingly had called it. That had become a code word for sex ever since. Travelling to the Maledives for their “horny moon” and literally fucking themselves through it, that was one thing. The fact, however, was that their lust seemed to increase every actual full moon, but maybe it was just the fact that the moon inspired love.

Anyway, horny moons or no, Xavier’s wife’s boobs resembled actual moons and Xavier’s dick a rocket, so the married couple pretended that Xavier’s rocket came flying up between the two biggest moon of Saturn, squirting out its fuel on its neighbour Venus. Sometimes, they just called it titfucking.

Through the years, Xavier had watched his grandfather work, his reliability a buffer of strength. He had come to realize how like him he was: studious, hardworking and, he hoped, eloquent. Xavier’s articles thus turned rather eloquent in the end, his proofread stories seemed like fresh editions, his corrected book good enough to be published and his submissions professional. His literary skills were like clockwork: his timing was impeccable.

Time was of the essence and within the essence there was eloquence.

Outside now, though, the Queen of the Night had thrown over her brilliant blanket across the world, waiting, hoping, meditating. The stars glittering, the full moon graced the heavens brightly enough to re-awaken Xavier’s inner werewolf with the hot erection.

Xavier wanted to copulate. Who was he kidding? Xavier wanted to fuck. Inside his glass, the red Rioja reflected the lit candle’s flickering flame. Fuego’s breath exhaled sex into the fibres of his erect arousal. Time was of the essence. Inside the glass, time stood still.

Xavier found himself again being the only night-owl. His workaholic mind couldn’t stop fluttering and flying into new spheres, mixing genres, erotic with sci-fi and comedy with horror, sending off new stories to new publishers and wondering what horizons would meet him at the end of the next rainbow.

The dainty snores of his family, though, proved to be too inviting to reject. He listened for his wife’s sweet snore, her sweet restful sleep hopefully strength-gathering enough to snooze until the morning.

“What are you doing, Mom? Dad?” his daughter had asked them yesterday, walking in to their bedroom unannounced, just as Xavier found his big cock entering his wife’s hot pussy again for the one-thousandth time.

“Extreme cuddling,” Xavier had mused shyly.

And boy, had his daughter ever told her girlfriends what her father had told her as he laid on Mom. Their natural way of raising his daughter felt right, teaching her that her parents made love because it felt good. Maybe she could find a respectful husband one day with whom she could raise a free thinking and spiritual child. Their openness was neither compulsive nor was it forbidding, neither was it preachy nor revolutionary.

Sex, Xavier felt, was neither a sin nor was it against God’s wishes. Sex, Xavier felt, was creation at work, a unity of bodies and souls.

At its faithful and respectful best, sex was love.

No more, no less.

Flop. His laptop made a clicking sound as he closed it, followed by a cocky knock-back of fermented Spanish grape-juice. The house welcomed him to rest as he journeyed with the glass to the kitchen, the light of the moon again hitting the empty cold memory of wine.

Fabric by fabric, Xavier stripped and tread into the shower. The trickling water of the shower then replaced the red wine, seducing his skin with evening rejuvination. It was under the water that Xavier let his soapy hands massage his cock, rubbing it up to a glorious six inches. As he stood there, letting the shower inspire his helmet, he thought of sleeping wife, her brilliantly cocktrained mouth spoiling his dick rotten with spectacular blowjobs.

In and out of her mouth his penis went, her dickpleasing techniques glorious to say the least. He recalled giving her nicknames like “Dickraiser” and “Penislover” and “Spectacular Fuck” and “Wonder-Wobbles” or simply “The Best Fucking Cumshot in History”.

Well, Thea loved hearing him tell her:

“Come on, baby, stick my cock in your mouth and suck more than a little!”

And how she did suck. His cock felt like singing, if it could sing at all.

“You suck so well!”

“You cockh tashtesh shooooah grreath,” she would always grunt, his dick plopping in and out of her bobbing horny head. And then he would fuck her, her tits wobbling to and fro, finally squirting his cum onto her tongue penishungry tongue.

The sweet cool water dripping off his horny manhood, Xavier inspected Thea’s bathroom wall-decorations: kissing fish, randy octopus hearts, titlike jellyfish and vagina-like sharks. It was with an eager smile that he brushed his teeth, still looking at the seahorse that reminded him of a tit with many nipples. And when the towel dried his one-eyed weasel off, Xavier swore himself to lick himself some serious wifey-tit.

Once in bed, however, his dick still as erect as a flagpole, he chose to give himself a short five-finger-mambo before performing a tender sleep assault on his S.A.F. – his Sausage-Addicted-Filly, his C.T.M.C. – Cock Teasing Masterpiece of a Cockpleaser.

Laying there in the darkness, he let his hands massage Mr. Happy. He remembered his wife’s nice girlfriend arriving earlier, sitting on the terrace, drinking coffee, putting in a cake onto her sexy tongue. Xavier imagined walking up to that girlfriend’s seat, plucking out his cock and asking her to give him a blowjob.

That fantasy elaborated itself almost independantly and let his dick throb.

In that next fantasy, his wife Thea and the girlfriend Maria sat on the edge of their bed taking turns sucking his cock until he squirted on both of their faces.
Now his sex fantasies really took off. Laying there in that darkness, rubbing his long dick, he felt a pride for his own cock surge. That pride, however, did not only entail a love for pussies and tits. The sight of a cock inside the mouth of a pretty lady remained one of the most breathtakingly beautiful sights in the world. So beautiful, in fact, that Xavier wondered how it was to suck cock for real.

Xavier was a hunky and masculine man in this life, no question.

He believed in reincarnation, though, and was sure that he had been a woman in his earlier life. At that moment, his own long cock raised, he recalled being a rich woman once, on her knees in front of three men, sucking their cocks one by one, letting them squirt on her face in turn.

Xavier felt his own tits swell, large and succulent ones ready for some male tongue. He felt his wide hips tingle and his pussy throb. Every cock tasted fantastic and with every squirt Xavier opened his mouth in this life, waiting for male cum to land on a willing female tongue. One of his fuckers in that previous life was the husband in that incarnation, Henry. It had literally been a fantastic orgy. Henry, his previous female self and the two other men met once every week in their large mansion, fucking like rabbits.

He lay there, remembering how feminine he had felt back then and how masculine he felt now. Then, the surprise. Henry, the husband of his previous incarnation, had been Thea in her last carnation as a man. Man, so they had switched places just to learn what it was like to be the other gender. Thank God!

Inspired by all of this, he moved his hand slowly toward his wife’s tits, reaching under her covers. Realizing that she already had raised her nightgown, Xavier began massaging her left boob slowly and elegantly and with a joyous grin on his face, Mr. Happy now larger than ever. The left nipple grew to the size of a strawberry as quickly as Thea’s moans manifested a fine and raunchy crescendo.

With his right hand Xavier wanked his large dick into greater lengths whilst giving his wife that jugjob of her life. Soft like a pillow, smooth as silk, her knocker inspired the helmet of his penis to become as blue as a blueberry and as red as tomato, all of his body’s blood pumping into that loving hotrod.

“Ooh, yeah,” his wife mused as Xavier bent over the second tit, letting his tongue flippy-flop it to randilicious glory. “That feels good, baby.”

Xavier laughed enthusiastically.

“I’ll give you a piece of something that feels better,” he answered, grabbing her blonde head and leading in down between his legs. “Suck on this, darling!”

The sight of his wife putting his Long John Silver onto her tongue flabbergasted him every time. What was better was the fact that she kept aiming to deep throat him deeper and deeper for every gag. That whole erect prick landed in her mouth, making him fly. She didn’t seem to get enough of cock. His hands kept on massaging her cupcakes as her saliva trickled into the cockeye of his shaft. What he loved more than anything was slapping her ass a little and patting her head a little more while she blew him off.

“A countess at the celebrity reception, a cocksucking whore in the bedroom.”

“I’ll be your good girl, baby!”

That was Thea’s motto. So it often happened that Thea begged for Xavier to control her, call her a slut, ask her to be a good girl, lift her skirt and stick in his cock by surprise while she stood by the stove. If he did that well, she said, she could go back to her work as a major CEO with more joie de vivre and a feeling of more power. She had acted the part of the cocksucking whore. Her staff would know she meant business, profiling her position on the basis of skill alone. The slut in the bedroom belonged to Xavier.

Xavier? He admired Thea’s sense of organization, her intelligence, her vocabulary way more advanced than even his as a published author. So imagine the joy of getting the permission of treating his strong and respected wife like a whore in the bedroom.

With a happy smacking sound, Thea flopped his cock out of her mouth, creamy saliva trickling down her chin. No, not yet, Xavier thought to himself, straddling his wife’s face and pushing his testicles into her mouth. She sucked willingly, moaning and groaning like a sex-servant. And when Xavier pulled his balls out of her mouth and stuck in his dick, he reached back into her cunny and fingerfucked her.

The arousal exploded into a frenzy, forcing him to lick his way down past the titties and into her snatch. The salty taste of her vagina turned his oral sex into a wet dream.

“Come on, you macho clitlicker,” Thea groaned. “Stick it in!”

His wet face withdrew from Thea’s cunt with clitliquid dripping onto her bellybutton.

With a purple-blue helmet as a weapon, Xavier ignited his rocket, shooting his machine-gun aggressively into her snatch, riding her like a horny stallion rode his steed, her jugs bouncing like kiddy rubberballs on a Saturday afternoon, her tender ass feeling soft enough to slap a little and her face sexy enough to lick.

Their mutual splendor turned into a wildfire, the speed increasing.

“Thea, I have to squirt into your mouth,” Xavier exploded.

“Come on, stud,” she answered. “Give me some proteins.”

Just like Xavier had done in his reincarnated memories in the earlier dark, Thea stuck out her tongue willingly, hoping for some hot cum. He wanked harder and faster, his entire persona getting ready to fling some jizz on his wife’s sexy face. In cramp-like fits, his sperm shot out of his long and hard penis onto his wife’s cock-starving tonsils.

“Yummy sperm,” she oozed. “More where that came from, Eleven!”

On Xavier’s face a wide grin appeared, his cummy cock sliding in and out of his wife’s mouth. “Eleven. You haven’t called me that in years.”

“Well,” Thea mused, giving his willie a kiss and licking off the white stuff. “To me, you will always be my hot soccer rod with the 11 on your teamshirt. Besides,” she continued, sucking a little bit, “your cock is as thick as two other cocks, name any fucking cock. I’ve done a lot of cocksucking in my life and other guys have about half of your thickness. That’s why 11, that is two ones, is a perfect nickname for you. You fill me up like no other cock can.”

That made him happy. Mr. Happy? That, too.

Thea showered about three in the morning, cleaning the cum off her face. His daughter woke up, wondered what the matter was. Subsequently, his wife went into his daughter’s bedroom, sang her “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and told her a bedtime story about Bobby the Bear and then came to bed, only to be fucked haard and bad by her horny man again.

Xavier wondered if his daughter Lena had heard them fucking. Thea only answered that their daughter had asked her if the extreme cuddle was fun. Thea had answered that it certainly was. Thea, Xavier realized, was not only a celebrity countess and a nightly whore. She was also the best mother the world had ever come up with.

It was Thea’s turn to be dominant that next day. Xavier mowed the lawn, cut the hedge, did the taxes. Thea went to work, commanded her staff around. In the evening, he proofread a book of his that was going to be published, called a few literary agents, planned a few booktours and brought Lena to bed, singing her a song and telling her a sweet story, as well. Xavier couldn’t be happier. He was a successful professional, had a great wife, a fantastic daughter, a great house and wonderful colleagues.

In the evening, Xavier wanked and squirted on a picture of his wife, preparing to turn into a nocturnal werewolf again, his wife Thea’s eternally happy and powertool, King of the Greatest Cocksucker Queen of the Milky Way.

Man, his wife really knew how to suck good cock.

How’s that for travelling the moon?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s what they were saying.

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

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

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

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

A dream man had just fucked her in her sleep.

Who was he?

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

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

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

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

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

London, the mistress, the casanova, the blowjob.

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

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

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

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

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

Charles E.J. Moulton.

If he existed, was he worth a fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not sure,” Sophie answered.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Charles added.

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

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

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

“What? How so?”

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

“Sophie,” Charles wrote.

“Yes?”

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

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

“Okay.”

“Kensington High Street 45. Fernandez.”

“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

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

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

The mystery man.

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

Fate had brought them together.

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

“What’s that?”

Charles shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Is it Christmas?”

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

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

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

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

“It’s huge.”

“20 centimetres.”

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

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

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

She laughed to herself, aroused by this amazing sensation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“With pleasure, fictional fuck!”

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

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

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

The rest is history.

Runaway Slave By Claudette Harlow

Jo turtled into the peacoat collar’s thick warmth as the wind gusted off the snowy canal below. Passing the few open coffeehouses, the aroma of marijuana and hot coffee almost distracted her. She shook her shoulders to signal the path ahead. If a cockring would keep Pau’s dick harder, then she was going to find him one. Today. Now.

She was mentally repeating those instructions when she bumped into the tall muscular back of a man on the sidewalk. As he spun to face her, her foot slipped and she felt herself stumble to her knees. Reaching up to stop falling, her hand had scraped down his crotch and over his generously proportioned cock and balls. Jo drew her fingers back as if they were on fire.

Jo swallowed hard and pretended to fumble again, lightly spreading her fingers to measure the length of his cock. She couldn’t stretch them wide enough. She half snorted a gasp as her thumb pressed against his plump cockhead.

He calmly grasped her outstretched fingers and started to pull her up as a gust of wind caught under her unbuttoned coat. The first thing he noticed was her collar. Then her eyes. He puffed out a chilled breath when he saw the rest of her.

Above her fur-trimmed boots, beneath her black peacoat, Jo wore the high fetish fashion that only the wealthiest Masters and Mistresses buy for their toys and slaves. It revealed and concealed the body in sensual surprises as she shifted from leg to leg and finally stood. All the while, her eyes locked into his.

His eyes were milky brown and made her think of morning coffee and fucking at dawn. The mental image of her lips around that cockhead her thumb had grazed was burning in her mind. It was a stranger’s cock and it frightened her what she was feeling, what she was wanting. She wanted it.

She swayed and weaved until he touched her shoulder, dipping his head to look closer into her now half-lidded eyes.

“Are you stoned?” he asked in a raspy voice.

Her only response was to slowly lick the oval of her mouth.

He laughed lightly. She pulled her coat closed and took a hesitant step closer. The scent of her perfume and the brush of her hair made him alert as she whispered hotly at his ear.

“Take me somewhere and fuck me. Please.”

Jo was shocked to hear herself. It wasn’t just that this stranger’s cock was bigger and thicker. That was a bonus. It was that she wanted a stranger’s cock to suck and worship and to fuck her until she lost herself again to the feeling. That dangerous, who-knows-what-will-happen fucking and pleasuring.

“Please,” she repeated in a softer voice.

His fingers traced along her jaw then his thumb grazed across her collar, suddenly slipping his thumb through the ring at the center. He pulled her tight against his body. She could feel his cock hardening against her thigh.

“Again,” he commanded.

“Please fuck me.” Jo closed her eyes and draped her body along his, her hand between them caressing up and down his cock.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he rapsed into her hair. He pulled away and smiled brightly. “But I need to buy a new leash for this first,” he tapped the thick collar ring with a finger. “Then I will take you home and fuck you until you weep.”

Jo remained silent as he linked their arms and guided her along the sidewalk. The wind kept gusting into her eyes and making her shiver. As they walked, she tried to sneak glances at his cock, still hard and straining at his pants.

She wanted to stop him. To fall to her knees in front of him and unbuckle his belt. She wanted to slowly and carefully unzip his pants and engulf his cock in her mouth. She wanted to feel her throat resist until she swallowed and relaxed, feeling his thick cockhead slide down her throat. She could think of nothing but fucking his cock with her mouth and tongue, worshipping it, exulting in it, and with it.

She followed his lead, slowly building a mental scene in her mind. His hand snapping the clip of the leash on the ring of her collar. His fingers gripping the fresh leather strap, pulling her like a half-tamed animal to his erect cock and taking her – raw and hard and – Jo felt her knees weaken and she stiffened, leaning closer against him.

His upper arm, biceps well developed, skimmed against her breast as they walked. Jo felt it like edging. So close, such squeezing pressure but she wanted him to…do things to her nipples. Lick them, kiss them, bite them, suck them, pinch them, tease them…while she was unable to stop him. Tied up or restrained, open to his desires.

“Make me cum,” she pleaded silently with each footsep.

He pulled her through a doorway and stood looking around at the shelves. “Stay here,” he said, moving toward the back.

Jo tried to slow down her heartbeat and take deep breaths. She gazed uninterested around the shelves of the store until she saw a glass case displaying cockrings. She stepped closer and drew her forefinger slowly across the glass top. Like a double exposure or a ghost image, she envisioned Pau’s cock multiplied within each of the various rings and cock jewelry.

I’m wearing this one right now,” grumbled a voice in front of her. She looked aside and saw a man with his pants down and his cock and balls standing straight out at her. She saw a series of black leather straps encasing various parts of the man’s ball sac and cock shaft. The man swatted his cockhead and the shaft swung back and forth like a pendulum. “Hard as a rock. He grinned and pulled up his pants. “You want a cockring?”

Jo’s lips squenched. She wanted the stranger – she didn’t even know his name – she wanted him to come back now and put his leash on her collar. Her voice was so soft. “Please.”

“Well,” said the man stepping behind the counter and leaning closer as he played finger games with himself. “Tell me about this cock worthy of adornment.”

Jo felt a surge of lassitude rise up from her feet to the collar around her neck. She felt drained and sleepy. Her voice droned in her ears.

“Perfect. It is a perfect cock. Steady. Pulsing.” Jo’s knees buckled again and she steadied herself against the case, her hand uncontrollably rubbing over her pussy. “Master’s cock…” She groaned and pressed her thighs tightly together.

The man behind the counter followed her lead and started rubbing his cock through his pants. “Ohhh,” he moaned. “Yeah, yeah.”

“This one, I think,” said the stranger, clipping a hook to Jo’s collar ring and pulling the leash tight.

Her hand immediately stopped and Jo slumped. Her eyes were wet as she looked shyly up at him. She dipped her head in a slight bow and smiled gently. She sighed loudly. “Please fuck me,” she whispered hoarsely. “Please.”

The man behind the counter didn’t pause in his stroking. “You fuck her here. Now. No charge for the leash. It’s a freebie.”

The stranger leaned close to Jo and bored into her eyes. His gaze was as hard as his cock and Jo went glassy-eyed.

“Lock the door,” he said.

The man behind the counter nodded eagerly and flipped the deadbolt. Putting up the closed sign, he spun around and slid his hand down his pants. “Fuck her,” he groaned.

Jo peeled off her clothes in an awkward slow dance until she stood behind the cockring counter. Like a snake, her hand and arm moved inside the case, lightly touching this ring and that. She flicked her eyes up at the store man.

He nodded. “Any one you want,” he gasped, stroking his pants harder. A darker wet stain spreading beneath his fingers.

Jo brushed her fingers across the rings again and again. Some were gold; some shining silver and chrome. The leather ones yielded beneath her touch. She finally chose a black leather strap with a buckle.

Jo swiveled her neck and shrugged her shoulders, settling easily to her knees. She held the cockring in one hand and with the other beckoned the stranger.

Jo breathed warmly on his cock as she looped the strap around his ballsac and the root of his shaft and tightened it. She pulled it snug then a notch tighter before slipping the buckle closed.

She kissed the taut curves of his balls and glanced up at him.

“I want your cum. Every last drop.”

The store owner slid down to the floor watching and listening, his hand pumping inside his pants.

The stranger’s cock looked huge now, the skin taut and flushed. He was mostly shaved with a trim narrow path just above the shaft root.

The pink and purple skin tones, the throbbing blue veins were contrasts to the starker black leather strap and the silvery buckle.

Jo’s pursed lips lowered, widened slightly, and engulfed the wide head of his cock in her mouth. Her tongue flicked across his cockhole and she sucked gently, then harder. At the first taste of him, she felt herself drifting into subspace.         She loved gliding her tight wet lips slowly over the head, catching them in a pause at the rim, licking the circle of the rim quickly, and then plunging his mouth all the way to the root of his cock. She slowly dragged her lips back up the shaft and stroked the head in a rhythm with just her tight lips. Long slow sucking down his shaft then quick sucks on the head. Her tongue swirled around the head and when her mouth was filled with his cock, she stretched her tongue out to lick at his tight balls.

When Jo’s tongue brushed over and wetted the leather cocking, the store owner groaned loudly. “I can’t do this anymore. I’m cumming!”

He pulled his cock from his pants and jerked it a few times before shooting thick spurts of cum down his pant leg and on the floor.

The stranger pulled his cock roughly from Jo’s mouth and pulled her leash until she was on her hands and knees. He pulled and guided her over to the store owner’s slumped body.

The stranger pushed Jo’s head down until her nose was an inch from a puddle of cum. She closed her eyes and slowly slid out her tongue. Before the tip touched the cum, he yanked her head backward by the leash.

The store owner’s eyes blinked. He waved a limp hand toward the door.

The stranger kept a tight grip on Jo’s leash as they walked to his home.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he told her several times on the short walk.

“Please,” she answered.

The Colonel’s Daughter By Chanel Blake

The constant clicking of keyboards drilled a migraine into my skull. My eyes scanned the large office, desks of employees stretched through the large room, each working away at their stations. Some with clients, others doing file work. I chewed on my lower lip as I looked back at the screen. My eyes blurred. I had been working on this report for my boss for nearly three days and was getting tired of the dull work. Where was the fun in compiling database stats?

Sighing, I glanced at the booklet I was working from and typed next name into the military database.

I had worked for the Military Tracking Unit since my father left for the war with the red planet. The MTU served as a way of keeping track of current and ex soldiers, deceased or discharged. Clients came to us looking for their friends and family, and we did our best to find them.

I didn’t care much for the two human worlds fighting nor did I wish to show any support for it, but my father was the only family I had left, and even though we hadn’t spoken in months, working for the MTU made it easy to keep tabs on him. At least I still knew he was alive.

The war had been waged for nearly five years now, starting when I was only nineteen. The red planet was tired of its treatment from the Earthen leaders, and they rebelled. The whole idea was beyond me, as far as I knew the people of Mars were never mistreated. Though, we had been taught of their selfish nature. Many Earthens’ struggled to believe that the humans on Mars were descended from the same ancestors as ours simply from their entitled attitude. But even they couldn’t deny our resemblance to one another.

The bell over the office door chimed and I glanced up from the screen. Our receptionist, a high school intern named Rosie, stood and greeted the arrival, another client no doubt.

But this one was different, making my stomach do flip-flops. He acknowledged Rosie, then pointed in my direction before heading towards me.

This man was a perfect 6’2, broad shoulders with a uniform that hugged his toned muscles just right. My lips parted and my mouth went dry. Shaking my head to clear the dirty thoughts rushing in, I stood from my chair, clamped my mouth shut and straightened my skirt. Still, my heart pounded against my chest; it wouldn’t be silenced.

When he stood before me, he held his cocoa skinned hand out and grinned. “Major Brody Campbell.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and grasped his hand, unable to look away from his dark green eyes. “Aspen Reid.”

“I know.” He released my hand and took the chair in front of my desk. “Colonel Jeffrey Reid told me to find you.”

I frowned, lowering myself to my own chair. “I haven’t heard from my father in months.” I flipped my blonde hair over my shoulder before looking back at the screen on my desk.

Brody leaned back in his chair. “I know.”

I raised my eyebrow at him, acting more confident than he made me feel. Still, heat crept up my neck.

God it’s hot in here. I resisted the urge to fan myself.

“Then what would you like?”

A quick glance around the office told me every woman in the room was listening to our conversation. Come lunch, they would all know the name of this fine specimen and each would research all they could on him and his service.

His dark eyebrows knit together. “He said you would help me out.”

I blinked several times, wanting to shake myself. It had been a long time since I found a man this attractive and this one was very distracting.  Focus on your job.

I looked back at my computer. “Who do you need to find?”

He leaned forward and glanced around nervously. His dark hair fell into his sight line and a pang of lust swept through me. I shook my head to be rid of it.

“It’s fine,” I said, motioning to the desks surrounding us. “People like you come in here all the time looking for missing family or friends. War sends us to the opposite ends of the world, or in this case, worlds. But if whoever you’re looking for is on Earth, then I can find them.” Major Campbell wasn’t the first of my dad’s friends I’d helped, and he wouldn’t be the last.

Brody cleared his throat, but never said the name. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper, sliding it across my desk.

Again, I raised an eyebrow and took the paper from him. It wasn’t a name, only a six digit number, which was fine. It actually made my job easier. I typed in the number and his information scrolled down the screen in front of me. Marcus Donovan-Roy was his name, though all I cared about was his status and the coordinates attached to him. In bolded letters at the top of his profile it said WOUNDED IN BATTLE and the coordinates were right beside it. 44.908°N, 74.283°W. I quickly screen captured the page with the name, status and coordinates and printed it out for Brody.

“It’s not far from here.” I offered a half smile as he took the paper. “Don’t say I never helped you with anything.”

He frowned. “Why would I?”

I looked away, letting my hair fall back into my sight line and shield my red face. “Never mind,” I mumbled. “An old joke.” God I could be awkward.

Brody stood before me for a few more moments before speaking again. “Well, thanks, it was nice to meet you.”

I watched him disappear out the door.

When he was gone, I returned to my computer screen, opening the database once more. I typed in his name “Brody Campbell” and hit search. It took only a minute to come back empty.

I raised my eyebrow. This man was a major but had no record in the system?

I tried searching my father’s unit, knowing he had a major working with him. This search turned up positive, except for the name. My father’s major was Brent Donovan, and he was recorded as recently deceased.

# # #

Three more days past before I saw Brody again. It was after ten on Friday night, I’d gone for dinner and drinks with some of the ladies after work ended, but I didn’t want to stay late. So few people were around these days, even fewer looking for a good time. Besides, my roommate was visiting her parents who lived two towns over, so I had the house to myself, a welcome change. But when I turned onto my street, I noticed a light on in my front window.

I frowned. Odd. Maybe Janet had decided to stay home.

This, however, proved false when I slipped through the door attached to the garage and saw her car was gone.

Did she leave on a light?

Janet was usually very anal about the environment and saving electricity, so that was unlikely.

Reaching into my purse, I wrapped my hand around the handle of my .25-caliber pistol and held it ready. Then I slipped through garage entrance. Immediately I could see where the was coming from: my sitting room. I drew several slow breaths then crept around the corner and saw Brody sitting on the couch.

“Major Campbell,” I gasped, holding my gun on him and looking around in case he wasn’t alone. “What are you doing here?”

His eyes looked down at the gun, then he held his hands up. “Nice way to greet someone.”

“Excuse me?” I was shocked. “You’re in my house, unexplained. You claim to be military but I have no record of your existence in my company database.  Further, my father’s major is dead, so I know you aren’t him. You should consider yourself lucky I didn’t fire a few rounds off on site.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He stood, and I stepped back two paces, keeping the barrel aimed at him. His eyes looked wild, as if something had happened in the past three days.

“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. Despite being as intruder in my home, and a possible liar, he was sexy. I could easily let my mind wander to fantasies of why he came.

“Right.” He released a long breath between closed teeth. “Honestly, I didn’t know where else to go and Colonel Reid said if I was stuck to find you.” His hand slipped into his pocket, and fear rose on the back of my neck for a moment, but he only withdrew a folded piece of paper, a note.

I eyed the letter, interested, but unsure I wanted to be vulnerable to this unknown man. He seemed to sense my wariness, because he placed the letter on the table next to the couch and backed several steps away from me.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Aspen. I have no intention of doing so,” he said. Then he motioned to the letter. “I had nowhere else to go.”

What the hell? Why not home?

I stepped forward, and grabbed the note, managing to unfold it with one hand and scan over the words. It was quite clearly written in my father’s hand, his shorthand, actually. Something I had picked up on many years ago. We often exchanged letters like these.

I read the note three times before looking back at Brody, making sure I had my father’s words right. He didn’t tell me anything reliable, only that I could trust him. Had it not been in his shorthand, I wouldn’t have listened.

I shifted from foot to foot several times before lowering the gun, and flicking the safety before placing it back into my purse.

“Okay,” I said, motioning back at the couch. “You sit there and explain yourself.”

I lowered myself to the armchair across from him. He sat, but looked away, shifting back and forth as if trying to get comfortable.

“Well?”

“Can I trust you?” he asked when he stopped moving.

I scoffed. “I’m certain I’m the one that is struggling with my trust for you at the moment. I’m going on my father’s judgement alone; perhaps you should do the same. He obviously sent you to me for a reason.”

He stared down at his hands and spoke quietly. “Okay, but you can’t freak out.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine.”

“The reason I have nowhere to go, and why you can’t find my record, is because I’m not from here,” he said.

From here? That makes no sense.

“Yet you’re a major for our army?” My eyes traced down the army outfit he still wore, navy blue, with the Earthen crest on the left breast pocket and three silver lines – two thick, one thin – to indicate his rank. it seemed he hadn’t changed since he walked into my office three days before. He’d definitely showered, however, as his spicy musk was all too distracting even at this distance.

He tilted his head from side to side. “Sort of.”

This guy was so cryptic.

“Can you just say it?” I asked.

“I was born on Mars.”

My gaze shot to him, eyes wide and mouth agape. Then I glanced around quickly, instinct I guess, though no one was around. If anyone found out, they’d kill him, maybe even me for keeping him secret. What was my father’s intention? Further, why was a Marsian on our side? My father had failed to mention this bit of information in his letter. He was always vague with details.

“Does anyone… know?” I asked when my eyes settled back on him.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Then why are you here and dressed like a major?”

“On your father’s insistence. I was caught in a battle waged around Phobos; some even say Earthen ships destroyed much of the small moon,” he said, “Very few Marsian ships survived and much of the debris fell on to the city of Aether.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “Is the war over?” Aether was the planet’s capital. If it had fallen, would the rest of Mars be quick to follow?

“I don’t know.” He looked away. His gaze was filled with pain and sorrow  and glistened in the low light. “Aether fell, that much is true. I can’t be sure, but it is likely that Mars will surrender with their capital in ruins.”

“And you’re here because?”

“Your dad offered me a choice.”

A part of me doubted that, remembering the things we’d been taught about Mars. The red planet bred liars, despite this man’s insistence; perhaps he was one and the same. Still, I wanted to know more.

“What choice?”

“Death, or help him.”

“And you helped him?”

Brody looked at me, his green eyes making me melt and momentarily forget where he was from. “Would you have picked differently?”

I shook my head.

“Your dad’s major, Brent was his name, was killed in a ship malfunction during the battle. Colonel Jeffrey requested that I take his place and watch his back. My squadron had been killed in a ship raid. I didn’t have another choice. Figured I’d die anyway.”

He paused, seeming to choke on his emotion. Was this only an act? Could I trust his emotions?

Brody didn’t seem to notice my internal struggle and continued. “I saved your dad’s life shortly after joining him. Because I did that, he no longer wished to hold me in Major Donovan’s position where I would be forced to fight against my people. So with his major’s uniform and forged passport, he had me on a ship here, discharged as a wounded Brent Donovan. Your address, that note and number in hand.”

I shook my head. I still didn’t get it. “Who was the number?” Did I even want to know?

He smiled. “You Earthlings have a strange way of doing things.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You number your citizens, yet the numbers are nothing but data. Is that how your people are seen?”

“It may be a flawed system, but it’s how things have been done since before your colony even existed. Many of your ancestors would have been numbered people.”

We sat silent for a moment before he spoke again. “The number was a relative of Major Donovan’s. Your father wished that I return his belongings to his family after I landed and reported his death.” He shook his head. “I don’t enjoy bringing people sad news.”

I couldn’t disagree.

“So then, what now?” I asked.

“Well…” his intense gaze was on me again, “Your dad was sure that the war was ending, and, I guess once things are settled on Mars I can go home…”

“But until then you want to stay here?” I asked, actually wanting him to stay.

His eyes lit up. “Oh really? Would you mind?”

I sighed, but grinned just the same. “Janet’s probably going to freak, but I’ve always liked to keep her guessing, so let me make the up guest room.”

“Thanks Aspen, you really are as great as your dad says.”

I rolled my eyes as I ascended the stairs.

# # #

Breakfast was on the table by the time Brody finally came downstairs. His dark hair was a mess, sticking in every direction, and he released a long yawn when he sat at my kitchen table. God, even as a half asleep mess he looked like a sex god. I shook my head to clear the thought.

“How did you sleep?” I asked, sitting down across from him and grabbing the slice of toast from my plate.

“Good, thanks.” He smiled at me, but that smile soon faded when he looked down at his plate. He picked up the fork and poked at the fried egg I’d cooked for him, piercing the yolk and sending the yellow liquid spilling over the rest of it.

His eyebrows furrowed together. “What is this?”

I stifled a giggle. “An egg?”

He looked up at me, poking the egg again. “What’s that?”

Now I forced my eyebrows together. We’d learned about the Marsian colony back in high school, but since the war began we had been offered little knowledge of the place. I guess the climate and food there were much different than Earth. To be honest, I hadn’t really considered it. Glancing back at the food on his plate I run my tongue across my teeth. How exactly did one explain an egg?

I shrugged. “It’s food, from a chicken’s butt.”

He made a face. “Sounds gross.”

I grabbed my fork and scooped a big bite into my mouth, finishing with a smile and a soft ‘mmm’. Then I went to do the same thing. All the while, he watched me, his nose wrinkled in disgust.

When I finished my egg, I placed my fork down and smirked. “Are all Marsians this picky?” I crossed my arms. “Who knew a little egg would scare a big alien like you.”

He picked up his fork. “Do I look alien to you?”

My smirk broadened. He didn’t. “No, but what’s more surprising is that you sound Earthen.”

“We are from your planet, despite peoples’ disagreements. Besides, I’ve had practice. I was an Earthen Major, however brief.” He scooped a forkful of egg into his mouth and swallowed it without chewing. Only three more bites like this and he’d finished it. Picking up a napkin, he gently dabbed his perfect lips.

“I’ve had better things on Mars.”

My cheeks burned. What a rude thing to say when I had just cooked him breakfast, even if I was giving him a hard time. This was my house.

Pursing my lips, I said, “Then perhaps you should look to Mars for your next meal.”

I pushed my chair back from the table with a loud screech. His expression was shocked, as if he hadn’t expected my reaction. Perhaps Marsian girls enjoyed when men insulted their cooking.

I turned to leave, but his hand shot out and caught my wrist, pulling me back. I resisted, pulling my arm from his grasp and storming up the stairs to my bedroom. Brody was quick on my trail, bounding up the stairs, and sliding through my door before I could get it shut.

“What?” My ears turned pink, embarrassed by his insults.

Brody reached out and caught my hand. “Aspen, I’m sorry, I was only joking. I thought we were having a good time, you and I. Just friendly banter.”

I pursed my lips again, trying to think of a clever retort, but finding the closeness of our bodies suddenly distracting. His spicy musk made my head swim, and his zip up sweater did little to hide his chiselled chest. My throat went dry and my breathing erratic. I couldn’t stop the thoughts that invaded my mind, the need to touch him. To devour him.

As if reading my mind, his grip on my arm loosened and I closed my eyes, whispering a silently thank you, knowing I wouldn’t be able to resist my urges any longer if he didn’t back away soon.

But my thanks was too quick, as while my eyes were closed, he brought his perfect lips down onto mine.

I froze at the first touch, my eyes shooting open and I started pulling away. But his hand on my neck held me in place and the kiss continued, deepened, growing in passion. His tongue dipped inside my mouth, tangling with mine and asking for more. A feeling stirred in my lower abdomen and I couldn’t resist him any longer. I wanted him, now.

My fingers laced through his dark hair, pulling him closer to me, devouring his lips in the kiss. Such soft lips.

He gripped the hair at the base of my head, pulling me back from the kiss and gasping for air. I stared into his green eyes, now nearly black with hunger. I swallowed, nervous from the want in his gaze.

“We shouldn’t,” I whispered, looking away. Though I didn’t know why I said it. I wanted to more than anything.

Brody chuckled. “What else are we going to do?”

The question was ridiculous and I could think of a hundred answers. Wait, could I? Maybe I didn’t want to. I was swimming in ecstasy, wanting nothing more than his body pressed against mine, needing nothing more than his perfect mouth kissing every inch of me.

When nothing else could come to my clouded mind I managed, “Only this.”

He reached for the nightgown I wore, not having bothered to change, and pulled it over my head. I was immediately exposed, being commando underneath. I didn’t mind though, his eyes devoured my body and the wanting grew.

He wore only his plaid bottoms and sweater, both easily removed and revealing the perfect specimen beneath. As I had imagined, hoped, prayed, his chest was flawless. Muscles carved into the finest of flesh, a creamy cocoa masterpiece. And below the belt was even better.

Kneeling before him, I grasped his member with both hands. A moan escaped his lips as I began moving slowly up and down his shaft. I watched the pleasure grow on his face.

I parted my lips, slipping my tongue between and flicking the end of his hard cock. Another moan. I glanced up at his face, pleasure, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off me. Watching him, I flicked his cock with my tongue again. His eyes closed and his erection grew. My hands grasped his ass and I took his cock into my mouth, pushing as deep as I could. I slid my tongue along his smooth shaft savouring each stroke.

“Fuck,” Brody moaned, pushing into my movement.

A salty taste came on my tongue and I drew back, not wishing to ruin all the fun. He released a breath as I stood. Reaching into the top drawer of my bedside table, I withdrew a condom and placed it on top before crawling on to my bed and beckoning him to join.

“I’ve always wanted a Major in my bed,” I purred as he climbed on top of me. He caught me in a rough kiss, biting on my lower lip. I moaned into his lips, pushing my hips against his hard cock.

Brody broke contact and trailed kisses down my neck and shoulders. My skin heated under his soft touch. He caressed my breasts and teased each nipple unmercifully with his warm tongue before gently nipping and sending a wave of pleasure through my body. My nipples responded, growing more rigid with each stroke. Trailing his tongue down my flat stomach, he dipped into my belly button and proceeded down my pussy. He pulled his mouth away and plunged two fingers inside me, and I gasped, tilting my head back and biting on my swollen lip.

He moved his fingers against me, replacing two with three, then four. The tension built inside and as I begged for release, Brody withdrew his fingers and used his tongue instead. The warm sucking and swirling around my clit sent chills through me. I quivered as another moan drew me closer to release. If he kept this up I’d come before I had a chance to try his cock. I reached down and grabbed a handful of his dark hair, pulling his mouth from my clit, but he resisted and continued his assault on my clit.

Pleasure shot through me and I let my hand fall, letting him finish. Brody was determined to get me to climax. I couldn’t stop the moan that escaped my lips as Brody’s tongue delved deeper. Unable to hold it any longer, my body went rigid as I released. Brody raised his head and grinned at me.

“I’ll take that as good,” he said.

I smirked, though breathless and said. “So you can eat like a champ, but what about fucking? That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

His grinned faltered, but only for a moment, and he crawled further up the bed, capturing my lips in a deep kiss and letting me try my own sweet taste. I licked it from his lips before he pulled away.

“How do you like it, dirty girl? Can I fuck you from behind?” he asked.

Placing my hands on his chest, I pushed him off of me and turned onto my hands and knees to answer his question. I loved a vulgar man in bed.

“You’re gonna fuck me hard?” I asked, watching him over my shoulder.

Brody knelt behind me, and ran his hand down my spine, pushing my shoulders down.

He slapped my ass. “Yeah, that’s how I like you, face down, ass up.”

“Then fuck me,” I said.

He didn’t need the encouragement. The rip of the foil was followed by his thick cock sliding inside me. I pushed back against him, moaning with pleasure as his shaft filled me. Brody teased me at first, taking his entrance slow. His hands knead my ass as he moved in an agonizing motion against me. It was torture. I just wanted him to fuck me hard.

I propped myself onto my elbows but Brody was quick to push me back down.

“Naughty girl.” He drew out only to drive his cock back into me with alarming force.

I gasped and he continued to slam into me, pushing his cock deeper, fucking me faster. I gripped the sheets of the bed, feeling the pleasure building as he rode me like a wild animal. He took it further, plunging a finger in my tight ass. A new wave of pleasure shot through me, a sensation I’d never felt. I bit on the sheets, and came around his cock.

Pulling out, he flipped me onto my back and spread my legs. He thrust his cock deep inside my pussy again. Again he moved slowly within my swollen folds. The movement was even more of a tease after coming so hard and soon I was begging him to resume his pace.

“Fuck me harder, Brody!”

Grabbing hold of my ankles and holding them over my head, he resumed pounding with even more want than before.

I closed my eyes, trembling as I came again. Brody cried out in pleasure. Releasing my ankles and leaning forward, he gently bit on my shoulder.

Then he collapsed onto the bed beside me, his breathing matching my own. I rolled my head to the side and gazed at him through my tangled hair. His eyes had lightened again and stared back at me, grinning. Leaning in, he planted a light kiss on my swollen lips.

“Major Campbell reporting for duty, ma’am,” he whispered.

I smiled. “Duty successfully served, major.”

We didn’t speak again, and eventually he stood and went to my bathroom. I heard the shower flick on. Apparently Mr. Major had no problem getting comfortable.

I pushed myself from the bed and followed him in.

Drawing back the curtain gave me another pleasant view. Mr. Major, cocoa skin slick, and damp dark hair sticking to his forehead.

He grinned. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I responded.

“What’s wrong?” His dark brow furrowed as he stepped aside and let me beneath the spray of water.

“You never told me your plan, now that you’re here,” I said, staring up at him. “It’s one thing to stay, it’s another to sit around the house all day.”

His grin faded and he looked away. “I didn’t have one.”

“Well come Monday, you’ll need one.”

His hand shot out and caught my wrist. “But we have until then?”

I raised my eyebrow at him.

His lips twitched into a smirk and his hands lowered to my hips, wrapping around and grasping my ass. His cock immediately hardened, aroused and ready. My eyes grazed over his perfect member, parting my lips slightly. I quickly jumped from the shower, returning with condom in hand and a small smile playing on my lips.

“You’re lucky I have nothing else to do this weekend.”

He grinned and lifted me from the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he slid his smooth cock back inside of me.

My nails dug into his shoulders and I couldn’t help but think about my luck. Maybe the war would end soon and he would return to Mars, or maybe not. Either way, I’d have Brody’s cock until then.

Kamalia By Kara Leigh Miller

Kamalia’s high school guidance counselor once told her to find something she was good at—something she loved—and then find a way to make money doing it. It was a no-brainer for her. Prostitution hadn’t been her first choice. She’d tried to be a legitimate adult film star, but all of the lights and cameras gave her performance anxiety. It all worked out though. In fact, she preferred to be her own boss.

Kamalia wasn’t your average two bit-hooker that stood on the street corner in fake leather boots and imitation snake skin mini-skirts hollering, “Hey baby! You looking for a good time?” Her boots were real and she preferred silk to snake skin. She was a full service, professional hooker—the kind that dealt with a very elite clientele. Threesomes, gang bangs, fetishes, bondage, sadomasochism, role playing, erotic asphyxiation…whatever your pleasure, Kamalia was more than willing to accommodate. She drew the line at rim jobs and getting tea-bagged though. A girl’s gotta have standards.

Of course all of that was back in her glory days; back before she became the devil’s concubine. Kamalia smiled at the reference. Her protégé was always chastising her about referring to her herself as a concubine and her husband as the devil. But until she found a more suitable description, Ian Daniels would be known as The Devil.

# # #

“I hear you deal in risqué matters of the flesh,” he said.

Kamalia remained seated at the table as he spoke. She looked him over. He was tall with short black spiked hair and eyes such a deep shade of purple they looked like the midnight sky. The stranger was attractive enough, except for the beer gut that flopped over the waistband of his khakis.

She nodded for him to sit. He did. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Ian.”

“Tell me, Ian, why have you come to see me?”

# # #

Kamalia hummed the theme to I Dream of Jeanie as she sprinkled a generous amount of seasoned salt on top of her perfectly shaped meatloaf before covering it with ketchup. Ian loved ketchup. He ate it on everything from scrambled eggs to bologna sandwiches. He even dipped his potato chips in it. No wonder he was so fat, she thought. She put the pan in the oven and wiped her hands on her stained yellow apron. Her life had gone to hell.

# # #

“So, what’s your pleasure, darlin’?”

Ian dropped a small red duffel bag on the bed of the cheap motel room he’d rented for the evening. He slowly unzipped it and pulled out two pairs of metal handcuffs.

“Bondage, huh?” Kamalia smiled. “You or me?”

“You,” he stated. “Would you mind putting this on first though?” Ian handed her a strap-on dildo. It came equipped with an engorged head, faux veins, and balls.

“Impressive,” she said, slipping it on.

“Lie down on your back,” Ian instructed.

Obediently, Kamalia lay down on the bed and assumed the spread eagle position. Ian cuffed her wrists and ankles to the bed. She watched as he meticulously took off his clothes, folded them and set them on the dresser.

# # #

Ian would be upset if she wasn’t dressed in red leather and black heels. That was her meatloaf attire. It was better than the white corset, lace thong, and running shoes that he required when she cooked chicken parmesan. Which reminded her, she had to run out to the store and pick up some lemon-lime Gatorade for him. That was his drink of choice with meatloaf. God knows she wasn’t in the mood for the rubber tickler he’d use to punish her if a tall ice cold glass of his favorite drink wasn’t served with his dinner.

Kamalia chuckled as she slipped on her trench coat. God knows. That’d send Ian into a fury if he ever heard her speak His name. It’d serve him right though. Fucking narcissist.

# # #

“Just lay still,” Ian said. He had his cock in his hand, slowly stroking it as he approached the bed.

She rattled the handcuffs and smiled. “It’s not like I can do much anyway.”

Ian leaned over Kamalia’s naked body. He closed his mouth around her nipple and sucked on it for a few moments before moving to the other one. His mouth was hot and her nipples always were super-sensitive to touch. Kamalia arched her body to him.

“I said lay still.” He left her nipples and kissed his way down her stomach. Ian continued to stroke his cock as he sat on his knees between her legs. He bent over and took the dildo into his mouth—all six and a half inches of it.

Kamalia had seen a lot of things in her line of work. She’d watched two guys have oral sex and anal sex. But never had she seen what she was seeing right now. A small smile formed as Ian’s head bobbed up and down. She could hear his moans vibrating against the fleshy dildo.

# # #

“Kami!”

Only one person called her Kami. She looked up to see her neighbor, Mrs. Roter waving to her from the opposite end of the juice aisle. Kamalia smiled and walked towards her. “Hello, Becky.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” Becky smiled.

“Not really,” Kamalia said. “It’s the curse of living in the suburbs. Only one grocery store.”

Becky laughed. “You’re always so funny.”

“I used to be a comedian in a former life,” Kamalia said dryly.

Becky’s high-pitched giggle pierced the quiet of the aisle. “I’m making roast duck for Charles tonight. You and Ian should join us.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a meatloaf in the oven. Well, I really need to get going.” Kamalia tapped her watch before walking away. She hated her neighbors. Every last one of them. They were nosy, annoying, and boring. She was willing to bet money that “Perky Little Becky” had never had a toe-curling orgasm. Grabbing an eight-pack of lemon lime Gatorade, Kamalia rushed out of the aisle. The happy homemaker, “vanilla” scene was getting to be too much.

# # #

Kamalia continued to watch as Ian gave the dildo a blow job. She had to admit, she was impressed. He knew how to give head. Maybe she could get him to teach her a few tricks.

“You like that, big boy?” she asked, thrusting her hips up, shoving the dildo deeper into his mouth.

Ian took the dildo out of his mouth. “I told you to lie still,” he said, pinning her hips to the bed with his hands.

“Just trying to help you out,” Kamalia said, a hint of humor in her voice.

“I don’t need any help.” Ian straddled Kamalia’s waist, his back towards her. He grabbed the base of the dildo and held it still as he slid down on it. His deep, throaty groan of pleasure filled the tiny room.

Kamalia lay perfectly still as Ian fucked the dildo hard and fast. His left hand grasped the blankets, anchoring him to the bed while his right hand feverishly stroked his cock. The faster he moved on the dildo, the harder he’d jerk off. The harder he jerked off, the louder his moans became.

There had been a few rare occasions in her professional life when she’d been bored, but this was a new low. She slowly thrust her hips up, meeting Ian as he slid down on the dildo. He didn’t yell at her to lay still. She moved a little faster.

“Talk dirty to me,” he said breathlessly.

“You like the feel of that big, hard dildo stretching your ass open, huh? It makes you want to come doesn’t it, Ian?”

“Call it a cock,” Ian demanded. “It’s a cock, dammit. Call it a cock.”

Kamalia sighed in frustration. Why hadn’t he just hired a male prostitute? she wondered.

# # #

Kamalia arrived at home just in time to save her meatloaf from burning. Ian refused to eat anything burnt which was rather ironic considering he lived for anything that flamed. Especially men.

She set the pan on top of the stove and busied herself with preparing the vegetables to put in the steamer. Ian would be home in less than half an hour.

# # #

“That cock feels good doesn’t it? You like feeling it slide in and out of you?”

“Deeper,” Ian said while stroking his cock harder.

Kamalia thrust her hips and the dildo deeper into Ian’s ass.

“Your voice,” he breathed. “Make it deeper.”

She fought the urge to laugh. Deepening her voice she said, “Ride that cock, Ian. Fuck it hard.”

“Deeper!” Ian shouted.

He was joking, right?

Ian stopped riding the dildo and bent over. He bit Kamalia on her leg, just above her ankle.

Nope. He wasn’t joking. Kamalia deepened her voice until it physically hurt and said, “Make yourself cum, Ian. Stroke that cock. Fuck that cock harder. Deeper.”

Ian let out one final howl. Seconds later, Kamalia felt the warm gooeyness of his cum on her leg.

# # #

Kamalia scraped the vegetables off the cutting board and into the steamer. It was time to make the final dish—potatoes. Ian demanded to have hot mashed potatoes with three tablespoons of butter on top. She always saved their preparation for last so that they’d be at a temperature of his liking and because she absolutely despised peeling potatoes.

It was a small wonder he hadn’t died of a heart attack yet with the way he eats. She’d never get that lucky. That particular night though, the night he’d made his offer, she’d thought she was the luckiest prostitute in the world.

# # #

Sexually frustrated and prostitute don’t typically fall into the same category but there was no other way to explain her encounter with Ian. It was one of the strangest nights of her working life. Up until that point, turning tricks had always been exciting for Kamalia. Her clients always left satisfied and so did she.

“Why do you do this?” Ian asked, interrupting her thoughts. He drew a long puff of his cheap menthol cigarette.

“Do what?” Kamalia asked.

“Engage in depraved sexual acts for money?”

Kamalia raised an eyebrow and smiled at him over her shoulder. “They can’t be too depraved. You enjoyed them.”

Ian crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside stand. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and reached for his khakis. “Don’t you want more out of life?”

“You paid me for sex. Not pillow talk,” she told him coolly while slipping her feet into her silver studded green stilettos.  “So it’s all about the money?”

“And the sex.” Kamalia smiled.

“What if I could offer you the money and the sex without the danger?”

# # #

Ian made Richard Simmons look straight. She should’ve known. It was right in front of her the entire time. But, she had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And look where it’d gotten her? Married to a man who was in serious denial about his homosexuality. Kamalia was nothing more than his trophy wife—a cover for his true identity.

She’d tried to get out of the business a couple of times, to no avail. The moment a potential suitor learned of her previous entrepreneurial skills, he’d drop her like rotten garbage and run for the hills. She had to face the fact: At thirty-seven, Kamalia’s body wasn’t what it used to be. She knew it was time to find another way to support herself. Ian was her answer. So, she had allowed him to marry her. And they had tried to consummate the marriage.

# # #

“Why are we here?” Kamalia asked.

“I thought it’d be romantic to spend our honeymoon at the same place we first made love,” Ian said with a smile.

Kamalia looked at him with disbelief. Made love? She must’ve missed the part of that night where she’d gotten any pleasure from him. The La Fiesta Motel was the cheapest motel in town and one she frequented with her clients. It was the last place she wanted to spend her honeymoon.

“Come on. I got the same exact room,” Ian said.

Kamalia faked a smile and followed him to the room. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the only thing she had to fake that night.

It didn’t take long for both of them to strip naked. Kamalia lay down on the bed and waited for Ian. He wanted to do it missionary style because he felt it was the appropriate way for a husband and wife to have sex. Kamalia thought it was boring but marriage was about compromise and it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

Ian approached her and positioned himself between her spread legs. He pressed the engorged head of his cock into the hot, wet opening of her pussy. Kamalia sucked in her breath at the feel of him. It was the first time she was going to feel him inside of her and her anticipation was high.

Unfortunately, her pleasure was short lived. After two shallow strokes, Ian went flaccid inside of her. He pulled out, closed his eyes, and stroked himself hard. He entered her again. And once again, he went flaccid.

“Maybe we should try a different position,” Ian said.

Thank God, she thought. “Sure, darlin’. How do you want me?”

“On your knees, head on the pillow and ass in the air.”

Kamalia obeyed. Doggy-style was one of her favorite positions.

Ian continued to stroke his cock until it was hard, a small bead of pre-cum glistened on the head. He stuck it in Kamalia’s ass with a single, hard, forceful thrust. And as long as Kamalia didn’t speak or moan or scream or look at Ian, his dick stayed hard.

# # #

The sound of Ian’s powder blue Prius pulling into the garage snapped her back to reality. Kamalia put his plate of food on the table along with his glass of Gatorade. She did a quick inspection of the kitchen. Ian hated messes.

“Better put that away,” she mumbled, screwing the top onto the jug of antifreeze and tucking it away under the sink.

Kamalia met him at the front door. “Hi, honey. How was work?” she asked just like she did every night of the week.

“Good,” he replied in an effeminate voice. “I see we’re having meatloaf.”

“Your favorite,” Kamalia said, following him into the kitchen. He sat in front of his prepared plate and picked up the glass of Gatorade. Ian took a long slow drink then puckered his lips, smacking them together. “Mmm, tangy,” he said.

Kamalia leaned up against the counter and fought back a smile. Soon, she thought. Soon her nightmare would be over and she could go back to doing what she loved.