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Not For The Birds By Andrew Miller

Janice sprinted into the living room, shot past Larry, grabbed a pair of binoculars from the book case. “Unbelievable,” she said, “unbelievable.” She raced toward the back porch.

“Something interesting out there?” Larry had the latest issue of Natural History Magazine in his lap and didn’t look up. “Fall migration’s about to start. Should be some warblers out there.”

The door banged shut behind her. “I’ll let you know.”

She and Larry had arranged the furniture on their porch, an old couch and three wicker chairs, so they could watch birds in their back yard. The had installed floor to ceiling screens on all three sides, which kept out mosquitoes and flies and provided a wind break during chilly weather. Janice adjusted the focus, sighted past three birdfeeders, a row of azaleas, a wooden trellis crawling with morning glories. Holy, holy shit, she thought, I wasn’t dreaming.

She held the binoculars steady, licked her lips, wiggled her butt. “Larry,” she called, “Come quick. Ya gotta see this.”

“Need the bird book?” He tossed the magazine on the table, got to his feet.

“Forget the book, come here.”

“Check that out.” She pointed toward the back yard, handed him the binoculars.

He began a sweep of the hedge. She shook her head. “Not there. The porch on the gray house.”

He let out a low whistle. “My God, look at that. Penis erecti.”

“Yep, subspecies: elongatus.”

“They are really going at it.” He held the binoculars steady. “A rare sight, this time of year, a pair of mattress thrashers. In full breeding plumage.”

“I knew you’d like the double breasted one. Gimme the binocs.”

“Not so fast. Now they’re doing it standing up.” He dropped one hand to his crotch for a quick adjustment. “She’s got her legs wrapped around his waist… clawing his back, sucking on his neck. Passion… passion… whew… he’s got his fingers up her ass…” He leaned forward, tugged at his pants again.

Janice squeezed the bulge in his trousers. “Come on, let me see.”

“Damn, wish I’d bought that tripod. It would be nice to have both hands free.” He passed the binoculars to her.

She zeroed in on their neighbors. “I don’t know what I like better, watching them or listening to you describe the action.” She adjusted the focus. “They’ll make an evening of it. See that bottle of wine on the table?”

“Sure.” Larry leaned forward, squinted through the screen. “Now what’s happening?”

“She’s strapping on a dildo.” Janice shifted left to improve the view. “And,” she glanced at Larry, “hers is longer than his.”

Larry pressed his forehead against the screen. “Longer than mine?”

“Oh, hell no. He looks like a Georgia peanut next to you.”

Larry nodded, stood a little straighter.

“Hang on, he’s down on his knees—great set of buns—ready for his pegging.” Janice moved closer to the screen. “I’d love to sink my teeth into one of his cheeks. Hard, firm, like they were chiseled out of oak.” She glanced at Larry’s pants. “Her fake schlong is ready for action… now she’s on her knees… she’s got both hands on his shoulder… pump-pump-pump… and rubbing his big dick…”

“We’ve got a live sex show. Didn’t have to pay a cent.”

Janice eyed Larry’s trousers. “Whatdaya think, big fella?” She kicked off her shoes, squirmed out of her shorts, black panties, slipped off her light blue polo shirt, unhooked her bra. She hopped on the couch, landed knees first, twisted her butt toward him. “We’ll do it while we watch.”

“I hear you. Damn, we need another set of binocs.”

Larry pulled down his pants, being careful not to damage Mr. Ready-For-Action. He jumped up behind her, scooted close, began to massage her breasts. He pressed in close, poked his rod between her cheeks.

“Slow down. Take off your shirt. Give me some chest-to-cheek grinding with your pecs.”

“Okay if I leave my socks on?”

“What do I care about your socks—get on with it.”

He tossed his shirt on the floor, bent at the waist, squeezed his pecs against her smooth, round buns. While he stroked her breasts with both hands he moved side to side, massaging her cheeks with his chest. She arched her back, raised her butt. He stroked her boobs, continued chest-rubbing. She said in a low voice, “Keep at it, big boy, I’m getting into the mood. A couple of times she felt his penis poke up her crack. She held out the binoculars. “Here, take them.” A few minutes later she turned her head., “Okay…”

He slid inside. In real slow; he knew how she liked it. He gripped the binoculars with one hand, fondled her breasts with the other, started to rev up. “I’ve—never—done–this—before,” he said between strokes. “Never—never—nev—er.”

She reached between her legs, gave his nuts a twitch. Uh-oh, she thought, getting to the hard-ball stage. Won’t be long now. “Slow down, I’m not ready for Mr. P to go limp, lose his umph.”

“Ok.” He eased out, watched the couple for a while, then continued, “She stopped pegging.” He pressed in close to Janice. “Their porch is like ours. Got a couch, table, and bunch of chairs. Except, they’ve got a hot tub. Maybe they’ll jump in later.” Larry slipped inside, moved slower than before. With his free hand, he touched her breasts, felt her nipples firm up.

Janice moved her butt in a circular motion, matching his rhythm. A warm feeling spread down her legs, up to her breasts. “Tell me some more.”

“She yanked off the dildo. Now they’re having a glass of wine.” Larry stopped thrusting, continued to fondle her nipples. “It’s kind of odd…every once and a while…one of them disappears behind some sort of partition…”

“Too get more wine?”

“Maybe, hard to say… okay… they’re getting at it.” He watched for a while, then, “Now she’s got one leg on this little table, and he’s about to go down on her.” Janice closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of him inside, made all the richer by his description of love-making from afar. “He’s got his head between her legs—tongue’s a flying—she’s gripping his neck, scratching his back, moaning and writhing…”

“Let me see.”

She took the binoculars. “Ooooo, very good, his butt’s writhing and twisting all over the place… look at that cheek separation.”

Larry slid out, then pressed his chest up close, wrapped his arms around her. Do you know those folks?” His voice was low, husky. She could tell he was close.

“Sure, its Ann and Henry Scott. Don’t know him, but I see her at the gym. Sometimes we go for coffee.”

“Does she walk around naked in the locker room?”

“All the time. And plays with herself in front of the full-length mirror.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You wish.”

Janice flipped over, positioned herself on the arm of the couch so she could see the neighbors. “Do me like Henry is doing Ann.” She squinted through the binoculars. “Gotta make sure they are in view before licking begins.” She shifted position, then motioned him closer. “Come on.” She slipped her legs apart, pulled Larry’s head toward her crotch. “Put that tongue in gear. Our neighbors are ahead of us.”

She slipped her palms behind his neck, locked her fingers. She felt his tongue dance up and down her thighs, tiptoe over her pubics, then zoom straight to her hot spot. Janice sighed, swiveled her hips, sucked in air. His fingers began to tease and tickle, wander about, probe here, probe there. She closed her eyes, stretched her legs, flexed her toes, dug her fingers into the cushions, raised her butt, began to moan.

#   #   #

Larry felt her chest heave, her body tense. She’s getting close, he thought, I gotta go slow, steady, not spoil it by making unexpected moves. He knew she was at a critical stage. Any unexpected motion, distraction from anywhere, would wreck everything. She’d lose her footing, slide off the mountain without ever reaching the summit. He felt her fingers on his scalp, gentle, soft, now on his shoulders, slight pressure. Closer, closer, her fingers said, go a little deeper, but stay gentle. He shifted his position. He knew that the contractions were about to start.

The liquid, rich, whistling notes of the Baltimore oriole are the most beautiful of any American songbird. A series of chirps and trills up and down the scale, part warble, part bubbly gurgle, unlike any musical instrument. Larry had found the ring tone for her on a bird-watching website. She was enchanted by the song, happy to use it instead of any of the preprogrammed ones from the manufacturer. Whenever someone called, she delayed answering for as long as possible, just to hear the oriole’s melodious call.

That wonderful song came from Janice’s phone, which lay on the table in the living room.

Larry’s eyes snapped open. “What the fff…. Let the damn thing ring!”

She sat up, pushed his head aside. “I better get that. Might be Mom.”

Janice bounded into the living room, grabbed the phone, hustled back to the porch. She flopped down on a chair opposite Larry. He clenched his teeth. God oh God, he thought. How did this happen? What class double A jerkoff is calling? If they had only waited five more minutes.

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is your neighbor, Ann Scott. We see each other at Love Your Body Health Club. Remember?”

“Oh yeah. Hi—how’s it going?” She mouthed to Larry, who was slumped on his side, “This will be quick.” She winked, spread her legs, gave a couple hip thrusts.

Ann had more to say: “Henry and I were wondering— are you guys bird watchers?”

“Yes, yes we are.” Janice slid her legs together.

Larry groaned when he heard, ‘Yes we are.’ Oh no, he thought, we’re going somewhere. He looked at his penis, beginning to shrink and shrivel. Soon it would look like a button mushroom that had been abandoned for weeks behind the potato salad on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Larry took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His sex plans had taken an unexpected nose dive. The phone rang when Janice was seconds from an earth-trembling climax. What was supposed to happen—if the phone hadn’t rung—was to bring her to a screaming climax, let her recover, then slip inside, stroke slow and steady, slow and steady, for as long as possible—she’d be climaxing all the time of course—then throttle up for one gigundamunduss, super long, off-the-Richter-Scale organism that would blast their heart rates off the charts, leave them both panting, near death. To miss all that, just because of her Mother on the phone?

Janice took a deep breath when she heard: “We saw that you were watching us.”

“Oh yeah?”

Larry didn’t notice the anxious look wash over her face; he was still agonizing over his shattered plans. They’d open that bottle of Merlot, break out the special cheeses and crackers, the red grapes. Legs tangled up, they’d eat cheese, drink wine, watch their neighbors go at it while he repressurized down below for the next tumble. Grape juices would meander down her chin, drizzle onto her boobs. She would get up every so often, pour them more wine. He could watch her bustle about with no clothes on—luscious, bouncy.

“We’re bird watchers, too. And, we have a 40-mm spotting scope. Great for detail.”

“Uh-huh.” Janice continued to hold her breath.

“Yeah, it’s hidden behind this partition. Don’t want to spook the birds.”

“Yeah…”

“And, we noticed that Larry has a weird line of freckles across his chest.”

“Uh-oh.” Janice frowned, rubbed the back of her neck. She squinted through the screen at their neighbor’s porch. Laughter on the other end of the line.

Larry closed his eyes, continued to dream about the lost sexscapade. After hors d’oeuvres they’d order pizza from Gino’s, slice up some heirloom tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden. Stay naked all evening. Eat on the porch. Light candles, rev up the CD player. It could be a two, maybe three-orgasm night. Finish up by watching an old Sopranos episode. Then a mutual shower. Maybe she’d even suck a little, do a bonus soap-off to tide him over ‘till morning.

“And we’ve been watching you watching us.”

“Oh wow.” Janice sat up straight.

Larry saw her snap to attention. Oh no, he thought. New plans for the evening—but what could be more fun than sex? It might be her good-for-nothing brother Alfie, wanting to go bowling at Bubba la Flubba’s Magic Lanes, five hundred feet from the end of Runway Five Zero at the international airport. If I drive, Alfie will spring for the shoes, plus a round of heart-burn hotdogs and all the diet soda we can drink.

Janice began to exhale as Ann continued, “That’s okay, don’t worry about it. Anyway, it got us thinking. How would you and Larry like to come over, sit in the hot tub with us?

Janice smiled and nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“And we can…do whatever. Henry and I are fine with this. Okay with you two?”

“I’ll ask Larry, but pretty sure the answer will be yes.”

“Your man Larry has a scrumptious ass, by the way.”

Janice nodded, smiled, flexed her toes.

Ann continued: “How about staying for dinner? We’ve got a couple of rotisserie chickens on the spit.”

Janice leaned forward in the chair. “Sure. Can we bring anything?”

Larry heard ‘bring anything?’ and groaned. This is worse, he thought, no one brings food to a bowling alley. Not even la Flubba’s. Sounds like dinner at her Mom’s. Tuna-noodle casserole buried in soggy potato chips, a basket of rock-hard biscuits. No beer or wine, only lukewarm tea with no ice. For desert, a mushy apple pie made from some cheap canned filling. Her father waving his arms and yelling about fantastic life was when he was a kid. How he doesn’t give a flip about computers, email, smart phones, Facebook, or texting. Janice’s brother griping because can’t find a job, doesn’t have a girlfriend, can’t drive more than 100 miles without putting two quarts of oil in his old Chevy.

His penis, shriveled and limp, lay like a jellyfish, stranded on the beach at low tide. How can I get out of this family dinner? Janice already said ‘yes.’ Isn’t it time for my prostate exam? Maybe I’ve got a couple more wisdom teeth that need extracting. Aren’t I supposed to be making ‘Bag Your Dog Turds’ posters for the Bird Club?

Janice nodded as she listened to Ann: “Bring some cucumbers and fancy tomatoes from your garden. I’ve got rice pilaf in the crock pot.” Janice saw the pained look on Larry’s face. “And bring towels, anything else needed for a fun evening—know what I mean? It’ll be the four of us.”

Janice nodded. “Sounds fabulous, more than fabulous.”

Larry stared at the ceiling. His charger, once stiff and hard like a hickory stick, had shriveled to nothing, lay hidden under its pubic hair blanket. How did this happen?

Janice smiled. “Okay, we’ll be there in thirty minutes or less. Bye.” She dropped the phone on the table, jumped to her feet, winked at Larry.

“You’ll never guess what’s cooking for the rest of the day, maybe the rest of the night.”

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Dirty Harriet Explores the Internet By Dirty Harriet

I switched on my iMac, pulled my short black skirt up to my waist and sat down at my desk. The 27 inch screen glowed at me, and I quickly opened up the Safari browser and clicked on the link in my list of favourites.

I settled into the seat of my chair, the tops of my warm thighs sticking to the leather. I leaned forward a little, feeling my cheeks spread just enough and then I settled back gently, spread against the cool of the seat leather.

The fingers of my left hand gently stroked against my left thigh. My right hand flickered, controlling the magic mouse, shifting it swiftly across the screen, pulling up my favourite webcam website and logging in with just a few clicks.

I changed the basic view to my personal preference, and then found my saved performers. Almost a hundred photos sprang up, each time I hovered over a photo it turned into a live-view of the performer if they were online.

I scanned them all quickly. Mostly females, a few well-muscled men, half a dozen couples. That was what I was looking for, but none of my favourites were online.

My left hand turned into a claw and grazed my thigh.

I wasn’t in the mood to wait.

I clicked live-cams, changed the setting from girls (who I had been looking at a couple of night ago) to couples. There were about twenty to choose from. Some too old, some too fat. Some just not attractive enough.

I thought about checking out the girls, may be I could see one of them instead.

I checked my saved performers, but there wasn’t anyone there who would do it for me.

I could try downloading some porn, but I checked the time. It was late. My need was now.

My left hand continued to stroke, my right hand eagerly searching for someone to help get me off.

Then the notification popped up.

Bisexcouple1 had come online. They were one of my favourites. I couldn’t help but grin.

I clicked on the notification and it took me to their free live preview.

My left hand was working its way up inside my left thigh. I could feel the heat there buried between my legs, I could feel the ache. I tensed my thighs together, squirming in the seat.

I typed out hi, hru? (how are you).

They responded enthusiastically, I was a regular and they remembered me.

I’m wanting some nasty action, you guys ready for prvt (private), I typed.

For you always, they typed back.

I clicked on the button that said “private show” and the screen blinked and we were suddenly together. Just the two of them and me. No one else to annoy either of us or to interrupt.

She had long black hair almost to her slim waist. She wore a virtually see-through skin-tight body-suit, showing off her ample breasts and long slender legs. She had a pretty face and dark gorgeous eyes. He was slim, a little older than her at 26. Short hair and a big cock and loads of energy.

We wave at each other as my webcam clicks on, now they can see me and I can see them.

She blows me a kiss, then he disappears off-screen to work himself to hardness while she seductively removes the bodysuit. Her body makes me want to touch her, her alabaster skin looks so soft and clean. I want to lick her. To kiss her. To touch her and feel her body against mine.

My fingers press against the lips of my vagina as she undresses.

Then he is there. I can’t remember either of their names. If I wasn’t so horny I could talk to them and get to know them a little better. I know they are married and live somewhere in Romania, that’s as much as I remember. What I care about is that they are sexy as hell.

What you want us to do for you today darling, they ask me. It’s almost always her typing. I think her English is better, but both of them understand all of my instructions.

Just the usual I say, suck his cock as deep as you can for me. Then I want you to fuck doggy style and I want to see that pretty face up close and I want him to fuck you as hard as he can. And then I want to see him cum over that pretty face for me.

I put a smiley face after my instructions.

She looks at me and winks, and her husband has come back onscreen, his cock big and hard and pointing up at her face. She grabs it and takes it into her mouth. She devours it. She sucking the end of it, nibbling it, kissing it, licking it. Then she takes it deep into her mouth. All the way. She gags and releases it. Then takes it deep again. They know exactly what I like.

She continues with the deepthroat. Taking him as deep as she can, until she can’t take any more. She gasps and his massive cock pops out. Her breasts heaving as she wrestles to breath. My fingers feel the trickle of wetness between my thighs, then press against the lips of my vagina again.

He takes hold of her head and pushes her face into his crotch, his cock entering her mouth, going deep into her throat. She struggles to release herself but he holds her there as she struggles and my fingers enter me.

He holds her head and throat-fucks her. His cock moving in and out of her wide-open mouth, her head angled up so he can enter her as deep as possible and look down into her pretty eyes. She chokes and pushes him away, wiping tears from her eyes and spit from her chin. She smiles at me and I smiles back. She is so pretty. She looks beautiful with tears in her eyes and cock in her mouth.

Two fingers slip inside my vagina, my thumb and the palm of my hand resting against my clitoris, gently brushing it.

He pushes her head down onto his cock and holds it there while she struggles to release herself. Her hands pushing at his thighs. She looks like she is choking on his cock, and then he lets her go and she gasps in a breath. Her eyes continue to water, and she wipes her eyes as he gently slaps her cheeks with his cock.

You want doggy now, she asks.

You like to suck that big cock, I ask her.

I like it so much, she says, licking her lips. She’s so sexy without even trying.

Yes please, doggy style, and fuck her hard, that’s how I like it, I tell them.

Wish you were here, she tells me.

Me too, I tell them.

She positions herself in front of the camera so that she is facing it. I get a nice view of her face and her breasts are clearly visible. Her arse is there just in front of where he kneels, behind her. He gets into position, inserts his big cock and as he enters her I slip another finger inside myself, pressing more firmly with my palm against my clitoris.

He smiles at me, he is shy and quiet and not normally one for engagement.

Fuck her hard for me, make me fucking cum on your big fat cock, I type.

He nods eagerly. She licks her lips and smiles at me.

He slams his cock into her. Then another hard slam. Immediately they are fucking. Working their bodies against each other. Grinding into each other.  They work up the speed and ferocity, he is banging her hard, their bodies slamming together until I can hear it, his cock slapping deep inside her. Her face is a picture of pleasure and pain combined. My hand is slapping against my crotch, my fingers delving deep inside, my palm pressing against my clitoris. My right hand leaves the mouse and flicks against my blood-filled nub, pressing, pushing, flicking, brushing.

He is fucking her hard, her tits are banging against each other. Her face is screwed up, a little bit of pain, plenty of pleasure. He pulls her hair and her face lifts up, her back arches and her breasts heave towards me. She looks at the screen, watching me watching her. My hand flaps faster and faster.

The right hand fingers flickering, brushing against my clitoris. Pleasure building.

They briefly pause to get their breath back, big deep breathes, and then start again. He’s banging away into her backside. He pulls her arms back behind her, fighting to dig his fat cock deeper inside her. Her beautiful breasts slapping up and down. She is heaving against him, he enters her so deep it hurts now, but she’s enjoying it as much as I am. She is really being fucked now.

My fingers work my vagina, left hand slapping slapping slapping, three fingers working inside me, in and out, in and out. Like his cock inside her. My right hand working my clitoris. Pleasure bubbling.

Then he pulls out, he stands on the bed in front of the camera and she is there, kneeling before him. She quickly adjusts the camera and opens her mouth. He tugs on his cock hard, she takes his balls in her mouth, and then pulls him closer to her with her hands on his buttocks.

He cries out, sperm shooting over her pretty face and she smiles as the last of it drips down into her mouth. She licks it around her lips.

And that’s when the explosion in my groin takes over and I cry out, my fingers slipping out as my vagina tightens, my clitoris throbbing ecstasy through my entire body.

She uses her finger to collect his spunk and licks it from her fingers. My left hand goes to my mouth and I lick my finger, tasting my pleasure just as she tastes his.

Thank you, you sexy bitch, I tell her.

Always a pleasure for you darling. Hope to see you again soon.

I nod, they will see me again.

My leather seat is damp with my sex juice. I’d better clean up, I think and click off. My pleasure reached.

Pamela’s Wet Dreams By Charles E.J. Moulton

Confusion. It all seemed completely topsy-turvy to her, all these things happening to her, these harsh words, these accusations, these strange remarks, all these hard looks. Would she do this? Could she fill in for that guy at the theatre? Did she have time to empty the dish washer, mow the lawn, bring the kid to sleep, fetch the bottle from the cellar? Why had she not fixed that lamp in the kitchen yet? Too fucking much at once.

Yes, Freddie had so much to do at the office, he was so overworked and she did have the time, being a freelance artist. La-dee-frigging-dah. Juggling between housewife chores and learning choreographies for “All That Jazz”, hopping between finishing that painting the bank wanted and teaching that drama student.

A Renaissance Woman.

That’s what the press had called her.

Freddie?

He sat in his office chair eight hours a fucking day, stressed out – hah! – pointing his finger at his employees and his cock at his secretary, wondering why she had not filled out the forms yet or brought him coffee today.

And then: that day. The bike-ride. Seven year-old Joshua had to have his grey shorts on, Freddie screamed, those that went over the knees, otherwise, Christ help them, he could not go on the frigging ride. But, oh, when Pamela, the ultimate Renaissance Woman, asked Freddie why on God’s name he had to have the grey shorts on, Freddie went nuts. Pamela answered that, damn it, she was the woman in the house and could darned well decide what her own son should wear – and added in her own mind that she would find the first stud and fuck him – just to get even.

A silent bike ride followed, the kid playing in the park and Pamela and Freddie sitting on different park benches – hating each other. A silent summer fucking family barbecue, Freddie brooding. A silent evening, Freddie in the garden, playing with his Smartphone.

Pamela? Writing another story on her Samsung laptop.

And, hot damn, wondering why the hell she had to go through this.

Success, heck, yeah, lots of it.

A husband she loved, sure as hell.

But also a husband that drove her nuts.

“Is the barbecue thingie gonna stay out there in the garden all night?” he yapped.

“Shit, Freddie,” she yapped back, “are you gonna bitch all night? You the man, right?”

So, Freddie banged up angrily to the upper floor, telling Pamela that she could leave the pavillion open. After all, it wasn’t gonna rain tonight. Well, lah-dee-fagoolin-dee-dah.

“What am I,” Pamela thought to herself, “the local maid? There’s a storm flashing outside. What do you want? Should I lick your nuts? Lick them yourself.”

Darned, she was cooking inside, flaming, an inferno. In her mind, Pamela Reiff wanted to shove that guy’s nuts up his keester.

Pamela came to bed, as always, three hours later than Freddie, after having written another story and sent it to another publisher.

Pamela meditated in bed, lying on her back, fingering her fanny and boobies, closing her eyes, saw that her chakras were aligned, rightly colored, the right size and that her breathing was steady. She did her best to try, at least try, to count the positive things in her life: successful author, successful actress, singer and dancer, semi-successful painter. And Freddie wasn’t a keester all of the time, but she had suspected the guy to be a borderline psychotic for quite a while.

He was good in bed, when he was in the mood. With that long cock of his shoving up her sweet and wet furburger, slapping two hard testicles against her asshole, causing her boobs to dance and her buttcheeks to wobble, knowing why she had married him in the first place: he was a darned good fuck. Okay, not just for the sex, but, after all, when he straddled her face and squirted that cum onto her cheeks, she felt good. Salty, luscious sperm running down her cheeks onto her tits.

Not today, though. Today, they hated each other.

So, Pamela Reiff lay there in the marital water bed, fell asleep and escaped.

Pamela felt herself sinking into another dream. She had reached the upper crown-chakra when she drifted into another reality. A familiar reality. The soul’s reality. Strange and yet so … what was the word? Oh, she would think of it. Lovely. That was it.

A lovely spiritual reality.

Green trees were there, of a greener tinge that she had seen anywhere in the world. Blue water. Not just blue because of the shining sky, but true blue in every sense of the word. Red roses, redder than blood, more red than cherry juice, more intense than red apples. A sun as bright yellow as the most ripe lemon, only that this lemon was not sour, but as ripe as her own C-cup knockers, more pink than her most aroused pussy. A sunset as sexy as apricot colored candy. Earth as brown as chocolate. And a sweet fog over it all. No, not fog. A sweet mist, ever so slight. And flowers the colour of cum.

Pamela knew she was dreaming, but it was pure escapism by choice and by necessity.

She walked down a long path in that dream, a long and winding road down through a forest patch full of happy trolls and giggling fairies, all pointing their fingers at her and cheering for her to find the valley of love, finally strolling down into a bright expanse exploding in so many colours that it dazzled the eye.

The most amazing thing about this place were the men. Many men of all creeds and races. All these men lay there on the grass, grass leading down to a large lake, leaning their heads against their hands, smiling at her, all of them jerking their huge cocks, raised erectly toward the sky, waiting to be blown, sucked and fucked.

“Who are you guys?” she asked them, heartily.

One African fellow, the one with the biggest dick of them all, answered her:

“We are here to relieve you of your tension.”

She giggled, a bit shy over getting all this acceptance and sexy love.

“You’re ready for it, Pamela,” an Asian guy with a gigantic schlong mused.

“What do you mean?” she chirped, looking down on her own body and discovering that she was stark naked, her jugs willing to be licked. As soon as she discovered her own nudity, she saw that the valley was filled to the brim with fucking couples, simply expressing their own lust for life. Blonde Caucasiangang bnag women riding Arapaho cocks, even granting Pamela a glimpse of the white-red child to come. African women fucking Asian dicks, giving Pamela a sneak preview of the yellow-brown baby of the future. There were literally hundreds of copulating people here … and it all made sense. Love, lust, freedom of expression, it all made sense. There was no hate here. Just emotion. Just … life.

“Sex is not a sin, is it?” she asked a white boy with a cock that seemed to be nine inches long.

He shook his head.

“You wanna try tasting my glory?”

Pamela smiled, nodding, looking forward to this heavenly gang-bang.

So, this frustrated woman, her erect titties pounding, her throbbing pussy leaking, her pink asshole and all expectant, went down onto her knees and took the first dreamy and long dick in her mouth, sucking like a genius, tasting that wonderfully salty thing, grabbing two balls with her hand, massaging them, licking them, putting them into her mouth, switching to the long schlong again and loving it.

It was half-way into the facial, that white stud squirting his cum onto her willing face, that Pamela suddenly felt a little peck on her anus. Looking behind her, she noticed the dreamy black fuck trying his best to gently shove in his long one-eyed-willie into her butt.

It hurt, she would admit that, but seeing the line of dicks that were rowing up to stick their penises onto her willing tongue, it was a pain that was worth something.

Weirdly enough, the Arapaho fellow that had fucked the blonde chick was now sharing her body with the black guy, fucking her pussy ever so gently. It went on and on, so many schlongs fucking and squirting into her pussy, onto her ass, onto her face. She lost count at twenty men. It went on forever and ever.

“Glory,” she thought to herself, “we women have it good. Men have to take a break after squirting. We can fuck as long as we want with as many men as we want … at least until our pussies and asses get red and sore. Fuck, yeah, I love men after all.”

The glorious finale came when Pamela was met by ten men, all of different nationalities. She took a look at them before swallowing their cocks. One American Indian – a red cock. One Chinese man – a yellow cock. One Indian fellow – a nougat cock. One Swedish guy – a white cock. One Italian macho – a beige cock. One African bloke – a black cock. One French dude – a pink cock. One Brazlian gentleman – a beer-coloured dick. One Russian man – a creme-coloured penis. And finally: a British fellow with the biggest white cock she had ever seen in her life.

The British fellow banged his cock into her mouth harder and faster than she had ever seen anyone fuck before. His helmet felt like one of those big hard walnuts and his big tasty cock had the hardness of a wooden pole. Pamela’s cunny dripped like crazy. Cumming on the floor under her cunt while his gender pumped in and out of her word hole aroused her in ways that defied gravity. Pamela felt like flying. She moaned and groaned in higher and higher tones, while other dream men fucked her from behind.

She knew instinctively that these dream gigolos loved her voice range climbing into the extreme high range. Now she sucked a new cock and exerted small staccato squeaks as he rolled over her tongue. With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, that sounded like she had just finished a cocktail, she took out the Brit dick out of her mouth, wiped sperm off her chin and exclaimed: “Lick my pussy long and hard. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy. Show me you are good for something other than to bitch.”

The red dick didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders after the Brit cock was finished. He lift her off the ground, his dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind. Pamela and the red dick rode like masters, while six other cocks pleased her other holes on the grass. The sun was setting as the Indian fellow inserted his tongue into her pussy snatch for the forth time. She had the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that she soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of her own pubic hair.

She alternately rubbed her C-cup titties and his by now ruffled hairdo. Head hair on pubic hair, cock hair on pussy hair, clit-juice on cum, tit on muscle.

The Russian fellow now shoved the Indian guy aside aside and began licking Pamela’s snatch. The sound he was making was quite similar to the sound when eating spare ribs. The slurping and licking sounds made her think that there were gallons of clitty-juice in there – and there probably was.

She laughed to herself, aroused by this amazing sensation, loving the way that stud licked her clit. It really made her understand why she liked men in the first place. They certainly knew how to fuck, if nothing else.

Then, the triumph: all the men that had fucked her up until now came up to her face and all squirted their sperm on her face, all at once.

There were gallons, litres, nay, metric tons of cum on Pamela’s face that dreamy night. And she ended up finishing off her dream fuck with a long and very sexy shag with the only guy that she hadn’t fucked yet: the Irish fellow with the ten inch erection. Wonderful pain.

One ray of light hit Pamela’s eye. It fought itself through the window and forced her left eyelid open. This eye slowly met the sun, shining through a crack in the blinds and letting the sensitive blinking of his eyelid open. Orangecolored see-through-draperies graced a cream painted window. A heart hung on a string from the curtain. It bobbed slowly back and forth from a breeze that came from somewhere. Pamela knew not from where. Sighing and yawning, Her other eye opened and she first wondered where she was.

Her eyes drifted over to the pillow next to where she was laying. Crumpled orange sheets with pictures of Tut-Anch-Amun on them met her gaze. The satin sheets felt soft. Her dreams smelled of hot sex, of bodies intermingling, of hot words of lust, of newly washed bodies reeking of coconut cream, green grass and blue water, red roses and apricot cum.

Reality, as of yet, cold, but expectant.

Pamela looked around and remembered the dreamy Irish cock, the tanned skin of the Brazilian fuck and the long dick of the Arapaho fellow. She had never asked their names.

Did it matter?

Pamela breathed in slowly. The salty, welcoming smell of frying bacon met her nose.

Soft music playing in that kitchen, the noises of plates being taken out of cupboards.

When she stood up, she stumbled over her own bra, panties and skirt. They lay in a crumpled bunch on the floor next to Fred’s ancient sperm-covered copy of Playboy. Faked old-style floor, made to look like log-cabin-boards, graced the floor.

Picking up her panties, bra and skirt and putting them on, Pamela noticed Fred’s Elvis T-shirt laying over the chair. Fred certainly was a virile as Elvis. Walking out of the bedroom, she noticed the reproduction of an old Monet painting on the outer wall. It all seemed new, though so old. Walking out of the bedroom, the coffee and toast also came floating over. The balcony table overlooked what from her position seemed to be the inner yard.

“Fred?”

Was all this for her? Breakfast? Her husband made her … breakfast?

Another man she had known way back now had returned, looking out across the spring-like city of wondrous lust.

“I love you!”

Pamela shrugged.

“What?”

Fred’s cock in her mouth felt like the soft fabric of the Persian carpet under her feet: soft and yet hard. The fluffy sound of Pamela’s bare knees under her knees felt like a miracle. More home than what she had in years.

Fred looked down at her features, her hair swaying in the breeze from the open balcony door.

“I am sorry I have been a jerk,” he cried.

The two of them hesitated, like teenagers hesitating before a first blowjob. The breeze refreshing, their souls still shy even after a complete take-over of nightly lust, they realized that they looked at each other for the very first time and liked what they saw.

The woman sucked her husband’s cock. She bit her lip, trembled a bit, exuded some gorgeous perfume, sweated, sighed and received a hot-load of his sperm, willingly accepting it into her mouth. The couple fucked again, showered together, woke up their son, forgave each other and made another child that evening.

They never misunderstood each other again.

There was a whole lot of love and loads of cocksucking.

And Pamela’s wet dreams were exuberant.

She never revealed it to Fred, but, after being shagged by her hard hubbie every night, in that dream valley Pamela gave lots of international dream men loads of wet cummy fellatio.

The Denaralan Way By Stephen Faulkner

Garrala followed Elsa’s slim, bright form up the darkened stairs to the young woman’s apartment, musing at how little the earthling girl understood of what was soon to transpire between them. From the time the first envoys of Denarala – that would have been Hakara and Nesor so many earth years ago – stepped out of their craft to become the first of their race to set foot on Terran soil, the earthlings had made immediate assumptions about their alien guests. Some were right, Garrala had learned, most were dead wrong.

Elsa turned on the light in the narrow hall so she could rummage in her handbag for the key to her apartment. The bright glare of the bare bulb at the oblique angle she stood to Garrala’s rising-from-the-stairwell height caused the shadow of blonde fuzz on her upper lip to glimmer damply. This, recalled the dark skinned Garrala, had been the first sign of arousal noticed – that of sight. Garrala recalled the warmth of Elsa’s hand as it pressed deeply into the alien’s supple burnished flesh. The quiet exhilaration of conducting the private conversation with a being from another world seemed to increase the earth girl’s seemingly frail strength almost tenfold. The heat of her hand and the pressure of the five fingers then, Garrala remembered as the girl found her key and turned it in its lock with a loud echo of clattering tumblers. The heat of the touch, the hint of salty perspiration transferring from her lined palm to the sensitive Denaralan skin; the second sing – that of touch and delight.

They had found a secluded alcove on the third floor of the newly instituted Denaralan Consulate while the party to welcome the members of the diplomatic mission from beyond the star system perimeter continued on the floors below them. Polite conversation there mixed with talks on trade negotiations and tourism rights; Russian caviar and French pate being served along with Denaralan kish brandy and hairy truffle balls. Garrala’s upstairs conversation with the frail, pretty Elsa lulled on past descriptions of Garrala’s homeworld with its juxtaposition of lush forests, expansive farmlands and sprawling habitats for the small world’s burgeoning population. The lulls grew wider until there was only silence and the electric heat between them like a moist, soft buffer. While Garrala considered whether the “signs” noted earlier might have been misinterpreted, Elsa’s unpremeditated kiss came as something of a shock. She did not understand its true meaning to a Denaralan as her tongue stimulated the sensors in their wet recesses beyond teeth and forward glottis. The signs were now very clear, Garrala realized; there had been no misinterpretation at all. Already the telltale fog was beginning to cover the Denaralan’s sight, removing accountability from both of their shoulders for what would inevitably happen next.

With one last burst of mental clarity Garrala had told her, this girl who was the daughter of the mayor of this pleasant Terran host city, what was known, what was certain. A coupling could be attempted, if that was truly her intention but, by Denaralan standards, there would necessarily have to be some changes for each to adapt to the possible physiological differences. Elsa, misunderstanding, giggled sweetly. Changes were fine with her, she said, as long as they weren’t too kinky.

In the fog brought on by sexual arousal that was as much as Garrala could offer before everything clamped down and became lost in the dreamstate of pure indulgent pleasure. Nothing more was said to dispel the earth girl’s misapprehension of Denarala sexuality.

They left the Consulate and the diplomatic party that was still winding its laconic way and their exit was not noticed. Elsa’s apartment was only four blocks and two turns away.

# # #

Garrala heard little of Elsa’s bantering descriptions of human anatomy, the functions and reasons for body parts as they undressed. The protuberant and slightly pendulous globes of smooth flesh used for suckling the newborn meant nothing to the alien. All that Garrala asked were the locations of areas of Elsa’s body that might best benefit from stimulation. She lay down on the bed smiling and offered one of those selfsame child-nourishers (breasts, she called them) as she groped in the general vicinity of the Denaralan’s bared, hairless crotch for signs, to her, that she was indeed desirable to her star-traveling lover.

She found the intricate folds of flesh that concealed the flaccid sheweef and a look of perturbment came across her smooth, lightly haired young face. “The taste,” said Garrala through a haze of abandon, “is what excites.” The Denaralan’s tongue, almost a twin to the hidden sheweef itself when erect though with many more sensor buds covering its long, tubular surface. Slithered over Elsa’s small breasts and pink nipples in search of more than the meager flavor of sweat and the cloying perfume that she wore. Elsa was moaning, her pleasures internalized, not evident to the sensitive tongue, the need fully swollen buds that rimmed and rowed the length and circumference. Kissing her deeply once again for a reminder that the signs had not been wrong or misleading, Garrala ran a four-fingered hand over the slender length of the girl, touching only damp and dry, nothing to corroborate the earlier testimony of sight, tongue and touch. Garrala was confused, the heavy mist of arousal already beginning to lift with the frustration felt. Then, Elsa took the wandering hand, guided it between her legs to the warm, lustfully sliding membrane there, covered with skin and hair. They hide it, thought Garrala, sliding the absorbent tongue hungrily to the spot to dig in the thick patch of blonde hair, find the gathering of richly flavored bodily relishes, all of them piquant and aromatic as a warm Denaralan forest breeze (Oh, those sinful days of youth in the rain moistened, woodsy air with your tongue extended to taste and savor the ambient signs like the fluids exuded from the very essence of a careful and attentive lover!) to lap and absorb the juices that were secreted from her depths as from a concealed spring. The tongue slid and, in its sliding, bumped and moved the malleable parts, found a thin, short button of hardened pink that, when nibbled by the opening in the Denaralan’s tongue, made the girl squeal and bounce her hips on the bed and cry out in spasms of hard breath and strangled voice. The tongue moved, out of control in its perseverance to find more of this heady and invigorating flavor and, with an instinctive lash and turn of its own, found the well of her keeping, the deep fount., the manufactory of her musky, lustful flavors that, with suckings through the tube of Garrala’s tongue, were tasted and held in the mouth and found fit and right. The last sign, the one of truth, was here. The message ran the ganglion paths through the tongue, mouth and neck, traveled at stellar speed to the ball of muscle that was Garrala’s sheweef, causing that muscle-tube of assimilative tissue to disengage from its concealing place to stand free from the Denaralan’s body.

Garrala crawled between the earth girl’s splayed legs, felt the rise and fall of the bellows of her breathing as the sheweef found its home and slid swiftly in to drink deep of her secretions, found good and nourishing the cast-off compounds her body produced only as lubrication and scent. Garrla’s age-old race memory cried out at the near insufficiency of the genetic materials the young woman’s body was offering but the internal complaint was soon stilled when the anterior vesicle behind the sheweef was slowly filled.

In a few moments, Elsa was unconscious and, as natural reflex demanded, Garrala pulled out of the girl before any real damage could be done. Through culture and evolution Garrala was decidedly one of the race of people of Denarala, this frightening aspect of love making was something that had always been difficult to fathom. “Why,” she thought as she lay resting beside her earthling lover. “Why must the male lose consciousness at the very moment that clarity returns?” Garrala looked at Elsa, the girl’s jaw under slung in her near-comatose sleep to open the small mouth in the shape of the “uh” vowel. Wistfully watching the girl’s even breathing, Garrala noted how much like the males of her own species – differences notwithstanding – these females of the Terran race seemed. Running a thick finger under the girl’s nose to gather the last of the perspiration drying in the light fuzz of Elsa’s incipient moustache, the Denaralan sighed. “Now that I can think clearly once again,” she whispered. “There would be so much that we would have had to say to one another. So much that I would have you know…. And which you probably would not want to hear.

# # #

Rumors of the incredible sexual prowess of the visitors from Denarala radiated through the diplomatic corps. Elsa, however, was not the original source of the stories that circulated about the dark skinned, four fingered race from across the galaxy. She was of an extremely discreet nature, given to keeping her own counsel. The singular occurrences leading up to and culminating in the orgasm received at the porous end of the Denaralan’s tongue were her own secrets to keep.  Add to this the fact that, after her climax, she remembered nothing of the coitus that she presumed had followed, her silence becomes even more understandable. The few times she saw Garrala later on she made no mention of their love making, not wanting to hurt the gentle Denaralan’s feelings with the admission of her apparent amnesia about the most important aspect of their time together.

The rumors that circulated came from other sources, other incidents, similar and dissimilar to the one which Elsa and Garrala had shared. Women spoke of the artful cunnilingus of the Denaralan “men,” of orgasms so intense that all senses were lost; men spoke of vaginas so vibratingly active and juicy that the man needed do nothing more than slip his pecker in and let the “girl’s” body do all the rest.

Garrala laughed when she heard that about Denaralan “women.” Those were the men of the species and that profusion of viscous juiciness was the stuff of their genetic offering to the sheweef to sip and absorb. What a backward place this is, she thought, where the females entice and receive the males, the males who possess the protuberant penis (the word rang falsely in her mind) which spits the seed of life rather than is used as a means to absorb that seed, the genetic soup of all reproductive possibility, into it.

Garrala lay on her bed in her room at the Consulate and placed her cumbersome four fingers to her abdomen, felt the almost gaseous rumblings of the new cells dividing and being created within her from the influx of Elsa’s vaginal discharges that the Denaralan’s sheweef had gathered. The four fingered hand snuck beneath the loose fitting cloth of her trousers to fiddle among the swirling folds of flesh to her crotch, then removed the hand when she was satisfied that the thickness of her sheweef had already shrunk to an imperceptible nodule in her body’s preparation for the birth of the growing child inside of her. Starting well, she contemplated approvingly; nature following its predestined course with clock like precision.

A gargling sounded behind her second navel and she smiled. Her interior sensitivities were sharp; she felt the child’s face forming nicely; the fingers where just beginning to grow away from the already well defined arm ends. It would be a boy, Garrala knew. Or, she mused giddily, a girl as the earth people would label it. Oh the strange wonders of the new world.

Suddenly a nerve twitched and her mind turned back to the fetus filling out its destiny in her womb. A definite movement there, a new, unexpected growth. The sensing mechanisms were clear, there was no mistake: a fifth finger on each tiny hand. “Earthling?” she asked the child within, listened with every nerve for an answer. “Are you to be an earthling, then? A Terran? If it is true, then what shall you be? A boy? A girl? Or some sort of strange hybrid freak?”

From deep within the Denaralan’s womb came a squeaking, querulous sound. “Oh my,” said Garrala, lying back to allow her mind to drift and fog in the third of her seven gestation cycles. “What will your father think?” she muttered, all sense leaving her as nature had devised it should be at this very moment. “My, oh my my my, oh what will she say?”

The mere mention of the female pronoun in association with the word father caused Garrala to shudder with the feeling of nature having gone irrevocably insane within her womb. Even her unborn child – whether male or female; even with her remarkably acute nervous system, she could no longer be certain which it would be – gave a mewling cry from within her that was most irregular for a fetus at such an early stage of development. Dread, that subtle blending of fears into one black, irresolvable ball – quite an extraordinary emotion for any Denaralan – began to crease pale shadows across Garrala’s richly colored brow.

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

Did it matter… in the long run?

There was no question that it hurt.

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

In the long run.

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

Twenty years without Jenny?

Could he live without her?

Could, yeah.

Wanting to, no way.

He wanted to keep loving her.

No, wrong: he needed to keep loving her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had given him a wink.

“Cum on, you know that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Torture.”

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

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

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

“Come back!”

Damn, how sappy was that.

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

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

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

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

True fuck?

That, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe not.

Who knew?

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

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

“You’re here?” Cedrick croaked.

Jenny lay her white handbag onto the table.

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

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

“I’ve been miserable,” Cedrick mumbled.

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

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

She shook her head.

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

Baby. She had called him … baby.

How nice that sounded.

How promising.

How hopeful.

Did he dare to… hope?

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

She smiled, bitterly.

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

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

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

“Just promise me one thing, Cedrick.”

“Anything you want, Jenny!”

“Never call me bitch again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.”

Ankle Bracelet By Ty Vossler

It was an early October Friday afternoon in Puebla, Mexico—overcast as I recall. Lucia’s lover rested on his elbows above her, his fingers stroking the side of her face as they kissed.

She reached down and I read her lips, “Get inside.” He lifted my wife’s knees and I watched as he pressed down and in. Through the thin walls of the adjoining room, I heard their pleasure. On the laptop I saw how they looked into each other’s eyes, and kissed slowly as he began stroking back and forth.

Love is a quilt—covers what you don’t wish to see. Twelve years of marriage comfort, trust, and the resulting apathy had caused me to overlook obvious signs of cheating. Even now, with my heart in my throat and jealousy gnawing at my guts, I wanted her more than ever.

Her lover lifted her petite foot to suck on a red-polished big toe, and there it was, the ankle bracelet. It was jingling against his hand as he wetted his length in her pussy. The ankle bracelet should have been a dead giveaway. The spiky new hairstyle, the expensive Weight Watchers diet, her sexy new clothes, the twice-a-month, I’ll be late tonight, routine—bells and whistles, hammers over the head and all overlooked by yours truly.

The detective’s fees were reasonable. Lucia and her lover routinely rented a room at the same motel and it was a snap for him to install wireless micro-video cameras—one in the light above the bed, another on the television that faced it. A hundred bucks guaranteed that the clerk put them in that room. Another fifty got me the room next door.

There was no audio because of the danger with feedback noise. Yet, the paper-thin walls allowed me to perceive the bass and treble of their lovemaking. Tiny cameras saw everything and recorded it to my laptop—live streaming on two windows.

Lucia rolled on top and straddled him facing away. He spread her ass cheeks and her hands rested on his hips, mouth formed an O. He arched to synchronize with her dancing hips. She wet two fingers and found her tiny clitoris. He licked a middle finger and slowly insinuated it up her ass, which stirred Lucia into a sudden frenzy. She climaxed powerfully and he answered with a primitive growl, saturating my wife with spunk. I heard the ankle bracelet tinkling through the wall.

A throbbing hard-on accompanied the rock in my throat. Lucia leaned back on his chest as he twisted her dark brown nipples and played his fingers up and down her belly. I ignored the omens—high beams in my face, an air horn in my ear, fists drumming against my stubborn temples. The image of Lucia resting on top is transferred to the memory stick. It’s hard to imagine that, inches away, he has slipped out and now they are lying side-by-side. There is a sizable circle of moisture on the comforter. If I need DNA, there’s more than enough.

I could almost feel the heat of their bodies through the wall. They were talking—perhaps he was telling her how great she felt and she’s telling him what a mess he made. She excused herself to the bathroom, where she would push his seed out into the cold water of the toilet. He rested with his arms behind his neck until she returned. They snuggled again and she closed her eyes. Lucia likes to nap after sex.

He can’t sleep. He has my beautiful, naked wife lying next to him. He touched her lightly on the back with his fingertips—kissed her shoulder and neck until it was clear to Lucia the time had come for the obligatory follow-up. Lucia’s battery takes longer to recharge, yet she went along with it. He rolled on top and slipped in easily. She said something to him, probably something like, this is just for you. Her hips moved and he got his rocks off rather quickly.

It’s all on a memory stick. When they leave, the detective will remove his equipment, I’ll make a payment and his next job will be making contact with Lucia’s lover to show him still shots. The lover’s name is Alfonso. He is married with two children, a boy and a girl. His family has sizable holdings in real estate, a hardware store, and a Chevy dealership. In order to avoid a scandal, he will pay dearly.

They took a quick shower. Knowing that her cell phone was still turned off, I sent a text. After they had dressed, she sat on the bed and turned it on and saw, INBOX (1) how was it? She sat up straight and typed rapidly. He watched, running a leisurely finger down the crack of her ass. My phone vibrated. Her reply, INBOX (1): How was what?

I didn’t answer and watched her fidgeting. She’s having doubts, wondering if the jig is up. I have the answer on a stick. Soon the answer will be added to my personal bank account minus the detective’s twenty percent.

He says something and she shakes her head. He must have seen the look on her face. As they walked passed my room I heard him ask, “Do you want to grab a bite?”

“No, I really need to get home,” she answered.

The rest of the conversation trailed down the musty hallway.

I picked our daughter, Rita, up from daycare and we drove to the tiny local zoo. I texted Lucia where we were and she wrote, Ok, Mua!  Later she tried to call but I didn’t answer. I imagined her pacing, squiggling in a chair and staring out the window. I gave her plenty of time to ruminate and stew in the juices of guilt. Sometimes the best answer is none.

Rita and I stayed longest at the monkey habitat. They were swinging, chasing each other around and Rita was laughing. They groomed each other and she thought that was funny too. The stick was stowed in my shirt pocket.

# # #

A candlelight dinner was waiting when Rita and I returned. Lucia was wearing my favorite black dress.

“What’s the occasion?”

“I just wanted to surprise you,” she replied.

I’ve had enough of surprises, I thought. “You look nice,” I said.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine, a little tired.”

Dinner was perfect and Lucia was perfect. As we cleared the dishes, she spontaneously kissed me at the kitchen sink. The hours crept along. The stick was tucked away in my socks drawer. Rita was in bed by 8:00 probably dreaming of monkeys and Lucia was showering again.

I connected the stick to the flat screen, pressed play and watched Lucia walk into the room with her lover. They stopped at the edge of the bed for a kiss. Did she love this man I wondered? Is this the end of us? Now her lover was lifting her skirt, sliding down her panty—she sits on the bed and he buries his head between her thighs.

Lucia was still showering, probably standing beneath the water with her eyes closed. What will happen with Rita if we’re through? It isn’t fair that children suffer for their parent’s mistakes.

Alfonso is balanced on his elbows for a traditional start, fingers stroking the side of her face as they kiss. Then they entered a new world together—one I have visited many times with Lucia.

The shower is still running. Perhaps Lucia is weighing her involvement with this man, getting a grip on the implications. Why did she need this? How did she meet this clown, this Alfonso? The detective said that her lover taught economics class at the university.

The ankle bracelet was jingling against Alfonso’s hand as he fucks my wife. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open. She hooks her ankles around his back. I watch the two windows, a Birdseye and at bed-level view.

The shower is turned off. I ejected the stick and hid it among my socks again. Then I slipped under the covers before Lucia came in. I watched her apply various creams and lotions—products designed to keep her looking young. She saw me gazing at her and interpreted it to mean that she had a wifely duty to perform.

“Do you want to make me dirty?” She is still wearing the ankle bracelet. We’ve never fucked with it on.

“Okay,” I replied.

“You’ll need jelly,” she advises, pulling down her pajama bottom, taking just one leg out and walking to the bed.

“All right,” I reached into the drawer of the nightstand for the tube and put a smidgen on the tip of my cock.

“This is just for you,” she advised.

As I lifted her legs by the ankles the bracelet jingled. She winced as I pushed inside, still tender from her afternoon. After a few minutes, I spurted heavily. There was always a roll of toilet paper on the lamp-stand and I handed her a wad.

She returned to the bathroom for a while and then rejoined me. When the lamp was clicked off it grew dark and silent.

“What did you mean today when you wrote, how was it?” She asked.

I allowed another pregnant pause. Silence is cruel, “I don’t remember.”

She gave me a dry-toast kiss, “Goodnight darling.”

I don’t know how this will pan out. I need time to process my feelings. The stick is my trump card and even before the hush money is transferred into my account, I will need to study it over and over before I decide.

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.”