The Hot Flames By Charles E.J. Moulton

Man, that pissed me off.

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

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

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

I believe so.

Had I left my job too early without permit?

Yes.

What did that mean?

How the fuck would I know?

Getting fired?

Bring it on, buster.

There were other jobs.

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

One question, though.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men. Damn it, they pissed me off.

Sex, to me, was no joke.

It was a revelation.

It deserved responsibility.

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

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

“BASTARD!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

I sneered.

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

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

“… the … the … the …”

I searched in my head for the word.

“… the … damn.”

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

“I don’t have to be your dartboard.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay in your corner?

What corner?

I had my office right next to his.

In the middle of the top floor.

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

Who had saved the company from extinction?

Who had convinced many clients to stay with the firm?

Who had worked too many hours without getting paid?

Me, me, me and me again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wanted to be fair.

Revenge was not fair.

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

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

I pressed the receive button:

“Yes?” I groaned.

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

“You sound distraught.”

I sighed, shaking my head,

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

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

There was a slight chuckle.

“There are a few exceptions,” I mused.

“What happened?”

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

I sniggered.

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

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

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

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

You’re too valuable for shit like that.”

“That’s sweet.”

There was a slight pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked around my couch and on my own self.

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

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

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

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

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

No slippery innuendos.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That inspired his testosterone to rise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you, Victoria.”

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

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

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

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

“Will you marry me?”

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

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

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

And together, we laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love loving you!”

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

Without love, we’re lost.

Let’s remember that.

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

Fidelity and respect are necessities.

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

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

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

My pussy is throbbing again.

My nipples are stiffening.

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

I know that I certainly have that ambition.

And I am certain I do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breathing Space By Time Barrow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How long should I stay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s All in the Words By Charles E.J. Moulton

I sat behind that incredible looking chick, flabbergasted. There was no other word I could use to describe her. Those humungous knockers, luscious like juicy watermelons. Enjoying the sight of her astounding boobs not only raised my dick about three feet, she had my heart racing like crazy. Dive into that cleavage, boy, I thought to myself, and vanish. Move into Chrissie’s wet and pouting little vagina forever.

I know, I know, I really was supposed to be concentrating on work. This short conference had a bunch of us together from the theatre that had not done the show before. Chrissie had been assigned to brief us through the moves by the way of a video of last season’s premiere. So I wrote down my notes in the textbook, moves and intensions and so on, but all I could think of was throwing this fucking cockteaser over the desk and ramming my hard penis into her pussy from behind, watching her voluptuous bumcheeks wobble like Jell-O as I thrusted toward a five-gallon-of-sperm-climax.

Even worse, she wore a tight blouse that really showed off her curves in such a delicious way, her bra pressing down upon her voluptuous titties under her striped shirt, pressing so hard into her Victoria’s Secret and so bad into her meaty boobies that I literally saw her rack eagerly hoping to hop out onto my happy prick.

And then the belly free bit, the open skin-space between her black blouse and her beige pants. A little bit of cuddly flesh, revealing enough to leave something to the dirty imagination: the wet dream of ripping off those cute little trousers, showing off two peachy apricotlike buttcheeks, welcoming enough to make me wanna fuck the shit out of her real hard.

That blonde, flowing hair, that friendly smile, those sexy dimples, that happy-go-lucky and very open dickpleaser-personality. All of that made me wonder how many men she had fucked and sucked or how many men – and women, for that matter – had wanted to fuck and lick her lucious little pussylips.

I bet you want dick real bad, you dirty  crumpet, I felt like telling her.

Her ass, oh, how it molded into those pants. Perfection. I really sat there, imagining myself reaching into her flower-decorated panties, fingering her throbbing and dicklusting pussy. As I seriously took notes, trying my best to concentrate on work – damn, boy, work, work, work, damn it – I imagined this slut sitting naked on her desk, spreading her legs, opening her three rows of wavey pussyfolds, showing me the pink inside of her wet cunnilingus, asking me to eat her vagina. In my dreams, she sat on my face and I drank her cunny willingly, drinking litres of clitjuice in the process through a five foot straw. How’s that for a smoothie? Holy cow, she really had me by the balls.

I walked away from work that night absolutely confused. The only damn thing I could think of was how to get into her beige pants. Fucking that hot cockteaser was probably the best thing that could happen to any horny man. I knew, however, that I could not fuck her. Okay, I would have adored to. But a married man does not fuck around, even if I had enjoyed daydreaming of having Chrissie’s pouting little lips surrounding and devouring my squirting cock. That face covered in cum. How wonderful was that? Wow. That’s how wonderful.

Okay, I told myself, take a cold shower, calm down, do some math, buy an algebra book, for God’s sake, do your taxes, anything just to get that cocksucking little whore Chrissie out of your mind.

I noticed that writing a made up story about Chrissie in my smartphone app sort of healed the aching testosterone levels. It felt, inside, like I really had fucked that babe long and hard, perhaps even sticking my schwanz into that teasing bitch’s butthole for a whimper and a squeeze, turning her office desk into Cock Ewing’s Giant Hot Dog Rodeo Ride.

Gee Wiz, I desperately needed a cigarette.

Whew.

There’s a hole lot of fun a red blooded wanker can have without ever being unfaithful.

It’s all in the words.

What did I need now?

Oh. Okay. Maybe a wank.

Or fucking my wife.

Oh, yes. Indeed. My wife.

The world’s best cocksucker.

She really knew how to please a man’s long dick.

So nice and easy coming home.

I feel my dick growing now.

I gotta go and get myself some really hot and wet little pussy.

Dirty Harriet Goes Dogging By Dirty Harriet

Harriet sat at the bar, her little black dress riding half way up her thigh. The glow of the back-bar offering little in the way of actual light, but making her pale white skin glow. She sipped her daiquiri, enjoying the light burn of the alcohol as it ran down the back of her throat.

There were a group of city boys in a booth behind her, laughing and drinking and no doubt checking out her arse. One had offered to buy her a drink earlier, but she’d politely declined. She didn’t want to be fending him and his mates off all evening. She’d ignored his comment as he’d walked away, which might have been “bitch”.

It didn’t look like anyone interesting was in tonight, but that served her right for going out on a Thursday. She’d been bored at home. Her shift as a Police Officer had finished hours ago and for some reason she still had energy. Actually, she knew why. She’d been single for almost three months, and she had an itch that needed scratching.

There weren’t any men of interest in the bar so she threw back the remains of her drink and stood up, adjusting her dress again, leaning just a little forward to give the barman a view of her ample cleavage. He smiled at her, but he was too pretty, not her type. He’d be delicate and gentle and that wasn’t what she needed right now.

Harriet turned and headed towards the door, that’s when she saw him. He stepped off a motorbike, his leg swinging over the back of it. She noticed he looked fit, like he worked out. A lot. His tight black leather trousers clung to his buttocks for dear life, and they hugged his muscular legs like they’d been painted on.

She couldn’t see his face as he had a helmet on, but she slowed her strides, watching him, waiting. Anticipating the disappointment she was sure to come.

He pulled off his helmet, but he had his back to her and she couldn’t see him properly. She leaned her head to the side, but it wasn’t far enough. This back was wide, broad shoulders and a tapered waist, a clearly visible V-shape that singled him out as a swimmer or bodybuilder.

Harriet was nearly at the door, she couldn’t very well walk out and notice him and then follow him back inside. That was too stalkerish.

Then he turned around.

For a moment Harriet couldn’t breathe. His jet black hair was cut army-short, his stubble was just a little longer than was fashionable, but Harriet thought it might not scratch her face if they kissed. His big brown eyes almost stopped her dead in her tracks. His Roman nose was situated perfectly on his face so that it didn’t look too big, and his full lips complimented it effortlessly. His jutting chin gave him such a strong jawline, he looked like he could bite off a hunk of meat and swallow the mouthful down whole.

She continued moving but struggled to take hold of the door’s large steel handle.

As she fumbled with it the biker turned towards her. He smiled through the glass door, she was too busy staring at him to concentrate on what she was doing with her hands and she just grasped and pushed and made no headway at all trying to open the door.

The man raised an eyebrow at her and pulled the door open, sweeping his arm aside like a footman opening a door for the princess. Harriet smiled, not sure what she was still doing with her hands, clasping at her purse. She sidled through the space, stopping right in front of him.

He was nearly six inches taller than her Amazonian frame.

Their faces were just inches apart, Harriet looking up at him with her own beautiful green eyes. She could feel the heat of him despite the chill of the November night. She imagined she could feel his heart beating faster at her closeness. His chest was millimetres from hers, her ample bosoms pressing tightly against the cloth of her dress.

For a moment she stayed there. Staring into his eyes. Wishing away everything else. Harriet fell in lust with him at that moment. She gazed into those deep, dark, beautiful eyes, willing herself away.

“Hello”, he said to her. She felt his breath on his cheek before she heard the word. She forced herself not to close her eyes and fall away. His voice was deep, booming almost, like a vibration of the air between them as much as a sound.

Harriet opened her mouth to speak, wanting to say something, willing herself to speak.

“H… “ her voice cracked, embarrassment raised its head, “Hi,” she managed finally. Then she smiled.

There was an immediate energy between the two of them. If it had been alight before and not just in Harriet’s imagination, now it was a blazing fire of heat between them.

They stayed like that, standing face to face, not speaking, not moving, just staring into each other’s eyes for the longest moment.

Then the city boys opened the second of the double doors and stepped out behind Harriet. She barely noticed, and didn’t look away from her new friend. She could feel their eyes on her vaguely, scanning her body, checking her out. She didn’t care. They didn’t matter.

All that mattered was the man in front of her.

“Want to get out of here?” he asked her, barely whispering. It felt like he was talking directly into her ear, a deep rumble, his breath hot on the side of her face.

All she could do was nod. He took her hand, and she followed him, almost skipping the few steps to the motorbike.

Harriet stopped, standing next to the bike and gestured towards her dress. “I can’t ride on that,” she told him. Her short black dress wouldn’t keep her warm, and with him sitting between her legs she didn’t like to think how high it would ride up her thighs. She didn’t want to give the passing motorists a thrill.

He peeled off his leather jacket, and Harriet couldn’t help but watch his muscles ripple under his tight black t-shirt as he stretched. He wrapped the jacket around her shoulders and it fit like a dress, reaching almost down to her knees. She hadn’t realised how big he was for some reason, but he towered over her, his shoulders nearly twice the width of hers.

She could still feel his body heat absorbed in the fabric interior, enveloping her, comforting her.

He held out his hand and Harriet took it, firm but gentle, and he helped her climb onto the Triumph. He placed a helmet on top of her head and gently pulled it down over her face, it fit perfectly. He swung his leg up and between then, slipping between her legs he leant gently back until his back pressed between her thighs, opening them wider.

“Hold on tight,” he told her as he slipped his helmet back on. She wondered where they would go, they hadn’t even spoken about it. And the bike roared to life. The thrumming of the engine sending shivers through her body.

Within moments they were racing through the streets of London, darting through traffic, weaving left and right across lanes. The speed they were going was scary. Harriet held on tightly, her arms wrapped around his muscular chest, her knees pressed together just above his waist. She felt the cool air pressing against her, but his jacket still kept her warm. She was almost sure she could still feel his body heat inside it still, warming her.

It didn’t take long for them to leave the busy streets of London behind. When the road emptied up ahead he pulled hard on the throttle and the bike flew. Harriet gasped as the front wheel lifted off the ground, and the throbbing of the engine became a roar, then a howl, as they rapidly picked up speed. It seemed mere minutes before they were out into the countryside, the road empty, the traffic non-existent.

They went for miles and miles. Harriet was just starting to notice the cold, and the heat of his body against hers. And then she realised she didn’t even know his name.

She was travelling with a stranger god knows where, on his motorbike. Her phone was in her purse, clutched against her flat stomach, pressed hard against his back.

Just as Harriet was starting to worry a little about this man she didn’t know and where she was going with him they pulled off, onto a strange side-road that swiftly became a dirt road. Harriet’s anxiety was getting the better of her. But she was a fully trained police officer. She’d tell him that as soon as they stopped, that would put him in his place. Either he’d be scared off, may be leaving her in the middle of nowhere, or he’d be a fine upstanding citizen and nothing for her to worry about.

They wound down the narrowing lane, the trees overgrowing on both sides of the road and creating a dark canopy. Was this where they would find her body, she wondered?

Then suddenly the road ended into a small opening surrounded by trees. It looked like a carpark, and the motorbike pulled over to the side, the engine revved briefly and then he switched off the engine, but left the lights on.

Harriet looked around before she took his hand and climbed off the Triumph. There were a few cars scattered about, all of them spaced far away from each other. Harriet noticed that one of the car’s windows was down and she could hear something coming from inside when the man tugged gently on her hand, pulling her towards him.

She put her hand up between their mouths and pressed her finger to his lips before he could kiss her. She could feel the heat of his body coming in waves towards her. Despite her fears the thrill of his heat was intense and she could feel her body responding to it. Harriet knew that if she needed to she could defend herself, but she didn’t want to.

“Where are we?” she asked innocently.

Then she asked: “What’s your name?”

He chuckled. “Lucas.” It came out as a growl, raw and powerful. Harriet stepped back, leaving her finger against his lips for a moment. “I’m Harriet,” she told him, and then she removed her fingers from his lips reluctantly and held out her hand to shake his. He took it firmly and shook. “Nice to meet you, Harriet,” Lucas said with a seductive smile and a sparkle in his eyes. She could tell he wanted her by the way she said her name.

Before she could repeat her question about where they were he pulled her close to him, pressing his body against her. The heat between them suddenly flared. Harriet felt like her blood was on fire in her veins. Their lips met, pressing together, their mouths opening and she felt his tongue dart into her mouth, tasting her. Teasing her as he slipped out of her mouth. Her tongue slipped inside his mouth, pressing against his teeth. Then their tongues wrapped around each other. His breath was hot in her mouth. Their lips twisted and turning as they tried to penetrate each other further.

His arms wound around her, hugging her body against him. Their bodies pressed tightly, fitting together like Lego bricks. She could feel the hard muscles of his chest pressing against her breasts, his massive arms clinging to her, moving around her and enveloping her. She could feel his thighs against hers, and as his pelvis tilted into her, she felt his bulge. Harriet gasped involuntarily, and he sucked in her breath. Then pulled away slightly to look at her. They both grinned, both of them knowing where this was going. Her hand reached, struggling to find a path between their bodies, and she rubbed at him. He groaned and Harriet rubbed harder. Then he stopped her, taking her hand in his and stepping away.

Lucas turned away from her, Harriet wanted to grab him back and hold him against her. She didn’t know anything about him, but the mystery was intoxicating. He pulled her along behind him and Harriet followed. Noticing that the light from the motorbike splayed out across the back window of the car ahead of them.

There were noises coming from inside the car. It suddenly dawned on her what this place was and she slowed down, resisting Lucas’ pull. He turned around and stood in front of her, looking handsome in the dim light. He kissed her again, she melted in his arms, falling into his embrace, he crushed her body to his, her softness complementing his hardness. He tasted like strawberries and chocolate and Harriet wanted to devour him.

Then she realised where she was and she pushed him away, he gave way momentarily, but his passion took over and he clutched her body harder, kissing her deeper. She let him, moving her body against his.

He turned her around, so she had her back to the car, and they gradually moved backwards. Step by slow step, their bodies intertwined, kissing, touching, her hands reaching around to his buttocks, one of his on the small of her back, the other between them squeezing her right breast. His hand was warm and hard, and he squeezed and kneaded her flesh like an expert, using just enough pressure, rolling his thumb over her nipple, and teasing his fingernails down the side of her breast. She wanted to feel his fingers elsewhere. Then she was leaning back against the car with a bump.

One of his hands went between her legs and Harriet groaned in his ear, he was panting against her cheek as she reached between his legs, pulling at his trousers.

There were sounds coming from the car Harriet was leaning against.

But as she turned around to look Lucas took her face in both of his hands, he leant her head forward and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, then Lucas worked his way down her face, never leaving a centimetre unkissed, working down the sides of her face, kissing and kissing. He kissed the tip of her nose and Harriet chuckled as it tickled. He kissed her cheeks, then her upper lip, kissing and kissing. His lips puckering against her skin. Harriet felt his moist flesh touching her, his heat seeming to glow with every single touch, then moving away, only to alight elsewhere. He kissed just above her lips. Harriet tried to draw him into a kiss, but he teased her, his lips moving just out of reach. He kissed the side of her mouth and she hungered for him. She wanted more. She pressed her own hand between her legs, shifting the fabric of her dress out of the way, her fingers pressing against the gusset of her silk panties.

She could feel Lucas grinning as his own hand found hers and pressed harder between her thighs. His breath hot on her face, his lips wet as they traced along her jaw and then down under her chin, kissing all the way. He kissed against the other side of her jaw, his fingers entwined with her between her legs, pressing more firmly. Easing deeper between her thighs, pressing up and sliding back out and then repeating, slow steady strokes. Their fingers digging deeper into her flesh each time.

His mouth worked its way down her throat, his hands slid lower to take hold of her neck and her head fell back allowing him deeper access as he nuzzled in the crook of her neck.

Branches quivered not far from them. Harriet looked into the distance, saw the trees and brambles moving, as though someone was there watching. She gently shook her head, her shoulder-length brunette locks tumbling around her face, ignoring anything that was happening beyond her body and Lucas’ touch.

Then Harriet felt his skin against her skin. Between her thighs. His fingers had slipped away from her, slid beneath the fabric of her underwear. His fingers were thick and so hot. His skin touching her almost burned. The cool breath of the night a distance contrast.

Lucas teased her, his finger working between the lips of her labia, opening her up, grazing against her engorged clitoris. Her breathing was shallow, she sucked in air, felt like she was drowning. She held her breath, awaiting the moment. She wanted to be penetrated. Lucas gripped her breast and squeezed harder until she gasped. His mouth working its way down her chest, kissing her boobs, working his way down the milky white slope, across her chest, his tongue leaving a cool trail of saliva. She wanted him inside her. She wanted to feel the heat of his cock. She wanted him to fill her.

“Fuck me,” she whispered at the top of his head. His fingers sliding around and around between her thighs, momentarily gliding across her clit. She squatted slightly, widening her stance to give him more room.

Lucas stopped, looked up at her. His mouth just above her right nipple. His head went back down, he drew her nipple into his mouth, just slipping it over the edge of her bra, releasing the ample bosom from its cradle. Heat surged through her chest. She pushed his panties aside, her fingers scrambling to find his. She didn’t want to be teased any more. She wanted to be fucked.

Lucas let her nipple roll off his tongue with a tickle and a dribble of saliva. The cool air a tantalising contrast to the moist heat of his mouth.

He stood up straight and kissed her again, his tongue entering her mouth, she sucked him in deep, then twisted and rolled her tongue across his, writhing together. And then she found his fingers, crushed them together and pushed them towards her vagina.

“Hold on,” Lucas whispered, removed his hand just as she was about to feel him inside. He took her a couple of steps to the front of the car. She hadn’t realised, but the headlights were on. Lucas pushed her to the front of it and bent Harriet over the car bonnet.

Harriet looked behind her as Lucas roughly pulled up her dress, knelt down behind her and bit through her panties, tearing them to pieces and throwing them aside. He pulled down his trousers, and she looked at his erect cock as it bobbed towards her buttocks.

Lucas pushed her down on the bonnet of the car and stepped forward. She felt him close to her, the heat from his cock was startling. She felt the head of it probe gently near her bum, then lowered as he positioned himself, she felt it press between her thighs. Then the angle changed.

Harriet was looking forward through the windshield. She could see a couple in the car. They were fucking. The man was lying down on the back seat and the woman was riding him, her hands pressing against the roof for leverage, her large breasts bouncing up and down with each thrust.

Lucas entered Harriet. His engorged cock bursting through her labia and impaling her. It just kept going, she swallowed hard, wondering if she would be split apart, but enjoying every single inch of it. Her own wetness gliding him deeper. It kept coming, deeper and deeper inside her, filling her. She felt it hit the walls of her vagina and thought she would burst.

Her fingers found her clit and pressed, hard, then harder. Lucas was grinding his cock deep inside her, ramming his pelvis against hers. Her entire body tensing, her back ached, her head lifted from the cool metal, the angle of her hips tilted and she felt his cock fill her, his fingers touching her. The explosion came in a wave that had her bent knees trembling, and the only thing that held her up was the car bonnet, and his hands heavy on his hips. She rested her head against the cool metal as Lucas continued to pound her penis into her. She watched the couple in the car. On the other side of it someone was masturbating, holding a flashlight and peering inside. When she looked at a van across the car park she saw a van with the back doors open. There were random people scattered around the edges of the park, watching, wanking.

This was live porn.

She was part of it.

She thought she heard someone cum somewhere behind her, but when she turned all she could see was Lucas. He was grunting, thrusting, his massive cock almost hurting her. She realised she hadn’t moved and the waves of ecstasy that had taken her were fading, so she pushed back as he thrust, and he gasped. Grinding together, their bodies in sync, it was fast and hard and rough. Lucas pulled her hair, her breasts escaping her dress and then falling to press against the bonnet.

From nowhere someone stepped towards them, touch light flaring in Harriet’s face for a moment before it focused on her grinding hips. She saw a hand moving rapidly near a crotch. Just rapidly white movement in the darkness.

Lucas’ fingers fumbled between her legs as he tried to thrust and find her bud. When he found it his rough fingers pressed against it and sent shivers of pleasure writhing through her exhausted body. She looked up at the masturbator and grinned.

Inside the car the woman riding the man caught her eye and they shared a smile. Harriet squeezed her own breast, tweaking the nipple. Inside the car the woman did the same. All of a sudden the couple stopped fucking, got out of the car, the woman quickly on her knees at the back door.

Harriet shifted a little so she could see. Lucas moved with her, fucking her harder with every thrust of his hips.

The car man stood in front of his woman, stroking his cock and then jerking it as he came in a pure white dribble into her mouth.

The lone masturbator didn’t know where to look. Until Harriet took her finger into her mouth and sucked it. Then Lucas hit the button, then again and again and again. Repeatedly touching her clit, pressing against it with enough pressure to send waves of beautiful heat through her body. It blasted through her muscles, her flesh, her skin, like a wave of burning pleasure.

The masturbator groaned and came a few moments later, his seed shooting through the air to hit the car tyre several feet away.

Harriet groaned, gasped, Lucas ploughed his cock into her with one forward thrust that overbalanced them and he was pressed down hard against her as his cock jerked inside her, throbbing his load deep inside her pussy.

Somewhere behind them a few minutes later someone gasped in pleasure. It was only then, as their sweat began to chill and their bodies, stuck together with their heat and juices, began to feel sticky and cold.

Lucas pushed up on his powerful forearms, pressing his semi-flaccid penis inside her. Harriet tried, but she couldn’t move. Her body still trembled, exhausted by the waves of pleasure still sending shivers through her. She wasn’t even sure she could stand. Her thighs and vagina ached from the sex. Her nipples were sore from the twisting she had given them. The tops of her thighs were rubbed raw from banging repeatedly against the car.

Lucas helped her up but as she staggered against him, he hugged her tightly and took her back towards the motorbike.

He helped her climb up, it took her two attempts and then she leaned into him when he climbed on. Before he started the Triumph he said: “What do you want for breakfast?”

Harriet realised it was almost dawn as she blinked like a blind man seeing for the first time, still in a stupor of ecstasy. The sun was just starting to come up. All she could think to say to him was: “You”.

Unzip My Heart By Charles E.J. Moulton

Ever since my college graduation, I’d worked in daily newspapers, mostly in England, in the daily news, covering scandals, arrests, press conferences, political debates and the like. I had a pretty impressive resume after six years.

Then, one day, after finally settling for a prominent London newspaper, I did a special about domestic gardening, “The English Suburban Landscape” they called it. They, yes, they. I wrote it. They named it.
It almost seemed as a set-up.
Nah, I’m kidding.

Anyway, my publisher, a big boobed, brunette thirty-something, five years my senior, named Penny Porter, a real power-vixen with a larger sized rural garden of her own, her knockers as big as her home-grown sunflowers, was so impressed with my article that she made me the chief editor of domestic issues. That meant that, from now on, I would be specializing on local cooking events, gardening tips, Tupperware parties, kindergarten festivals and family stories.

At first, it was fun. Every day was a journey to some out-of-town-occasion where some aging mother of three told me about her new self published vegan cook book or a review of a school play in Southampton.
The kids loved it.
I had a column of my own and loads of housewives wrote me on a daily basis. I even received a marriage proposal from a single Mom in Whitechapel, who called me “the most wholesome man in Britain”.
Oh, God, I thought.
And I was right.
That name stuck.
From then on, they called me “Mr. Wholesome”, just because I wrote about the letter in my column, and TV-informercials would regularly invite me, Mr. Wholesome, to sell some spectacular new frying pan and I would have to say how much I loved preparing my meals in it.
Bullshit.
One female BBC-TV-presenter, also a dishy married MILF I ended up fucking in the back room, said: “Britain’s favourite domestic journalist, our wholesome Mr. Bill Barnes, every housewife’s dream come true … is HERE!”

What a nightmare.
It was all a show. In reality, at that moment in time, anyway, I was a self-confessed bachelor who loved bringing some lusty chick home for a quick shag. Me, cooking? No, more like: me ordering take-out!
Oops.
I remember interviewing George Michael in the beginning of my career. He told me in nauseating detail how the incident in the loo in L.A. had turned his life upside down. It was his coming out as a gay man but it had been the total set-up.
That, I feared, would happen to me.
Not a gay coming out, I wasn’t, but a horny coming out.

I must confess that I now knew a great deal about cooking, gardening, domestic issues and the sort. In secret I enjoyed visiting all these housewives, pretending to like their cooking, but just actually peeking at their bums and boobs. My sexy brunette publisher made me the highest paid editor of our daily mag. I really had a great life. But bringing home some lusty babe from the corner for a quick blowjob? No way. No more cruising in bars, no more hot foursomes.
I was damn happy the yellow press had not found out about my frivolous past.
George Michael’s L.A. incident would have seemed like a visit at St. Paul’s Cathedral in comparison.

What does a horny British bloke do when he is not allowed to shag whoever he fancies? You got it. He starts jerking off. I had done it before, in my teens, plucking out my dick and squirting on photos of Busty Dusty and Nikki Knockers.
Once I got my own flat, though, no more prickbeating. I fucked and licked more pussy than Warren Beatty.
Nowadays? Forget it!
Celebrities watch their step.
Okay, maybe they don’t.
If you’re Mr. Wholesome, though, fucking around might be a bad choice.
Anyway, that was the reason I went back to the five finger quickstep.
I worked most of the time, no time even for a girlfriend, so whenever I came home to my flat in Kensington, I would lay out every single smut mag I owned, literally covering the whole floor with big boobed paper chicks, print out a photo of some babe and squirt my sperm on her pic.

That went well for a while.
I had little orgies my own, even taking out my blow-up-doll, Saucy Samantha, turning every night into a row of orgasms and washing my rubber girlfriend in the tub every night.

No one knew about my double-life.
Yet.

The day it all changed was a sunny Friday. I knew I had that weekend off, that had been due to my editor in chief Penny Porter, who had needed me for three consecutive weeks.
“Take three days off,” she sang. “You’ve earned it, love.”
Well, that Friday, I had bought pop corn and chips and a six pack of Guinness, planning to watch all of the Harry Potter flicks in one night.
Four articles had been finished that day, they were all going to be published that following week and Miss Porter had told me “how utterly pleased she was with my astonishing work”. She even asked me if I wanted to join her for a glass of Dom Perignon in her back garden.

Now, you might ask why I did not accept the invitation. Well, first of all, I assumed she was married. I had seen her with a bloke a few years back. Extra-marital affairs, getting caught in the closet, running out naked with a gun firing on me arse? No, thanks. Besides, I had gotten so used to my orgy nights, Saucy Samantha doing all I demanded, that everything else faded in comparison.
Sad, huh? Maybe.

I came back home that early evening, late afternoon, around ten to six, threw all of my snacks in the kitchen, planning to order a pizza, throwing the six-pack in the fridge, planning to wank for a 30 minute round, a hard fast-finger tree-trunk-rub samba-jump, before joining Harry and his friends.
Saucy Samantha was on the bed, BangBros was filling some sexy blonde’s mouth with cum on my PC and thirty issues of Big Ones lay on the floor. The worst thing was: I had printed out a photo of my boss so that I could eventually squirt on her A4-paper face.

I had been walking about the flat wanking like a silly man, looking at Kirsten Imrie rubbing her clit on the beach of Tenerife, Chloe Vevrier fondling her boobies on silk sheets, Julie Hart showing me her bum in her Oxfordshire house doorway and Sophie Fernandez opening herself up to show me the sweet oyster pink inside of her “Fromage de Meaux”. All the while I wandered back to Saucy Samantha to get a round of tongue twisting, only to walk towards Penny Porter’s pic to tell her how much I craved her.

A man can be so darned immersed inside his testosterone levels that he does not realise that the front door to the apartment house is open and that his own door to his penthouse flat at the recluse end of the hallway … was ajar.

So here I stood, stark naked, Mr. Happy pointing toward Penny Porter’s slight cleavage, a pic from the magazine’s website, me whispering as I looked at her photo on the paper:
“I wanna fuck aaahhhlll of your holes, Penny!”
Who was in the doorway, out of the blue, or in the blue, as the case might have been, holding a bottle of champagne in her left hand and two glasses in other, dressed in a superb looking blue outfit, tight asshugging skirt, sexy jacket and white boobembracing blouse, made up and reeking of Yves Saint-Laurent?
Penny Fucking Pussydream Porter.
I don’t think I have ever been so embarrassed. Not when my kindergarten pals caught me naked in my playroom, not when I had been foulmouthing my teacher in high school and he stood right behind me, not even when my college enemy saw me dropping my breakfast on the canteen floor and subsequently slipping on the banana … to his laughing glory.
Erect penis, naked me and fully clothed her, Mr. Wholesome caught in Sodom and Gomorrah.
My heart raced, I shrieked like a little girl, dropped her picture on the white carpet.
Penny Porter looked at her own printed photo, gazed at it with an open mouth, what I thought was no open mind, gazed at all my smut mags, walked in, looked at Saucy Samantha lying on the bed.
She stood there, well, how do I put it? In shock. I saw my career ending, me sliding down an endless tunnel toward hell, my life as Britain’s journalistic answer to Donny Osmond turning into a pile of dog excrements.
I grabbed my trousers, nervously, with shaking hands, covering my trembling crotch, a dick shrinking like an ice cream in the sun, me, unable to utter a word.
“Holy fuck,” Penny Porter moaned, ever so softly, turning her back on me, leaving and running away faster than she had come, champagne and glasses with her.
“Bugger,” I spat. “Shit, buggar, fuck, darned, heck, bleeding hell.”
I think my smut mags disappeared into the backroom faster than back when the postman arrived unannounced. Saucy Samantha? I stuffed her into a corner, shoved Penny Porter’s pic into a drawer, put on my clothes and sat down on my balcony chair for an infuriating moment, rocking back and forth, expecting to find my face on the first page of The Sun the next morning. Heck. Might even drop dead.
I could see the headlines.
Not “Zip Me Up Before You Go-Go”, as in poor George Michael’s case, but “Mr. Wholesome’s Hole of Sin” or something rather.
I then ran the entire length of my flat up and down forty times, contemplating moving to Ecuador and starting work as a Coffee farmer, where no one knew me or ever would.
The forty-first time I did that, Penny Porter was back, leaning against the doorframe, still holding the champagne and glasses.
She’d changed her mind.
She grinned insecurely, chuckled a few times, cleared her throat and looked at me.
“Sorry … uhm … that I intruded … on your private …”
There was a long pause.
Okay, was she going to say “orgy” or “perversion” or “disgusting habits”?
“… fun.”
I shook my head. “I am totally embarrassed, Miss Porter,” I whispered.
She put up her hands in protest, closing her eyes. “Please, I just heard you tell my photo you wanted to insert your hard gender into every opening in my body, so …”
Oh, Lawdy. A possibility I wasn’t going to slip into hell arose.
“… call me Penny.”
My cold sweat transformed into warm pre-cum.
“Co-… come in.”
I laughed a nervous shutter, waving.
“I mean, if you are not disgusted.”
Penny smiled, her eyes swiftly surfing over my crotch-area.
She grew red in the face, shaking her head.
“Oh, gosh,” she giggled.
I looked at her, her tits bouncing with her laughter.
“How … awkward.”
She put down the glasses on the dining room table, gently handing me the Dom Perignon.
I took it, smiling, not feeling like I was sliding down a tube, but feeling like this was taking me to Cloud Nine.
Okay, I’ll admit it.
My cock was growing again.
I think Penny noticed.
I tried to uncork the champagne as elegantly as possible. When I did, it foamed, dripping cumlike drops onto the floor. I poured the liquid into the glasses, handed one to Penny. She did not look me in the eye. She just looked at the massive erection I sported underneath my Boss shorts.
Her gaze grew bigger and bigger until she simply let out a high squeak.
“Whoa,” she whimpered. “It’s huge!”
That was the moment this awkward tension turned randy.
“May I?”
She looked at me with pleading eyes.
I nodded. “Be my guest!”
Glasses gone, blowjob on.
I cannot tell you how amazing it felt to have this sexy power vixen going down on her knees like an obedient prostitute, opening my zipper with her red long nails, dropping my shorts to the ground, reaching into my Calvin Kleins and seeing her amazed grin as my nine inch rod bobbed joyfully into her face.
“Will it fit?”
I chuckled and shrugged as she massaged my balls ever so tenderly, still fully clothed, looking like a Queen, acting like a submissive whore.
“Oh, my Lord,” I sighed as Penny Porter slowly opened her mouth and stuck my large dong into her mouth.
She elegantly embraced my penis with her lips, her head bobbing back and forth, her earrings rattling, her hair flying, spit running down her cheek, her hands grabbing my ass, her voice making little happy whimpering noises.
“I do believe you are endeavouring to take all of my nine inches of penis into your mouth, you dirty little slut,” I said and waved my eyebrows at her.
I couldn’t believe I had said that but it awoken something in her.
Something really randy.
As she sucked on me humungous schlong-dong, she made little breaks in her lecture, occasionally talking while sucking, turning into a real randy little whore. This chick, who I had only known as totally in control, a boss, a dragon, she became a dickhungry little tart.
“Man,” she spat on my prick and masturbated it, “you’re all man. Such a big, big, … moooahh .. yum yum yum … big fine dick … so salty … I’ve sucked a lot of dick in my day, but … mmmh … mmmh … yeah … this penis is the best. Gosh, this cock tastes good. When I saw you standing there naked, looking so fine, your … mmh … your dick erect and you telling my photo you wanted to fuck all of my holes … mmh, yeah … tastes fine … I felt my pussy getting all wet … mmmh … hard cockie … chickie-sluttie love hard penis … I feared my own horniness … God, I love your big dick … I sat in my car, you know, and I said to myself: you’re divorced, living on your own in that big house, your ex getting blowjobs from that young bitch in Spain, go and give that nice man a blowjob … and so I did … mmmh … love … yum yum yum … sucking dick.”
She really went at it now, her mouth so fast, her tongue so exciting, her throat endless, Iiterally saw stars.
Then, all of a sudden, she sprang up, almost in a rage, throwing off her clothes, literally scattering them all across the floor, her jacket, her skirt, her blouse, her garters, her stockings, her undies, her bra.
At once, this sex object was stark naked, ripping off my clothes, as well, amazing me with the sight of her on my bed on all fours, bare bum stretched towards me. She smelled of coconut shower gel and sexy perfume, her C-cup titties and buttcheeks bouncing in my face as she begged me: “I want your dick in my asshole, Bill. Do to me what no one has done before. Please fuck me in my butt with your long hard cock!”
Well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. I walked up to her, happily grabbing her buttcheeks, my dick pointing at what obviously was a newly showered body. Had she anticipated fucking me?
Mmh, all woman.
Nice fuck.
As things go, I reached into my nighttime drawer and fished out some of the strawberry cream I had used on Samantha.
“Oh, Bill,” Penny moaned submissively, “you’re not gonna hurt me, are you?”
I gave my publisher a knowing grin, understanding her game of hide and seek. This hard business woman, always calling the shots, always feared by everyone, she finally could lean back and be controlled, and her willing employer now telling her what to do.
“Just shut up and let me cream your butt in before I shag your ass, baby!”
I rubbed in my cock and balls with this sex lotion before I took a bigger dose of it on my hand, rubbing in her showered rosebud arsehole with love cream.
Impatient, I threw the tube on the floor, letting my cock taste her butt, my penis looking like the EuroStar entering the famed tunnel.
It was a slow and very intense work of thrusting, but, bit by bit, I saw my Long Dong Silver vanish into her tightest hole. I will never forget the expression on her face. Agony and pleasure, fear and joy and the ecstasy as we found a nice thumping rhythm of mutual respect. Okay, a really good fuck. What also was fabulous was how beautifully her buttcheeks wobbled as I thrust my dick into her arse. Every thrust had her bum shaking thrice. Her buttwobble was poetry in motion.
“You have a beautiful ass, Penny,” I said, shagging her butthole.
“You are the hottest fuck I’ve had in years, Bill,” Penny moaned.
Quite extraordinary, I told myself, she managed to be so submissive and yet when she wanted to, she pulled it away and called the shots.
She pulled herself out of my cockie, not vice versa, laying down in spread eagle and commanding me to lick her pussy. And, oh, how I licked. What I liked most, I will admit, is that her pussy wasn’t shaved. Nice hair to lick through on the way to the pink and salty cunt. At the end of my five minute clit meal, my face was dripping with oestrogen.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I simply pulled out my tongue and jumped in between her legs and fucked her like a maniac, her jugs bouncing, her eyes closed shut, oh-oh-oh’s exchanged by ah-ah-ah’s and eeh-eeh-eeh’s, gentle fuck me’s and deeper’s and let me be your whore, you sexcraved moron. Soon, I saw stars and as she came I really felt her pussy tingle, her nails digging into my back, her hairy and delicious furburger hugging my hard penis so tight, so tight, so tight, I felt like becoming an opera tenor.
Now it was time for me to come. And, oh, how I did.
I pulled out of her cunt, straddling up to her face, slapping my balls on her chinnie-chin-chin. The sexy bitch opened her mouth like the pricklusty slut she was, sticking out her tongue and demanding sperm and getting loads of it.
It landed everywhere: on her face, eyes, tongue, cheeks, forehead, nose and lips. I ended up inserting my giant Willie a few times into her hungry mouth before laying down next to her, cuddling up on her arm, waiting for her to get ready mopping up my sperm with her finger and licking it off with her mouth.
When she was ready and uncummed, she sighed:
“So much for Mr. Wholesome.”
I looked at her in my own knowing way and added:
“The only thing that’s true about that name is that I do satisfy some good holes. Hole-Some? Some holes!”
She nodded, smiling: “You fill ’em up fine.”
We ended up laughing and getting ready for another round.

I can only describe that weekend as the best of my life. There were very little questions asked and yet we revealed most of what was near and dear to us. I gave her my spare toothbrush and an extra T-shirt of mine, which she filled up well, I might add. We finished off the champagne and the six-pack, we ordered pizzas and watched all of the Harry Potter flicks. And we fucked so much at one time Penny complained that her pussy ached. During the fourth Potter flick, Penny pushed pause to ask me if I had the ingredients for Caipirinha in the kitchen. I answered that, indeed, I did. She came back, five minutes later, with two lucious cocktails. What really blew me away was when she told me that in order to make it a real cocktail, I would have to masturbate my cum into her glass. At first, I thought she was kidding. Lo and behold, she wasn’t. I began to adore this chick.
Imagine my surprise when she sat back, treating my wank as a dinner show, watching my cock grow from small to huge, her eyes growing and glowing as my cock grew bigger and bigger – “Woah, does it ever stop growing? Yay! Go, Billy, go!” – penislover Penny cheering like a go-go-girl as the orgasm slowly came to its close. I did squirt my sperm into her Caipirinha, she clapped her hands like a happy school girl, she stirred the glass and drank it up. “Now that’s a real cocktail!”
This was incredible.
Talk about Mr. Hole-Some.

Monday morning came too soon. Much too soon.
I do know that Penny Porter woke me up, fully clothed and sexy at 8 o’clock, having showered and used some of my eau de parfume and shampoo. She woke me up in the sexiest way possible. I felt her mouth embrace my cock. And yes, I squirted into her mouth. And yes, she swallowed it all. And no, her lipstick was not a mess afterwards.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she swooned. “Thanks for your protein breakfast. There’s nothing like sperm to fill the stomach.”
I sighed. “You are a fabulous woman, Penny Porter!”
She caressed my cheek with the back of her hand.
“I’m going to work, babe, but I will see you tomorrow, okay?”
I nodded, smiling.
“You have a nice day off,” she said, “we have to chat tomorrow.”
I raised my eyebrows. “About what?”
She gave my nose a peck.
“Us.”
And that was that.
I lay there for the next two hours, realising I was in love.

I felt like I was flying on cloud nine, not getting up, eating my scones in bed, watching the last Potter flick, wanking again. It was blissful. At least until the phone rang at two o’clock that afternoon. Someone from the marketing department called me and announced that five major magazines had an appointment in Miss Porter’s office at ten tomorrow morning. I should be there at 9:45. I was free until then. This was important, it was added.

You can imagine what I was thinking.
Was Penny really such a hardliner? A cocksucking usurper? Was she going to sell me out?
No, that couldn’t be.
I went back and forth in my head about what was going on.
I reviewed the weekend in my head. I had taken nude pics of her. Otherwise, no surveillance or photos on her part.
What was I thinking?
Of course there was no foul play.
She said she wanted to talk about us, right?
That was good, wasn’t it?
I almost sent her a message, but managed to control myself.
She was busy.
But why the press conference?
Five major London magazines coming to Penny Porter’s office?
Our rivals?
To hear what?
About Mr. Wholesome caught wanking his cock?
No. At 7:11, Penny sent me a WhatsApp, thanking me for a wonderful weekend. Had I received the message? Yes, I had. It’s a nice surprise, she added. Was that a joke?
I chose to send her a heart. She returned one, saying she was attending a conference and would be home at midnight.
She longed to suck my dick again.
I fell asleep, dreaming weird dreams.

I got ready for my appointment that next morning with an eerie feeling of living in a Kafkaesque book of sorts.
“Josef K. fucked the girl of his dreams yesterday and is now walking the streets …”
Yeah, to do what?
Wank?
Beg?
Borrow?
Get unemployment money?
My breakfast tasted like paper, the sun was too hot and traffic was just too darned loud.
My colleagues greeted me, like they knew something I didn’t.
In any case, I went through any possibility in my head.
Split for Ecuador?
Seek emergency care?
Get a lawyer?
Become a porn star?
Hey, it worked for Mr. Bobbitt and he lost his dick at first.
“Mr. Wholesome Caught Wanking!” – that might even sound great in the porn industry.
Every step seemed like a visit in hell.
And I loved this babe!
Heck, she was the hottest fuck in the universe.
Was she going to eat me alive?

Three secretaries greeted me, asking me to wait outside the office with the plaque, Penny Porter, Editor in Chief, hammered on its honourable dark wood.
When I came in, Penny Porter was on the phone, speaking to God knows who. It sounded like someone from the House of Lords. She waved me into her huge office with her large dark desk, the Persian carpet, the leather chair she sat on studded with brass knuckles. I felt like walking the green mile. I closed the door behind me, walking up to her desk. Sitting down on the chair opposite of her’s.
Without further adieu, Penny handed me a document, three or four pages long. Me expecting a sapena or threat or some kind of weird compromise to never wank again, it had me shaking like a leaf in November.
Penny kept talking, shrugging and eyeing heavenward, pointing at the phone.
That was when I saw what the document read.
I saw my name, I saw the sum of money on the paper and I saw the length of the contract. My chin nearly dropped to the floor.
When the sexiest publisher on the planet hung up on her wooer, she smiled.
“You like it?”
I stuttered. “Is my cock that good?”
“I’ve had you in mind for some time, you hot rod!”
Penny Porter came up to me that day, setting her cute ass down on my lap, causing us to morph into the deepest and most lucious tongue-kiss the soul had ever seen.

The news spread like wildfire around the capital.
To be honest, I felt like royalty.
If the London Gazette was turning into the best daily mag in the city, Penny’s move to turn Mr. Wholesome, or Hole-Some, Master of Holes, and herself into a shared leadership-deal signed, sealed and delivered that success.
Of course there were critical voices, especially from our rivals, but as far as I was concerned I had the best girlfriend in the galaxy and I shared a gorgeous office with her, an office we could lock any time we wanted to shag ourselves silly. This divorced nympho was the finest cocksucker around and I was going to share my life with her.

Nowadays, I live in her big house in the outskirts of London. We’re married and have two children. We get to the office at ten, so she has time to give me a blowjob lesson after the kids go to school. Sometimes, I make a business call while she sucks me off just to save time. She doesn’t eat breakfast. Cum is enough for her, so she says.
I am still Mr. Wholesome to the public. If they only knew.
At times, Penny commands me around in the kitchen, but that is another story. I get to fuck her asshole while she stands by the stove making food. She makes me say that she is my sex object.

Our leadership-deal is approaching its tenth anniversary, so we are planning to send the kids to grandma. Penny tells me she found a really sex-crazed couple that want to celebrate with us by swinging and swapping pussies and cocks.
What can I say?
Foursome is back.
A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, especially if he has a nine inch dick.

Counter Clockwise By Alex Matthews

I was out getting in my 10-15 miles on my mountain bike and the morning was cool, crisp, a little damp. It reminded me of how I woke that morning, horny and fever-broken from one those dream you deny but can’t dismiss. You’re straight, horny as hell, but straight.

I’ve always gone against the grain, modestly, subtly, and this early morning ride was going to be counterclockwise against the regular flow of traffic. But since it Sunday morning in the Bible-belt I’d be lucky to see some deer and brake for a box turtle. Just pay attention damnit, I tell myself, you need the workout, let go, but keep your head up.

I get a good pace, breathing deep in and out with alternating strokes as Miles, AC/DC, Superchunk and Coltrane shuffle through my ears. Crossing over the abandoned dirt road that I drop in by the “new” old mill cabin and drop down onto the trail that follows the stream up to the dairy barn pasture where I’ll take my break, hydrate, pop a butterscotch candy in my mouth, let the world go by for a few minutes BAM!

I’m over the bars but manage to unclip and roll into the fall. Stand up straight suddenly, shake my eyes clear and hear “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?!” from the lush green foliage along the inside of the single-track. Males and pissed off. Well so much for that fantasy of meeting a sweaty, fit woman on the ride. Oh shit…

“Sorry dude, all my fault,” I apologize helplessly, meekly, ashamed. I help him up and notice a strong grip in my hand as I help him up to full, lean, posture covered in kudzu and grime. Instinctively I brush dirt of his smooth spandex top of his shoulder, then off his chest, brush a nipple, was that a piercing? From the look in his eyes I’m going to say yes.

“Jesus Christ!” he seethes, “Don’t you know which way to go?”

“Both ways I guess,” and for the first time in my life I have a rap, a pick-up line, that comes to me right then and there at the moment and not five hours later as I stroke my cock. And I deliver it staring into the smirk of a tall, in-shape mountain biker, about my age, ahem late 40’s, alone in the woods, with my hand still on his chest and my shorts getting tighter.

Our bikes aren’t wrecked, my front rim is bent, and the derailleur is wonky, but only his front tire is flat. Otherwise, the bikes are good, but we’re both filthy with sweat, trail muck and a little short of breath. “We should go to the cabin across the bridge, catch our breath, assess the damage,” I suggest, going with the vibe of a morning and day changing radically before my eyes.

“Good idea,” he says and tries brushing the clay off my shoulder, then squeezing it, “How’s your collarbone? If you have broken it yet riding you will.”

“It’s good but first time for everything I guess.”

The walk to the cabin takes some time. Not sure if it’s our “injuries” or just being outside. Turns out we share that appreciation for the outdoors and he apologize for his behavior earlier. “No worries, dude, it was my fault entirely,” and he winces, and I limp along. We have more in common than at first blush. We’re both divorced and horny rather than interested in a relationship. “Fuck buddies is what you mean?” I ask trying to be flirtatious, “Nah, fuck babes,” and winks. I can’t tell if he’s coy or checking me out.

The cabin is open but inside accommodations are sparse, a table, a bench, an empty hearth. It’s a nice aroma, musty, solitary. “No bed,” one of us jokes, the other tests the table, “We could put up here for the night, till the storm blows over…”

We sit side by the side on the table in silence. I doze off and awake to find him asleep on the face down on the bench. I take stock of his body, his taut thighs, the salt and pepper of his beard. “Hey,” I shake him, “You ok?”

He moans lowly, I start to trail his calf with my finger. His eye opens, “My name is Jeff,” he says. “Mike,” I reply, “Nice to meet you. Do you get some rest?” He stands up and stretches.

His sweat tastes clean with a faint, gritty hint of dirt. I run my hands over his ass teasing myself as much as him. He grunts faintly. I moan warmly. I put my finger in the elastic band of his shorts and our crotches push forward to meet.

I’m was unsure of what to do. Some things don’t matter when lust and desire are involved, especially things that once seemed to mean so much like gender and orientation. Desire overrides them. But fear of opening up on a passionate level can stop us dead in our trucks no matter how fast our heart beats or how heavily our cock throbs. I thrust my crotch against his and the texture of the spandex on spandex sends shivers along the lengths of our dicks like two firm branches rubbing together to start a fire. My cock feels two feet long.

I put my hand on his ear, his breath warms my neck, God I want his cock and him! The realization makes my thoughts swirl like I’m being thrown off my bike again.

I always carry a condom – it’s a weird damsel in distress on the bike trail fantasy – but now I starting to think, maybe today, here, now, with him? He sucks my finger and then slides it under his warm moist balls and squats a little as I probe. I turned him around and massage his brown eye and prostate with my knuckle. By the way, yes to the question above. Thankfully.

I move us over to the old wooden table in the center of the cabin. Two curtain-less windows let in the daylight. The sweat glistens on his back. I lick him clean. Then slipping the condom on to my cock I say, “Baby, my cock wants you, do you want my cock?” and he insinuates his tight ass into my rod and purrs “Fuck yes.”

I lay him on his back on the table, hook his legs under my arms and stroke his firm staff while grinding my bulging dick into his taint. I lick the pre-cum off my hands then go to my knees and take him in my mouth. So warm, so thick, his cock’s aroma fills my head as I slobber the length of its shaft. His balls taste sweaty and sweet, ivory soap turns me on, and I struggle to keep him in my mouth and when he says “Oh baaaaaby!” and I raise off him to watch his prick spasm spunk into the half light of the late morning. I grab his legs in my arms and entered.

He’s on fire as his muscles contract to meet my surprising aggressiveness with a teasing dalliance like he was just isn’t going to give it up so easily. I close my eyes and run my nose along his instep and plead, “Please give me that ass, I need it” and he relents. I go balls-deep and stream cum into the condom then collapse, unaware of the world, out of it, never to return to it again.