Tag Archives: group interacial sex

Hide and Seek By Ty Vossler

A beautifully hand-written invitation was put in Lucia’s graduate student mailbox. She shared it with me when she returned to our tiny Binghamton, New York apartment:

Dear Lucia,

You and Wyler are cordially invited to attend our fifth annual Summer Solstice Festival in our home on the night of the twentieth, beginning at 9:00 PM. Bring your appetite, a favorite wine, and an open mind. We hope to see you here!

—Ben Thomas—

An email address was provided to RSVP.

“I wonder what he means by an open mind?” I asked.

“Sharma was impressed that I was invited,” she said, “He’s heard that it’s an exclusive gathering.”

It wasn’t surprising that Sharma, also a graduate student, knew of the event. He enjoyed keeping up with all the latest gossip.

“Why did you get one?  Ben Thomas isn’t your Ph.D. adviser.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Lucia answered.

Of course, I had my own theory. Lucia is a full-figured, exotic-looking Mexican. Her dark, short-cropped hair, almond brown eyes, and soft, full lips scream of potential. You won’t see her on the cover of a checkout stand magazine, but she has je nais se quoi—that special aura that attracts men. Marriage isn’t much of a deterrent for the men who recognize it. I further postulated that Dr. Benjamin Thomas was smitten.

Lust-worthy wives offer certain advantages. After watching another men devour Lucia with his eyes, I am the one she goes home with and then the fireworks start. I often use fantasy to ignite fleshy conflagrations. Lucia has only to conjure a recent admirer, and we’re off to a blazing start.

The night of the party, Lucia allowed herself a lot of time to prepare. When she was ready, I was astonished by the results. An East Indian skirt showcased the outline of her strong, thick thighs and the generous curvature of her ass. A red stone necklace dripped down into the V of an orange blouse that she had purchased in Oaxaca, Mexico. Her earrings matched the necklace and she wore a tinkling ankle bracelet that she had purchased at a yard sale. Lucia didn’t give her face much attention—a little moisturizer, red lipstick, and voila.

I wore the New York look––black on black, always fashionable. Lucia stepped close to adjust my collar. Then she buckled on a pair of metallic gold high heels. I had a strong urge to coax her into bed for a quickie.

“Lord almighty,” I drew her into me.

“Wyler,” grabbing a small black purse, “we’ll be late.”

# # #

We arrived at 9:30—fashionably late in England, unconscionably late in Germany, and an hour or two early by Mexican standards. Although we were there to celebrate the summer solstice, unseasonable clouds had developed in the moonless sky. Ben Thomas greeted me with a firm handshake us and kissed Lucia’s hand. I presented him with a gift bag of wine and he ushered us into the living room, where a barrister served drinks. There were half-a-dozen couples milling there, and other voices wafting in from adjacent rooms.

“We are so glad you could come. You’re in for an interesting evening. Please, explore the house and meet the other guests. After-dinner amusements will require that you both have a precise knowledge regarding the layout of the house.” He held his hands up defensively, “I can’t say any more than that.”

“It’s a lovely home,” Lucia said.

“Thank you,” said Dr. Thomas. “Other than the fact that winter power bills are highway robbery, Giselle and I enjoy it.”

Many of the homes in Binghamton are two-story Victorian’s with large front porches, full basements and attic space. The cost of upkeep had kept Lucia and I from considering purchasing one.

The doorbell rang and our host excused himself saying, “I’ll sound the gong when dinner is served.”

“A gong?” I whispered to Lucia.

“Shhh,” she admonished, “someone will hear you.”

Lucia and I wandered the house, and judging from the others it was a couple’s only affair. Each guest gave us a thorough appraisal.

“Do you know anybody here besides Dr. Thomas?” I asked.

“A few just in passing, but there are no other mathematicians.”

We ascended the squeaky stairs to the second floor and poked our heads into the rooms. The bedrooms were richly appointed with canopy beds, Berber carpets, and lustrous antique wood furnishings. Fresh flowers topped each nightstand and a collection of nude oil paintings graced the walls.

Lucia pointed, “That’s Giselle, Dr. Thomas’ wife.”

I stepped closer. Mrs. Thomas was recumbent on brightly colored throw pillows, one leg lifted to reveal her blonde, sculpted pussy.

“Hmm, where do we find pillows like that?” I joked. Lucia poked me in the side.

The bathroom fixtures were gold, and the Turkish-style bidets impressed Lucia, as did the walk-in showers, tiled with coupled Hindu’s in various positions. The den was nearly wall-to-wall bookshelves. In addition to a great many science and mathematics books, a large collection of erotic literature and tabletop art volumes graced the shelves. Above the worn brown leather couch hung other nudes. “That’s one of the other guests,” I observed.

“The woman in the red kimono,” Lucia noted, “I think she’s married to the Chinese professor.”

“Excuse me,” a well-dressed man, hired for the occasion, walked to the picture window facing a large wooden desk. He closed a pair of wooden shudders and drew a heavy set of purple curtains that fastened with Velcro. Then he smiled at us and left.

“Strange,” I said.

“Maybe we’re in for some bad weather,” Lucia suggested.

The gong sounded. We descended the stairs hand-in-hand into the living area and were greeted with pleasant smiles all around. Doctor Thomas stood next to the gong that was perched on a small secretariat. He was holding his wife’s hand.

“Giselle and I wish to welcome you all to our humble abode. Dinner is served!” He announced.

Lucia and I were ushered to opposite ends of a long dinner table. Everyone introduced themselves by name and country, and I hopelessly tried to memorize each. The woman seated to my left wore a stunning black dress, v-cut in the back. She held out her hand and I wanted to kiss it.

“Hello, Wyler, I am Nonna, You are a writer,” she said.

“Yes,” impressed that she knew my name.

“I teach physics at the university,” she added.

“I was never too good with the sciences,” I confessed.

“Most artists are right-brained.”

“My wife—

“Is Mexican and she is finishing a doctorate in Mathematics,” Nonna finished, “That is her talking my husband, Donovan. No doubt you saw some of his paintings upstairs.”

“Yes, indeed, they are very impressive.”

Nonna lifted an eyebrow, and raised her glass, “Here’s to the arts and sciences.”

I wondered how she knew so much about me? We clinked glasses, and I saw that Lucia was sandwiched between conversations—Donovan one side and Ben Thomas on the other. I noticed other ladies present were represented upstairs on canvas.

The man sitting to my immediate left was Alwin, a sociologist, who had recently published a book about the effects of technology on pro-social behavior. We exchanged cards.

I told him, “You may not believe me, but I actually shot my television seventeen years ago.”

“Bravo, Wyler” Alwin laughed, “I merely tossed mine into a dumpster.”

Giselle, sat directly across from me. She smiled and lifted an eyebrow. As dinner concluded, her husband stood and tinkled his glass with a fork.

“Esteemed colleagues, it is an honor to have you in my home to celebrate this year’s summer solstice. A little background might be appropriate for our first-time guests, Lucia, and Wyler.” All eyes turned toward us. “The word solstice originates from the Latin, sun stands still. It occurs in December and June when the earth’s axis tilts toward or away from the sun,” he looked directly at Lucia.

“Tonight, summer solstice campfire celebrations will burn in cold northern countries such as Iceland, Poland, Latvia, Denmark, and Sweden. The holiday is more common in northern communities, such as Reykjavik, where the sun barely sets on the solstice.” His eyes rested on me and then gazed around the table.

“The rock formations at Stonehenge are a solstice party hot-spot, with as many as 30,000 revelers awaiting sunrise on solstice morning, including hippies, ravers, and modern Druids. A similar sunrise watch occurs in Orkney, Scotland and continues with a weeklong music, literature and drama festival.”

Doctor Thomas paused, gazing at his guests. Some were nodding, yet others merely smiled. “Look around you. China, Sweden, Germany, Mexico, North America and Turkey are represented here tonight.”

“You forgot Ireland,” complained Donovan.

“Forgive me, Donovan,” Thomas pursed his lips into a smile, “and Ireland.”

“Everybody always forgets poor old Ireland,” Donovan finished.

“You are no doubt wondering what is in store for us on this summer solstice?” Ben Thomas continued. “You will find out after dessert.” He smiled knowingly and sat.

We were served hazelnut mousse and I was drawn into several interesting conversations. A distinguished middle-aged Chinese professor named, Jian, swallowed a blue pill and said that he had read my novel, The Journal of Desperate Living.

“Ah, so, you’re the one,” I said—a standard writers joke, but he laughed all the same.

“I enjoyed it very much,” Jian added.

My ego swelled along with my stomach. We were offered a choice of after-dinner drinks. Everyone imbibed slowly and no one appeared to be tipsy. Lucia had warned me to go easy because I get drowsy when I overindulge.

As plates were cleared, the other guests spoke in hushed tones. An atmosphere of expectation suffused the room. Lucia blew me a kiss.

“Shall we retire to the living room?” Giselle suggested, taking her husband’s hand.

Some of the furniture had been pulled back and replaced with leather beanbags placed in a circle at the center of the large living room. Again, Lucia and I were seated away from each other. She sat with ankles crossed. When everyone was comfortable, the lights dimmed. I observed that all the windows were shuttered and curtained. Then the lights were doused and the darkness was stygian.

A small overhead theater light slowly intensified, illuminating our circle. Giselle spoke, “Friends, for most of you this celebration will add new experiences to others you have enjoyed,” she paused while everyone smiled and nodded. “Tonight, we are honored to have Wyler and Lucia with us.” Polite applause followed. “Before we embark on tonight’s amusements, I must advise our new guests of the golden rule—weather or not you choose to participate in tonight’s activity, you must give your solemn oath never to share your experience with anyone outside of this circle.” She looked first at Lucia and then to me. We both nodded in agreement. “Very good,” she gestured to her husband, “Ben?”

“Thank you, darling,” he kissed her hand. “As always, it is perfectly acceptable if you choose not to take part and no questions will be asked. You may take your leave with our blessings.” No one budged. I cleared my throat and everyone watched me for an embarrassing moment before Ben continued. “Tonight’s game is hide-and-go-seek.” There were giggles from the other guests. “As you can imagine, our version is quite distinct from the game we played as children.” More sniggers. “All clothing must remain within the circle. You may wear jewelry, but timepieces are not permitted. Each of you will be blindfolded and escorted to a location within the house. The power will be turned off so do be careful. Once everyone is placed, the gong will sound and you are free to seek. Are there any questions?” Dr. Thomas finished.

Lucia timidly raised her hand and everyone smiled at her. “What are we seeking?” Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Oh,” said Lucia.

What a mixed bag of feelings we carried. Of course, Lucia and I had indulged in sharing fantasies to stimulate the appetite. Yet, here we were faced with the opportunity to act out our whimsies. The good-looking Nigerian Economics professor with his exotic Turkish wife, a lovely Swedish architect with deep blue eyes, Donovan the artist, the Chinese couple and the others swiveled their heads between the two of us. Lucia fidgeted with her necklace and looked at me.

“Wyler and Lucia,” Ben Thomas looked at us each in turn, “will you be joining in tonight’s festivities?”

Neither was sure how to respond, and yet the atmosphere was infused with spontaneity. I watched Lucia’s head begin nodding and I followed, not wanting to appear foolish.

Thomas stood, “Excellent,” he said, “Shall we?” He slipped out of his clothing and the others followed. Lucia and I were slowest to finish. Being surrounded by so much flesh was daunting. Each body was beautiful in its own way. Of course, Lucia drew the most ogles. The Nigerian had a thick, attenuated shaft of ebony and his tiny Turkish wife sported a manicured snatch and childishly small tits. She contrasted sharply with Lucia’s untamed triangle and larger breasts, accentuated by large, brown nipples.

Benjamin produced a box of airline quality blindfolds, and addressed his wife, “Sweetheart, please escort Lucia and I’ll go with Wyler’s.” Blindfolds were passed around, “You may remove your blindfolds once the gong has sounded.”

“A final reminder,” said Mrs. Thomas, “talking would, of course, ruin the effect, so any sounds should be related only to—”

She didn’t need to finish. Ben Thomas slowly led me away from the circle, stopping for a moment to give me a few disorienting twirls before continuing. After a short while, he whispered for me to sit and I was greeted by the comfort of a leather chair somewhere downstairs.

“Bon voyage, my friend,” he whispered, patted my shoulder and was gone.

Sitting alone, I began having serious second thoughts. I imagined Lucia groping in the darkness, contacting flesh, finding another pair of lips, tasting an unfamiliar tongue, a stiff cock pushing into her warm pussy. These thoughts made me dizzy and I resolved to find her before someone else did.

Some minutes passed before the gong sounded and when I removed my blindfold it was pitch-dark. I stayed put until I was oriented, listening for movement. Old houses are never quiet. They snap, crackle and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies. It wasn’t long before someone touched my arm. I reached out and felt thick arm hair. His hand patted mine and he retreated in search of softer flesh.

Now there were noises all around me and I listened for Lucia’s ankle bracelet. To my left, I perceived a deep sigh, followed by moist kisses. A man’s soft moan intensified into a deeply satisfied groan and the woman responded in kind.

Lucia’s ardent voice is a fingerprint and I would know it anywhere. This woman wasn’t Lucia. I groped until I found the stairs. Lucia and I had been strategically separated all evening, so it was logical to assume that she was upstairs. On hands and knees, I ascended carefully. At the top, I sensed a presence, groped with my hands and contacted soft skin. Feminine arms pulled me in until we were lying side-by-side on the wooden stair landing.

She pressed a nipple into my mouth. Then her lips found mine and she tasted good. Her tongue was soft and playful. She lifted a leg and my cock was deliciously sheathed in her pussy. As we fucked, another hand located us—a woman’s. Keeping my cock inside, my lover rolled on top facing away and the newcomer positioned her body so that she was able to suck my balls, which caused me to cum almost immediately. My lover was climaxing too, and I was able to stay hard enough so that her contractions didn’t spit me out.

After I slipped out, the women stayed together, kissing as I continued my journey to find Lucia. I felt the open door to one of the bedrooms. Inside, bedsprings squeaked and I discerned labored breathing—the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. A woman issued high, piercing seagull cries—not Lucia’s.

There was a myriad of sound all around—panting, groaning, sharp cries, laughter and none belonged to Lucia. I found another bedroom. At first, I thought it was empty, but then I heard a slurping sound. A man gasped, grunted and the sound stopped. There was movement on the floor and I heard the bathroom sink running—sounds of rinsing and spitting—not Lucia.

I crawled to where the office was and was immediately rewarded by the spicy odor of books. Soft moans were coming from the leather couch and I crept inside. I perceived a tinkle of jewelry. A portion of the curtain joined by Velcro was slightly agape, allowing a sliver of the streetlight to filter in. I could now distinguished silhouettes on the couch.

The leather squeaked and Lucia’s ankle bracelet tinkled as her hips churned over him. “Ayyy,” she moaned.

“Oy, sweet Jesus,” the Nigerian’s voice was deep and filled with passion.

My throat felt as if I had swallowed a spoonful of gravel. The shadows moved together, I heard Lucia taking a deep staccato breath followed by a deep, guttural homage to ecstasy.

“Ay, ay, ay, ayyy!” Her hands rested on his chest and she rocked as her orgasm squeezed his cock.

The Nigerian lifted for a moment to suck her tits, and then lay back down. He grunted loudly, growled and poured into my wife. I tried to remember his name—the name of this man who was cumming inside my wife.

“Yes, baby,” she urged, and she climaxed again.

Their lovemaking was followed with tender kisses, “You’re an angel,” he whispered.

“We have a mess to clean, Musa” she replied.

Musa, I thought, the man who caused the mess. A man’s heart is a mysterious world. Instead of waiting my turn with Lucia, I left. Finding the stairs, I fumbled my way down until I reached a couch. Pre-cum oozed from my cock. I wasn’t alone for long. A hand touched my thigh and grasped my cock.

She took me into her mouth, painting the underside of my cock, jacking me until I was pulsing in her hand, and then she straddled me. I slipped in easily, clearly aided by another man’s spunk. I pictured Lucia as this mysterious woman sent me in and out. I twisted her tiny nipples as she toiled and she came repeatedly before I added fresh spurt. I guessed her to be Musa’s Turkish wife, Sabella.

We kissed farewell and she continued her wanderings. Done in, I resolved to return to Lucia. She wasn’t there, so I sulked self-indulgently on the couch. After a few minutes, I stood to leave, feeling confident that I could find my way without going on hands and knees. I paused at the curtains and refastened the Velcro. Someone appeared, as I was ready to leave, so I stepped into the darkest corner. He went passed without noticing me, and stood by the window next to the desk. A short time later her ankle bracelet announced that Lucia had also returned. She carefully made her way to the desk.

“Psst!” she said.

“Here,” he replied.

My Velcro repair work didn’t last and again, a sliver of light entered the room. Lucia was seated on the desk. Musa lifted her legs by the knees and Lucia groaned deeply as he pushed inside. He stroked back and forth to the rhythm of her grateful responses.

A large lump, more like a rock developed in my throat. Occasionally air escaped from Lucia’s pussy as the Nigerian delivered deeply. Lucia cried out and Musa grunted and groaned in a shivering voice. Then, after a short time to catch their breath, he pulled out.

“I found some tissues,” Musa said in a low voice.

“Thank you,” Lucia replied.

“How many others—?” Musa wanted to know.

“Doctor Thomas.”

That was no accident. How did it go?”

“Quickly,” Lucia said.

They both giggled, having broken all the rules of the game in one fell swoop.

“I had better be going,” Musa said.

“Why?” She replied, and I heard her kissing him again.

“To find my wife. Perhaps next week we can have lunch.”

“Okay,” There were kisses again and my erection mocked me.

The Nigerian helped Lucia down from the desk, “Are you coming?”

“No, I think I’ll rest here for a while,” she said.

“Mmm, if I don’t find my wife I will return.”

Another kiss, and then I saw him leave. Lucia sat on the sofa, and I stood frozen in the corner until I heard the deepening of her breathing and knew that she had fallen asleep.

I waited another five minutes before taking her into my arms, “Hit baby.”

She lovingly stroked my hair, “How are you?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” She detected hesitancy in my voice.

“Yes, what about you?” I asked.

“I need to find a bathroom.”

I kissed her softly, smelling sex—the intoxicating combination of body chemicals, colognes, and perfumes. I brushed my fingers over her body and felt a wad of tissue between her legs.

“Let’s find you one.” I took her hand and we found an empty bedroom. Commandeering a shower I lathered her body and desperately wanted to fuck her, to conquer her, yet my cock was out of fuel.

Afterward, we climbed into the empty bed and Lucia soon drifted off. My brain prevented me from joining her right away. I replayed her reaction to having the Nigerian’s cock inside her. How would I compare after an experience like that?

When we awoke, our clothes were neatly stacked on a chair and the smell of coffee wafted from downstairs. Early morning light filtered in through the open bedroom curtains.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning, my love,” Lucia stretched luxuriously and pecked my mouth.

“How do you feel?”

“A little tender.”

“How many—?” I already knew the answer.

“Three,” she said, “and you?”

“Two—it’s different for men, you know. We only have so much ammunition.”

“It was like a dream.”

“Yes, it was surreal. I tried to find you.”

“You finally did.”

Lucia and I dressed and went into the kitchen. Most other guests had returned home. Dr. Thomas was in the kitchen wearing a robe and concocting a large omelet.

“Top of the morning!” he enthused. “I’ll wager you’re both starving. Such a night makes for mighty appetites.”

Before we could answer, his wife, Giselle, breezed in, “Buenas dias,” she greeted, kissing her husband and giving us pecks on the cheek. “I’ll make a green juice.”

“Let me help,” said Lucia, and they began chopping vegetables.

Benjamin motioned me over to a strange looking contraption, “Ever had coffee made with a French press?”

“No, how does it work?”

He showed me, and in no time we were sipping the best coffee I had ever tasted.

“Quite a night, eh?” Benjamin lifted his eyebrows.

“Unforgettable,” I answered.

“I already have an idea for next year,” Giselle said.

“She’s the creative one,” Benjamin gestured with his head.

The Nigerian professor entered with his petite Turkish wife. I watched Lucia’s lips curl into an enigmatic smile.

“Good morning everyone,” Musa blew a kiss to the whole room with both hands. When he kissed Lucia’s cheek I saw him whisper something. Lucia smiled and blushed.

“Wyler is making more coffee, Sabella,” Giselle informed her.

Musa’s wife pressed in behind me to peer over my shoulder as I practiced my French press skills, “Mmm, smells lovely,” she moaned.

“It’s nearly ready, Sabella,” I said, happy to say her first name.

Donovan the artist trudged in without greeting anyone and helped himself to Ben’s coffee mug.

“Barbarian,” remarked Giselle, “where’s your wife?”

“Still asleep,” he grumped. He shuffled over to kiss Giselle’s cheek and waved a feeble greeting to the rest of us.

“What the world needs now is love, sweet love,” Ben sang to Donovan.

Donovan murmured something as he sat on a barstool, then whirled around to face Lucia, “I’d like to paint you.”

“I had a feeling you might,” Lucia replied.

I imagined Lucia joining others on the time-honored walls. Giselle looked at me wistfully and her husband eyed Lucia furtively.

“This coffee is from Kenya,” Giselle told Musa.

“Ah yes, some of the best coffee is found in Ethiopia and Kenya,” Musa said.

# # #

After breakfast, Dr. Thomas walked us to our car. The morning air was fresh—the birds were out in force and a light breeze stirred through the pine trees that forested the neighborhood.

“We have bi-monthly get-togethers. Now that you’re in the circle, there are marvelous opportunities to be had. By the way Wyler, I was wondering, do you play golf?”

I barely heard him because I was busy wondering what Musa had whispered to Lucia in the kitchen.

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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.