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.

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

Did it matter… in the long run?

There was no question that it hurt.

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

In the long run.

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

Twenty years without Jenny?

Could he live without her?

Could, yeah.

Wanting to, no way.

He wanted to keep loving her.

No, wrong: he needed to keep loving her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She had given him a wink.

“Cum on, you know that!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Torture.”

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

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

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

“Come back!”

Damn, how sappy was that.

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

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

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

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

True fuck?

That, too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe not.

Who knew?

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

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

“You’re here?” Cedrick croaked.

Jenny lay her white handbag onto the table.

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

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

“I’ve been miserable,” Cedrick mumbled.

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

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

She shook her head.

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

Baby. She had called him … baby.

How nice that sounded.

How promising.

How hopeful.

Did he dare to… hope?

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

She smiled, bitterly.

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

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

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

“Just promise me one thing, Cedrick.”

“Anything you want, Jenny!”

“Never call me bitch again!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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