Scrabble at the Widow’s Club By Paul Henry

I arrived at Bonnie’s house twenty minutes early but found Victoria’s ten-year-old Honda CRV already parked in the drive. I drove around the block three more times before I finally pulled up to the curb. My co-workers had invited me to a causal supper and a game of Scrabble, the three of us, no reason for my palms to be sweating.

I put the Chateau Ste Michelle Riesling under my arm, carefully lifted the Pyrex dish with my seven-layer salad and set it on top of the Scrabble box, then I nudged the car door shut with my shoulder. Bonnie met me at the door. That’s when I knew I’d been set up.

“You look amazing!” I told her as I stood there juggling the salad, wine bottle, and game box. Bonnie’s recent regimen of diet and exercise had firmed, flattened, and lifted her curves. The change came about slowly, hidden by her work wardrobe of slacks and bulky sweaters. Tonight’s outfit put everything on display.

Bonnie wore black 3-inch heels, silver nylons, a hip hugging charcoal-colored skirt hemmed well above her knees, and a pale gray shell scooped to reveal her cleavage. Silver threads in her black open-weave wrap glistened under her porch lights.

“Define ‘amazing’….”

“Sexy amazing.”

“Sexy?”

I nodded.

Bonnie was late-thirties, never married—a decade older than me—quiet, reserved, naïve. Every Sunday she drove downtown to worship at the Baptist church where her father preached. My wife ditched me for our accountant two years ago, but I still hadn’t gotten the courage to ask Bonnie out.

“Mission accomplished!” she called back to Victoria, motioning me in. As I walked toward the dining room, she commented, “Nice slacks.”

I leaned over the dining room table to put down my salad. “Slacks, hell,” Victoria said, “nice ass!”  I turned to face her standing by the china cabinet.

My eyes widened and my pulse raced. Victoria wore black heels stilettos, seamed thigh high nylons, and a skirt that barely covered the tops of them. A flimsy shawl draped over her shoulders and a silver chain wrapped around her waist. Her delicate, almost transparent blouse revealed a smoke-colored camisole underneath and the outlines of her nipples. “Wow!”

“Close your mouth, Jason,” Bonnie told me in a huff. “It’s impolite to gape.”

Victoria poured me a wine. The women had obviously started drinking much earlier. “A toast,” she said as we raised our glasses, “to the Widow’s Club.”

“To the Widow’s Club,” Bonnie and I repeated.

The Widow’s Club began thirteen months ago as a support group for Victoria after her husband got killed in Afghanistan. All the members worked for Midwestern Insurance Specialists and were single, but only Victoria was a widow. We came in a half an hour early on Fridays and took a 90-minute lunch hour at Berman’s Cafe. In the last five weeks Bob got promoted to Marketing, Cindy moved to West Des Moines, and Jillian met Mr. Wright. That left Bonnie, Victoria, and me.

I suggested, “Maybe we could do something after work instead.”

“We’d have more time to talk,” Victoria agreed. The Widow’s club provided respite from her ongoing depression, but now with only the three of us….

“Supper my place this Friday,” Bonnie offered impulsively. “Potluck?”

“That should spice things up….”  Victoria’s sarcasm was lost on Bonnie. “Maybe, Jason, you should bring your Scrabble board?”  She winked at me.

We set the table, plated the food, and finished the first bottle of wine before we finished our salads. Victoria opened a second bottle and poured everyone another glass.

“So,” I asked cautiously, “you decided to dress up?”

“Bonnie got the idea to dress slutty.”

“Me? No!” Bonnie stabbed the last bite of salad.

“Oh, I encouraged you to get out more. You said you didn’t need to because ‘Jason’s coming for potluck.’ I told you that was not a real date. You called it ‘practice.’ I said, ‘Like when you were twelve and practiced kissing with your girlfriends?’”

Bonnie protested, “I never did anything like.”

“It’s never too late to start.” Victoria reached for the pan of lasagna and served herself a healthy portion. “But I digress.”  She turned to me. “Bonnie wanted to wear something that would get your attention.”

“So, Victoria took me shopping. But when she appeared at my door tonight, I realized she wanted your attention, too.”

“How do you know it was his attention I was after?”

We finished the second bottle of wine before we finished the main course. “Let’s save the dessert for later,” Bonnie suggested.

That’s when Victoria asked me, “Did you bring the Scrabble game?”  She tried to sound casual, but it didn’t come out that way. I set up the game board while she cleared off the table. Bonnie turned off the lights in the kitchen and sat down across from me.

“I have some suggestions….” Victoria pulled a small hourglass from her purse. “When it’s your turn you will have ninety seconds to make your move.”  She picked up the timer and turned it over. The sand started flowing to the bottom. “If you don’t make a word in 90 seconds, you automatically lose.”

“That would move the game along,” Bonnie agreed. “Anything else?”

“After each of us has made a word, we compare the scores.”

“Why?” I asked, though I suspected I knew.

“To make the game more interesting.”

“And how does it do that?”

“Because the person with the second highest score gets to tell the person with the lowest score what article of clothing to remove,” Victoria said deliberately. “The person with the highest score removes it.”

“Strip Scrabble?  I love the idea. But why doesn’t the winner get to do both?”

“This keeps everyone involved in every show down.”

“Show down?” Bonnie asked.

“That sounds kinkier than, ‘turn to take something off.’”

“Why not call it a Strip Down,” I suggested.

“Strip Down it is.”  Bonnie became quiet. “You can remove any clothing provided there are no impediments. For example, you can’t remove Bonnie’s bra prior to removing her blouse. If there’s a tie, each loser has to remove an article of clothing.”

“What if there’s a tie in the winner’s position?”

“Each winner gets to remove an article of clothing from the loser.”

“A Double Strip Down.”

“Exactly. The winner is declared when the Scrabble game is over or when someone loses all his or her clothing.”

“I don’t know…,” Bonnie started to say.

“You wanted Jason’s attention.”

“Yes, but….”

“Are you in or out?”

“In,” I said enthusiastically, even though she wasn’t asking me.

Reluctantly Bonnie said, “In.”

We did rock paper scissors. Victoria made a scissors, while Bonnie and I picked paper. “I go last,” Victoria said. Bonnie and I went again. I did scissors, while Bonnie picked rock. “Jason goes first.”  Later I realized the difference the order made.

We each pulled seven letters from the bag. Victoria turned over the timer. I made the word BRAT—four points doubled because it was the opening move. 8 points. I drew more letters. Bonnie followed with PARTIED. 12 points. She drew replacement letters. Victoria made DRAPE on a double word space. 16 points.

“I win. Time for the Strip Down,” Victoria said. “Bonnie, what should I remove?”

“His shoes.”

“Boring,” Victoria said.

“Let me take a picture anyway.”  Bonnie grabbed my phone while Victoria knelt at my feet, untying my shoelaces, and removing my left shoe. As she removed the other shoe, her right hand massaged my inner thigh until she felt an erection. “Your play.”

I had lousy letters and couldn’t concentrate. I connected CLEAN to RATE to also make CRATE. Nothing special, but worth 16 points. Bonnie had trouble. She finally made NUDE. Only 6 points even with the double letter score. When I saw Victoria’s smile, I assumed she would win again. Victoria put PAT on a double word score. 10 points. She’d scored enough to pick what Bonnie would give up. “Jason, please remove Bonnie’s pantie.”

“What about my shoes?” Bonnie pleaded.

Victoria shook her head. “Your legs look great in those shoes. Besides, I’d like to know what you’re wearing under your skirt. Jason, take off her panties.” I hesitated. “Bonnie, you can sit there and let him grope for them,” she scolded, “or you can uncross your legs and stand to make it easier.”

When Bonnie stood, Victoria grabbed the camera and framed the shot. “Lift your skirt. Let him see.”  Bonnie lifted her black skirt on both sides, revealing the tops of her silver nylons, the garter straps, and finally her silky black panties.

Victoria took pictures. I eased her panties down her legs as she lowered her skirt. By the time she stepped out of them, I hadn’t seen much, but I thrilled at the garment I held in my hands. Victoria turned over the timer, and I got to work.

You can’t win at Scrabble without good letters. My letters were crap. I made BEAN. Even, on a double word score, 12 points. Grimly serious, Bonnie made BROKEN with the B on the triple letter space. 18 points. Victoria made VOTE. 7 points. When I pour more wine, I’d seen her letters. She could have won the round with several other words or by placing the V on a bonus square. She wanted to lose.

“Jason, remove her skirt.”  Bonnie reached for the phone to take the picture.

In the Widow’s Club, Victoria revealed she had dated little in high school, met her husband when she was fifteen, and married him her first year in college after he joined the Army. I doubted she’d ever been with another man. “The zipper is on this side,” she told me.

Bonnie took video as I lowered the zipper on the tiny black stretch satin skirt. Once unzipped the it clung to her slender hips. I knelt in front of her and gripped the sides. Victoria swayed from side to side as I peeled the skirt down her hips, her eyes focused on the camera, and on Bonnie behind the lens, until the skirt fell to the floor.

“Jason,” Bonnie asked, “could you step aside?”  I stood up and put the skirt on the table. Bonnie zoomed in on Victoria’s panties, a black lace bikini with tiny ties on the two sides. “You’ve shaved.”

“It’s a special occasion.” Victoria grinned at me. “Jason, are you ready to play?”  She turned over the hourglass.

I had 90 seconds. I made LOBE. 6 points. “Yes,” Bonnie said softly, but empathically. She added a D to CRATE for CRATED and then made DREAM going down. 17 points. Victoria used the letters I knew she had waiting. She placed her H on a triple letter score and made the word AH going down and RAH going across. 27 points.

“Victoria,” Bonnie said, reaching for the camera, “please remove Jason’s Dockers?”

When I stood I wondered, which excited me more, Victoria sans skirt removing my pants or Bonnie sans panties filming at action?

Victoria removed my belt and unbuttoned the waistband. Then she knelt, took the zipper in her teeth, and eased it down. The front of my pants spread open, but they did not fall. “A little help,” she called out.

Bonnie looked puzzled until Victoria slid to one side, snapping playfully at my waistband with her teeth. Then Bonnie understood. “Sure.”  She knelt down and bit into my pants tugging down one side while Victoria tugged at the other. My pants dropped to the floor. Both women stopped to admire the tent at the front of my boxers before exchanging high fives.

Victoria emptied the bottle into Bonnie’s glass and mine. “More wine?”  She returned with a fresh bottle as Bonnie and I drank, shyly making eye contact.

“I fear the wine is affecting the quality of my play.”

“Jason, it’s not the wine. Focus on your letters, instead of Bonnie’s breasts.” Victoria turned the hourglass over.

I focused on the letters. As the sand ran out, I connected the word SHEET to the word CLEAN, 15 points. Bonnie groaned. The panic in her face disappeared. She put NEW in the triple word score.

Immediately Victoria slapped down her word. “Double letter score for the M,” she announced, “and triple word score for MEAN. 27 points. What’s your score, Bonnie?”

“15,” she and I said in unison. “A tie.”

“Double Strip Down!”  Victoria picked up the phone. “Face each other. I’ll take a photo.”

“I can’t do this.” Bonnie shook. “You two should play. I’ll go….”

Victoria put her index finger to her friend’s lips. “Sh-h-h-h-h-h.”  She stepped back. “You’re beautiful.”  She took a picture and showed it to Bonnie.

“I’ve seen Jason staring. He wants you.”

“No….”  She set the phone down and walked behind me. “Watch.”  In one fluid motion she pulled my boxers to the floor. My cock extended to its full eight inches, pointed straight at Bonnie. “You’re the reason he’s hard.”

Victoria handed Bonnie the phone. “Take a picture.”  Bonnie zoomed in on my erection while Victoria stepped behind her. “Now watch what happens once I relieve you of your skirt.”  My cock twitched. She pulled the skirt down. I imagined my face buried in that pussy, and my cock took on a life of its own.

Victoria nuzzled Bonnie’s neck. Her friend responded by grinding her naked ass into Victoria. “What about me?” I asked. The two women stopped.

“You should kiss her,” Victoria suggested while kneading Bonnie’s breasts. I stepped forward and kissed her. “Not there,” Victoria urged, “her other lips.”

I dropped to my knees, sucking, kissing, and licking. Soon her body shuttered. “That’s enough!  That’s enough,” Bonnie gasped and pushed away. “That’s enough.”  Flushed and breathing heavily, she turned over the timer. “Your turn.”

Victoria laughed as I scrambled to make a word. “Better hurry.”

The sand ran out. “You lose,” Bonnie said triumphantly. She made QUIET. 11 points. Victoria used the Q and took advantage of the triple word space. She made QUOTE. 45 points. “Take off his shirt, Victoria.”

“But my tie….”

“You always look good in a tie,” Bonnie told me. “Lose the shirt, Jason.”  She moved behind me as Victoria prepared to unbuttoned the shirt. “Why don’t you count the buttons as you undo them.”

Victoria scoffed at the suggestion, but complied. “One.”  Bonnie slapped her bare ass. Victoria jumped, but then recovered. “Two.”  I heard the slap, louder this time, and saw Victoria jump again. “Three.”  Slap. “Four.”  Slap. “Five.”  Slap. “Six.”  Slap. Bonnie took pictures of Victoria’s bright red butt and me in my white T-shirt and tie. Somehow Bonnie had taken control.

The next Strip Down I lost my T-shirt. The next turn Victoria lost again. “I suppose you have to take off her shawl before we can make her take off her blouse,” Bonnie said.

“Not necessarily,” Victoria said. She eased the shawl off her shoulders and tied it around her waist. Its flimsy cloth did not cover much. “No impediment now.”

“The blouse,” Bonnie said.

I began immediately. “Should I count?”

“Please.”  With each button Bonnie slapped my ass, a sensation I found pleasing. Once unbuttoned, I eased the blouse off Victoria’s shoulders. Her nipples poked against the silky fabric of the camisole. I reached for them.

“Not yet,” Veronica whispered. “Soon.”

We moved quickly through the turns, snapping pictures, rubbing our bodies together, and drinking. I lost my socks. Bonnie lost her sweater, garter belt, and shoes. Victoria lost her shawl. When we finished the third bottle, we uncorked a fourth. We were flushed and half-naked. My turn again.

In the wine induced fog I scanned my letters. A word formed. FIXES on a double word score. 26 points. “Beat that.” I turned over the hourglass. As if in slow motion I saw Bonnie move to her tray and remove a tile. Then another. Then another, until all seven tiles were on the board, NOTHINGS.

“With the triple word score I believe that’s 39, plus a fifty-point bonus for using all the letters. 89,” Bonnie said. Victoria scrambled for a word. ZAGS with the Z on a double letter score. 26 points. Another tie, this time with Bonnie the winner.

“Take off her panties,” Bonnie said. I reached to untie the strings. “With your teeth,” she said. I got down on my knees, bit on the string, and pulled. I moved to her right side and untied that string, too, but the panty wedged between Victoria’s legs. I bit down on the lace and pulled it away.

“Now kiss her.”

I ministered to her pussy, slowly backing her into the table. Bonnie photographed the action, until Victoria tensed and came with a moan that filled the room. “Kiss her again,” Bonnie urged, “on her lips, like you mean it.”

And I did. Gently. And I did mean it.

When I finished, Bonnie removed the tie, my last article of clothing. “I guess, that’s it. Game over,” I said. Bonnie still had her bra, nylons, and heels. Victoria wore nylons, garter belt, stilettos, and camisole.

“No,” Victoria said. “Bonnie and I need to play this out. You can referee.”

“Fair enough,” I said as I turned over the hourglass. “Begin.”  Bonnie struggled with her word, then got wide-eyed as her time ran out. She slapped down WEIRD.

“I challenge that.”  I said it before I even thought about it. Bonnie had misspelled WEIRD. As soon as I said it, she realized her error. Zero points. I peeked at Victoria’s letters. She had a half-dozen possible words. She put down NONE—4 points—saving her points for the next play.

“Jason. The blouse,” Victoria said. My cock ached for relief. Removing Bonnie’s blouse wouldn’t help. We stood up, and I faced her. I reached out to the first button. “Get closer,” Victoria ordered. I stepped closer, the tip of my cock touching Bonnie. She was wet and trembling.

I reached for the first button. “One,” I counted. I heard the slap, but I didn’t feel it. Victoria had positioned herself behind Bonnie. The slap startled her and pushed Bonnie’s body into mine. Embarrassed, I tried to move back. I unbuttoned another button. Slap!  Victoria slapped harder than the first time. Bonnie’s body crushed against my penis, her lace-clad breasts pressed against my bare chest. I longed to enter her. Instead I stepped back before unbuttoning the third button. Bonnie mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

“Another,” Victoria said. I undid the next button. Slap!  Backed up against the wall, Bonnie pushed into me again. I undid button number four. Slap!!  Wedged between Victoria and me, ears formed in Bonnie’s eyes.

“We’re too close, Victoria. I can’t get to the buttons.”

“Here,” she said, stepping aside, “let me help.”  Victoria grasped my penis and placed it at the entrance to Bonnie’s vagina. I could feel her cunt lips–wet and super lubricated–pressed against my cock. “Five.” I entered her. Bonnie shuttered. “Six,” Victoria whispered as I thrust again.

With Bonnie sandwiched between us, Victoria pushed forward, then retreated, forward, retreat, creating a gentle rhythm. We three breathed as one. Finally I felt Bonnie tense and I couldn’t hold out any longer. We came in unison. Victoria sensed it and stepped back. We awkwardly separated.

Victoria reached out and grabbed her friend’s shoulder. “You forgot something.”  With the bottom two buttons still buttoned, Victoria eased Bonnie’s blouse off her shoulders, down her waist, and to the floor. Bonnie, empowered, stepped out of it and turned to face me. I loved her, and she knew it.

I turned over the hour glass. “Begin.”

Bonnie had been ready to place WEIRD, this time spelled correctly, but Victoria’s last word blocked the move. She looked up. “That’s not fair.”

“Time’s running out,” Victoria said, tapping the hourglass, an act that only made it run faster. Bonnie panicked. “Time.”  She had lost again. Having seen Victoria’s letters, I knew she would win the round.

“I’ve got nothing,” Victoria said, shrugging her shoulders. “I’m going to forfeit my turn and exchange my tiles for a new set of letters. I guess we both lose.”  She turned to me. “So, what do we forfeit?”

I considered my options. I pointed. “The bra.”  Victoria stepped over and eased Bonnie’s bra straps down, stroking her shoulders while I took photos.

“Open the clasp,” Bonnie finally commanded. Victoria obeyed, and Bonnie pulled the bra away from her breasts and defiantly threw it on the pile of clothes on the table. Bonnie put her hands on her hips and thrust her breasts out as I took pictures.

“Is anyone else warm in her?” Victoria asked. I looked over. She stood next to the table holding the pitcher. She slowly poured the icy water down the front of her camisole which turned transparent and clung to her tiny breasts. Her nipples were erect. Goose bumps appeared on her arms and shoulders. I couldn’t take pictures fast enough.

“Victoria needs to take something off.”  Bonnie’s voice was as icy as the water.

“The garter belt,” I said. Bonnie walked over to face Victoria and started to reach down to release the nylons from the belt. “Move behind her. Don’t block the shot.

That pissed Bonnie off, but she obeyed. She walked behind Victoria and slapped her butt. “Give me some room.”  The slap startled Victoria, as did the tone in her voice. Bonnie knelt down and undid each of the four garters. She grabbed Victoria’s hips and swung her around so they were facing each other, then pulled the black lace belt down.

“My turn to kiss someone,” Bonnie told her. Victoria held Bonnie’s head, guiding her lips and tongue, encouraging her friend, until finally Victoria came with a shout, “Yes!  Yes!  Yes.”  Fascinated by the interplay, I forgot to take photos.

“Let’s take a break,” Bonnie said. “I’m thirsty.”

That broke the tension. We looked at each other. We weren’t the same people we’d been when the game began. Bonnie lit the gas fireplace as Victoria and I pulled our chairs closer to get warm. I was naked, and she was wet. We drank our wine in silence.

Finally, Victoria stood up, and without a word removed her camisole, stilettos, and nylons. She sat down and reached for her wine glass.

Bonnie stood and silently stripped, too. “Game over.”

We began laughing.

“Now what?”

“We’ve all gotten a little gamey,” Bonnie said. “Fortunately, my shower accommodates three.”

“What about your bed?” I asked.

“King sized.”

“Large enough,” Victoria asked, “for a three-way between lovers, coworkers, and friends?”

“That,” Bonnie said, “may require some practice.”  But no one laughed at the suggestion.

Now, every Friday night we leave work together. We tell our coworkers we’re going to play Scrabble, and sometimes we do. Others have asked to join The Widows Club, but none of us is ready for that next step. Everything is too new.

Victoria and I are giving up our apartments when the leases are up. We’re negotiating the room arrangements at Bonnie’s house. It’s a work in progress. We plan to eventually start our own insurance agency, but we need to stop having sex long enough to put together a business plan. I suspect it will be several months before that happens. No one at the office will be surprised.

Adventures Of A Sex Addict: Tributes By Mr E

Based on true events.

For those of you who have never heard of tributes in a sexual deviant/perve context let me explain:

Women/ladies/pornstars/wanna-be pornstars, models, horny girls; post suggestive and damn right erotic photos of themselves on social media: Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, you know the ones. Most of these photos are nudes, some are headshots with bare shoulders, some are full-length body shots. And everything in between. Some cater to fetishes, so there are hands, there are feet photos, there are breast photos, and even close-ups of other lady parts. I think you get my drift.

So, the ladies post the photos. Then they wait.

Then the retweets start to flood in. The comments. And the likes.

Men take these photos, the head-shots, the boobshots, the nudes, the nakeds, the feet, and the knees (don’t ask me!), they print them out and they offer tribute. In the form of sperm, spunk, jism. They cum on the photos and then post photos of them back on social media.

Some of the girls like to have a little competition, posting their naked photos and giving “prizes” to the fastest shooter.

There’s a girl in London I follow on twitter. She seems to spend most of her day having her face spunked on. In real life, not just tribute. She invites men from Tinder to cum all over her face. Normally she likes more than one, so she’s properly covered. Her boyfriend joins in when he’s available, but when he’s not she’s not exactly fussy.

She makes videos. Sells them on manyvids. She does pretty well, judging from the jewellery, the Gucci shoes, the Porsche she drives. Her name’s Mariah, or at least that’s what she calls herself. Originally from Italy, but living in London most of her life, she makes money as an independent pornstar.

She’s one of many such girls I follow on twitter and Insta, along with hundreds of other pornstars, webcam girls, and escorts.

Mariah had a competition the other day. She posted while I was trawling through some porn pics and vids, so I thought I’d give it a go. I was there, looking at the photo on my ipad and printing it off, stroking away at my cock, when someone posted. The photo all spunked over.

I was too slow. My printer was still printing out, dammit.

I contacted her via direct message. Asked her if she’d be interested in meeting up. She told me a price. I thought it was a bit steep. I only wanted to cum on her face, I could get full sex for half that.

Sometimes I wish being a sex addict was cheaper. Actually quite often. I’d already spend two hundred pounds on webcams that month, and three on escorts, and it was only the tenth.

I needed a cheaper option.

There was this girl at work. She was cute, blonde, a bit chubby, but with big boobs. If I didn’t have a girlfriend, or if she didn’t know I had a girlfriend, then I may well have tried to shag her. As it was we were friendly. I knew she’d given a blowjob to one of the contractors, she knew I’d had sex with a woman older than my mum. We’d somehow got to the subject of sex and shared some stories, obviously I had plenty, and we’d bonded.

She was having a hard time at work, so I arranged a meeting and we had a chat. She told me how she felt. I listened and tried to comfort her. Eventually, fifteen minutes in, we started talking about sex. She was having it off with a married Frenchman who told her he didn’t like her having sex with other men. I told her about the tributes.

She was always complaining about how poor she was. I told her I wanted to do “live tributes” if only I could find the right girl. I said I’d pay, may be £50 for the right girl.

I left the seeds to grow.

A couple of weeks later I contacted her again. Told her how horny I was. Said I wasn’t getting any action at home and I needed to have a wank.

She asked me what I was going to do about it. I told her I couldn’t do anything in my open plan office. I asked her if she was busy. I asked if she wanted to earn some money.

She said no, and yes. She said she would meet me.

At lunchtime we rendezvoused. I took her to a meeting room, we locked the door and we sat down with a table between us, staring at each other for a moment.

“I’m not sure about this,” she said.

I pulled out my erection. Then my wallet. I put the money in her hand. She was just staring at my cock in shock.

“I’m going to wank, if you want to take off your top that would be so fucking sexy. I want to cum for you,” I told her, and then starting stroking my dick.

I left my trousers on, my cock pocking out through the zip.

She watched me for a few moments, then pulled off her jacket. She got comfortable on the chair. Then she pulled her top off over her head. She sat there half naked. Her full breasts barely contained by her well-fitted bra.

“Damn you are sexy,” I said to her and started stroking harder and faster. The head of my cock bobbing towards her.

She smiled and licked her lips as she watched me wanking.

I watched her, maintaining eye-contact as much as possible, but checking out her big round breasts. She squeezed them together for me. Then pulled one, then the other, over the top of her bra.

I stroked my cock harder and faster. The energy was building. I could tell this wasn’t going to last long. Being at work, the possibility of being caught, doing something with a friend, someone not my girlfriend, all added to the excitement.

I stepped towards her, my thighs hitting the table.

“So sexy,” I murmured and then groaned as my spunk shot across the table towards her. She looked down at my spunk, made a quick disgusted face and then stepped away.

She put her breasts back in her bra, pulled her top over her head while I wiped up the mess. A pocketful of tissues that I’d brought along coming in very handy.

I gave her a peck on the cheek and said: Same time next week?
She nodded uncertainly.

We flirted every day until we met again. It was three session of my wanking until she finally got completed naked for me. She was self-conscious and it was cute. We were standing there staring at each other. My cock in my hand, her fingers inside her pussy. Mutual masturbation is slightly weird, but fun. Standing there watching someone else cumming for you is still fucking hot though. Orgasms, like yawns, are contagious.

It was the fourth time that she let me touch her. I grabbed her boob and she gasped. The next time I got sticky fingers and licked her nipples.

The sixth time I bent her over the table and we fucked. It was hard and energetic. I pounded into her as fast and hard as I could. She groaned with pleasure as I leaned over her back, my fingers rubbing her clit as my cock sunk deep inside her. I grabbed her hips and pulled her into me while I thrusted. There was no way I could get deep enough inside her. I kissed the back of her neck and she swiped my face away with her fingers. Too much like boyfriend/girlfriend. It just made me thrust harder and faster inside her, trying to batter my way into her womb. One of my fingers hovered near her arsehole, but I didn’t push my luck.

I spunked all over her arse. I didn’t give her any money that time, we decided it was too much like prostitution if I paid her for sex.

Then she got a boyfriend.

She said she couldn’t have sex with me anymore. I asked her why, and she said we shouldn’t be doing it. It wasn’t fair on our partners.

We still did the tribute. Just no touching this time. I gave her fifty pounds again. She even let me cum on her tits every now and then, for old time’

Squirt on This by Charles E.J. Moulton

1. Ava, Alienated

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

“How’s work? Still singing?”

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

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

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

That was probably what they were all thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I was angry at Kenneth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reaction was shallow, dismissive and rather arrogant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2. Ava’s Physics

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

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

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

Oh, yes, and barbecues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

3. Provocative Ava

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confused, he took it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

4. Ava’s Inspiration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. Ava Copulates

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, Ava,” he answered.

“Will you do what I tell you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

6. Ava, Consulated

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

The Cost That Lies Between Heaven and Earth By Matt Piskun

The sweet perfume wafting from the grape vines was strong that morning, making one dizzy despite the fruits lack of fermentation. Isabella studied the figure before her, its features hidden in the shadows of the mid-summer sun.

“Do you know what it means to call me, child?” The beast’s growl was deep and rhythmic.

“I do.” Isabella was not afraid. The young girl moved slowly forward, struggling to contain the anxiousness brimming inside her.

“I sense a kind heart in you. It is merely buried under several layers of venial sins. Why do you seek me? ”

“My brother, Henry, has stolen my inheritance left to me by my father, the King.” Her olive eyes narrowed. “He leaves me with nothing. Am I to beg for crusts of bread? Furthermore, the family fool, Alfonzo now threatens my path to the throne. Spain is my birthright, but he desires it as his own and would toss me aside as one would a barren cow.”

Sensing her ambition the figure in the shadows smiled, its breathing now faster. “I don’t know if I’m drunk from the nectar that drips off these vines, but I think I am falling in love with you, child.”

Isabella’s cheeks flushed pink as she moved toward him. “Let me see your face.”

Emerging from the darkness came a young male demon. The sunlight made his skin, the color of ripe plum flesh, all the more brilliant. He was slender and muscular with two small horn buds protruding from his forehead. Two majestic wings of burgundy leather were folded neatly behind his back.

Isabella smiled and extended her hand to be kissed.

“I may be a youthful demon but I am no fool. I can help you reach the throne.” He looked into her eyes of lime-colored sea and knew this was what she was waiting for. “Although royal blood may course through your nubile body, it’s you who will be subservient to me.” The young hell-spawn spread his great wings and hovered above her.

Isabella took pause. She had vowed to never let any man hold dominion over her. Surrounded by incompetent males trying to prevent her ascent to the throne, she knew in her heart that she would still one day be queen and any man that was lucky enough would be her king. However, this was no mere man that floated above the earth before her. A feeling spread through her that she’d never known before. An ember of admiration and desire lit inside Isabella and the beating of leather wings now fanned it to flames. Isabella took a knee and bowed before his floating body.

“Save yourself for me, girl.” He grabbed hold of his horns. “When you become a woman I will come back for you. It is with your first blood that we will consummate our arrangement.”

Isabella, looked up into the swirling ash of his eyes and told him, “For my rightful place, I will wait for you…”

“Ingot, my name is Ingot.” With that being said he sailed up above the clouds and out of sight as Isabella clutched her pounding heart.

# # #

Father Juan de Valera watched with pursed lips, shaking his head back and forth. He pulled his beard, dotted with black hairs drowning in a chaotic sea of grey, into a fine point. His queen spoke through clenched teeth of sheen ivory and cruelty.

“Whore!”

A young woman kneels before her, nude and covered in binding chains. Long, red hair sticks to her face as she trembles with fear.

“I can smell your sex, that which you give so freely and without commitment from God. Whip her again!”

The high priest, whose fat and swollen face is hidden beneath a brown hood, cracks his whip. It sounds like thunder and the young girl whimpers as the lashes tear thin, scarlet lines into her milk-white flesh.

“Again!” Isabella commands, her fist raised.

The priest snaps his whip repeatedly and the wooden cross hanging from his neck swings back and forth wildly. Large droplets of sweat fly from the darkness of his hood.

Every cry from the naked girl elicits a small burst of excitement from Isabella. She presses her thighs together tightly, enjoying the hot pleasure building between her legs. When she can no longer endure the mounting desire she commands the high priest to take the girl away and convert her to God. “If she does not admit to believing, make her do so! Spare not one inch of her!” A sweaty smile spreads beneath the hood of the priest.

Isabella, Queen of Spain, tries to hide her lust as she speaks but her eyes, wild with desire expose her growing passion. “I’ll pray for your success, priest.” Father de Valera, his tanned and wizened face looking all the more angular from his sharpened beard, watches as she turns and enters her private quarters. He makes the sign of the cross, whispering the names of the holy trinity as he turns to leave, unseen.

Closing the door behind her, the Queen loosens then drops the purple ceremonial robe she wears exposing her scarred skin. A myriad of criss-crossing magenta scars decorate her breasts and abdomen. She runs her hands over them and shudders as her fingertips play with the grooves in her skin.

“I yearn for you,” Isabella moans. A small flame deep inside her flickers, reminding her of the first time she laid eyes upon him. She thinks back to that day as a young girl in her garden, but she can no longer remember the sweet smell of the flowering vines.

# # #

Her scars writhe as if alive in the candlelight that illuminates her bedroom. Ingot sits in a chair with his arms resting on his now sizeable belly.

“You are a wicked woman, Bella.”

“I need satisfaction, my lord.” Isabella kneels before him.

Ingot stands and strokes the great, curved horns that sit upon his head. “So be it.”

She takes the demon’s member in her mouth and works it feverishly until her pleasing him results in the monster’s orgasm. He releases his semen upon her chest and it sizzles leaving a new pattern of fresh scars that ooze bright red in their infancy. Isabella moans with pleasure and writhes in pain, unable to tell the two apart.

Ingot sits back down in his chair and sighs. “Must I always please?”

“I’ve another favor to ask of you.”

“You’ve such greed in you! Did your brother, Alfonso, not suffer from an unfortunate case of poisoning, along with a slit throat for good measure? You were there grinning in the shadows as he choked, gurgling on his own blood, knowing I did this for you, for your crown. And what of your other sibling, Henry? For wronging you I removed any chance he could have to bear children. Like grapes his manhood were in my talons, oozing from the palm of my hand.” He ran a long black fingernail across her face racing her cheekbone. “And yet you need more?” The swirling embers that made up his eyes grew a little brighter. “I suppose this is why I love you.”

“My kingdom needs land. The people demand it from their Queen and I am not accustomed to disappointing my citizens.”

The demon smiles with jagged, yellow stained teeth and waves a hand in Isabella’s direction, causing his stomach to shake. “You are a good Queen. There is a man who prays to my black kingdom for fame and discovery. He’s not a Spaniard but he will suffice if you will have him. His name is Columbus. I will deliver him to you and he will discover new lands in the name of Spain, allowing you to keep hold of your coronet.”

Isabella winced as she put her ceremonial robes back on. “I will do as I must. Now I must return to the business of running my kingdom.”

“And I think I will pay a visit to mine.”

# # #

Father Juan de Valera finishes his tapas of chorizo and bread then puts on the surplice and purple stole he wears for the sacrament of confession. He’ll confront her today. He has finally seen enough and will tell her that he can no longer sit in silence as she performs atrocities in the good lord’s name.

The torture, the sacrifice, and the experiments must come to an end.

His Queen comes to him in a simple green dress, her straight, brown hair, tipped with gold, flows over her bare shoulders. She likes to appear a simple woman when confessing to him.

“Good afternoon, Father.”

“Blessed to see you, Isabella.”

She will not allow herself to be called Queen during penance. Isabella takes the velvet, padded seat across from Father de Valera who twirls the grey hair of his beard between his thumb and forefinger.

“I no longer love my King.”

“We must meet together, the three of us.”

“No. He is more of a house pet than a man. I no longer know what to do with him.”

“We can annul the marriage if you feel the relationship can’t be mended.”

“That carries risk, father. The people grow restless and I do not want to give them further cause with the belief that I have chosen an impotent and spineless king who can’t handle his woman. I will pray for an answer.”

Isabella rises to leave but the priest quickly stands and raises his hand, signaling for her to wait.

“What is so pressing that you choose to waste my time?” The gold of her hair twinkles as if full of stars in the candle light of the tabernacle.

“That young girl today…”

“The harlot being whipped?”

“Yes. What became of her?”

“Are you spying on me father?”de Valera twisted his beard into a fine point. “All that concerns our loving God finds it’s way to my ears.

The Queens eyes looked black in the deep shadows of the church. “I don’t know yet, but whatever happens will surely be God’s will and then I’m sure it will make its way to your foolish old ears.”

“You talk of God’s will and yet I heard her cries of torture,” he looks Isabella in the eyes as he speaks, “as I have the screams of all the others.”

The queen’s expression does not hide her surprise at the priest’s audacity. The sparkle in her hair vanishes as she stands. “The Lord knows what I do in his name and he allows it.”

“It is not God’s place to forbid you, it is your choice. Also, I respectfully disagree that God would want his teachings forced upon others.” Father de Valera bows his head and stares at the deep wrinkles around his knuckles in silence.

“You dare! You crusty, old eunuch! You may spread his word but the Lord speaks through me.”

The priest sighs. His highness’s reaction is expected. He looks at the silver cross that adorns the bookcase beside him. Its rubies sparkle in the candlelight as his Queens hair did moments ago. The images of Christ dying on the cross, the spear poking through his ribs, the briny rags stuffed in his mouth, fill his mind. He can feel his lord’s last breath across his cheek and finds the courage to truly speak his mind. “What sort of sins are you atoning for? What possesses you to produce converts in such a manner?”

“I do what I must.”

“You serve the devil when you act this way.”

Isabella’s olive eyes narrow and her hands ball into ring covered fists. Her chin quivers as she speaks. “Wrong! You are wrong! What I do, I do to fight the devil! You may have read of him in your texts, but I have met him, touched him! I create an army of worshipers whose belief in God’s kingdom will oppose such evil. I do what needs to be done!” Spit sprays from her thin, red lips, “Cross me or speak out against me again and you will meet God much sooner than you desire!”

The Queen turns and leaves, slamming the wooden door of the church with such force the stain glass windows quiver. Juan de Valera sighs long and hard then picks up the silver cross next to him. “You do what you must.” He pulls the top of the cross off, unsheathing a steel blade. He looks at his reflection and frowns. “Now I must do as I must.”

# # #

Isabella tosses and turns on her bed. The silk cloth that adorns her canopy sways as if alive. She sweats into her cotton sheets as her heart races. Her king sleeps alone in an adjacent bedroom, but her thoughts are not of him, they are of Ingot and Father de Valera.

A bead of sweat slowly slides down from between her breasts onto her stomach. Isabella feels as though the aged priest saw right through her. Maybe he knew her secrets, but who could read his withered old face? It hardly mattered if he did. The price of her throne was Ingot and Christ forgive her she loved the foul beast. Ingot was the only male she had ever been with that truly understood her. Despite loving as only a devil can; she thinks his feelings are genuine nonetheless. It’s with great sadness that she builds a kingdom of Christians to combat her lover’s dark realm, but the web of power stretches wide and is taught with deceit. Just as her sovereign duties must be necessitated, so too must the obligations to her soul be met. Her sheets are now soaked with sweat as she wonders how much more her conscious can take. A decision must soon be made and tomorrow she will make it. Satisfied with this resolution, Isabella closes her eyes to sleep, but as she does Ingot appears before her.

# # #

It’s dark. He can smell the wisps of smoke from the recently snuffed out candles that line the hallway to the Queen’s quarters. Father de Valera shuffles quietly across the stone floor his blade gripped tightly in one hand, the other stretched out before him feeling into the shadows. He stops as the darkness shifts before him. The priest flattens himself against the wall and hears what sounds like the scrapping of claws against stone. The air moves around him and he feels a cold, heavy darkness pressing upon his skin. He prays to God the almighty for courage then continues forward. He pictures, for fortitude, his lord carrying the True Cross, whipped and bleeding as his crown of thorns tears into him. Finally he comes to the Queen’s door made of carved cypress. De Valera hears talking inside and puts his ear to the door. In between beats of his heart he can hear Isabella shouting. “I love you! I love you! You are a part of me!”

Father listens for a response, but hears no answer to the queen’s admissions. He presses his ear more tightly against the sculpted wooden door. If she were with someone else he would have to terminate his holy mission. The priest is old and tired. He does not have the strength, physically or spiritually, to take two lives, but he fears he will never have the courage to get this far again. He holds his breath to hear more clearly and is quite sure he hears only Isabella’s voice inside. He presses his hand against the door, finding it unlatched. After making the sign of the cross he slowly pushes Isabella’s door open.

The door opens with a slight creak that may as well have been as deafening as canon fire. His Queen spins around to see who has entered. She is naked and the priest gasps, not at her nude form but at the great maze of scars that covers her flesh in various shades of scarlet.

“You abandon me now?” She turns and shouts to a fluttering shade of black silk that hangs over an open window. A small vase of citrus scented oil is heating on a black iron stand in the fireplace, making the room smell fresh and sweet.

Still lost in the labyrinth of maroon gashes that decorate her peach colored skin, Father de Valera keeps his knife at his side. Isabella grabs hold of the poker that lay across the hearth and swings it across the priest’s face. He screams, dropping his knife and covering his face with his hands. He gags as blood pours out from between his clamped fingers.

“You dare, priest, to invade my privacy? First you question my motives then you come to me uninvited?” She looks down at the jewel-encrusted blade on the floor. “And you have come to kill me.”

Father de Valera reaches out for the blade but Isabella brings her weapon down across his hand snapping his fingers. The priest shouts out in pain and brings his gnarled fingers to his chest. Blood drips steadily from his beard. He gets to his feet and charges her, hitting Isabella in the chest with his shoulder and knocking the poker from her hands.

She lands on her back by the fireplace, the priest on top of her, his one good hand pressing down on her throat. Isabella puts both hands around his wrist to remove it but can’t. Blood from the father’s nose falls steadily on her naked torso filling the scared channels in her flesh. De Valera’s eyes flicker with the fires roaring light. The Queen reaches behind her into the fireplace, grabs hold of a smoldering log and brings it down across his head, knocking him off with a showering of embers.

The priest rolls onto his back, consciousness coming and going, with Isabella standing over him. Her breasts heave as she struggles for breath. Queen Isabella’s body is sticky with blood and ash. She holds the smoking log overhead as the priest weakly covers his face. Suddenly, Isabella drops the wood in her hands. The Queen turns as she hears the beating of wings.

“Coward, you come to me now that the fight is over?”

Ingot comes in through the open window, the black window shade across his shoulders resembling a cape. “I can not lay hands on a holy man. It’s a treaty older than time itself.”

“You disappoint me, Ingot. For that you will pleasure me.”

The demon flies in on outstretched wings and lands in front of the fireplace. Isabella approaches him on her knees. ‘This disappointment is the end’, she thinks, ‘I will launch a grand inquisition today, forcefully shaping, as if from clay, an army of Catholics. Their faith will save me. I may give my body to hell but my soul is still Gods!’

Father de Valera opens his blood-encrusted eyes to see Isabella on her knees talking to herself. Her hands stroke the vase of boiling citrus oil as she pours it onto her chest, searing the skin where it hits causing more wounds to bubble and blister. She wails and writhes in ecstasy.

de Valera starts to crawl towards the blade that is still on the floor. He inches forward and grips the jeweled handle, but when he does he sees Isabella’s reflection in the blade. “Don’t worry, lover, I will take care of the priest.”

With blade in hand he turns over to face Isabella who is holding the iron poker in her hands. He points the blade at her. “You’re mad! There is nobody here but you and I!”

Whispering she tells him, “Tell God I do what I must.” Then the Queen drives the poker through his ribs.

With his hands wrapped around the iron protruding from his chest, Father de Valera’s vision begins to fade as shadows start to ebb out the light. He gasps for air as his punctured lung collapses. Isabella turns and walks toward the fireplace. Once more she appears to be talking to no one. From within the encroaching darkness the priest hears the rhythmic beating of his dying heart; or is it, he wonders, the beating of wings?

 

Kamalia By Kara Leigh Miller

Kamalia’s high school guidance counselor once told her to find something she was good at—something she loved—and then find a way to make money doing it. It was a no-brainer for her. Prostitution hadn’t been her first choice. She’d tried to be a legitimate adult film star, but all of the lights and cameras gave her performance anxiety. It all worked out though. In fact, she preferred to be her own boss.

Kamalia wasn’t your average two bit-hooker that stood on the street corner in fake leather boots and imitation snake skin mini-skirts hollering, “Hey baby! You looking for a good time?” Her boots were real and she preferred silk to snake skin. She was a full service, professional hooker—the kind that dealt with a very elite clientele. Threesomes, gang bangs, fetishes, bondage, sadomasochism, role playing, erotic asphyxiation…whatever your pleasure, Kamalia was more than willing to accommodate. She drew the line at rim jobs and getting tea-bagged though. A girl’s gotta have standards.

Of course all of that was back in her glory days; back before she became the devil’s concubine. Kamalia smiled at the reference. Her protégé was always chastising her about referring to her herself as a concubine and her husband as the devil. But until she found a more suitable description, Ian Daniels would be known as The Devil.

# # #

“I hear you deal in risqué matters of the flesh,” he said.

Kamalia remained seated at the table as he spoke. She looked him over. He was tall with short black spiked hair and eyes such a deep shade of purple they looked like the midnight sky. The stranger was attractive enough, except for the beer gut that flopped over the waistband of his khakis.

She nodded for him to sit. He did. “What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Ian.”

“Tell me, Ian, why have you come to see me?”

# # #

Kamalia hummed the theme to I Dream of Jeanie as she sprinkled a generous amount of seasoned salt on top of her perfectly shaped meatloaf before covering it with ketchup. Ian loved ketchup. He ate it on everything from scrambled eggs to bologna sandwiches. He even dipped his potato chips in it. No wonder he was so fat, she thought. She put the pan in the oven and wiped her hands on her stained yellow apron. Her life had gone to hell.

# # #

“So, what’s your pleasure, darlin’?”

Ian dropped a small red duffel bag on the bed of the cheap motel room he’d rented for the evening. He slowly unzipped it and pulled out two pairs of metal handcuffs.

“Bondage, huh?” Kamalia smiled. “You or me?”

“You,” he stated. “Would you mind putting this on first though?” Ian handed her a strap-on dildo. It came equipped with an engorged head, faux veins, and balls.

“Impressive,” she said, slipping it on.

“Lie down on your back,” Ian instructed.

Obediently, Kamalia lay down on the bed and assumed the spread eagle position. Ian cuffed her wrists and ankles to the bed. She watched as he meticulously took off his clothes, folded them and set them on the dresser.

# # #

Ian would be upset if she wasn’t dressed in red leather and black heels. That was her meatloaf attire. It was better than the white corset, lace thong, and running shoes that he required when she cooked chicken parmesan. Which reminded her, she had to run out to the store and pick up some lemon-lime Gatorade for him. That was his drink of choice with meatloaf. God knows she wasn’t in the mood for the rubber tickler he’d use to punish her if a tall ice cold glass of his favorite drink wasn’t served with his dinner.

Kamalia chuckled as she slipped on her trench coat. God knows. That’d send Ian into a fury if he ever heard her speak His name. It’d serve him right though. Fucking narcissist.

# # #

“Just lay still,” Ian said. He had his cock in his hand, slowly stroking it as he approached the bed.

She rattled the handcuffs and smiled. “It’s not like I can do much anyway.”

Ian leaned over Kamalia’s naked body. He closed his mouth around her nipple and sucked on it for a few moments before moving to the other one. His mouth was hot and her nipples always were super-sensitive to touch. Kamalia arched her body to him.

“I said lay still.” He left her nipples and kissed his way down her stomach. Ian continued to stroke his cock as he sat on his knees between her legs. He bent over and took the dildo into his mouth—all six and a half inches of it.

Kamalia had seen a lot of things in her line of work. She’d watched two guys have oral sex and anal sex. But never had she seen what she was seeing right now. A small smile formed as Ian’s head bobbed up and down. She could hear his moans vibrating against the fleshy dildo.

# # #

“Kami!”

Only one person called her Kami. She looked up to see her neighbor, Mrs. Roter waving to her from the opposite end of the juice aisle. Kamalia smiled and walked towards her. “Hello, Becky.”

“Fancy seeing you here.” Becky smiled.

“Not really,” Kamalia said. “It’s the curse of living in the suburbs. Only one grocery store.”

Becky laughed. “You’re always so funny.”

“I used to be a comedian in a former life,” Kamalia said dryly.

Becky’s high-pitched giggle pierced the quiet of the aisle. “I’m making roast duck for Charles tonight. You and Ian should join us.”

“Sorry, I’ve got a meatloaf in the oven. Well, I really need to get going.” Kamalia tapped her watch before walking away. She hated her neighbors. Every last one of them. They were nosy, annoying, and boring. She was willing to bet money that “Perky Little Becky” had never had a toe-curling orgasm. Grabbing an eight-pack of lemon lime Gatorade, Kamalia rushed out of the aisle. The happy homemaker, “vanilla” scene was getting to be too much.

# # #

Kamalia continued to watch as Ian gave the dildo a blow job. She had to admit, she was impressed. He knew how to give head. Maybe she could get him to teach her a few tricks.

“You like that, big boy?” she asked, thrusting her hips up, shoving the dildo deeper into his mouth.

Ian took the dildo out of his mouth. “I told you to lie still,” he said, pinning her hips to the bed with his hands.

“Just trying to help you out,” Kamalia said, a hint of humor in her voice.

“I don’t need any help.” Ian straddled Kamalia’s waist, his back towards her. He grabbed the base of the dildo and held it still as he slid down on it. His deep, throaty groan of pleasure filled the tiny room.

Kamalia lay perfectly still as Ian fucked the dildo hard and fast. His left hand grasped the blankets, anchoring him to the bed while his right hand feverishly stroked his cock. The faster he moved on the dildo, the harder he’d jerk off. The harder he jerked off, the louder his moans became.

There had been a few rare occasions in her professional life when she’d been bored, but this was a new low. She slowly thrust her hips up, meeting Ian as he slid down on the dildo. He didn’t yell at her to lay still. She moved a little faster.

“Talk dirty to me,” he said breathlessly.

“You like the feel of that big, hard dildo stretching your ass open, huh? It makes you want to come doesn’t it, Ian?”

“Call it a cock,” Ian demanded. “It’s a cock, dammit. Call it a cock.”

Kamalia sighed in frustration. Why hadn’t he just hired a male prostitute? she wondered.

# # #

Kamalia arrived at home just in time to save her meatloaf from burning. Ian refused to eat anything burnt which was rather ironic considering he lived for anything that flamed. Especially men.

She set the pan on top of the stove and busied herself with preparing the vegetables to put in the steamer. Ian would be home in less than half an hour.

# # #

“That cock feels good doesn’t it? You like feeling it slide in and out of you?”

“Deeper,” Ian said while stroking his cock harder.

Kamalia thrust her hips and the dildo deeper into Ian’s ass.

“Your voice,” he breathed. “Make it deeper.”

She fought the urge to laugh. Deepening her voice she said, “Ride that cock, Ian. Fuck it hard.”

“Deeper!” Ian shouted.

He was joking, right?

Ian stopped riding the dildo and bent over. He bit Kamalia on her leg, just above her ankle.

Nope. He wasn’t joking. Kamalia deepened her voice until it physically hurt and said, “Make yourself cum, Ian. Stroke that cock. Fuck that cock harder. Deeper.”

Ian let out one final howl. Seconds later, Kamalia felt the warm gooeyness of his cum on her leg.

# # #

Kamalia scraped the vegetables off the cutting board and into the steamer. It was time to make the final dish—potatoes. Ian demanded to have hot mashed potatoes with three tablespoons of butter on top. She always saved their preparation for last so that they’d be at a temperature of his liking and because she absolutely despised peeling potatoes.

It was a small wonder he hadn’t died of a heart attack yet with the way he eats. She’d never get that lucky. That particular night though, the night he’d made his offer, she’d thought she was the luckiest prostitute in the world.

# # #

Sexually frustrated and prostitute don’t typically fall into the same category but there was no other way to explain her encounter with Ian. It was one of the strangest nights of her working life. Up until that point, turning tricks had always been exciting for Kamalia. Her clients always left satisfied and so did she.

“Why do you do this?” Ian asked, interrupting her thoughts. He drew a long puff of his cheap menthol cigarette.

“Do what?” Kamalia asked.

“Engage in depraved sexual acts for money?”

Kamalia raised an eyebrow and smiled at him over her shoulder. “They can’t be too depraved. You enjoyed them.”

Ian crushed his cigarette into the ashtray on the bedside stand. He swung his legs off the side of the bed and reached for his khakis. “Don’t you want more out of life?”

“You paid me for sex. Not pillow talk,” she told him coolly while slipping her feet into her silver studded green stilettos.  “So it’s all about the money?”

“And the sex.” Kamalia smiled.

“What if I could offer you the money and the sex without the danger?”

# # #

Ian made Richard Simmons look straight. She should’ve known. It was right in front of her the entire time. But, she had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. And look where it’d gotten her? Married to a man who was in serious denial about his homosexuality. Kamalia was nothing more than his trophy wife—a cover for his true identity.

She’d tried to get out of the business a couple of times, to no avail. The moment a potential suitor learned of her previous entrepreneurial skills, he’d drop her like rotten garbage and run for the hills. She had to face the fact: At thirty-seven, Kamalia’s body wasn’t what it used to be. She knew it was time to find another way to support herself. Ian was her answer. So, she had allowed him to marry her. And they had tried to consummate the marriage.

# # #

“Why are we here?” Kamalia asked.

“I thought it’d be romantic to spend our honeymoon at the same place we first made love,” Ian said with a smile.

Kamalia looked at him with disbelief. Made love? She must’ve missed the part of that night where she’d gotten any pleasure from him. The La Fiesta Motel was the cheapest motel in town and one she frequented with her clients. It was the last place she wanted to spend her honeymoon.

“Come on. I got the same exact room,” Ian said.

Kamalia faked a smile and followed him to the room. She had a feeling it wasn’t going to be the only thing she had to fake that night.

It didn’t take long for both of them to strip naked. Kamalia lay down on the bed and waited for Ian. He wanted to do it missionary style because he felt it was the appropriate way for a husband and wife to have sex. Kamalia thought it was boring but marriage was about compromise and it was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

Ian approached her and positioned himself between her spread legs. He pressed the engorged head of his cock into the hot, wet opening of her pussy. Kamalia sucked in her breath at the feel of him. It was the first time she was going to feel him inside of her and her anticipation was high.

Unfortunately, her pleasure was short lived. After two shallow strokes, Ian went flaccid inside of her. He pulled out, closed his eyes, and stroked himself hard. He entered her again. And once again, he went flaccid.

“Maybe we should try a different position,” Ian said.

Thank God, she thought. “Sure, darlin’. How do you want me?”

“On your knees, head on the pillow and ass in the air.”

Kamalia obeyed. Doggy-style was one of her favorite positions.

Ian continued to stroke his cock until it was hard, a small bead of pre-cum glistened on the head. He stuck it in Kamalia’s ass with a single, hard, forceful thrust. And as long as Kamalia didn’t speak or moan or scream or look at Ian, his dick stayed hard.

# # #

The sound of Ian’s powder blue Prius pulling into the garage snapped her back to reality. Kamalia put his plate of food on the table along with his glass of Gatorade. She did a quick inspection of the kitchen. Ian hated messes.

“Better put that away,” she mumbled, screwing the top onto the jug of antifreeze and tucking it away under the sink.

Kamalia met him at the front door. “Hi, honey. How was work?” she asked just like she did every night of the week.

“Good,” he replied in an effeminate voice. “I see we’re having meatloaf.”

“Your favorite,” Kamalia said, following him into the kitchen. He sat in front of his prepared plate and picked up the glass of Gatorade. Ian took a long slow drink then puckered his lips, smacking them together. “Mmm, tangy,” he said.

Kamalia leaned up against the counter and fought back a smile. Soon, she thought. Soon her nightmare would be over and she could go back to doing what she loved.