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Dirty Harriet Explores the Internet By Dirty Harriet

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wasn’t in the mood to wait.

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

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

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

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

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

Then the notification popped up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For you always, they typed back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I put a smiley face after my instructions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want doggy now, she asks.

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

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

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

Wish you were here, she tells me.

Me too, I tell them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank you, you sexy bitch, I tell her.

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

I nod, they will see me again.

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

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Dirty Harriet Discovers Porn By Dirty Harriet

The first time I watched porn was with Mike, my… well, friend with benefits is probably the most accurate description. He was my ex-bestfriend’s ex-boyfriend. His cock was the first I ever sucked. Mike’s best friend Dave’s was the biggest cock I’ve ever seen in my entire life, and I sucked his cock too.

That makes it sound like I’m a bit of a slut, but I never had sex with either of them. More by Dave’s choice than mine, I would have fucked that boy until I couldn’t walk, but the complicated relationship I had with Mike put a stop to that.

I headed round to Mike’s house, where we normally engaged in oral activities, and the boys were both in Mike’s bedroom watching porn when I walked in.

To be honest it wasn’t quite what I’d expected.

I’d interrupted the boys as they wanked and watched porn on Mike’s laptop, and although they slowed what they were doing they never stopped. I waited a couple of minutes while they slowly wanked and watched and looked at me.  And then I shrugged and sat with them and watched as this poor girl was fucked in the mouth, in the pussy, in the arse and then the pussy and mouth, and arse and mouth, and pussy and arse, and basically every filthy combination you could think of.

It made me feel dirty to watch the sex on screen. It was kind of horny, in a strange and unnatural way that I had no control over. But it didn’t put me in the mood, if that makes sense.

The boys seemed to enjoy it, and the two well-muscled and well-endowed men on screen spunked all over the girl’s face after they fucked her raw.

At the time it seemed pretty weird for me to watch people having sex. Sitting between two horny teenagers while they wanked was much sexier to me than whatever was happening on screen. I wanked them both off, Mike’s sperm drenching my hand, and then Dave’s. Oh, Dave, I still think of that cock regularly. It wasn’t that it was attached to a wonderfully attractive black man, or that it was twice the size of Mike’s normal sized penis, it was the hot, fat, thick veins that made it feel alive when I took it in both hands and stroked it until it jerked and spewed his orgasm all over me. That time I asked Dave to look at me just as he was about to cum and when he did I kissed him, our lips met, parted, and his tongue entered me. That was my first time watching porn and, more importantly, it was my first proper kiss. And it was with Dave. All while Mike cleaned himself up in the bathroom.

Sadly I never got another opportunity to kiss Dave like that. I would have loved to have kissed every part of him, but he dumped me a few weeks later. We weren’t even going out and he dumped me, the bastard.

The next time I watched porn was at University. My roommate, Jamie, was a lovely girl, but she was a massive lesbian and a complete perve. I couldn’t even remember the number of times she asked if I wanted her to lick me out, if I’d like to try lesbianism, or if I wanted her skilled fingers to make me cum. Sometimes I wish I’d started my lesbian adventures with Jamie, but it wasn’t to be. A young man by the name of Ben got in the way, love and all that kind of stuff. So, Jamie never got to taste the delights of my pussy and I never got to have her tonguing my vagina.

But Jamie was responsible for my interest in porn. You see, apart from offering me all manner of lesbian action, she used to study, and I really do mean study, all kinds of lesbian porn. And one morning she rushed out of our dorm room, heading to her lecture, grabbing her bag and a bagel on the way and she had left her laptop on, with a full screen of these two beautiful girls kissing.

I rubbed my eyes and it took me a moment to realise it wasn’t her screen-saver and the two girls were touching, caressing each other while they kissed.

I groaned, turned the other way, but I could hear the soft moanings of lust from Jamie’s headphones on the desk. It was like listening to lovemaking in the room next door. Soft, muted, but definitely there.

Ignoring it wasn’t going to work. Already the soft sounds of murmuring, the gentle moans, the heavy breathing, the delicate sexy eastern European accents. It was so much sexier than the brutal, raw fucking of the porn I’d watched with the boys just a few years ago.

So I turned back to look.

They were in a beautiful gazebo, surrounded by pretty flowers.

The brunette was peeling the blonde’s shirt off. They both looked like high-class waitresses, in tight white shirts that were a little too small, and one wore a tight pencil skirt that would be almost impossible to walk in, if she’d been able to walk with her six-inch stiletto heels. The brunette was in a mini-skirt was the gusset of her black lace knickers clearly visible. They were both beautiful.

I vaguely recognised one as Eve Angel, from a poster Jamie had on her wall. I didn’t recognise the blonde.

Eve kissed the voluminous breasts of the blonde, who arched her back in pleasure, her fingers reaching between Eve’s legs and stroking against the delicate fabric barely hiding her modesty.

They kissed again, their soft lips meeting, their tongues poking out of their mouths to gently touch and lick each other.

Then the blonde opened Eve’s shirt, releasing two perfect, natural breasts. No bra. The nipples pointing up into the blonde’s face and she took one in her mouth, gently squeezing the other breast, and Eve’s mouth twisted in pleasure and she gasped.

I couldn’t help myself, I threw off the bed covers and sat at the desk in my pyjamas.

I gingerly put on the headphones and the soft moans and gasps of pleasure were suddenly diving straight into my head. Every soft moan, every groan of ecstasy sending ripples of enjoyment through my body.

My right hand slipped between my legs, beneath the fabric of my loose pyjama bottoms. The flesh hot and soft, my fingers brushing through my soft pubic hairs and continues down.

On screen the blonde is now on her knees, Eve’s tiny skirt hiked up to her hips. Her legs look beautiful in stockings and garter-belts. The gusset of her lace knickers pried aside and the blonde’s tongue flickers at her clitoris.

Eve’s cries of joy and bliss are sending hot peaks of pleasure through my blood, and my fingers dance across the lips of my labia. I can’t control myself, my pleasure is Eve’s pleasure. The blonde’s fingers explore beside her lapping tongue, and I want to feel that too. Eve looks at the camera and as she is looking at me, my finger enters my vagina, my thumb presses against my clitoris, and my left hand also goes inside my pyjama pants.

A finger explores Eve’s pussy onscreen. My left forefinger enters my vagina, my right hand flickers across my clitoris, flicker, brush, flicker, press.

Already I’m breathing heavy, as is Eve on screen. Her friend’s head is buried between her thighs, licking, lapping, fingers exploring, spreading the moist flesh and exposing Eve’s bud.

Eve’s head rolls, she squeezes her left breast with one hand, her right hand pushing the blonde’s head deep between her legs.

Her hips arch, her back arches, she grinds against her friend’s mouth. Eve’s mouth opens gasping.

I’m gasping, two fingers inside me, my right hand skipping across my clit, brushing, rubbing, touching, flickering.

Eve’s panting is getting louder, I know mine is too although I can’t hear it outside of the headphones.

I lick my lips as the blonde takes a momentary break and pushes another finger inside Eve who groans, twisting her leg and lifting it over the blonde’s shoulder. The blonde dives back in, her chin wet with saliva and love juice.

I wish I could taste it.

I push another finger inside me, feeling the stretch and enjoying it. Feeling full, feeling satisfied. I press harder against my clitoris, fingers skipping across it with increasing rapidity.

Then suddenly I’m there, the build up peaking immediately, and lustful pleasure flooding me. My tightening vagina pushes out my wet fingers, my clitoris explodes with ecstasy, sending surging ripples of pleasure through my hips and thighs, down my legs to dissipate and I gasp, pulling off the headphones and dropping them on the desk, realising I’ve cried out in joy and suddenly aware I’m in a dormitory filled with people and thin walls.

On screen Eve cries out in pleasure and I press the pause button, her beautiful face on screen twisted in delight.

I pant a little, decide to ask Jamie if I can borrow her laptop later, kiss the screen and Eve Angel’s beautiful lips, and decide that may be porn isn’t that bad after all.

Beverly Hills Rebel By Charles E.J. Moulton

I glanced at my Rolex, shifting into second gear, waiting for the moron in front of me to decide if he wanted to fall asleep by the wheel or not. Drumming with my fingers at the steering wheel, I conjured up even more impatience in my soul as to how long it would take to get there. My watch told me that Betty was in the last half hour of her shift. I would make it, too, if there weren’t so many snails stopping traffic.

“Yo, bozo,” I yelled, rolling down the window of my Lamborghini, “what did ya do at your driving exam? Take sleeping pills?”

I drove past the guy, an old codger swallowing the gearshift, who gave me the finger as I drove by. I waved back, returning the favor. “Fuck you, too,” I spat, “I’ll be a lawyer in a year. Then I am gonna sue your ass.”

The inner city hustled, bustled, just like it always did on weekends, assisted by the blasting of my stereo, playing a tune that was by now an oldie: “We Built This City” by Starship. Friday nights kept their promises. Although I hadn’t officially begun my professional life yet, I certainly had a long working day in court behind me. That gave me the right to have my share of relaxation.

I swung delicately into my destined street, my previous anger subsiding, realizing that these secret visits to “Bobbie’s Big Burgers” had become an important part of my life. Betty was different, funny, cute, a good listener and, damn it, a far less arrogant than Wendy.

Fun. That was the key word now, wasn’t it? Wendy? Fun? No, slow. Had Wendy been my choice of partner? No. Had I chosen her? No. As far as I went, she was dull. Wendy was money. To my father, that meant a lot. No. Everything.

That and power.

I parked my expensive car in the only spot that had been left free, across the street from the diner. I sat there in the silence for a bit, hearing the cars whizz by and the occasional dog bark at a pigeon. I gazed up at the phoney photo of me and Wendy hanging from the front mirror. It had been taken at the official engagement party last month and was the biggest and most valid example of phoneyness I knew.

I remembered the buffet, the band, the speeches, the public peck on the lips that Wendy had given me, the press photo with that damn famous client of my dad’s, the rapper DJ Ice. It had all been a show that we put on for my father.  Good food, nice drinks, great music, pretty lies.

Wendy sent me a text message at about eleven o’ clock that night, outlining our upcoming marriage. She had used the words “strictly for the money.” There was a big problem with that phrase: I agreed with her. Our daddies had joined together in order to form an axis of power. The two richest lawyers in California, how good would that look if their kids married. Man, that would just make them totally famous and totally rich.

I unwrinkled my Armani suit in the back, stepped out of my car, wondering how I could improve the situation. The slamming door felt like the ultimatum my father slammed in my face. My way or the highway, he seemed to tell me. No Wendy, no college degree. So, what was this? I was between a rock and a hard place. What did the literature students say? Scylla and Charybdis? My soul told me I loved another chick, that Wendy could go screw herself. But where would that leave my degree? I would be over my frigging head in debt if my father cut the money for law-school. No Wendy, no inheritance. Was I really so dependant on my dad?

The slight salty breeze in my face, my Ray-Bans firmly reflecting the UCLA logo on my white shirt, a wide smile appeared on my lips. Betty crisscrossed the tiles in there, delivering her burgers and fries, serving those milkshakes with a sensual smile. Although I must say that I preferred her own personal milkshakes to those her boss made behind the counter.

I held on to the doorhandle for a bit once I arrived, the metal literally glowing from the heat, watching my sweetie bounce about before I wandered in. When I entered, a short round man greeted me with a smile.

“Mr. Blake,” he crooned in a broad Brooklyn twang, reminding me of how many New Yorkers I knew that had ended up in California. “I thought you were gonna stay out there clutching that doorhandle forever.”

“I like to watch,” I joked and sat down by a table by the window.
“You eat burgers, you don’t watch them, buddy.”

“Burgers are like paintings,” I crooned, contradicting my family’s obsession with hors d’oevres, escargot, dom perignon and Pata Negra varieties. “Their mere appearance triggers a desire to awaken the internal tastebuds. Hence, they are art.”

“We have a connoisseur on her hands,” he sang. “Betty, would you do him the honors?”

“Yes, Mr. Kaplan,” the lust of my life smooched in a melodious tune.

Her two glorious black pigtails swung up and down as she came striding up toward me.  Finally arriving at my table, her back to Mr. Kaplan, she carefully unbuttoned one button on her blouse and let me gaze into that gorgeously huge cleavage. She gave me a half-smile, licking her red lips.

“The usual?” she crooned, winking at me.

“The usual,” I answered with a smile, waving my eyebrows.

“With or without cream?” she said, giggling.

“Lots of cream,” I swooned. “The more, the better.”

She smiled, closing her button and turning around back toward the kitchen with a seductive swing of her frilly skirt. For one moment I got a glimpse of her upper leg. She wore a négligé for me. The red one I’d had the honor of lifting up to hip level last week for the quickie in the back room. It was a wonder Mr. Kaplan hadn’t noticed the cum dripping down her legs as she walked out into the diner. I don’t know how we did it without being noticed.

We literally reeked of sex.

So there I sat, trying to inspect the best fuck of my life as discreetly as possible without having any of the other guests or Mr. Kaplan notice me. There was this old woman in the corner who eyed me, but, heck, I was a lawyer, we kick ass for a living. So I didn’t really bother about what the old woman thought. I just imagined in my head what I would be doing to Betty later that evening, if I succeeded with my plans. I had promised Betty a really royal fuck in my princely waterbed over at my father’s mansion.

“There you go, Sir,” Betty said, handing me a king size chili cheeseburger and a Special Kaplan Chocolate Shake with added Extra Cream, as delicious as Betty’s much smoother white boobies.

After handing me the food, she also handed me a small note, opening her lips and sticking her tongue firmly in her cheek.

“Justin. Eat fast, baby,” it read. “I need you. See you by your car.”

The food melted in my mouth as lusciously as Betty’s lips melted into my rod when we had sex. The cream on my shake also tasted almost as good as Betty’s vulva. I thought I knew what Betty meant when she told me that she needed me. Well, I did know. So I ate fast, gulping down that shake while my love stood by the bar, giving me hot cum-ons.

“Was the food okay?” Betty asked me once had devoured it all, belching like a Renaissance king.

“Wonderful,” I nodded, laying a twenty dollar bill on the table. “Keep the change.”

“I’ll keep it and change,” she said, “but I bet you have something else for me, Mister!”

“Like what?” I said, sparks flying.

“Real cream?”

“Home made stuff,” I answered, blowing her a kiss, waving goodbye to Mr. Kaplan and entering the brilliant sunshine, hoping to find myself fondling my loved one’s jugs soon enough. Kaplan waved, Betty winked, the old lady in the corner sneered and me? I went to my Lamborghini, closed the door, rubbing my crotch.

I couldn’t really see the diner from here. Okay, it was across the street, but a tree was in the way. Pretty secluded spot. Maybe that was good. I don’t know.

Well, I kept listening to the silence, sort of depressed about my situation.

The moment my dear one appeared from the other side of the street, now wearing a frilly pink blouse and a private white skirt with that pretty red négligé under it, I forgot how deep in shit I really was. She opened the car door and literally sunk into the passenger seat, rolling over me and giving me a tongue kiss that had my socks flying off and my breath whistling like frigging teapot.

“Honey,” she told me in her comely, ambivalent voice. “Is it okay if I just give you a blowjob now and we can fuck later tonight at your house?”

I nodded, my voice trembling.

“Sure, babe. Whatever you say! You have an appointment?”

Betty unzipped my pants and fingered out a cock that immediately began growing in her hands.

“My jackass sister needs help with her taxes, but I will be with you at nine o’clock.”

Betty took my schlong in her mouth and gave it the suck of its century.

“Great,” I groaned.

“Your parents are leaving the house tonight, right?” she mumbled with the thing half in her mouth.

I nodded, faster this time, yelping and making a tortured face. “They’ll be at Wendy’s parents’ house out of town. They’re staying over night.”

“Where’s Wendy?”

“At a seminar,” I responded. “Or so she says.”

Betty unbuttoned her blouse and displayed her glorious cleavage, heaving her massive boobs out of her négligé and bra.

“Just for the effect.”

She leaned over, sucking on my cock a couple of times, making me groan and moan and throw my head toward the roof of the car. Then she took my erect dick out of her mouth again and continued talking while jerking me off.

“What’s with this Wendy girl? Do you love her?”

“No, I love you, Betty,” I said, doing my best not to squirt – yet – trying to answer the question as well as I could. Betty leaned over again and continued her blowjob, really getting into it now, her head bobbing to and fro like a rose in a storm, while I uttered the words I had wanted to utter in Betty’s presence for a long time. “The relationship with Wendy is strictly for the money, Betty. She knows it. I know it. We both fuck on the side. The only reason why we’re together is because our parents are business partners.”

Betty stopped sucking, giving me the original blowjob-point-of-view-gaze, licking my balls. “You’ve hinted that,” she said, taking one of my testicles between her teeth and lightly nibbling on it, smiling. “Let me guess, your father will not pay for your college degree if you don’t marry this bimbo.”

“Bingo,” I nodded, almost barking now with lust.

She took my cock in her hands, making racing car noises and pretending my penis was a joystick. When the helmet of my pole firmly lay between her grinning teeth, she laughed, spitting out a witty: “My Lamborghini Gearshift!”

After a moment’s break, she added a contientious: “Sorry!”

Again, she sucked, harder and deeper this time, with me now producing noises that sounded sort of like my Lamborghini on the highway.

“God, you are the best damn cocksucker in the world,” I said, my voice sounding like a wheezing weasel.

“Better than Wendy?” she spat, sucking away.

“Wendy and I don’t sleep together.”

“If you and I marry each other,” she crooned, my hot dog half into the sexy bun of her cheek with lips that had the color of ketchup, “I could give you blowjobs 24/7.”

She giggled, her now cherry-nippled marshmallow knockers wobbling with excitement, her eyes wide with for frolicking mirth.

“I could even suck you while sitting under your desk at work,” she blubbered, handjobbing me. “I could be your homebound call girl.”

“Convince my father of our relationship first,” I sighed, grabbing the leather seats of my car and biting my lower lip. “He’s very conservative.”

“Does your father like blowjobs?” Betty mused, again giving me fucking fabulous fellatio. “Justin, this is your decison. You fuck who you wanna fuck.”

With that, my sex princess gave her work complete attention, embracing my entire length, caressing it with every inch of her lips, up, down, jugs wobbling, hair shaking, pink earrings swinging. While she sucked it, she massaged my balls, managing to circle my shaft with her tongue during her expertise sucking work. I felt my testicles pull together, my rod tighten, my heartbeat accelerate, my breath tremble, the wet, warm feeling in my crotch turning the experience into a divine miracle, the plopping, smacking sounds of her mouth bringing a smile to my face, the smell of her floral perfume tickling the edge of my shaft, the sight of her knockers turning my manhood into a steel lamppost.

The explosion was just a second away now, Betty’s head bobbing faster and faster by the millisecond. Betty deep-throated my dick, not prepared to take it out for the orgasm, wanting to swallow every drop. I came, shooting my load into the back of her mouth with a groan, cumming again and again.

Betty swallowed, not letting any of that free portion of protein get lost. After all, since I had begun cumming in her mouth people had given her compliments about her increasingly gorgeous skin color. I had, on her request, shot about twenty loads into her mouth the last month. As the storm subsided, Betty pulled away, panting, drying her lips, eyes closed, leaning against her seat, sighing a happy sigh of sexual relief.

“Man, you’re good.”

“You, too.”

My dick shrinking, her boobs slowly heaving back into her bra, we closed our garments and drove off to join the crazy traffic of Los Angeles. Before I dropped her off at her house, she half-smiled at me, giving me a tongue-kiss, one cum-drop left on her chin.

“I want you to shag all my holes tonight, okay? Are you up for it?”

“My machine’s reloading as we speak, baby,” I answered.

I humbly stole a sneek peak at Betty’s bottom as it swung to and fro into her apartment building, her stomach full of my happy little sperms.

It didn’t take long, though, for the blues to catch me. No sooner was I back on the highway when I again seriously began wondering how to tell my father that Wendy and I were bound to divorce sooner than anyone could scream “fake.” I had to tell him, introduce him to Betty, tell him that she was the love of my life. I wouldn’t tell him about the cumshots, though. I would tell him that it was Betty or the highway.

As I left that highway again, for Beverly Hills, reminded of how excited I’d been to move here, meeting the stars. Hell, going home to the stars. All because the press called my father “America’s Lawyer Number One, Trusted by the Celebrities.”

I cruised the streets, happy that people didn’t wave anymore or stop my car to get my autograph, causing an accident. I was a lawyer, not a pop-star. All because of my dad’s megalomaniac attitude, putting the family name Blake on the map. I now resented this fame, forcing myself to live a lie. Wendy and I, we hated each other.

Driving myself to a frenzy into our lot, parking my Lamborghini in garage number four, it took me about five minutes to calm down. I had just received the blowjob of my life, but it only took me driving into Beverly Hills in order to depress me.

I loafed out of the garage into a florally scented day, my gaze meeting my parents bouncing down the stairs. My father’s wide, bleached toothpaste grin flashed at me, his tanned skin beaming with the fake joy called greed. Mom? She cleared her throat, waited for his greed to subside.

“Justin,” my father said, slapping my arm, his casually priceless short sleeved shirt thrown over a muscular tennis-corpus. “What’re you going to be up to today in this lonely house?”

I smiled. “Hi, dad. Thesis work, law study,” I lied.

“That’s my boy,” he cackled, the dollar-signs magnetically reflecting in the Ray-Bans stuck above his grey hair-do.

I looked at my parents, putting one arm around each of them. “See you tomorrow, right? You’re staying over night with the Wilkins family? Wendy’s not there?”

“No. She’s not. Regina,” my father husked. “Better get going.”

He embraced me, greed beaming into my soul.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he laughed, stepping into his Rolls-Royce.

My mom eyed heavenward. “He’s getting worse by the day.”

I put my hand around my mother’s waist, realizing that if anyone could change anything, Regina Blake could. “It’s very difficult.”

“Justin?”

“Yes, mother?”

“You love Wendy?”

One look was all it took for my mom to understand. I said nothing, smiled painfully, the edges of my mouth twitching.

“Regina,” my father spat. “We got to go.”

“I will see that this situation changes for the better,” my mother said.

As my parents drove off, my heart soared into new heights. My father was in seventh heaven, sure. My mother? She understood where the cookie crumbled. She knew. She’d been through it all. The highs, lows, middles, love affairs, crisis, the love, the hatred. For the better. What did that mean? Not having to marry Wendy? That would be fabulous.

So, I remained outside for a while, watching Antonio Banderas car drive by after George Clooney’s. I strolled through the rose garden, admired the Japanese fountain and sat for a bit by the replica of Michelangelo’s David. To be honest, I lost the track of time. I walked in through the lobby with the red carpet of marble tiles. I played a tune on our white Bösendorfer grand piano. I went to our champagne fridge and opened a bottle of Boulanger Vielles Vignes 2004 for $ 1090, walked through the painting gallery, admiring original Rubens works and Dali replicas, realizing why I had chosen a burger broad instead of a rich bitch. I was getting tired of this arrogant, snobbish attitude.

At first, “Bobbie’s Big Burgers” had been a last minute decision during a stressy day. I found so much friendliness in Betty’s response, so much fun and good conversation that I realized that this woman could make me happy for the rest of my fucking life.

I spent about two hours dawdling in our huge house, praying to God, waiting for an answer how to solve this damn problem.

Suddenly, the waitress named Elizabeth Browning rang my expensive Big Ben-bell, her smile wide, her cleavage clearly visible, all her lips wet, nipples hard, perfume sexy, her tongue longing for dick, ass wobbling, hair tousled, car parked far away. Me? I loved the fact that she was here: honest, fair, lovely, horny, fuckable, friendly.

I took her up the marble staircase, her eyes wide, voice giggling, breath shaky, mouth open. When I took her into my bed chamber, kissed her neck, gently unbuttoning her dress and letting that cute thing drop to the floor. She stood there in a red négligé, massaging her boobs, displaying two of the most gloriously beautiful breasts known to mankind.

I did her a favor and stripped off every single piece of clothing I had on before unclasping her bra. Before we knew it, we were as stark naked as the animals. Adam and Eve, as unashamed of the fact that we were animals. Sex, the ultimate creational experience, a means to connect, had been created by God to express love and bring lovers together. We were naked, two beautiful people who honestly loved each other. The Beverly Hills Rebel and his waitress, the big boobed and beautiful cocksucker named Betty Browning.

So, I did the only thing I could do, stripped off my expensive clothes: I lay Betty down on my waterbed, spread her legs, licking her deliciously sweet, salty pussy, her juices overflowing me with physical love. My tongue entered her deeper and deeper, her hands caressing my head. She sucked my cock, I fucked her from the front, against the wall, from the side, we licked each other in a sixty-niner, only to explode into a glorious doggie-position, me fucking her wobbling ass, Betty on all fours.

My father’s voice in the lobby of our mansion first scared me, Betty wanting to grab her clothes and cover herself. My cock already deeply stuck into Betty’s asshole, it gave me one helluva chance to prove to myself what I believed in. I just kept fucking her.

“Justin,” Betty growled. “Your father.”

I kept my dick inserted inside my loved one.

“My mom’s on my side. We can solve this. Trust me.”

“But we are fucking in your father’s house!”

“Sex is not a sin,” I spat. “Keep shagging!”

As I kept making love to Betty, we overheard the conversation that took place right in front of my mansion bedroom door.

“I can’t believe Wendy was openly unfaithful to Justin in her parents’ house,” my father groaned. “I never want to see that family again.”

“Larry? Will you now let Justin choose who he wants to marry … himself?” my mother sing-songed in her usually liberal tone of voice.

Our door opened wide. It seemed that I had to hold on to Betty’s butt extra well and especially hard whilst shoving my cock inside her this time. My father shrieked. I had never heard him shriek before. I was adamant. I groaned, fucked, shagging Betty like crazy.

My mother? She laughed. I don’t know why, but she laughed like a crazy woman.

“Who is this?” my father screamed.

“I am fucking the woman I love, father,” I answered back whilst seducing Betty. “Meet your future daughter-in-law: Elizabeth Browning.”

Stark naked and while being fucked to smithereens, Betty raised one hand and waved at her future father-in-law.

“Hi, Mr. Blake,” she chirped. “Your son has a great cock.”

“I’m disowning you,” my father screamed.

“Oh, shut up, Larry,” my mother said. “We fuck all the time. You love blow-jobs just as much as she does.”

I think my mother had some convincing to do before she could lower my father’s pants. I have no idea how it happened, but soon enough my father and mother were naked, as well. I had never seen it before and it was quite daunting, but I squirted on Betty’s face at the same time my father squirted on my mother’s face.

I later found out that Wendy deliberately had jumped into bed with her part-time-lover while my parents were in the house. My mother had simply aided the situation.

I got my college degree, my inheritance, married my Betty.

We now have four lovely children.

Oh, yes. Betty, now years later, still gives me fantastic blowjobs.

She still swallows every drop and claims it is great medicine for her complexion.

From what I hear, Betty and my mom compare dick-stories in secret.

That, though, is a completely different and very fuckable story.

Lucia Finds Her Mojo By Ty Vossler

Her doctor recommended estrogen therapy. Lucia was leery because the list of side effects was as long as her arm. Yet, he insisted that with frequent monitoring, there was little to be concerned about. Menopause had replaced her sex-drive with mood swings, hot flashes, and vaginal dryness. At lengthy intervals, she performed her wifely duty for the sake of the marriage, yet it left her feeling bitter and resentful. Lucia’s husband, Wyler, noticed the detachment in her eyes when she opened her legs for him.

Lately, when the occasion warranted, Wyler smeared lubricant on his tip and pushed into the past—traveling back in his mind to a time when Lucia’s hips churned and her fragrant flower quivered around his cock. He imagined the Lucia of yesteryear, when she was in her thirties, working on a Ph.D. in mathematics, and nearly always had energy left at the end of the day to take him on an erotic journey. Yet, these days she just wanted him to get it over with, to pull out and spurt on her belly because sperm made her itch.

Lucia’s lack of libido caused her to procrastinate in her search for a treatment. She had hoped that she would wake up one-morning feeling better, and that her desire, like a lost pet, would return to paw at the door. She had tried fantasizing, yet images conjured so effortlessly in the past were unsustainable now. Now there was only Wyler, moving slowly between her thighs, grunting and leaving an opalescent puddle on her lower tummy.

Lucia didn’t like pills. She explained to the doctor that she was even sensitive to aspirin. He prescribed a minimal dose of estrogen cream to be applied by hand. When she returned home, she sat up on the bed, drew her knees up to her chest, and spread her legs. Then she put a prescribed amount of the cream on the tip of her index finger and pushed it in as deeply as she could.

“A week or two,” the doctor had said, “and you will feel a difference.”

Two weeks later exactly, Lucia was working in her office at the university when a familiar ache announced itself. The lost pet had returned. The Braid Theory she was studying faded into the background and was replaced by the urge. She shivered and her flower throbbed beneath her long Indian skirt. She glanced at her watch—just after twelve—the traffic would be impossible at this hour. Wyler was a full-time writer and worked from home. Depending on traffic, their home was forty minutes away—too far, too long. She locked the door and returned to her desk. Furtively, she lifted the skirt, lowered her panty and sat in her office chair, resting her feet on the edge of the desktop. She licked her first two fingers and reached to find the tiny teardrop nestled beneath her dark pubic hair.

Lucia imagined Wyler lowering her to the bed, lifting her knees and pushing in slowly. She heard herself moan and closed her eyes. Yet the image of Wyler image was soon replaced by a strong memory. As an undergraduate, she had visited a favorite professor during office hours, boldly locked the door and presented herself on his desk. The professor had wasted little time in draining his pants and slipping inside.

In those days, Lucia’s sexuality purred to life with the touch of a button. With the exception of Wyler, she had never stayed with any man for very long. Curiosity drove her always to greener pastures. A few times she had several different men on the same day. Lucia sifted through memories—the first years with Wyler, handsome and hypersexual. They balled as if there were no tomorrow. More than once the mattress slid off the bed.

Lucia paused to add more moisture to her fingers, leaned back into the chair and sighed deeply. She closed her eyes again and there was Luis. When they met at a seminar eight years ago, he had been forthright about wanting her. She politely declined, yet here he was now, scratching at the door, the outer labia petals were slipping over his engorged cock and letting him in.

The image shifted and the Cuban professor, Osbel, two doors down from her office came into focus. He often stopped by to chat and it was obvious that he liked her. She imagined sitting on her desk, Osbel cupping her below the knees, lifting her legs, his thick, dark shaft pushing down and in, glistening with wetness when he pulled back and plunging forward again.

Her fingers circled her clitoris, transporting her back to an infidelity at a conference in Morelia. She and Wyler had been married for only two years. Pedro, a Portuguese professor from Lisbon, had pushed the right buttons and they lost themselves in each other for hours. She remembered after the first time, he had stayed hard and they had done it again even as his spunk crept out and dripped to the bedspread. They made love well into the night and then she returned to her hotel room to shower and sleep

Lucia kept a thumb on her tiny clitoris and slipped two fingers inside, curling them upward to find her sweet spot. She clenched her teeth to keep pleasure from spilling into the hallway, “Mmm,” the strength of her first orgasm made contractions around her fingers, “huh, mmm,” her hips jerked around in the chair.

She imagined Pedro groaning, gliding back and forth. Another strong climax followed and then smaller ones as Pedro filled her with semen. He had wanted to continue meeting even after the conference, yet she was married and he was engaged. They never connected again, yet his memory was fresh.

Lucia cleaned herself with a tissue. Each of her fantasies had been suffused with bits of reality. Her lost pet had returned, and she was determined to keep it from ever leaving again.

There came a light tapping at her door. Her blood left her face and she hoped that no one had heard her. Quickly she stood, pulled up her panties, straightened her skirt and ran hands through her hair. Then she unlocked the door.

The Cuban professor was there, “Can I treat you to lunch?”

“Okay, thank you.” No harm in that, she thought. Yet, even as she gathered her purse and locked the office, a familiar ache returned.

The Denaralan Way By Stephen Faulkner

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

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

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

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

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

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

# # #

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

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

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

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

# # #

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Paradise Found By Steve Carr

I awaken feeling the warm breeze coming off the ocean through the open doors that lead out onto the veranda. The air is perfumed with the scents of salt water and lush island flora. I hear the waves ebbing and flowing on the nearby white sand beach and macaws chattering in the canopy of trees. It is early and the light coming into my bedroom is soft and hazy. The bed is surrounded on all sides by gauzy mosquito netting and a wooden fan rotates slowly in the middle of the ceiling. During the night I have accidentally kicked off the white satin top sheet which lies in a heap alongside the bed. Naked, I look down at my body, at the hardness of my pecs, the flatness of my stomach and the stiffness of my hefty cock. I tanned quickly, having been on the beach for only a few hours the day before, and looking down at my large feet they alone reveal the true whiteness of my skin; the tan lines from the sandals I wore clearly visible, separating white skin from tan. I swam nude, and afterward covered in tanning lotion I sunbathed nude except for the sandals on a flat rock on the edge of the beach, turning my body regularly like a roasting fowl. Lying here even after showering before coming to bed, I can smell the remnants of the coconut in the tanning lotion along with the subtle scent of my sweat. I wrap my large right hand around my member and slowly begin to slide it up and down from base to head, slowly, luxuriating in the moment and the pleasure my own body gives me.

When Nani opens the bedroom door that leads from the living room, I instinctively cover my erection with my hand and try to smile innocently at her through the netting. She says nothing as she carries in a tray with a plate of fresh cut fruit; pineapples, papaya and bananas, and places it on the stand at my bedside. She is not wearing a sarong as she did yesterday, and is now clothed in a simple cotton flower patterned dress that has buttons from her ample cleavage down to the hem at mid-thigh. Both the top three buttons and the bottom three are unbuttoned and even with her simple movements of walking or slightly bending over she reveals the outermost boundary of her dark brown areolas. She moves with unintentional sexiness, the dress clinging to and shifting over her large breasts, around the curves of her torso and between her smooth legs. There are no panty lines. Her long black hair hangs straight and shiny down to the middle of her back, and as she moves she pushes stray strands back from her beautiful face with a gentle flick from her hand. When she glances at my face, she smiles with perfectly white aligned teeth showing between full lips lightly touched with red lipstick.

“You are awake,” she says in a mixture of question and statement.

“Yes,” I say. “Good morning.”

She stands up straight from having placed the tray in its spot, the opening at the top of her dress between her breasts closing. “I hope you slept well,” she says.

“Very well, thank you,” I say feeling pre-ejaculate oozing in the palm of my hand covering the bulbous head of my throbbing dick.

“Breakfast will be in an hour,” she says as she begins to leave the room. “If there is anything you need Hori and I are here to serve you. Just ring the bell on the stand by your bedside.”

“Thank you,” I say as she leaves the room.

I take my hand from my dick and put the palm of my hand to my lips and lick it free of the salty-sweet juice. I lie here pondering my good luck, winning this trip to this tropical paradise in a radio station promotion raffle. I can feel the weight of my hard dick lying on my lower abs.

“I see you are ready for the day.” It is Hori. He is standing in the door leading out onto the veranda. He is shirtless and barefoot and wearing white cotton shorts. Like Nani, he has perfectly smooth caramel-colored skin and his hair is coal black. His body is trim and his muscles well defined. He is holding a broom made of bamboo and straw. He is pressing the broom against his genitals.  His thick hard cock is bulging and clearly outlined in the thinness of the material of his shorts.  He is glaring at me.

“Yes I am ready,” I say not bothering to hide my erection.

“You will be staying with us for a few days?” He asks still rubbing the broom handle against his swollen member.

“Yes I am,” I say. “I read in the brochure that I can get a massage. Would that be possible after lunch?” I ask.

“Certainly,” he says, “if it is okay that I am the one giving you the massage and not Nani.”

“That’s fine with me, Hori,” I say sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed. “I should get my day started.” I stand and my erect penis sticks straight out, pushing against the netting.

“I will see you after you have had lunch and give you the massage,” he says turning brusquely and walking off the veranda and down a path leading into the jungle.

I pick up a ripe banana from the tray and peel it and slide it into my mouth as I go into the bathroom.

# # #

At breakfast I sit at a small table by an open window looking out at the jungle and watch as blue and yellow macaws roost in the large branches of candlenut trees and carry out their unmelodious chorus of squawks. With a fan whirling about gently over my head I sit in a padded bamboo chair across from Nani. She sits with one foot up on the chair, her legs slightly spread, and between bites of macadamia pineapple pancakes I steal glances at the pink lips of her pussy surrounded by a thick bush of black hair. Beneath the table my immense hard on resists the cotton board shorts that tries but is losing the battle to keep my cock constrained. Looking down occasionally at my lap I can see the glistening head of my cock poking out the left leg of the shorts.

“We lived in the United States for several years,” she says, “but we like it here much better.”

“You don’t see many people on this island, do you?” I say.

“No, just the guests who come to stay. Usually they are older married couples. It is a treat having a single man like you visiting us,” she says, leaning back in the chair, her vagina bared between the golden hues of the skin of her thighs.

“How long have you and Hori been married?” I ask.

She laughs. “We are not married yet but soon will be, but not much will change when we are. What we share now we will also share then.”

“You mean the work and living in the servants’ house behind this one?” I say.

“Yes, what else is there?” She asks.  She reaches into the top of her low cut dress and adjusts atit and pulls her hand out. The hard nipples of her breasts are pronounced and pressed against the cotton material.

“You are not married?” She says.

“No, I date,” I say, “but no one exclusively. I have found plenty of sex but no love yet.”

“True love requires your heart and your body,” she says.

With my breakfast finished I remain seated hoping my erection will deflate as she goes about clearing the table. When I finally stand up the leg of my shorts and my thigh is wet with pre-cum. “I think I’ll take a walk,” I say and go into my bedroom and slide my feet into my sandals and go out onto the veranda and then down the path to the beach.  A slight breeze is being carried in from the turquoise waters and the ferns and coconut palms sway at the jungle’s edge. I stand on the warm white sand and watch Hori out in a canoe as he casts a small net into the water. His dark skin stands out in relief against the backdrop of the colors of the sea and the brilliant baby blue of mid-morning sky. I slide the boarder shorts off and carry them in my hand as I stroll down the beach feeling the warmth of the sun on my naked flesh.

A mile down the beach I turn off into the jungle and walk a short ways and come into a small circular clearing. There is a wall of jungle all around it, but along the periphery of the cleared space are four polished stone statues of female figures. The figures each have short thick legs upon which sits protruding stomachs and large breasts. I look at each one closely noticing that the stomach and breast of one of them is spotted with remnants of what looks to be dried sap. Behind me I turn quickly and see Hori standing in the path on the edge of the clearing.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I was just admiring the statues. What are they?”

“They are fertility goddesses,” he says. “They have been there for many generations of my family.”

“Your family is from this island?” I ask.

He comes closer to me and stands looking at the statue with the stains. “Yes, I was born and raised on this island.”

I look at the statue and point to the stains. “What are those?”

“They are my seed being offered to that goddess,” he says. “You are invited to offer yours to her also if you would like.”

I can feel my cock becoming engorged thinking about it, but turn to him and say, “maybe another time. I should get back to the cabin and take a shower and have some lunch before you give me that massage.”

“As you wish,” he says. “It’s your vacation do to with as you please. I will bring the massage table to your room.”

# # #

After lunch I am sitting in a wicker chair in my bedroom when Hori comes in from the veranda carrying a folded up massage table. “I see you are ready,” he says as he begins to unfold and set the table on its metal legs.

I stand, the towel wrapped around my waist slipping down just slightly to the top of my light brown pubes. “Yes, I’m ready,” I say crawling onto the table and placing my face in the hole at the table’s end. I can only see his feet through the hole noticing again the beauty of his skin coloring just as with Nani. I can hear him but do not know what he is doing until I see his shorts fall to his feet and him step out of them and kick them aside. When he begins massaging my upper back the apprehension of being massaged by a naked man quickly fades and I relax my body on the pad of the table. Wordlessly I hear him as he shakes a bottle of lotion into his strong hands and then returns to rubbing and massaging my skin. He reaches under me and undoes the towel and pulls it from my body and tosses it onto his shorts. As his hands caress and kneed the hard mounds of my ass and up and down my inner thigh I lose the battle to keep from getting a complete erection. With my one arm hanging over the edge of the table I feel the pressure of his thick hard cock as it brushes against it. When at last he has me turn onto my back, my dick is spewing a stream of semen. I look down and watch as he lowers his mouth onto the head of my cock and begins sliding his lips up and down on the fully swollen shaft. As I cum I wrap my hand around his massive cock and feel him shoot his ejaculate onto the floor.

# # #

At night as I sit on the veranda in the glow of a full moon I hear the frogs croaking from the nearby lagoon and watch butterflies dance from flower to flower along the border of the jungle. I am sipping a tropical drink of rum and mangoes and staring up at the night sky pinpointed with white shimmering stars. When Nani comes out onto the veranda from my room I almost do not hear her bare feet on the painted boards.

“It is a beautiful night,” she says.

“It’s paradise,” I say.

She goes to the railing of the veranda and turns and raises her dress high on her thighs and sits on it, her legs slightly spread. “Hori told me he gave you a massage this afternoon.” she says. “Did you enjoy it?”

I hesitate briefly, “yes, very much. It was different.”

“He is good with his hands,” she says.

“Yes he is,” I say realizing he did not tell her everything.

She raises her left leg placing her foot on the railing also, her crotch fully exposed. In the shadow between her open legs I try to see the crevice of her pussy. I feel my breathing become more rapid and my cock begins to swell in my shorts.

“Do you find me attractive?” She asks, placing her hand on the inside of her thigh.

“Yes, very,” I stammer.

She slowly unbuttons her dress and opens it revealing the fullness of her breasts that are tipped with large brown circles around pointed brown nipples. Even before I stand my penis is rock hard and as I slide my shorts down to my feet I feel the warm night air envelop my body. Stepping out of the shorts I walk to her and take her breasts in my hands and bend down and lick each nipple. She moans as I slide my large thick middle finger into the moistness of her vagina and begin to thrust it back and forth inside her. She grabs the back of my head and covers my lips with hers as I guide my big hard dick into her juice-dripping pussy. When we climax together she collapses against my bare chest with my cock still hard and dripping cum inside her.

“Do not tell Hori what you and I do,” she says. “If it weren’t for Hori, I could love you.”

# # #

During breakfast I watch rain fall onto the lush jungle growth. The moisture and humidity in the air is palpable and I can taste the salt in the air on my tongue. Nani has been mostly quiet, serving my breakfast and then removing the dishes afterward without saying much. She is wearing a sarong and her bare shoulders glisten with sweat. When I rise from the table I say “I’m going for a walk” and start to leave.

“Hori is gone also,” she says. “If you see him send him home.”

“I will,” I say, then walk through the bedroom and out onto the veranda and stand watching the rain dripping from palm fronds before stepping out onto the path leading to the beach. Without the cover of jungle I see the sky is full of billowy dark clouds. The waves washing against the shore are choppy and the seagulls are scurrying back and forth in the wet sand as if disoriented by the change in weather. I take off my sandals and carry them as I walk along the shell-scattered beach. Hori is nowhere in sight. At the path leading to the statues I turn and re-enter the jungle. On the edge of the small clearing where the statues stand I stand and watch Hori as he stands naked in front of the same statue as the day before, his massive hard cock in his hand, stroking it very slowly. I start to turn and leave and he turns, looking at me.

“Come give your seed to the goddess,” he says raspily.

I hesitate briefly then slide my shorts down and off and hang them on a fern along with my sandals. At his side, my arm touching his, I take my member in my hand and begin to slide my hand up and down the shaft and over the thick head until I am hard.

“It is beautiful,” he says looking at my hard dick.

“Yours too,” I say while looking at the goddess.

He places his hand on my chest and slowly slides it down my abs and into my pubes. I move my hand as he takes my cock in his hand and strokes my dick to the same slow rhythm as he is stroking his own.

“Make me your goddess,” he says as he puts his arms around the statue and slightly bends over presenting his smooth muscular ass to me. I go back to jacking my cock. “Not that way,” he says, reaching around and spreading his cheeks, revealing his pink starfish shaped hole to me.

“Are you sure,” I say.

“Yes, do it,” he says spreading his legs more and pushing his butt against the head of my cock. “Last night while Nani slept I jacked off imagining what it would feel like to have your big cock inside me.”

I add spit to the pre-cum on my dick and slowly slide it into him, opening him, entering him inch by inch until the full thickness and length of my member is completely inside him. When I begin to thrust back and forth with my hands holding onto his slender hips he moans with pleasure while he strokes his cock. When he cums on the statue my jizz explodes deep inside him. As I pull my cock out of him he looks over his shoulder at me.

“Do not tell Nani what you and I do,” he says. “If it weren’t for Nani, I could love you.”

# # #

On the speedboat leaving the island going to the mainland I look back at the beach and am not surprised that neither Nani or Hori are there watching me go. In these last few days on the island  I made love to both them frequently, sampling every part of their bodies and them sampling every part of mine. Last night while Hori lay naked on his stomach on my bed and I thrust my rod in and out of his smooth, firm hole Nani came into my bedroom and cried out in anguish.

“How could you do this to me?” She said, leaving quickly and slamming the door behind her.

While shooting my load deep into Hori’s warm insides I wondered who Nani’s statement was aimed at. Before I get into the boat they hardly speak to me, or to one another.

I imagined that each of them was waiting for me to tell them that I could love them also. On the boat ride from the island to the main island the young man steers the speedboat sitting with his legs spread, the bare skin of his smooth muscled chest glistening in the sun. From under his lava lava I see his huge hard cock bobbing up and down and dripping pre-cum with every bounce on the waves. He watches me closely, licking his gorgeous thick lips as I unzip my pants and take out my rock hard cock and offer it to him.

“I can love you,” I tell him as he stops the boat in the water and gets on his knees and takes my big cock into his mouth.

Squirt on This by Charles E.J. Moulton

  1. Ava, Alienated

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

“How’s work? Still singing?”

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

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

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

That was probably what they were all thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I was angry at Kenneth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reaction was shallow, dismissive and rather arrogant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava’s Physics

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

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

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

Oh, yes, and barbecues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Provocative Ava

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confused, he took it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava’s Inspiration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava Copulates

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, Ava,” he answered.

“Will you do what I tell you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava, Consulated

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

The Sexiest Man in the City By Steve Slavin

I’m an eighteen-year-old college student, and I’d slept with just one guy. Jason, my high school boyfriend, was OK I suppose. I mean, who could I compare him to? But I know that there has to be more – a lot more.

We made it for the first time on the night of the prom, and then a few more times over the summer. Weeks before he left for college, we had both kind of lost interest. Still, he’ll always be my first, so I’m glad we parted as friends. But I keep asking myself – is that all there is?

The thought never crossed my mind to go to an out-of-town college. Since my freshman year in high school, I wanted to be a film maker. And that meant studying at NYU. My parents, who are loaded, were delighted that I would stay in the city. So they bought me a nice two-bedroom condo just off Washington Square Park. Their only stipulation was that I have a roommate – a female roommate.

Some of the guys in my classes were nice, but maybe subconsciously I was looking for a somewhat older guy – someone who knew a lot more than I did. It was definitely time to take things to another level.

So when my roommate Tara suggested that we go to a party she’d heard about, I thought, “Why not?” We got there and saw a few dozen people blabbing away to one another – business types, hipsters, and a sprinkling of what we called “the bridge and tunnel crowd” from New Jersey, Long Island, and the outer boroughs.

Then the door opened, and in walked the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. Tall, with bushy prematurely graying hair, what appeared to be turquoise eyes, high cheekbones, a deep tan – well, you get the picture. He was wearing a powder blue summer suit and an unbuttoned white shirt — and I could just make out what appeared to be a silver peace medallion. Silver and turquoise: I wondered if he could be part Indian.

I glanced around and saw that I wasn’t the only one staring at him. Soon he was surrounded by four or five fawning women.

He was clearly enjoying this adulation, and I wondered if that might be all he wanted. Did he actually want to get laid, or was he addicted to the social foreplay? My friend Sara knew an extremely handsome priest who was always surrounded by worshipful women. But that was as far as he permitted things to proceed. Perhaps this party guy belonged to the church of latter day narcissists.

I enjoyed watching the women make complete fools of themselves. They were laughing at some probably inane remark he had made. But as I stared, I too could begin to feel the rapture.

I know I’m good-looking, because guys are always hitting on me. But a couple of those women were really pretty, and they all looked hot to trot. If I joined them, why would he choose me – or any one of us, for that matter? Unless maybe he was planning a threesome, or perhaps an even larger grouping.

Then I had an idea. I laughed to myself, because it played to his narcissism. I took out my iPhone and very, very discretely, began videoing.

Over time, one or two women would leave the group, and one or two others would join. This continued for more than an hour. I had far more footage than I would need. So I joined Tara to tell her about the role she would have in my plan.

“That guy over there? You want me to hand him a note?” She asked incredulously.

“Exactly.”

“Why don’t you give it to him yourself?”

“Because your doing this legitimizes the mission.”

“Katlin, could you just lay it out for me in plain English? We’re not living in a spy novel.”

“Fair enough. Tara, you are a beautiful woman. And, a great actress.” I paused to watch her preen. She was a year ahead of me at NYU, and had already appeared in two or three off-off-Broadway plays and a breakfast cereal commercial.

I continued: “So a lovely young actress approaches a very attractive older man, and she tells him she has been asked to deliver this note. She leaves before he can reply.”

“OK Katlin, that I follow.”

“So he reads the note written by the mysterious woman.”

“And even if he thinks I’m gorgeous, he feels compelled to meet the woman who wrote the note. But what did you write?”

“Here’s the note.”

Tara laughed as she read, “I’m a film student at NYU. I’ve just discreetly shot a video with my iPhone. You’re the star. If you’d like a private screening, call me in a couple of days. Katlin”

“Do you think he saw you videoing?”

“I doubt it. He and his concubines were far too occupied.”

# # #

He called two days later. I played it cool, letting him do the talking. He really wanted to see the video. And me!

“I’ll come to your place, say in about an hour?”

He gave me the address and when I arrived, the doorman told me that I was expected. I could tell from his smirk that Apartment 16R was a popular destination.

When he opened the door, he looked very pleased. “I remember you,” he said.

“And I certainly remember you!”

He invited me in and played it real cool, sitting opposite me.

“So you’re studying film making at NYU?”

“Yeah, I just started last month. And you’re my first leading man.”

“I’m flattered.”

“So would you like to watch my video?”

“You bet I would!”

After I set up, he dimmed the lights and we sat back and watched the show. It was eight minutes long, and had been very carefully edited. Ryan was indeed the star. There he was with a shifting group of supporting actresses. It was a silent movie modelled on our solar system, perhaps the first ever set at a singles party.

At the end he declared, “I love it! You will be great! No, no! You are great!”

Thank you!” I stood up, and then he stood. I went over to him and put my arms around him. He hugged me. Soon I felt his erection. I reached down and began to fondle him through his pants. He moaned. Then I felt his tongue in my ear.

I unzipped his fly. OMG was he big! I smiled to myself, knowing that he knew exactly what I was thinking.

With a practiced hand he unbuttoned my blouse, and then unhooked my bra. Did he know that he would be providing the on-the-job training opportunity of a lifetime? Was he aware that this was the first time I had actually tasted a man’s cock? Or had my toes sucked? Or that this was the very first time that someone had actually licked every inch of my body?

We made love all night, and I then left for school. On the walk to the subway, I thought that maybe I should ask him if we could record any future sessions for a sexual instructional video series: The Great Ryan, and his innocent young assistant, Katlin. Hell, I’d be the first on line to buy it!

Within a few weeks we had worked out a convenient arrangement: Every Tuesday we’d go out to dinner, and then stay up most of the night. Ryan never talked about what he did for work –or even if he did work. And neither of us ever said anything about what happened during the rest of the week.

I didn’t care. I mean, what difference did it make? We both knew that what we shared was a schedule – not a relationship. I’m not saying that I was sexually addicted to him, or that I even liked him. But I did know that when we broke up, it would be very hard to find someone else who was such a skilled lover.

Sometimes we’d lie in bed just looking at each other. Once, I asked him what he was thinking. What he said really surprised me: that he was loving me with his eyes. And that he was making a video of me in his mind — one that he could watch when I wasn’t with him.

I did love how he looked at me. Maybe part of it was how his eyes slightly changed color under different lighting. But most of the time, they were truly turquoise.

Later I thought about what he had said of always having an image of me in his mind. Was this his way of saying that our arrangement was just temporary? Or that he would never forget me? Or both?

My own motivations were much more transparent. Making the video was part of an elaborate plot to get Ryan to go to bed with me. And many years from now, he’ll probably still be watching it. But as much as I loved having sex with him, if I had to choose between having made the video or being with Ryan, my choice would be a no-brainer.

It came down to love. I really liked sleeping with Ryan. But I loved the video. So did my classmates and our professor. He entered it in a schoolwide contest – open to all undergraduate and graduate film students. When my video placed first, my parents were so overjoyed that they made a large contribution to the film school.

In a way, Ryan had made everyone happy – and certainly me most of all. But then, one night as we lay in bed, he told me that he would be going on a business trip to China and would be gone for six weeks.

Was he really going to China? Or was this just his way letting me down gently? And then I thought: Does it really matter? By now he may have taught me everything that I could learn from him. Maybe it was time to move on. Still, I counted the days till he would return.

Had I missed him or just the sex? Soon after the six weeks passed, it became clear that he would never call. And surprisingly, it didn’t matter. A few months later, I spotted him in the sports department of Macy’s. When he caught me looking at him, he smiled, walked over, and asked, “Come here often?” He made chitchat, but said nothing about China, or even about not calling me. Still, some kind of apology, however insincere, would have been nice.

I imagined how I might have reacted if we were meeting for the first time. Surely I would have felt the same impossibly strong attraction I had felt when I saw him arrive at the party. Perhaps he would always be the sexiest man I would ever meet.

All the while, he continued his patter. But then, he really surprised me. His tone changed from matter-of-fact to purely seductive. He told me how beautiful I was, and how he had never felt so attracted to anyone in his entire life. Then he whispered into my ear, “My dear, may I have your number?”

I was in shock! He misread my expression and persisted. “I know, I know! You must think I’m crazy! You don’t want to give out your number to a complete stranger. OK, at least let me give you my card. I’m a podiatrist.”

I stared at him, and then just shook my head “No!

As I walked away, he called out, “Please wait! Just tell me why you won’t give me your number. And why won’t you even take my mine?”

I stopped and slowly turned around. “Fine. You already have my number.”

He just stood there with his mouth open.

I continued. “Yeah, you already have my number. And… I have yours.”

Dinner For Two By Cristiano Montanari

Needing assurance that nothing would distract her from that pivotal moment, she reached for the little black radio she kept by the kitchen counter. With a twist of her wrist the dial went down, snuffing the mellifluous voice chanting that week’s Top Forty like a mantra of sorts. Even music, her favorite distraction be it classical or bubblegum pop, had to be sacrificed for the sake of that one crucial, precious slice of time in which she would finally find out – am I good enough? Have I studied hard enough? Am I wasting time and money on nothing more than a mirage, an illusion?

Once again, the last of several instances, she considered the edge of the knife. Holding the instrument in her hand, she indulged with her eyes but dared not pass a finger along the line. She knew it was sharp, she made sure that it would be so. Nothing less would suffice.

Gathering all of her concentration, she held the flesh in place with her left hand, checking that she was not applying any more pressure than strictly necessary, while the right accompanied the blade on its way down, slicing the tissue with a single and effortless motion.

One. Two. Three. Six. With the square head of the takohiki she gently scooped up the thin slices of mackerel, a rosy pearl tone crowned by the blues and grays of the skin. She arranged the three slices in a fan, over very little garnish, and sprinkled just the right amount of sauce over the dish, now complete. She adjusted the square piece of ceramic before her, her eyes inquisitively moved from her piece to the illustration on Japanese Cooking – A Simple Art by Shizuo Tsuji.

No mistake. Her cured mackerel sashimi was a masterpiece, in everything identical to the ideal form sketched by the master chef himself. Passing her tongue across her shapely plump lips, she realised her mouth was salivating ever so lightly, and it wasn’t only because of the food. The whole process, the procession of her hands from tools to flesh, and now the finished product before her, it all led her to a kind of elation that she did not feel often; surely not while travelling, watching a movie or laying in bed with her quarterly catch. This was better than most things, and surely better than sex.

The time had come. She reached for her lacquered wood chopsticks, a costly present to herself shipped straight from Japan years before. Next to the sashimi, a kelp salad that nearly threw her flat mate into an hissy fit.

“Bwah! Seaweed?” she had blurted on her way out, slinging her cheap knockoff purse and nearly falling off her heels. She had, of course, ignored her. They did get along just fine, on most things; just not on the respective definitions of ‘classy’ or ‘worth living for’. Nothing serious, when all was said and done. Maybe that kelp salad could be a metaphor for conflicting worldviews. Some saw a delicacy, some saw seaweeds.

Itadakimasu. She picked up a slice of sashimi with the tips of the chopsticks… and the doorbell rang.

… what the?

It was nearly nine in the evening, and no one was meant to come bothering her. Hell, she had chosen this evening specifically because she would be alone in the flat. She had woken up way too early and dashed to the Asian market that very morning, in order to make sure to have the best ingredients. She had selected and cut for herself a nice little slice of peace and quiet.

And the doorbell rang.

She slid carefully the plate into an open slot in the refrigerator, hoping it wouldn’t spoil the taste too much, and jumped down from the stool she had been sitting on. She slid into her slippers and made her way to the door – a handful of steps away, given how small the flat was.

Laying against the door, she put her eye to the peephole. On the other side, a crew-cut guy in jacket, sweater and jeans was staring into the little glass eye, as if something could actually be seen from outside.

“Minnie’s out” she blurted, hoping for the nuisance to simply disappear. She never liked her flatmate’s boyfriend much, and he really had no business being there anyway. Couldn’t they at least bother to keep tabs on each other?

“Really? Didn’t know. Can I come in a sec?” she asked unassumingly.

Now, she might not have been the prettiest, most popular or most in demand among them all, but she had at least a reputation for politeness. Still pining away from her sushi platter and seeing no way out of an awkward five minutes of conversation, she opened the door and silently gestured for him to come inside. He obliged, removing his jacket and casually slinging it over the coat hanger by the entrance. That was one thing she didn’t really like about him – how he felt as if he was the master of wherever he went, and how he made no effort to dissimulate it.

“So, Minnie’s not here, huh? Though she’d at least let me know.”

“Yeah, she should have.”

The two stood then by the door, facing each other. Although he donned a rather simple attire, one could tell it was not the kind of thing that would be found in a thrift store; unlike hers, a woolen  sweater and jeans she had paid a grand amount of £10. How could she afford fresh fish and Asian ingredients otherwise?

He stared at her for a while, as if waiting for a cue she had no intention to let off. Finally, he sighed and locked eyes with hers.

Was that a tingle down her spine? Come on, let’s be serious. Not my type, she thought. Better leave Holier-Than-Thou to chicks like Minnie, who could afford reverse high maintenance.

“The polite thing to do is to offer a cup of tea” he suggested, bending his chest toward her and closing the distance between them a bit. She instinctively recoiled, which did not seem to bother him too much as he produced a mischievous grin.

“Yeah, the polite thing. Minnie won’t be back for a while I think” she spelled out.

Implied suggestion: no reason for you to hang around.

“I’ll just drink my tea extra slow.”

She didn’t bother retorting; she vaguely gestured toward the living room, in which he had been numerous times already, and went to the kitchen to do the polite thing. While putting the kettle on the flame and arranging tea bags into a pair of cups, she took time alone to stew her irritation.

Not only he interrupts her long planned Japanese dinner, but he also comes in and makes himself at home just like it was – his – home, which it wasn’t. Just because he had been dating Minnie for a few months it did not mean he could just kick back and relax in their living room, while she served him tea like some kind of housemaid. You ask ‘is Minnie here?’, I answer ‘sorry she’s out’ and you go after her. Simple.

She conveniently ignored, at first, the aftertaste of that tingling sensation, stinging like fresh wasabi and equally difficult to ignore. Was there any specific reason why, since the very beginning, she could not simply dismiss this one guy as the latest nobody, one more name in the procession of cute assholes Minnie had brought over in the two years in which they roomed together? Something that plucked a string she had always hoped not to have in her?

It would have been better for all of them if he just guzzled his tea and left. There was a slight chance Minnie could be back early, and she was notoriously jealous about her boys, sometimes violently so.

She poured the boiling water into the cups, which she put on a battered tray along with the sugar jar and the carton of milk. Balancing the whole on one hand, she made her way to the living room, in which the light was on. Well, at least he had the sense to save on electricity and left the corridor lights off. Minnie always ‘forgot’ to pay her own share of the bills on time.

Just before entering the living room, she stopped on her tracks. As silently as possible she laid the tray on the floor, crouched by the door slightly open and observed the fairly unexpected scene before her.

Now, neither her nor her flatmate were particularly tidy people. Clean, yes; tidy, not so much. No matter how hard she tried to look after the well being of her own possessions, random stuff always seemed to find its way in the most random corners of the flat – brushes, shirts, empty cups of tea, you name it. Shoes, especially. Shoes seemed to have a life of their own.

And it was a shoe that he was now holding in his hand, while sitting cross-legged on the fluffy carpet. And not any shoe: it was the left one of her only pair of real good shoes, low-heel red sandals she bought as a present for herself two birthdays ago. He manipulated the object as if it were some kind of precious foreign artifact, in his eyes a glimmer that was difficult to interpret, something between elation and cautious, measured fascination.

She stood there, watching him. What the hell was he doing? What… what’s the deal? Yet, she felt no compulsion to barge into the living room and stop him dead in his tracks. She had completely forgotten about the delicacy waiting for her in the fridge, the tea getting cold or the fact that she could no stand the guy. In fact, for the first time she felt… interest. Apparently, his mysterious gesture had managed to do what his arrogant attitude could not achieve.

She saw him holding the shoe in his hand, cradling it between his slender fingers. Then, without as much as a look behind his shoulders or any attempt to dissimulate, neared the red sandal to his mouth and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible kiss to the insole. It made no sound. He passed the tip of the tongue upon his lips, a triumphant look in his eyes.

He did it again, this time with more impetus. His lips – which were, she had to admit, somewhat plump yet rather well shaped – produced a little snappy sound this time around, as they parted from the leathery surface.

What was he so happy about?

Well, of course she did know. She wasn’t born yesterday, and she did know that a grown man passionately making out with a shoe could only mean one thing. But, in her house? With… with her shoes?

A third time he neared the piece of footwear to his mouth; yet, this time, a chaste kiss was not enough. He stuck his tongue out and carefully moved it across the insole surface, with calm and controlled movements. From the point where string and leather crossed, all the way to the heel, he covered the distance in one swift movement. The living room was tiny, and so she could see all the way from her hiding spot the glistening of his saliva on the insole.

Ok, that was more than enough. She picked up the tray and entered the room, trying to look as calm and nonplussed as possible.

“Those are my shoes, not Minnie’s.”

She had not expected any kind of embarrassment or awkwardness from a guy like that. She had expected arrogant misdirection.

“I thought so.”

She had not expected that. Neither she had expected a kind of gentleness, of tenderness in his voice, a change from his usual smug register.

“… Still want that tea?” was all she could muster as a reply.

“In a bit. Why don’t you come a little closer?”

He invited her with a gesture of his hand, and she obliged. This would have been the time to yell, to punch him in the face, to kick him out of her flat and maybe tell Minnie on him. But she did none of that, and she had no intention to.

Because, she admitted to herself, she was curious. She was curious to see where this preposterous scene would lead her. Where it would lead them.

“Minnie is all about platforms, stilts and the likes” he continued. “She could never have the class for these.”

“You shouldn’t take like that about your girlfriend.”

“My girlfriend? The one who is currently fucking one of her classmates, and will do so for the whole night?”

“I knew it would only be you here and… don’t look at me like that! Had no intention to make a move but, now… those” he said, gesturing toward me with the shoe still cradled in his hands. “I was dying to see you wearing them.”

“I had them on at the last group party” she objected, though she fully know what he really meant. She sat on the secondhand armchair, crossing her legs so that her left slipper was hovering mere centimeters from his face.

Minutes of awkward silence, before she spoke.

“Just so we’re clear, I decide when it’s too far” she said, injecting as much ice as she could in her voice. “In case you didn’t notice, I am not that kind of girl.”

“Oh, I noticed plenty” he replied. “Stern, serious, dedicated to her craft, always sitting two arms apart from the nearest person at parties. A rare find, nowadays.”

She gestured as if to remove her slipper, but he coiled forward and put his hand, bony and nervous, between hers and her foot.

“Nope. I get to do it, thank you very much” he blurted out, sounding actually concerned. Pretty specific we are, she thought while giggling to herself. If she made sure to be forceful enough should things go too far, this could actually turn out quite entertaining.

Blame it on my artist’s inspiration, she thought.

“See, I can read the kind of person one is from the shoes she wears” he mused while he removed her slipper and woolen sock, tossing them in a corner. He held in his hand, with the same gentleness he displayed to the shoe, her left foot – contemplating it as if it were a holy relic, just as much as the sandal.

“Sandalomancy? That has to be a new one.”

He smirked. “Already, the choice of a sandal displays a keen sense of balance, knowing exactly what and how much to show. The low heel gives your ankle just the right inclination needed to reflect your balance personality, your sense of measure and restrained, yet flowing sensuality. The woven nature of the strings also lighten up what would be, otherwise, an excessively serious piece of footwear. I’m sure you can lighten up too when needed, right?”

She pressed the sole of her foot flat onto his face and pushed forward; he had to prop with his arms in order not to tumble on the floor. Playful banter, since she hadn’t pushed very hard, and for him it probably had been more of a treat than a punishment anyway. He resumed his position and grinned, taking hold of her left foot with a slightly stronger grip.

Part of why she wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as she should have been, she realised, was that she had always liked her own feet. They were the one part of her body she really had nothing to blame for: they were fairly long yet neither flat nor excessively arched; the toes, lined so to form a perfect curve, were slim and perfectly shaped. Thanks to her obsessive body hygiene, the soles were only slightly rougher than the skin of the back and her nails left their natural color but trimmed and polished. Strong in the conviction of having feet much better than he deserved, she stretched the left one in his hand, so as to give him a better grip.

More than you can handle?

He conjoined foot and shoe, an enthralled look on his face. Letting go of the former, he slid it into the sandal until it fit perfectly and effortlessly; then, proceeded to tie the strings around her ankle, with a calm and gentleness she couldn’t help but admire. In spite of her reservation, she was almost starting to like the guy. Almost.

Once done, still kneeled on the floor, he stood back a little so to enjoy his own craftsmanship. Between his hands laid her left foot, perfectly clad in that red, low-heeled sandal.

“Fantastic” he muttered in amazement. “Although I could object on the rather commonplace choice of colour.”

“This sandal’s heel could hurt more than my bare foot” she retorted way too gently, letting her hands run from her knee to her ankle, grazing the shoe’s laces. He reached with his own hand, hesitated for an instant and then met hers just where ankle and laces crossed. From his lower position, he looked at her with eyes that still retained a tinge of their former arrogance, yet were now touched by a hint of – hope? Expectation?

“I’m hungry.”

… Huh?

“I said I’m hungry”

How was she meant to interpret that? Well, she hadn’t meant to let him go that far but, at this point, she thought, I might as well give him a little more before closing the lid. After all, it’s not like we could really see each other again… after that. Her stern self-righteousness would never allow that.

Reluctantly, she moved her sandal-clad foot forward a bit, closer to his mouth. He showed no intention to do what she assumed he wanted to, namely lick it or at least suck on her toes. Instead, he got up and moved as if to leave the room.

“I will be back in a second” he said, and disappeared in the hallway.

The next couple of minutes were, without a doubt, the most nervous lapse of time she had experienced in quite a while. Not even the trial of slicing sashimi to perfection could compare. Aside from life drawing class, she never took anything more seriously than cooking; yet, those two minutes were the most serious she had in quite a while, as she stood sitting on the armchair with one foot in a sandal, and one in sock and slipper. A ridiculous, comical sight for someone who hadn’t seen the whole. Kind of like most moments in life, she thought.

He came back into the room with a plate and a tiny bowl. He sat once again in front of her, laying the plate and the bowl onto the carpet with great care, so that none of the content would spill. Inside the bowl she could see a dark, brownish liquid; it was the soy and sesame sauce she had prepared just a while ago. On the plate…

… Her sashimi! He had stolen her precious masterpiece!

She very nearly jumped off the armchair, and would have done so if not for fear of knocking over the culinary display on the carpet.

“Who told you you could touch that?”

“It’s all there was ready inside the fridge” he answered with absolute calm. “I will take you out for dinner some evening, to make up for it. Deal?”

The sashimi had gone in and out of the fridge once, already too much. Besides, it had to be eaten one way or another.

“Fine. But we split even.”

“Alright” he proclaimed cheerfully, picking up the bowl of Asian sauce. He dipped an index finger into the opaque liquid, and then let it drip over the back of her foot. The droplets ran down her smooth skin until each encountered a string, forming little pools all over the surface.

He extended his tongue and ran the full length from toes to ankle, digging in every crevice and nook, moving in circles or serpentines according to the path designed by the leather lace. With each movement he picked up a droplet of sauce, which he would then let run all over the tongue, savoring it gently.

“Me too” she muttered, hardly dissimulating the pleasurable sensation of feeling her skin explored by his tongue. He once again dipped a finger into the sauce, and then raised his arm to let it drip on her tongue.

“Did you make it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“It’s pretty good.”

“Tastes even better along with the dish it’s meant for.”

“I bet.”

He had been thoughtful enough to bring also the chopsticks. He picked them up and held them nimbly in his hands, opening and closing them a few times as if to test the grip. He gently picked up the sashimi, one slice at a time, and laid just about half of them on the back of her foot. Following the previous procedure, he sprinkled some more sauce both on those slices, and the leftover ones.

“Those are for you” he said, gesturing toward the plate. “If you manage to stand still.”

Wouldn’t have taken much effort, she thought. The fish itself, and the sauce made for rather sticky surfaces. She would have to actively try screwing up, and she had no intention to. This was the kind of game that was only fun if both of them won.

She stood perfectly still as he took hold of her ankle and gently neared her foot to his mouth. He puckered his lips and, one by one, he sucked in the thin slices of sashimi. Each subtle movement of both the food and his tongue across her skin surface, by now entirely moist, sent waves of squirming please up her leg, all the way to her crotch and torso. A few times she had to forcefully tighten her lips as to not let out a faint sigh.

She had done the right thing, letting things play out for once, going with the flow. Even after the sashimi on her had all been eaten, she pressed her foot forward attempting to squeeze every final drop of pleasure from his tongue. Once there was nothing left to savor, he stood up with the plate of leftover in his hands.

“You’ve been pretty good. Have you done this before?”

“Hmm, not exactly this.”

She wasn’t going to spill the beans on her private life so easily, but truth to be told there wouldn’t have been much to spill. A couple of episodes of forceful sex, blindfolds here and there, tied wrists once; none of those even compared with the pleasurable amusement she had just experienced.

“Well, good job. Now it’s your turn” he chimed, picking up a slice of fish and some kelp with his fingers. He moved forward and pointed a knee on the armchair, pressing her against the back. They were now at centimeters from each other. She could feel his breath, a clean and fresh smell mixed with the acrid aroma of the sauce. Surprisingly pleasant.

She opened her mouth wide, sticking her tongue out; he offered her a slice, putting it in her mouth along with the tip of his fingers. Her lips closed down on them, sucking them dry as he pulled them out. The second slice went in, and her mouth suctioned even harder, as if trying to restrain him.

Then it was the turn of the final slice. As his hand moved forward she grabbed his wrist and forced his fingers deeper inside her mouth, all the way down to their final joint. He had to actively pull out, and left her slightly gasping for air, her eyes gleaming behind the glass frames.

“You are a pretty good cook.”

“I practice a lot.”

“Perhaps you could cook for me again, someday.”

“Don’t forget, you owe me a dinner first.”

Out of the blue, close to each other they both burst into laughter, a cathartic diffusion of the accumulated tension. Necessary, she thought. It would have been either that, or raw sex on that very armchair, and she wasn’t up for the latter. He was someone else’s boyfriend and, in spite of what had just happened, she still had a soupçon of self-respect left in her.

“I should get going now” he said, getting up on his feet. “Before, you know… we let ourselves go too far.”

“Yup.”

“We are both way too decent, aren’t we?”

“Debatable.”

“You’re right! Where are my manners!”

He walked across the room and picked up the sock and slipper he had thrown away casually moments before. He brought them over to her, kneeled again.

“Please allow me to.”

Slowly he untied the heeled sandal, making sure to pull the shoe gently. Yet one more time he pulled her foot to himself, and with great care licked every single inch of it, until there was no trace of sauce left on the skin. Then, he straightened out the sock and slid her foot inside it, ruffling the wool around the ankle. Finally, the slipper, back in place.

He helped her off the armchair, and the two reached the apartment door. She opened it for him, he made his exit but not before indulging a bit on the doorstep.

“I’ll pay for the dry cleaning.”

“Huh?”

“The shoes. You can’t leave them like that.”

“Ah, yeah. No problem, I can still afford that much.”

“Cool. Well, then… if there will be a next time.”

How could she know? In twenty minutes she went from annoyance to almost wanting him to stay. Too much stuff to think about.

“We’ll see.”

He then turned around and went down the staircase, disappearing from sight. She shut the door, and set about straightening up the mess. She picked up the plates, the tea tray and brought them over to the kitchen sink. She ripped a corner from a piece of paper and stuck it at the mackerel sashimi page of Shizuo Tsuji’s cookbook. She then perched on a stool by the counter, and laid her head upon her crossed arms.

Moved her tongue up and down her lips. Felt the taste of her supreme cuisine, of his fingertips.

Not bad at all.

 

The Hero By Charles E.J. Moulton

Most nepto-killers were crushed at the most a year after entering the arena. I had seen them come and go. Above all, I was adamant in leaving my current stature, embarking onto new horizons. No question, I really knew that if I was killed, I was done for, gone for good. So, all I could do was keep fighting until my cult status catapulted me to a better place.

I had become somewhat of a legend. With my almost seven feet height, strong muscles and excellent killing techniques, a neptorod was yet to vanquish me. Wofaria had never seen a fighter as stubborn and hard as myself. So here I am, here to tell you how my world changed.

My preparation for the fight, the day everything changed, had almost come to a close, my muscles flexing, my body ready and my mind concentrated on its task. Of course I enjoyed my work, but killing a neptorod for the 472nd time would have seemed too dull a task, had it not been for the size of the thing.

Well, of course they had told me that I was about to fight a bigger beast this time. With its 25 feet in height and 13 feet in length, it gave even me the shivers. I believe, on your planet they call them dinosaurs. The difference, over here, is that they still exist alongside us. If no one else could, I would beat it, right? After all, I had killed bigger and yet bigger neptorods. Hell, I told myself, why not this one?

“Eventually a Neptorod gets everyone,” the people had told me four years earlier, back when I had been a so-called rookie-killer. That was, at least, until I proved my stamina. I think you knew my kind as gladiators, at least back in what you called the Roman Empire. After that first year of my time as a killer, every fight turned into a guessing game. Was I going to make it again? Then, after two years, I had to come up with more amazing stunts to entertain the people. Otherwise, they would become bored. They knew I was going to win. By now, on my way toward the fifth year as a beast-crusher, it was merely a question of how I would be killing the beast. By strangulation? By shoving two knives into its eyes? By numbing it with a head-punch and then shoving a spear into its belly? There were regular bets going on amongst the people about what technique I would use this time. People were betting gold, money, their pets and even their wives on my daily chosen methods of beastly execution.

Some of the time, I even got to fuck some guy’s wife because he had lost his chance on a bet. I’d say that half of the time there was some bimbo waiting there, naked, her legs spread eagle after a fight. I even had five girls waiting there once in my dressing room, all waiting on their knees, mouths open, their eyes expectantly wide, eager to see if I was as big as the other girls had told them. Was my nickname “Mr. Squirt” justified? Was my erect hard penis really ten inches long? Did I have as much cockjuice in my balls as the experienced girls had told their girlfriends? All they wanted, those cockteasing chickies told me, was five portions of my cum. I granted them all my squirts of my sperm, of course. How could it be otherwise? I am a gentleman. I aim to please.

Life had become predictable, I will admit that. In fact, it consisted of life in two places: my elegant but confined flat and the arena. I had all the privilages of a superstar – cyber-cinema, food, waterbed – but I was not allowed to leave. Ever. All the willing girls came in through by way of the spectator-tunnel, which was of no access to me. Right at the moment of the fight, my guard waited for me by the Neptorian Entrance, the one that was saved for my kind. Anyway, the day of my 472nd neptorod-combat, someone had assigned a weaponbearer and a costume-girl for me. I don’t know who it was that had sent them at first.

When I strode in to my arena dressing room, they were waiting for me. One guy and one girl. I humbly asked them what they wanted and they responded that they were fans. I chatted with them for a few minutes about neptorods and the live bait I used in my fights, hamsters and rats and the like, before the admitted to being fans of my sexual prowess.

Both rather handsome, I must say. No, I am not bi, but sharing chick with another guy has always been fun. At least when the babe gets down on her knees and points her butt at me, it just helps when I can fuck her forward into another hot dick.

That’s what we did. The boy, Nagat, was a fine fellow with a penis half the size of mine, but rather sturdy and very thick, just my width. The girl, Inia, had the nicest size ass I have ever seen. It wobbled so beautifully when I stuck my cock inside it. When we both finished on her, granting her swell portion of our pistol-proteine, she spent ten minutes licking off the juice off her boobs.

I knew the truth, though. I had been a ghetto-boy from the slums of Wofaria’s suburbs. I only fought to stay alive. They were no different. So I told them I had been chosen to fight after having been falsely accused of murder. The beast-crushing business had become my life, but if someone offered me a way out, I would hang my weapons on the hook forever and leave this fighting business to its destiny. Nagat and Inia told me very little about their fate. They inserted the weapons into my leather back-belt, adjusted my cape, put on my spike-gloves and tied my shoes. I kept asking them if life was diffiult for them, but all they did was answer me how damn lucky they were to meet me.

There I was, knowing fully well how Inia’s pussy tasted and felt, seeing how soulfully Nagat had fucked her, knowing that their spirits wanted what I wanted: freedom. You see, in our world sex is a part of spiritual freedom. Fucking is one of many ways we use to express who we are, what we want or if we have found our fate in our incarnations. Not until much later did I understand that there are planets where that is not the case.

When I walked out into the arena that day, my electronic ankle-brace squeezed my skin especially harshly. I had experienced hardships with my leg after falling from a neptorod one week before. The brace had detected that and was set to increase any pain. I remained steadfast and stoic, trying to concentrate on my task. One hundred thousand spectators greeted me with cheers, screaming my name: “Igure, Igure, Igure!”

I responded my usual armraising greeting, stretching my hands way up into the air and screaming my customary chant, a chant my audience knew about and joined into, I must add. I said: “Death to the neptorods!”

It was my revenge on the government, just like all the girls I kept fucking before and after my shows always was a way of finding myself. King Lurtuish had offered me this position almost five years back in order to serve my sentence well. I had agreed, not really knowing what I was facing. Now I had become a huge megastar, but with no freedom. The public demanded that the king let me go. Nobody had responded to my claim as of yet.

Just as my ankle twisted my skin even more, the monster arrived, drooling, spitting, its red eyes half as menacing as its glowing green skin, its spiked head half as menacing as the slow bobbing tail that sought to crush me. My hands clutched my cybersword, the beast’s eyes flashed, its nostrils flaring with smoke oozing out of every pore. We were two creatures, destined to duel, one victor, one bevictored.

Then, all at once, we both rushed toward one another, like beasts destined to embrace in combat, mortals lovers caught in a death-dance. It flew toward me, I grabbed my spikes, jumped onto its throat, crawling up while screaming, shoving them into his nostrils, climbing up on its head, clawing its eyes, producing hell-holes of purple bleeding. It screamed. Oh, how it yelled. Then, when it died, the audience broke out into fits of cheers. And I? I stood up, alone again, addicted to victory, depressed when victory had passed me with flying colors.

Back in my dressing room, melancholic again, she was there. No Inia, no Nagat, just a very, very elegant woman. Black long dress with beads hanging down from both shoulders. I twisted and turned, trying to find my previously fucking guests.

“Where are my new friends?”

The woman took some elegant steps up toward me, swaying her cute derriere and wagging her boobies at me. “They were escorted out through the tunnel.”

I cocked my head, critical as to who I had before me. There had been many women offering themselves to me. This one seemed more in control, more superior. I don’t know why, but she scared me. “And who are you?”

I put my sharp sword in my holster and stretched my muscles, pretending not to care, probably looking like I did and not knowing the fuck why.

“Princess Lidea,” the woman said. “I am here to set you free.”

I looked up, stunned. For one singular moment, time seemed to stop. Free? I had only known this life for … well, too long now. I was a star, sure, but one that never saw anything but the confines of singular spaces. “You’re kidding?” I waited, trying to detect the cheat. “Why are you setting me free? Who are you?”

Princess Lidea walked up to me and knelt down, helping herself to me groin. “King Lurtuish’s daughter. He spoke of you as ‘Wofaria’s most famous man’ and added,” she said, dropping my trousers and giving me a hand-job, “that something had to be done. So he’s setting you free.”

I smiled, enjoying her treatment. “Does he know you are giving me a handjob?”

Lidea giggled, wrinkling her nose. “No.”

By this time, my huge schlong had been pumped up to a singularly humongous size. Lidea, the dirty princess, didn’t fail to insert my cock into her cherry red lips, embracing it, hugging it hard, making it look like vanilla cone travelling into a strawberry salad. She closed her eyes, grabbing ahold of my butt, making me wonder if she had alterior motives.

“What do you want from me,” I chuckled while moaning, “except my huge dick in your mouth?”

Lidea took out my cock, rubbed it back and forth. “My dad wants to see you, so you’re coming to the palace to speak to him.”

“The palace?” I inquired, for the first time realizing that this crumpet actually meant business. Up until now, she had only been a possible escape route from my guard.

“Why?”

“You’ve become a legend,” she answered with a wink.

She reached into her cleavage, fumbled a bit, my cock bobbing like crazy and waiting for some more female mouth. After fumbling for a minute, she began unbuttoning her dress. “Ah, what the fuck, you’re gonna fuck me, anyway!”

“What are you getting out?”

There were three glories revealed. Lidea’s fantastic D-cup gazongas and the key to my ankle-brace. After she released me from a lock that would’ve exploded had I broke it, I licked her sexy and fleshy titties, fucked her like a maniac and squirted on her butt.

We left for her personal carriage out the royal way and I had never seen that entrance. What was more surprising was the disappearance of my guard. Flabbergasting, it felt like dancing on clouds. I had not seen these sights, the city itself, in five years. The Gaoshs High Street with the fifty statues of the Ingfas kings, the Ahgso Waterfall next to the Üpja-palms, the Temple of Opidgd and the Theater of Zuafsfsa. The crowds, well, what can I say, they noticed that their hero was free. So, the shouts grew louder than I had ever heard them. A few of my fucklovers were there, too, and they were smiling, hoping for more of my cock. My dick glued to my leather pants by way of dried sperm, though, and I couldn’t leave the princess.

As soon as we entered the royal grounds, my heart nearly stopped, my breath grew shallow, my eyes teared. That’s when it dawned on me that I might really be free, after all. But what were they planning for me? Working as a government official? Becoming their military leader? Had I been freed of the charges? Had they realized I was not guilty?

Anyway, eventually I wandered into that pink palace with its 165 towers and 40 entrances, greeted by welcoming, blue-clad courtiers, taking me to the biggest and most impressive dining hall I had seen. When I sat there with King Lurtuish, I couldn’t help but feel bribed. The food simply overwhelmed me, meat of every kind, stews and soups, the alcohol soothed my senses, and underneath place at my table, two blonde girls knelt below me under the table, taking turns giving me blowjobs. The king offered me a position as a military leader. This had to be fake.

So, it was a weary and intoxicated head that I wandered to my suite, pondering over this incredible change in my life. I had been pampered, caressed, fed, complimented and fucked. I don’t know what it was, but I was sure King Lurtuish was jealous. So I sat there on my marble terrace overlooking the red, white and blue plains of Ikugas, wondering if I should let this conspiracy come to a close or if I should do something.

I tried to sleep, I tossed and turned, I called for food, I ate it, I drank some more wine, I called for three girls and fucked them, squirted on their faces, but whatever I did, this feeling of restlessness only grew more intense.

At three thirty at night, my cock again glueing to my leather pants by way of cum, I decided to take a stroll in the vast palace garden. The roses smelled fresh, the full moon reflected its white light on my large frame. I couldn’t help now owning what I thought was the last piece of my puzzle: freedom. They hadn’t even mentioned my alleged crime. It was completely gone. I vowed to ask Lidea or Lurtuish that tomorrow.

Just as I wondered what to do, I heard screams echoing through the night. I turned around, witnessing two people running through the night, followed by guards. I don’t know what they were screaming. I do know that I recognized them. It was Nagat and Inia, the couple I had fucked with before the fight with the Neptorod this morning. Panic in their voices, speed in their joints, mortal fear in their bellies, they obviously attempted escape from… yes, from what? The guard caught up with Inia, ripped off her dress and dragged her back to… wait a minute, that was a dungeon down there. A prison cell. In the midst of this gorgeous garden, sorrow in the midst of wealth. That seemed cheap, vile, evil, even.

I watched the guards drag down my carnal shagmates down into a deep hole, closing the door, shutting it and dawdling away laughing. One moment of silence protruded, prevailed, and I was left in the midst beauty, listening to screams. And my feet, almost on their own, approached darker areas. Soon enough, I walked down mossy steps, finding myself by their sides, crying, naked, desperate.

“King Lurtuish has called you here to fool you,” Nagat began, drying his eyes of tears.

“Tomorrow,” Inia continued. “You will be presented in front of the court and the public, and tested.”

“Tested?” I inquired, bewildered as to the meaning of these words.

“We,” Nagat said, “will be thrown at your feet and you will be ordered to kill us. If you don’t, you will die. King Lurtuish has lured you here to get rid of you.”

“He is envious,” Inia concluded.

I bade farewell to my lustful companions, seeing the sun rise before my eyes, not having slept one wink. With tears in my eyes, the huge corpus that had killed 472 neptorods was unable to rebel against the crown. Why? Fear of authority.

So, there I stood, shortly after the royal breakfast, in front of large crowd of revellers. The king had spoken well of me as the new military leader. For the first time, though, he said openly that my crimes of late were pardoned and forgotten. The condition being if I could, myself and completely, mortally wound two criminals. Enter, Nagat and Inia.

So, there I was, actually wishing to be back in my arena, being escorted to my elegant prison. Nagat and Inia lay there at my feet, I was given a sword with which I was expected to execute the people I had fucked not yet 24 hours ago.

“Stop this nonsense!”

The voice that reverberated from beyond the king’s throne possessed way more authority than the king’s. Accordingly, my sword raised, my huge hand trembling, my mind wondering why I couldn’t kill a fuckbuddy when I had killed 472 beasts, I turned around, the sword tumbling down on the ground. I turned around again, fearing that the sword had wounded my friends. Not so. They lay at my feet, crying.

“You have taken this far enough!”

The woman that strode up toward me was dressed in red, a bloody antidote to the king’s bland grey. She reached forward her hand: “I am Gertrude, the queen!”

She turned around and faced her husband.

“The real queen!”

She strode back toward the king’s golden throne and pointed at him.

“You know as well as I that my father was the king, that I am the real monarch and that this man,” Gertrude said, pointing at me, “is innocent of killing Nagat’s father.”

Nagat looked up at me. I looked at Nagat, Inia shrugged and I think the king cringed.

“Who are you, Nagat?” I asked.

“My father was murdered by the king,” he answered. “You were blamed, because you were close by the crime-scene.”

Suddenly I remembered being in the Wofarian capital on the day of the royal parade, five years ago. I remember witnessing a fight between the king and his assistant, five years ago. I remember being the witness to someone getting a knife shoved in a belly and realizing that the man had been a royal assistant. I had not seen the face of the murderer. I had just known that they had disappeared into a side street to fight. I was dragged away, given the position of nepto-killer. I had been told to keep my mouth shut, fighting beasts and living like a king, never getting out of my misery, but trying.

I looked at the king, saw him being dragged away, and wondered why fate twisted and turned the way it did. Queen Gertrude pardoned me, Inia, Nagat and Lidea joined me in the back room. We needed love, so we gave each other exactly that. Although Lidea and Gertrude seemed melancholy about the king’s recent abdication, Gertrude eagerly wondered to see if I was as big as her daughter had claimed.

Soon enough, there was that one moment when I stood in the palace, so close to the throne, hearing the groans of happiness from three girls being fucked in turn by Nagat. While Gertrude worked on my large dick, Lidea came over and kneeled below Nagat’s gender, licking on his balls. I now soared in seventh heaven, two girls on their knees, giving me blowjob point-of-views. Inia, that raunchy little crumpet with deep dimples and twinkling little eyes, rubbed her big titties while walking up to me, the old beast-crusher.

Without even opening my eyes, I found Lidea’s willing mouth, my own cockjuice spreading across my gums, her tongue wrapping around mine, her saliva travelling back and forth between my cheeks. Lidea’s lipstick tasted of cherries, her tongue tasted of woman, her cheek tasted of perfume and her hair smelled of mandarine scented perfume.

The helmet of my cock, blue and hard, smiled at Inia with its happy one eye. She took the length in her mouth, closing her eyes, sucking deeper for every blow, enjoying the salty taste of my throbbing manhood. She caressed my ass as she gave me a hot blowjob, I grabbed her head hard, pushing my hot cock into a red and willingly harlotlike facehole.

I moaned, groaned, sighed, sang, laughed and cried, all at once, while giving my sexy mistress her well-earned blow job. Man, it felt good to get a good blowjob.

Time stood still as I, almost in slow motion, reached down and got ready to fuck the chickies in turn. Gertrude threw her head backward as I entered her from behind, smiling, groaning, moaning, grabbing her tits and caressing her nipples. Inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre, I worked myself down toward the temple of her innermost glory, while Nagat fucked Inia. With the gorgeously lustful sounds of the birds in the garden, I pulled myself toward Lidea’s sweetly tasting vagina. Digging deeper and deeper into her body, I found myself actually filling my entire face with her juices before humping her, while Nagat now shagged Gertrude.

We took turns fucking all of those three lovely pussies, switching holes, sharing glory, laughing, those genders making wet noises. With a fantastic smacking sound, I slid out my cock out of Inia’s pussy and injected it into Gertrude’s asshole, only to finger Lidea’s cunt. It was tighter than I expected, but Gertrude seemed to enjoy the feeling of having me fuck her butt in the backside of the throne-room to the sounds of Nagat squirting on Inia.

The girls ended up lying on the floor, licking cum off their tits and chatting.

Nagat and I, we discussed what possible things we could do with the kingdom, how we could improve the lives of the people, how we could eliminate poverty and what we should do with King Lurtuish. We agreed that all we had to do was follow what our hearts told us to do. So, King Lurtuish received a position tending to the garden, but living in a confined area at night.

I went back to the arena today. As a king. Yes, I am king of Wofaria now. The crowd cheered. I had been one of them. We are freeing the country as we speak. And feeling fucking lucky every bit of the way.

The neptorods still exist, but we have confined them to a seperate place away from the dangers of the arena. Nobody enjoys fighting anymore. We do two things instead. We make love and we make music. After all, sex not only creates babies, it’s also a lot of fun. In fact, it’s sheer heaven. We travel the galaxies, trying to find out more about you humans on Earth. So I am sending you this letter, sending you a message by way of one of rockets. Another species tried to inspire you to believe in this truth back during one of your wars. I believe you called the era your power of flowers, or something of that sort.

Didn’t you want to make love and not war?

What’s happened to that?

It’s time to remember love.