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Not For The Birds By Andrew Miller

Janice sprinted into the living room, shot past Larry, grabbed a pair of binoculars from the book case. “Unbelievable,” she said, “unbelievable.” She raced toward the back porch.

“Something interesting out there?” Larry had the latest issue of Natural History Magazine in his lap and didn’t look up. “Fall migration’s about to start. Should be some warblers out there.”

The door banged shut behind her. “I’ll let you know.”

She and Larry had arranged the furniture on their porch, an old couch and three wicker chairs, so they could watch birds in their back yard. The had installed floor to ceiling screens on all three sides, which kept out mosquitoes and flies and provided a wind break during chilly weather. Janice adjusted the focus, sighted past three birdfeeders, a row of azaleas, a wooden trellis crawling with morning glories. Holy, holy shit, she thought, I wasn’t dreaming.

She held the binoculars steady, licked her lips, wiggled her butt. “Larry,” she called, “Come quick. Ya gotta see this.”

“Need the bird book?” He tossed the magazine on the table, got to his feet.

“Forget the book, come here.”

“Check that out.” She pointed toward the back yard, handed him the binoculars.

He began a sweep of the hedge. She shook her head. “Not there. The porch on the gray house.”

He let out a low whistle. “My God, look at that. Penis erecti.”

“Yep, subspecies: elongatus.”

“They are really going at it.” He held the binoculars steady. “A rare sight, this time of year, a pair of mattress thrashers. In full breeding plumage.”

“I knew you’d like the double breasted one. Gimme the binocs.”

“Not so fast. Now they’re doing it standing up.” He dropped one hand to his crotch for a quick adjustment. “She’s got her legs wrapped around his waist… clawing his back, sucking on his neck. Passion… passion… whew… he’s got his fingers up her ass…” He leaned forward, tugged at his pants again.

Janice squeezed the bulge in his trousers. “Come on, let me see.”

“Damn, wish I’d bought that tripod. It would be nice to have both hands free.” He passed the binoculars to her.

She zeroed in on their neighbors. “I don’t know what I like better, watching them or listening to you describe the action.” She adjusted the focus. “They’ll make an evening of it. See that bottle of wine on the table?”

“Sure.” Larry leaned forward, squinted through the screen. “Now what’s happening?”

“She’s strapping on a dildo.” Janice shifted left to improve the view. “And,” she glanced at Larry, “hers is longer than his.”

Larry pressed his forehead against the screen. “Longer than mine?”

“Oh, hell no. He looks like a Georgia peanut next to you.”

Larry nodded, stood a little straighter.

“Hang on, he’s down on his knees—great set of buns—ready for his pegging.” Janice moved closer to the screen. “I’d love to sink my teeth into one of his cheeks. Hard, firm, like they were chiseled out of oak.” She glanced at Larry’s pants. “Her fake schlong is ready for action… now she’s on her knees… she’s got both hands on his shoulder… pump-pump-pump… and rubbing his big dick…”

“We’ve got a live sex show. Didn’t have to pay a cent.”

Janice eyed Larry’s trousers. “Whatdaya think, big fella?” She kicked off her shoes, squirmed out of her shorts, black panties, slipped off her light blue polo shirt, unhooked her bra. She hopped on the couch, landed knees first, twisted her butt toward him. “We’ll do it while we watch.”

“I hear you. Damn, we need another set of binocs.”

Larry pulled down his pants, being careful not to damage Mr. Ready-For-Action. He jumped up behind her, scooted close, began to massage her breasts. He pressed in close, poked his rod between her cheeks.

“Slow down. Take off your shirt. Give me some chest-to-cheek grinding with your pecs.”

“Okay if I leave my socks on?”

“What do I care about your socks—get on with it.”

He tossed his shirt on the floor, bent at the waist, squeezed his pecs against her smooth, round buns. While he stroked her breasts with both hands he moved side to side, massaging her cheeks with his chest. She arched her back, raised her butt. He stroked her boobs, continued chest-rubbing. She said in a low voice, “Keep at it, big boy, I’m getting into the mood. A couple of times she felt his penis poke up her crack. She held out the binoculars. “Here, take them.” A few minutes later she turned her head., “Okay…”

He slid inside. In real slow; he knew how she liked it. He gripped the binoculars with one hand, fondled her breasts with the other, started to rev up. “I’ve—never—done–this—before,” he said between strokes. “Never—never—nev—er.”

She reached between her legs, gave his nuts a twitch. Uh-oh, she thought, getting to the hard-ball stage. Won’t be long now. “Slow down, I’m not ready for Mr. P to go limp, lose his umph.”

“Ok.” He eased out, watched the couple for a while, then continued, “She stopped pegging.” He pressed in close to Janice. “Their porch is like ours. Got a couch, table, and bunch of chairs. Except, they’ve got a hot tub. Maybe they’ll jump in later.” Larry slipped inside, moved slower than before. With his free hand, he touched her breasts, felt her nipples firm up.

Janice moved her butt in a circular motion, matching his rhythm. A warm feeling spread down her legs, up to her breasts. “Tell me some more.”

“She yanked off the dildo. Now they’re having a glass of wine.” Larry stopped thrusting, continued to fondle her nipples. “It’s kind of odd…every once and a while…one of them disappears behind some sort of partition…”

“Too get more wine?”

“Maybe, hard to say… okay… they’re getting at it.” He watched for a while, then, “Now she’s got one leg on this little table, and he’s about to go down on her.” Janice closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of him inside, made all the richer by his description of love-making from afar. “He’s got his head between her legs—tongue’s a flying—she’s gripping his neck, scratching his back, moaning and writhing…”

“Let me see.”

She took the binoculars. “Ooooo, very good, his butt’s writhing and twisting all over the place… look at that cheek separation.”

Larry slid out, then pressed his chest up close, wrapped his arms around her. Do you know those folks?” His voice was low, husky. She could tell he was close.

“Sure, its Ann and Henry Scott. Don’t know him, but I see her at the gym. Sometimes we go for coffee.”

“Does she walk around naked in the locker room?”

“All the time. And plays with herself in front of the full-length mirror.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You wish.”

Janice flipped over, positioned herself on the arm of the couch so she could see the neighbors. “Do me like Henry is doing Ann.” She squinted through the binoculars. “Gotta make sure they are in view before licking begins.” She shifted position, then motioned him closer. “Come on.” She slipped her legs apart, pulled Larry’s head toward her crotch. “Put that tongue in gear. Our neighbors are ahead of us.”

She slipped her palms behind his neck, locked her fingers. She felt his tongue dance up and down her thighs, tiptoe over her pubics, then zoom straight to her hot spot. Janice sighed, swiveled her hips, sucked in air. His fingers began to tease and tickle, wander about, probe here, probe there. She closed her eyes, stretched her legs, flexed her toes, dug her fingers into the cushions, raised her butt, began to moan.

#   #   #

Larry felt her chest heave, her body tense. She’s getting close, he thought, I gotta go slow, steady, not spoil it by making unexpected moves. He knew she was at a critical stage. Any unexpected motion, distraction from anywhere, would wreck everything. She’d lose her footing, slide off the mountain without ever reaching the summit. He felt her fingers on his scalp, gentle, soft, now on his shoulders, slight pressure. Closer, closer, her fingers said, go a little deeper, but stay gentle. He shifted his position. He knew that the contractions were about to start.

The liquid, rich, whistling notes of the Baltimore oriole are the most beautiful of any American songbird. A series of chirps and trills up and down the scale, part warble, part bubbly gurgle, unlike any musical instrument. Larry had found the ring tone for her on a bird-watching website. She was enchanted by the song, happy to use it instead of any of the preprogrammed ones from the manufacturer. Whenever someone called, she delayed answering for as long as possible, just to hear the oriole’s melodious call.

That wonderful song came from Janice’s phone, which lay on the table in the living room.

Larry’s eyes snapped open. “What the fff…. Let the damn thing ring!”

She sat up, pushed his head aside. “I better get that. Might be Mom.”

Janice bounded into the living room, grabbed the phone, hustled back to the porch. She flopped down on a chair opposite Larry. He clenched his teeth. God oh God, he thought. How did this happen? What class double A jerkoff is calling? If they had only waited five more minutes.

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is your neighbor, Ann Scott. We see each other at Love Your Body Health Club. Remember?”

“Oh yeah. Hi—how’s it going?” She mouthed to Larry, who was slumped on his side, “This will be quick.” She winked, spread her legs, gave a couple hip thrusts.

Ann had more to say: “Henry and I were wondering— are you guys bird watchers?”

“Yes, yes we are.” Janice slid her legs together.

Larry groaned when he heard, ‘Yes we are.’ Oh no, he thought, we’re going somewhere. He looked at his penis, beginning to shrink and shrivel. Soon it would look like a button mushroom that had been abandoned for weeks behind the potato salad on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Larry took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His sex plans had taken an unexpected nose dive. The phone rang when Janice was seconds from an earth-trembling climax. What was supposed to happen—if the phone hadn’t rung—was to bring her to a screaming climax, let her recover, then slip inside, stroke slow and steady, slow and steady, for as long as possible—she’d be climaxing all the time of course—then throttle up for one gigundamunduss, super long, off-the-Richter-Scale organism that would blast their heart rates off the charts, leave them both panting, near death. To miss all that, just because of her Mother on the phone?

Janice took a deep breath when she heard: “We saw that you were watching us.”

“Oh yeah?”

Larry didn’t notice the anxious look wash over her face; he was still agonizing over his shattered plans. They’d open that bottle of Merlot, break out the special cheeses and crackers, the red grapes. Legs tangled up, they’d eat cheese, drink wine, watch their neighbors go at it while he repressurized down below for the next tumble. Grape juices would meander down her chin, drizzle onto her boobs. She would get up every so often, pour them more wine. He could watch her bustle about with no clothes on—luscious, bouncy.

“We’re bird watchers, too. And, we have a 40-mm spotting scope. Great for detail.”

“Uh-huh.” Janice continued to hold her breath.

“Yeah, it’s hidden behind this partition. Don’t want to spook the birds.”

“Yeah…”

“And, we noticed that Larry has a weird line of freckles across his chest.”

“Uh-oh.” Janice frowned, rubbed the back of her neck. She squinted through the screen at their neighbor’s porch. Laughter on the other end of the line.

Larry closed his eyes, continued to dream about the lost sexscapade. After hors d’oeuvres they’d order pizza from Gino’s, slice up some heirloom tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden. Stay naked all evening. Eat on the porch. Light candles, rev up the CD player. It could be a two, maybe three-orgasm night. Finish up by watching an old Sopranos episode. Then a mutual shower. Maybe she’d even suck a little, do a bonus soap-off to tide him over ‘till morning.

“And we’ve been watching you watching us.”

“Oh wow.” Janice sat up straight.

Larry saw her snap to attention. Oh no, he thought. New plans for the evening—but what could be more fun than sex? It might be her good-for-nothing brother Alfie, wanting to go bowling at Bubba la Flubba’s Magic Lanes, five hundred feet from the end of Runway Five Zero at the international airport. If I drive, Alfie will spring for the shoes, plus a round of heart-burn hotdogs and all the diet soda we can drink.

Janice began to exhale as Ann continued, “That’s okay, don’t worry about it. Anyway, it got us thinking. How would you and Larry like to come over, sit in the hot tub with us?

Janice smiled and nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“And we can…do whatever. Henry and I are fine with this. Okay with you two?”

“I’ll ask Larry, but pretty sure the answer will be yes.”

“Your man Larry has a scrumptious ass, by the way.”

Janice nodded, smiled, flexed her toes.

Ann continued: “How about staying for dinner? We’ve got a couple of rotisserie chickens on the spit.”

Janice leaned forward in the chair. “Sure. Can we bring anything?”

Larry heard ‘bring anything?’ and groaned. This is worse, he thought, no one brings food to a bowling alley. Not even la Flubba’s. Sounds like dinner at her Mom’s. Tuna-noodle casserole buried in soggy potato chips, a basket of rock-hard biscuits. No beer or wine, only lukewarm tea with no ice. For desert, a mushy apple pie made from some cheap canned filling. Her father waving his arms and yelling about fantastic life was when he was a kid. How he doesn’t give a flip about computers, email, smart phones, Facebook, or texting. Janice’s brother griping because can’t find a job, doesn’t have a girlfriend, can’t drive more than 100 miles without putting two quarts of oil in his old Chevy.

His penis, shriveled and limp, lay like a jellyfish, stranded on the beach at low tide. How can I get out of this family dinner? Janice already said ‘yes.’ Isn’t it time for my prostate exam? Maybe I’ve got a couple more wisdom teeth that need extracting. Aren’t I supposed to be making ‘Bag Your Dog Turds’ posters for the Bird Club?

Janice nodded as she listened to Ann: “Bring some cucumbers and fancy tomatoes from your garden. I’ve got rice pilaf in the crock pot.” Janice saw the pained look on Larry’s face. “And bring towels, anything else needed for a fun evening—know what I mean? It’ll be the four of us.”

Janice nodded. “Sounds fabulous, more than fabulous.”

Larry stared at the ceiling. His charger, once stiff and hard like a hickory stick, had shriveled to nothing, lay hidden under its pubic hair blanket. How did this happen?

Janice smiled. “Okay, we’ll be there in thirty minutes or less. Bye.” She dropped the phone on the table, jumped to her feet, winked at Larry.

“You’ll never guess what’s cooking for the rest of the day, maybe the rest of the night.”

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Work By M. Earl Smith

It was 11:30 on a dreary Friday morning in November. The thermostat had dropped almost thirty degrees in the past month, and the coolest days of fall were upon us. You were sitting at your desk, working away on some worthless spreadsheet, when the text message popped up on your screen. It was, of course, from me.

“Go back to the same locker room and take a selfie for me.”

Shaking your head, you looked at the clock and laughed. “Y”

“Trust me on this one.”

Sighing, you went to the aforementioned room and positioned yourself in the mirror. With an exasperated look on your face, you lined up the picture. Little did you remember that this was the weekend I was due back from Philadelphia. As you hit the shutter button, I clicked the door locked, and stepped around the corner, draping my arms across your shoulders as I did.

You started for a moment, but, upon seeing who it was, you grinned, and craned your neck upwards for a kiss. Our lips locked, and my hands slid from around your neck, starting at your hips, which I used to pull you against me, so you could feel how hard I was. Grinning, I slid my hands under your shirt, under your bra, and on to your breasts, where I teased your nipples between my thumb and forefinger.

“I want you. Right here, right now. It’s been a month, and that’s far too long.” By this point, I was whispering in your ear, nibbling as I did so.

Without a word, you reached behind you and, unzipping my pants, pulled my cock out, working it with your hand in slow, steady strokes. Someone knocked gently on the door, but we both managed to ignore it as I worked your pants down your slender hips and onto the floor.

The knock came again, a little more insistent, but we ignored it as the person let out an exasperated mutter and went on their way. After a few more strokes, you grinned, and slowly started to bend at the waist as I pulled your panties to one side. After rubbing your pussy with my two fingers a few times, I chuckled, and quickly slid my cock into you, reaching forward to take your hair and pull you gently back.

The month apart hadn’t killed any passion between us, as we both came hard and fast right where we stood. As we finished, the knocking started again, almost at a pound, as we both giggled and worked our pants up. I used your hair to pull your mouth around to me, and after a passionate kiss, I let go.

“Text me later.” I said simply, tossing the name badge I had used to gain entry to the building in a trash can. You followed me to the window as I crawled out, jogging across the parking lot to climb onto a motorcycle. Tossing my helmet on, I fired up the bike and peeled out.

 

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.

 

Penance By Lee Todd Lacks

On the third Saturday of Lent, Sister Claire McKenna arrived at the office of the Reverend Mother Martha Clancy, promptly at half past six, as she had done every Saturday evening for nearly three years. “What have you done this week, Sister Claire?” the Reverend Mother asked. For the first year or so, the confessions came easy to the young novice, but after a while, they had to be contrived.

From the time she was young, Claire had taken pleasure in being spanked, first by her widowed mother, then by the nuns at school. The Ursulines who taught at St. Angela’s struck a delicate balance between compassion and severity, a balance which Claire found most alluring. One day, during her sophomore year, Claire had given sweet Sister Helen cause to keep her after class, yet again, for a dozen with the strap. Having tended Claire’s bottom to their mutual satisfaction, Sister Helen looked up at the clock, and noticed that she was late for an appointment with the Reverend Mother, at which point, she suddenly became alarmed. Without waiting for Claire to inquire, the middle-aged nun confided in her young pupil, “Let’s just say that I won’t be sitting comfortably for the next week or so.” Sighing ruefully, she then left the classroom in haste. Claire could hardly believe what she had heard. The thought of Sister Helen having her ample backside paddled by the Reverend Mother seemed inconceivable, and yet, inexplicably arousing. At that moment, Claire realized that she wanted to join the Ursuline Order.

There’s never been a student at St. Angela’s who has graduated without visiting the Reverend Mother’s office at least once, and during her thirty-seven-year tenure as abbess, Mother Martha had chastened the bared bottoms of nearly every one of the nuns, from novices younger than Claire, to the eldest sisters of the convent.

The Reverend Mother knew what motivated Claire to be such an eager penitent. In fact, she had known for quite some time. Loathe as she was to admit it, Mother Martha had enabled Claire’s self-indulgence because she derived a commensurate satisfaction m from strapping, paddling, and caning her. Though she knew that it was sinful to take pleasure in Claire’s pain, the Reverend Mother persisted in doing so, thereby abetting Claire’s sin. Tonight, however, she was determined to put an end to it, for Claire’s sake, as well as her own.

Claire approached the desk of the abbess, stopping just a few inches short. All too familiar with the chastening ritual, Claire proceeded to unfasten the black woolen belt which secured her habit, and handed it to Mother Martha. She then removed her scapular, folding the apron neatly before placing it upon the Reverend Mother’s desk. Next, she reached down to the floor and grasped the hem of her white tunic, raising it well above her waist, till it draped over her back. Then, she turned up her long black underskirt, thereby revealing the opaque woolen stockings and voluminous cotton bloomers customarily worn by members of the Order. Finally, she took down her bloomers, placing them upon the desk, next to her scapular.

Claire could feel her excitement growing as she presented her bare bottom to Mother Martha. While she had never been able to explain her longing for the proverbial rod of correction, she knew that it awakened her nether regions in unspeakably impure ways.

Claire could barely suppress her enthusiasm, as she waited for Mother Martha to pronounce her penance. Mother Martha held herself accountable for the piety of her female charges. To this end, she regarded the administering of corporal punishment as being one of her most sacred duties, a duty which she had faithfully discharged for nearly four decades. ”Twenty-two with the paddle, one for each day remaining in Lent.” Claire gasped. Accustomed as she was to the paddle’s wicked sting, the Reverend Mother’s pronouncement seemed frighteningly severe. “Oh, my God! Twenty-two?!” the young novice fretted. For the first time in a long while, the solemnity in Claire’s voice seemed wholly genuine, as she uttered the obligatory refrain, “Yes, Reverend Mother.”

Bending sharply at the waist, Claire reached out and grabbed the oaken edge of the Mother Martha’s desk, once again marveling at the myriad indentations formed by countless fingers, desperately struggling to maintain their grip. For Claire understood that the urge to let go often seemed irresistible. However, the consequence of having to restart the count served as a most effective deterrent. While Claire savored the Reverend Mother’s attention, she dared not test her limits by letting go intentionally.

Moments later, the young novice heard a resounding thwack, accompanied by a sudden, searing pain, as the Reverend Mother put the sturdy maple plank to her backside. The sting of the first two or three strokes never ceased to amaze her. With each successive stroke, Claire’s cries grew more fervent.

“Unnnoooooohhhhhhh!” While cognizant of her acute discomfort, Claire began to notice herself becoming highly aroused. Upon receiving the twelfth stroke, her whole body shook in an effort to throw off the pain. Mother Martha knew that Claire was nearing her threshold for punishment, and yet, she felt obligated to rid the young novice of her craving.

“Uuunnnnooooohhhhh!!” Claire wailed, as the fourteenth stroke lit into her. Just then, Claire become aware of a forbidden sensation welling up inside her. Dread mixed with shame, as she realized what was happening. Her all-consuming pain, awful as it seemed, was being transformed into that most carnal expression of femininity. Try as she might to keep the wave from breaking, Claire’s rapturous outbursts shook her to the core. As the seventeenth stroke seared her tenderest parts, Claire could feel every muscle below her waist tensing in anticipation of the impending release. Recognizing Claire’s condition, Mother Martha swung the paddle with even greater force. The sound of its impact echoed loudly within the close confines of her office. That very same moment, Claire let go a piercing shriek, which quickly morphed into something much more primal. Mortified by her body’s inability to repress itself, Claire felt it rush past the point of no return before she finally broke down. The Reverend Mother stayed her paddle for just a moment, as she watched the young novice undergo her catharsis. Though she did her best to seem appalled by Claire’s lack of inhibition, Mother Martha couldn’t help but feel similarly aroused. Steeling her resolve, the abbess exacted the remainder of Claire’s penance.

Just then, the young novice regained enough composure to cry out. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!” The Reverend Mother’s voice turned icy, “What have you done, Sister Claire?” “Oh, Reverend Mother! I’m so sorry!” “What have you done?!” repeated Mother Martha, struggling to sound condemnatory. “Oh, Reverend Mother!” Claire pleaded, her confession in tears.

Mother Martha brought the paddle down upon Claire’s frightfully distended bottom once more. “Unnnnooooohhhh!!! Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!!” she pleaded. “Say it again, Sister Claire!” Mother Martha demanded. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!” “Again!!”shouted the abbess. “Let this wickedness out of you!” Sister Claire did as she was told, veritably bursting with pain and shame. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!!”

The paddle found its mark for the twentieth time. Suddenly, in spite of her dire distress, Claire became aware of the Mother Superior’s strident voice calling out with hers. “Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!!” The Reverend Mother delivered yet another stroke, once again professing her guilt. Raising the paddle for the final time, Mother Martha swung with a zeal that astonished even her. Claire screamed, as the dreadful plank caught her full upon that very sensitive region just above her stocking tops. This time, however, she did not hear the Reverend Mother repenting in unison.

“Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Mea maxima culpa!!”cried the young novice, choking on the words. Moments later, Claire was startled by what sounded like a bellow through clenched teeth. Mother Martha had succumbed to her own womanhood. Not daring to look back, Claire listened in disbelief, as the Reverend Mother Martha Clancy came completely undone. “Oh, God! Oh, God!! AAAAGGHHHUUUNNNN!”

Claire suddenly realized that she wasn’t the only one sobbing. The Reverend Mother’s fall from grace only led Claire to feel even more ashamed. Defying every convention, young Sister Claire reflexively stood up and let her underskirt and tunic down, so as to maintain some semblance of decency, before turning to face the Reverend Mother. Realizing that Claire had borne witness to her abject humiliation, Mother Martha accepted full accountability for her role in the young novice’s folly. “Please forgive me, my child. I have let you go astray for these many months, solely to indulge my own impure urges.” Please forgive me!”

Though her bottom was throbbing, Claire rushed over to embrace her beloved Mother Superior. “No, Reverend Mother! Only I should be seeking forgiveness. I willfully exploited your duty to correct me, because I craved the penance. It was a terribly wicked thing for me to do, and I’m so, so sorry!”

“Oh, Sister Claire. I’ve known your reason for seeking absolution ever since you first started coming to my office, and yet, I did nothing to deter you. The sin is mine as much as it is yours. Now, I’m afraid we both must accept the consequences of our wrongdoing.”

How, Reverend Mother?” Claire asked. Mother Martha let out a deep sigh. “By paying a penance that will seem wholly disagreeable to us both, I’m afraid. “

“What will be our penance, Mother Superior?” Claire asked. The Reverend Mother paused before answering, “Starting tonight, and for the next twenty-two nights, you will administer correction to me, as I have done to you, during Evening Services, just prior to the Act of Contrition……in front of the entire convent.”

Claire gasped in horror. “Oh, no! Please Reverend Mother! I could never…cause you suffering…Oh, please! Don’t make me do this!” Mother Martha’s voice became firm. “You can, and you shall, Sister Claire. The time has come for us both to relearn the divine purpose of punishment!” Claire resumed her sobbing. “Now, put your bloomers back on, and bring the paddle. Come along. We mustn’t be late for Evening Services.” With that, Mother Martha proceeded to exit her office, with Claire following closely, if ever so reluctantly, behind. Stepping outside of the vestibule, both women began their sorrowful march towards the chapel.

 

 

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.

Nightcap By Ty Spencer Vossler‏

Mexico City has just about anything you’re not looking for. Lucia had been many times— had lived in the ghetto of Colonia Guadalupe Chalma as a child. She didn’t care much for the broad-shouldered city—too fast and aggressive. Given her past it was a miracle that she added Doctor to the front of her name. Lucia specialized in Topology—a branch of algebra so intangible that few women dare to swim its abstract waters. Lucia was in Mexico City to sit on a Masters exam panel.

She spent leisurely hours in the hotel room, resting, reading, and channel surfing. Flipping through options she paused at an advertisement for a blues concert at the convention center across the street. She walked to the balcony window and saw the billboard: Smokey Harris—One Night Only. Lucia owned several of his CD’s. On the announcement Smokey Harris stood tall and handsome—posing with his signature hand-made guitar. She thought to check if tickets were still available, yet felt too lazy. She returned her attention to the television.  Smokey was singing a sad tune—eyes closed, swaying and lost in the music.

After a short nap Lucia showered and dressed in an embroidered gold and black Indian blouse, partnered with a pleated ankle-length skirt. As an afterthought she wore an ankle bracelet with semi-precious stones and tiny brass chimes that tinkled when she walked. She took an elevator down to the restaurant, sat in a dark corner, ordered a glass of white wine and a chef salad. With few other diners to distract she was soon covering a napkin with new Topology ideas. Shaking free for a moment, she reminded herself to call home.

Lucia was mother to a beautiful Four-year-old—married to an American writer she’d met by chance many years earlier. They’d lived in the States for nine years before moving to Mexico.

A lot of water under the bridge, she thought. Having Rita changed their lives. Her passion for Wyler was gradually replaced by her focus on Rita. They talked about how the fire was reduced to embers—yet Rita was worth any sacrifice.

# # #

Lucia’s focus changed when Smokey Harris and two others sat nearby. They didn’t appear to take notice of her—yet as he perused the menu, Smokey looked up, smiled and winked at her.

“Buenos tardes.”

Lucia returned his smile with a corrected, “Buenos noches.”

He glanced at his watch and nodded, “So it is, so it is.”

After a waiter took his order, Smokey whispered something and gave a nod in her direction. The other men at the table shook their heads. A few minutes later a bottle of Dom Perignon arrived to Lucia’s table.

“From the gentleman,” the waiter gestured.

Taking his cue, Smokey walked over. His friends stayed put—one said, “You too much, man.”

“I took a risk that you might like Champagne,” he began.

She smiled, “An expensive risk, Mr. Harris.”

“Blues fan?”

“And jazz too. I’ve heard you play both.”

“You know baby—jazz is just blues that’s tumbled down some stairs.”

Champagne traveled up her nose and she coughed as she laughed. Smokey patted her back and then rubbed the back of her neck.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You had me a little worried—thought I’d have to do some mouth-to-mouth.”

Lucia smiled and a swallowed some water.

“Coming to the show tomorrow night?”

She shook her head, “No—I don’t have a ticket.”

“Too late—all sold out,” he reached into his front shirt pocket, “but there’s ways around that.” He presented her with a ticket.

“Oh, that’s very nice of you, thank you.”

“That’ll put you front and center and get you backstage after the show. “

She touched a hand to her heart, “I don’t know what to say.”

“How ‘bout sharing some bubbly with ol’ Smokey?”

The waiter brought another flute without being asked.

“Here’s to beautiful Mexican women,” he raised his glass adding, “pretty lady, you got a million-watt smile.”

They touched glasses and sipped.

The getting-to-know-you chitchat ensued.  She was teaching in Acapulco and last year he’d played on a cruise ship that stopped there.

“I watched those cliff divers,” he said. “That’s some scary shit.”

He learned that she was married and had a daughter. She discovered that he was between relationships—father of two sons from previous marriage.

Lucia’s salad arrived and Smokey leered at it with one eye closed.

“That all you havin’?”

“I’m not very hungry.”

She nibbled her salad while he waited for his steak.

“How’d you get cozy with the blues pretty lady?”

“I don’t remember—college I think. I like the sadness and passion—how the songs tell stories.”

“That’s right they do, and you know what?”

“What?”

“You gonna leave me with some bitter blues if you don’t join me for a nightcap—might even play a song or two.”

“What is a nightcap?” She wasn’t familiar with the word.

“Last drink folks have before they call it a night.”

“Oh,” she nodded, “yes, and I’d like very much to hear you play.”

“Great.”

After dinner he signed for the tab and proffered Lucia the crook of his arm.

“Shall we?”  He paused briefly to introduce her to his friends, who stood.

“Dorsey,” the first man said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Everett,” introduced the other, “you folks have yourself a nice evening. Don’t keep him out too late, young lady,” he wagged a finger.

“Later brothers,” the three men shared a special handshake. Smokey escorted Lucia to the elevator.

“Dorsey, Everett and me—we’ve been playing together since we were kids. Our first band was, The Smoking Lizards.”

# # #

He had rented an entire suite, replete with a lighted fountain in the living room. He flipped on the lights and rotated a knob to dim them down.

“My goodness,” she managed as she watched the fountain spring to life.

“There’s another one in the bedroom.” He kicked off his shoes, “Make yourself at home.”

Lucia lifted her legs to remove her sandals.

Smoky led her into the bedroom.

“This’s where I keep Baby Blue—my guitar.”

The bedroom fountain was a sculpted mermaid, emptying water from a giant shell into a waiting pond. A full bar took up space beneath a flat-screen television hanging on the wall.

“What can I get you?” He asked.

“Nothing for me, thank you—the champagne was enough.”

He gestured to the bedroom fountain, “Doubles as a Jacuzzi—feels real nice after a concert. I always get this room when I play here.”

The over-sized bed was covered with bright throw pillows and his acoustic guitar was leaned against a nightstand. He reached for it and motioned for Lucia to sit next to him on the bed.

“This song’s for a beautiful flower called Lucia,” and he began playing.

His fingers lifted, pressed and wiggled changing mere notes into his signature style of play. His song was about a woman he’d given his soul to—only to be left twisting. He played with eyes closed, peeking at Lucia now and again until the final note resonated, and faded.

“That was so beautiful,” she smiled.

“Let you in on a little secret,” he answered, “right this moment—nothing in this world’s as beautiful as you.”

Lucia didn’t resist when he touched her face, and kissed her. His lips were soft and she returned it with the tip of her tongue. The moist sound of subsequent kisses made her lightheaded. His lips journeyed to the bird’s nest of her throat—to her ear—delicate, slow kisses that made her wet. His strumming hand slipped up beneath her blouse to rub her smooth brown back. Then, with a deft twist of thumb and forefinger he released the catch and her tits sprang forward.

Lifting the front of her blouse he trapped a brown nipple with his front teeth. Lucia combed her fingers through his hair as he suckled.

“Beautiful,” he whispered easing her to her back. His tongue traveled to the softness of her belly. She lifted when his fingers hooked inside the waistband of her skirt and panties.

“Sweet Jesus,” he groaned as he peeled them down, “the Garden of Eden.”

Smokey knelt to spread her pussy lips with his thumbs—flicking his tongue over the hooded flesh of her tiny pearl. She responded with a melodious moan and thrust against him.

“Like honey,” he said, pausing to slipped out of his pants. Lucia gawked at his thick, attenuated cock pulsing like a separate animal. He returned, licking, sliding a long, tapered index finger inside and curling it upward.

“Ayyy, get inside,” she gasped, “Huh-huh-huh!”

Smokey scooted until his bulbous tip touched her outer pedals. Caressing up and down until it glistened—he slowly pushed inside. Lucia stiffened and then shivered with pleasure as her pussy sheathed his broad shaft.

“We’ll take it nice and easy, baby—that’s right—nice and slow.”

When his entire length was wetted, Lucia moaned, spread wider and squeezed his lower arms. He cupped his hands under her knees to lift them over his shoulders.

He saw that her pussy lips were stretched taut around his thickness. He gazed into Lucia’s almond-shaped eyes—glazed with passion—loved how she inhaled so deeply when he was slipping in, followed by a deep, satisfied groan when he was in all the way. She dug her heels into his shoulder blades as he moved. When he bent to suck a nipple she unhooked her legs and brought them around his back to set a counter-rhythm with her hips.

Her first orgasm surprised him with its intensity—rhythmic muscular contractions, desperate cries.

“That’s right baby,” he said as he pushed through each successive spasm.

“Oh-oh-oh—ayyy—ohhh, ayyy!” Her sea-gull cries filled the bedroom.

She twitched and squeezed around his cock as Smokey stroked relentlessly—kissing and suckling until another one took hold. She thrashed beneath him, lifting her ass, clasping his shoulders and rubbing her calves over his back.

She’s playing her song, he thought. Each woman he’d been with had her own distinct way. Lucia’s song was original and lovely to the ear.

Smoky plunged to the hilt, balls leaping.

“Jesus—awww,” he growled as he spurt, “awww—shit—aw-aw-awww!”

# # #

For a long while after he stayed inside—kissing her tenderly. The impressive size of his cock afforded the luxury of staying inside until he was ready to leave. When he finally did, the wet sounds of compressed air were followed by a splurge of semen.

His ebony cock was glazed and Lucia’s dark snatch was matted with leavings. Smokey hummed an appreciative, “Mm-mm-mm” and thought he’d never seen anything so wonderful in all his life.

Breathing slowed—the bluesman leisurely nibbled and left a mark on the skin around her nipple. Lucia felt so sensitive that she thought the slightest breeze would make her cum again. Her knees were still lifted and she rubbed a foot lazily over his hips. They smiled at the same time.

“That husband of yours is one lucky buck—waking up to a smile like that every morning.”

“You make love like you play guitar,” she answered.

Smokey kissed her.  She smelled like cinnamon and sex. He had cried out for Jesus when he spurted. Must be a reason for that, he thought. Almighty must know that the secret to heaven on Earth is written between the parentheses of a pussy.

A short time later Smoky was ready to play another song and this one lasted much longer.

# # #

The next night Lucia phoned home before she walked to the concert. Smokey sent her a large bouquet of roses.

After the concert he welcomed her backstage with open arms, yet she saw he was already hooked up with another fan. Undoubtedly she would soon enjoy a free concert. Lucia was okay with that. She’d come to Mexico City without expectations and been privy to Smokey’s most intimate song—oh-so-sweet. Her memories would travel away from this city along with a pressed rose.

As she turned to leave Dorsey caught her by the elbow.

“Hey Lucia—where you goin’ girl?  I was hopin’ you’d hang around, join me later for a little nightcap.”

A Dream’s Reality By Charles E.J. Moulton

So it came to pass that Sophie Fernandez again lay in her Kensington art-studio loft, sleeping. She looked like a Goddess, maybe Aphrodite, maybe Artemis, maybe Hera. In any case, her custom of painting in the nude had resulted in a dormant oasis.

After finishing her work, she simply passed out, her jugs full and ripe, her unshaved pussy wet, the locks of her pubic hair curling and waiting for a long and hard cock, her fuckable body resembling mountain-hillsides of creamy canyons.

One empty bottle of Ribera del Duero 2004 stood on the table, a remnant of a solitary celebration. She had made sure to buy the best and favorite Rioja for the completion of a fine artistic reproduction. After all, a British lass of Spanish decent should always drink Rioja wine. So, Olé! Or as the case may have been: Voila! Her painting was finished. She was ready for sex. That was a sweet cause for celebration, indeed.

She looked just as much like a work of art as what she painted. Tall, brown eyed, nougat complexion, enticing hair, long fingernails, soft seductive eyelashes, pink cheeks, her aura peaceful, as peaceful as the softer passages in the Water Music by Händel that had been playing on a loop for God knows how long.

It soothed her subconscious as she slept on that old large couch with no back or ends. Alone, sleeping out an afternoon hangover, dreaming interesting dreams where a man she did not know visited her and told her that he had written a story about her.

Sophie’s one leg lay across the green cloth, emulating the position she lay in within her dream, the foot resting on the fabric, and the other plopped down upon the parquet floor, her pink nailpolish catching the light of the sunrays as her toes twitched. her right hand stretched back above her head and the other softly touching her sleeping cheek, her bare skin sprinkled by little specks of paint, her nipples now bearing a small coat of greens and reds, parts of her tits sprinkled in blues and yellows, wishing for that strange man to come and add some sperm to the color.

It was as if Sophie Fernandez was a part of the art she painted.

It seemed decadent, of course, painting in the nude, drinking wine, eating chocolate, but the kicked off blanket displayed a tanned body: two orbs of glorious mammaries, lickable, shagable, soft, round, bouncy, hot, cool, spermhungry, tit-job-willing, softly leaning to each side, her shaved genitals heaving and sinking along with her suntanned stomach. That slight snore, audible only if a person stood completely still next to her, transporting serenity, sexiness, fertility and, ultimately, love.

She didn’t know it, but someone was in there with her, flying in and out between her dreams and her reality. That spirit, the Goddess of love, Aphrodite, someone that knew more than she did about who she was: someone watched her intently as she slept. That spirit heard Georg Friedrich Händel’s Water Music blasting through the speakers, the tired body of that struggling artists strained, limbs aching, eyes numb from the endless concentration of gazing on a large canvas.

Meticulously, Sophie had spent the last three weeks perfecting a replica.

“The Arrival of Maria de Medici at Marseilles”, on display in Paris at the Louvres, was still her favorite of Rubens entire cycle of 24 paintings for the Queen and mother of Louis XIII, so it came as no surprise that she jumped at the chance to reproduce it. Her rich customer in Oxford, who had ordered the painting, would sure get his money’s worth.

Sophie Fernandez lay there like a drunken swan, the London breeze tickling her aching muscles, the reproduction on display in a room, empty of furniture, filled with paintings, wine and, yes, a stereo.

Sophie woke up, gasping for air, realizing that she had passed out after that last gulp of the delicious wine, the glass still on the table. She felt the breeze caressing her body, the chill feeling a bit like a tongue finger caressing her shoulder. Sophie ruffled her hair, uttered a well formed: “Oooh!” and closed her eyes, protecting her sensitive eyes, and leaned against her hands. Breathing into her palms, she sat there for longer than she could recall, and thought about the dream. Had it been a dream at all?

She looked up, realizing how loud she had set the CD-player and wondered that she had been able to sleep through all of that. She walked across the room and turned down the music, saw her white kimono hanging on the wall, put it on, but kept the recording running in its own loop.

Blinking into the open room, Sophie wondered. Two hours? Three? Four? What time was it? Sophie glanced over at the Dali clock, closing her robe, studying the clock, designed to look like it was melting, and saw that it was five in the afternoon. Sophie had fallen asleep, drunk, at one. Oh, my.

Mom only knew that Sophie was very successful, but living a free and bohemian lifestyle. Not that she emptied a bottle of Rioja and a box of chocolates every day, but only in order to celebrate the finishing touches of her painting. The gentleman paid £ 4500 for the replica, which gave Sophie something to celebrate. She would buy her mom something special. A computer or something. A good one. Or a tablet. Maybe she would ask her dad to come over alone and she would paint a portrait of him for mom. Maybe she would paint them both. Maybe she would create a sculpture for them. A sculpture of love.

Dazzled, tired, half-drunk, aching and a bit dizzy, the sunrays triggered those dark lucious eyes. Sophie stood there for a moment, basking in the sunshine, letting the silhouettes of the London houses seduce her. London seemed like a good way to celebrate a good month’s work, catapulting out into the familiar funloving life.

Then she remembered her dream. The man. The story. She felt like researching who this charming man had been who had visited her in her dream. It seemed so real and yet like a mystery waiting to be solved, especially since the man in her dream had told her that Sophie had him in the painting.

In that Rubens painting? She had added a face of her own, to be sure.
Mischievous, to be sure. Mischievous to paint an extra face on a painting that was supposed to be an exact replica. But people expected it by now. Ever since grade school, even then she had tried to copy other work, adding something of her own in it. Now it had become her trademark. Even in her replicas of Mona Lisa, her fans tried to find out what element was new in her replica. A tree that wasn’t there in the original? A mountain that had another color? A river that meandered east instead of west? Her fans had become almost like Hitchcocks fans, who waited for his appearance in his own movies. What has Sophie Fernandez planned now?

That’s what they were saying.

Now, in that Maria de Medici painting, Sophie had painted an extra face: the face of a sea-man, a merman if you will, not a mermaid, splashing around next to King Neptune and his chubby sea nymphs. This face had been totally her own invention. She hadn’t even chosen a friend or an associate to pose for the painting. The sea creature had a sympathetic, intellectual face, one that would be her own signature, her own trademark for this special replica.

The new owner of the replica, the rich man from Oxford who paid her £ 4500 for the artwork, had in fact kept saying how eager he was to find out where the new element would lie hidden.

Now, this man in her dream claimed that this face was the face of the dream man named Charles E.J. Moulton. Thoughtfully, Sophie Fernandez walked up to her canvas, reaching for the Mozart-Kugeln, looking thoughtfully at the face, how it smiled at her. Those chocolate covered candy sweets, that lay so a sensually on the table next to the canvas, seemed to be screaming: “Eat me!” at the top of their lungs, as if they had any. They were as candescent as the dream, as rich as the wine, as lucious and her own breasts, as mysteriously candescent as sin.

That face, could it be the face of that person the woman had spoken about? Charles E.J. Moulton? Did a person like that exist? Was this the face of Charles E.J. Moulton? Hmm. Sophie let the chocolate melt in her mouth slowly, picking up the wine and looking at the bottle. Some of her friends claimed that only French wines were real wines and that anything else was a fermented grape juice. Be that as it may, to Sophie Rioja was a work of art. A dangerous work of art, it seemed. After all, one bottle of alcoholic fermented grape juice could produce quite a few strange hallucinations. The effects of wine, however, were just as mysterious as the effects that dreams had on the soul. The names were real memories from dormant dreams though, and Sophie kept remembering those names.

A dream man had just fucked her in her sleep.

Who was he?

As Sophie stepped into the shower that day, rubbing off the paint off her naked body, she wondered. Sophie slipped into her Victorias Secret lingerie, floated into that black Gucci skirt and let that white Versace blouse produce the crowning glory of her looks. Like a perfect recipe for a successful apple pie, Sophie, with that Water Music by Händel still blasting through the speakers, put on her L’Oreal eyshadow and her Revlon lipstick and her Jade rouge and sprinkled herself with some Chopard perfume, turning herself into a work of art, just as much a mystery as a dreamy wine.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she glanced one last time on her reproduction and smiled. She did not have the answers as to what the dream meant, but she maybe the answers would come to her. Maybe she would take some time tomorrow and research who these people were and if they existed at all.

“£4500, she whispered to herself. There’s a good reason to fuck.”

Turning off the stereo and letting that German dude from Halle take the royal break of his sexy afternoon and let King George be a stranger, she strode royally, like the sexy Queen she could be, toward her penthouse door, ready to leave her art loft, ready to experience amorous salvation.

The small “bleede-leep” of her laptop indicated that someone waited for her. Sophie wanted to ignore that someone and just leave, go where ever the wind took her, take her Porsche and just forget about the strenuous detail-obsessed paintbrush-picking and the endless chit-chat of her neurotic voices. After all, London waited for her to rediscover her.

London, the mistress, the casanova, the blowjob.

Sophie glanced over a well formed shoulder, looking over at her Samsung PC, how it blinked and winked at her, telling her that perhaps a new customer was knocking at her virtual door, hoping that she would say yes to an offer.

That familiarly uneasy feeling of being drawn between profession and leisure kept her doing a small fandango of sorts in her doorway, back towards possible work and forth towards a possible one-night-stand. Sophie looked at the decending sun, inspecting it for a moment, making believe that it spoke to her:

“Come to me and I will lead you to my friend: the night, the sun said. Come and dance, wine and dine, sing and laugh. You’ve earned it.”

This time, though, Sophie Fernandez really knew in her heart that this mail couldn’t wait. She quickly walked up to the PC, her heels seductively clicking on the parquet floor.
Impatiently clicking on the keys of the keyboard, Sophie finally and proverbially arrived in her mail programme in an art forum she had joined a month ago. Commercials for a seminar. Her mail site had gone bing just to show her how great a companion this art forum could be. Spam? Nothing but spam?

Sophie pursed her lips, both pairs: facial-lips and pussy-lips, shaking her head in anger, and was just about to close the computer when she saw a strangely familiar name flashing across the screen. It was familiar to her, at least familiar within her dreams. It was an anglo-saxon name, but she was not really sure if the person bearing that name actually was Anglo-Saxon. This man could be British or Australian. International.

Charles E.J. Moulton.

If he existed, was he worth a fuck?

At first the name seemed distant, as if she hadn’t dreamt about that man at all.
Slowly and ever so carefully, Sophie sat down and read the excerpt that was flashing across the screen. The New Members section of the info mail from the art forum now had a new budding trainee: a man in the prime of his life who displayed his paintings in a British art forum. At first, it scared Sophie. She could feel her heart flutter. How come then that this man now appeared on the flashing computer screen in her penthouse? Thoughts of hallucination and conspiracy came to mind. Scary thoughts of possession and obsession meandered through her brainstem and hit her fluttering heart.

Her hands began to shake, her forehead produced light sweat drops that now trickled down her elegantly made up face, ruining her make-up. Sophie felt herself stiffen like a corpse. She felt like laying down, curing the hangover that she again felt. Had she heard that name prior to the dream? No, she had never heard that name. Then why was this name now here on the screen? She didn’t know why, but this scared her.

Carefully, her painted fingernails shaking so hard that they clicked repeatedly against the keys of the computer keyboard, she clicked on the painting that came with the name: a Bob Rossian kind of painting with the red and yellow colors mingled together and black silhouettes of elephants and palm trees gracing the front. The screen waited, bleeped and searched for its source and soon the artist bio presented itself.

The text ran on for quite a bit and she saw that the man was a Renaissance Man of sorts. Sophie felt herself gasping for air, leaned back in her chair and slapped her right hand against her mouth. Uncontrollably, she began laughing. It was a high chuckle, one that helped the initial fear actually transform itself into joy.

Someone was here with her. Aphrodite. How could one otherwise explain the fact that two such unique names presented themselves to her in her sleep and then showed themselves in black and white on the screen.

It didn’t take long to find out that Charles had written a short story named “A Venus Born in London” about a succulent British-Hispanic reproductive artist named Sophie Fernandez. What was this? Demonic possession? Angelic magic? A sign from above?
Had this man been prying in on her life? On the other hand, with the web as prominent as it was, it was not difficult to guess that he had found something about her and decided to write a story about her. But … Sophie winced, looked out toward the London dusk and tried to figure this one out. How could that be?

Sophie completely forgot about time. She walked in to her kitchen and brought out another bottle of wine, a French Bordeaux one this time, a 2006 Chateau Latour. Taking her first sip with her right hand, she clicked on Charles Facebook-site with the other.
She clicked on Charles name, requested for him to be a friend, not really knowing what was happening to her and why she was so afraid. She actually wanted to run out into the open street and leave in her expensive car and forget that this was happening.

She nearly jumped out of her seat, jumping almost as high as her art studio ceiling, when she saw that Charles not only answered her request, but also that he was online.
Sophie laughed again, this time even more uncontrollably.

And suddenly, the urge to eject into the London party scene vanished with the afternoon breeze and was replaced by solving a mystery.

“Hello, my name is Sophie Fernandez,” she wrote. “I would like to be your friend.”
“Hello back,” Charles responded, “that sounds nice. Do I know you?”

“I am not sure,” Sophie answered.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Charles added.

“I live in London,” Sophie wrote, “this is all very confusing, Charles. Who are you?”

“I am an actor, an author, a singer, a painter. I’ll ask you again: do I know you?”

“I would think so. I mean, you wrote a story about me,” Sophie laughed.

“What? How so?”

“Your story ‘A Venus Born in London’ is about a British-Hispanic artist living in London. She paints replicas of famous paintings. That is what I do. That is who I am. You must’ve done a lot of research about me.”

Charles crooned: “Hold on, Sophie. I made those characters up. That all came from my own imagination. I even made sure that the website that I made up in that story didnt exist. I checked and double-checked it. You’re telling me you exist?”

Sophie shook her head and spat: “This is spooky. You mean, you have never really heard of me? That can’t be. You’re putting me on.”

“No.”

“Look, I dreamt about you, Charles. In my dream, I heard your name and a spirit told me I had painted your face into my replica of the Rubens painting.”

The long wait in the online conversation had Sophie thinking that Charles had left for good. Then, the shock. The amazing coincidence. Aphrodite’s prediction. The dream man.

“Sophie,” Charles wrote.

“Yes?”

“I’m in London right now,” he said. “If you tell me where you live I could come over. I mean, if I wrote a story about you and you painted my face into the painting, we should meet. I mean, I would love to meet you.”

“I just showered,” Sophie mused. “I could get naked for you. I mean, I was sort of looking for someone to fuck.”

“Okay.”

“Kensington High Street 45. Fernandez.”

“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

Sophie trembled like a crazy cat in a snowstorm for that remaining half hour. This had to be real, though. She looked at the pictures of Charles in the net and realized she had painted his face into the painting without knowing it. Then he must’ve invented the story about her without knowing that she was real. Aphrodite had been here.

Sophie stripped naked and waited, combing her pubic hair and massaging her tits a bit, ruffling her hair. When the doorbell rang, Sophie jumped, feeling like a schoolgirl meeting the man of her dreams for the first time, his voice mellow, his face grinning. Crazy thing to strip naked for a strange man, but Aphrodite had brought her someone she could fuck.

The mystery man.

He arrived, that mystery man, saw her naked and smiled. They kissed, he touched her breasts, two strangers who had met before. Sophie showed Charles her painting and his face gracing the corner. Then and there, they realized it was time to fuck.

Fate had brought them together.

Sophie looked down upon the growing bulge in Charles’ jeans.

“What’s that?”

Charles shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Is it Christmas?”

She wrinkled her nose a bit, making her cheeks dimple, her tongue licking her lips.

Slowly, she took a few steps up toward Charles, her high heels clicking against the floor. As she dwindled down upon her knees, her ass swayed in a way that reminded Charles of a flowers swaying in the wind. Using her long nails as tools to unzip his pants, she made him feel like a lamb on the way to the slaughter. If that hadn’t been enough, she now pulled down the trousers all the way to the ground using only her mouth.

Red elegant fingernails grasping glory, she opened her eyes wide, making a very indicative “Ooh!”-movement with her lips upon seeing what was waiting for her. Her one index finger grabbed the buckle of his belt and seductively felt how hard it was.

With a very spiritual and candescent looking grin, a six inch gender literally catapulted out of his pants into her face.

“It’s huge.”

“20 centimetres.”

Sophie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around his shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process. That fabulous sensation made her see stars. She licked his cock, gave him deep throat, sucked on his balls, ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that she knew she could be.

With enthusiastic lips and swirling tongue, Sophie boobing her head back and forth like a regular slut, she gave Charles the blowjob of his life, tasting that salty sausage and feeling its length tickling her tonsils.

The sun was setting as he inserted his tongue into Sophie’s snatch for the first time, giving her the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second, probing her like an oil-drill. So deep, in fact, that Sophie soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of her pubic hair. The sound he was made was quite similar to the sound a man made while drinking beer. The slurping and licking made her think that there were gallons of clitty-juice in there – and there probably was.

She laughed to herself, aroused by this amazing sensation.

Soon enough, Charles turned Sophie around and stuck in his cock from behind. Sophie knew that her ass-cheeks wobbled as he fucked her. Well, Charles fucked her through and through right then and there and she bet he really enjoyed seeing how wobbly her butt could be while he pounded her. No tightness there. Just a nice wobbly butt that loved being fucked like the cocklover’s ass it was.

It didn’t take very long for Charles to change holes, so to speak.

For every thrust Sophie’s horny lust grew more insatiable and Charles’ dick harder, Sophie’s back entrance tight and lovely. They were getting into a steady rhythm now, sort of a marching beat: thrust in, slide out, thrust in, slide out. For every time he thrust in, her boobs bounced to and fro, causing her to look only to moan and yelp and their almost choreographical dancing beat giving her a second orgasm. Charles bent over to lick her back as he fucked her ass. It turned into an amazing ballet of cock and butt, tongues and tits.

With a fantastic smacking sound, Charles slid out his cock out of her asshole, jerking off quicker and faster than Sophie had ever had seen anyone jerk off before. His manhood grew so big that she literally felt like watching a tower erupt out of the ground.

“Come on, mystery man,” she gasped, “squirt on my face!”

Shockwaves of bloodshots came racing down from his chest, the sperm factory now preparing for a spectalar lift-off.

“With pleasure, fictional fuck!”

One gigantic load pinpointed her open tongue, sliding down into her throat. The second shot spread onto her happy laughing cheek. The third came flying across her forehead, landing on a lock of her hair.

It was then that Sophie woke up, realizing that she had been dreaming.

That evening, she turned on the computer and found Charles’ name in the web.

The rest is history.