Collections By Stephen Faulkner

__        Josey, you won’t believe what happened to me today, you just can’t. I’m not even sure I believe it myself, it was so unreal.

 

__        You’re right, Marie, I don’t believe it at all. It just can’t be true. Things like that just don’t happen. You must be lying.

 

__        How can you say that when I haven’t even…. Oh, now I get it. “Quit the preamble, Marie, and get to the point.” Right?

 

__        Words right out of my mouth. So tell me; what’s so unreal that you can’t believe that it actually happened? What’s the big revelation?

 

__        “Not a revelation, really, and not even so big as I made it sound. Well, anyway, get this…. I’m on the “preferred list” down at Aaron’s Collectibles, you know. Well, I got their “special issue” catalog for this month in the mail and it was just fantastic. You wouldn’t believe what they have in this month. I don’t know who the buyer had to bribe or sleep with to get all this stuff but whoever it was, it worked. Spode Limiteds, Lladro Numbered Editions, Hummel Originals. Can you imagine? Five complete sets of the Hummel “Band” collection – violinist, flautist, horn player, guitarist, the whole thing. Vintage 30’s – just incredible. And the envelope the catalog came in was only postmarked yesterday. Now, here comes the “you won’t believe it” part – aside from the fact that I almost had an accident in the car on the way down there, Anyway, are you ready?  Four of the band sets, all of them complete, were already gone by the time I got there and someone had bought the bowler hatted violin player out of the one set that was left, I tell you, Josey, I was just devastated.

 

__        Too bad. Did you buy what was left of the last set? Horn, flute, guitar and the rest?

 

__        What would have been the point? The violin makes the set. I just had to settle for something else, that’s all.

 

__        For what? For a Lladro?

 

__        No. All they had left was The Shepherdess and I already have that one. I really need the Goat Girl but all that they had of that one was a three incher with a chip out of the bottom. But let me show you what I did get, though. It’s really….

 

__        Don’t bother, Marie. You know my only interests in your knick-knacks come from your enjoyment of them. For myself, it’s all a waste of time. Just tell me what it is, that’s all. My pleasure is seeing the excitement in your eyes when you describe one of your acquisitions to me.

__        My pleasure is your pleasure, huh? It’s a pity I don’t have your own hobby to get really involved with, Josey. Instead of your always getting a vicarious charge watching my face brighten with the thought of a new piece I’ve just gotten or that I’m about to get, I could be delighting in your little triumphs.

 

__        I have my own triumphs; you know that. My hobby is social rather than material in nature. And for you to see the delight – rapture, really – on my face when one of my “acquisitions” have been truly successful, well, you’d have to have put yourself into something of a compromising position in order to do so.

 

__        Yeah, I imagine that I would. Not that I would want to be in one of your – ahem! – “acquisitions” when it happens. The trouble with your “hobby”” – and I have a hard time thinking of what you do when you collect as a hobby – is that what you have gained in the doing is so transitory that it can’t be enjoyed afterwards. Now look at this. Hey! Don’t make a face about it, just look. See? You can look at it, touch it, handle it, appreciate its beauty. I bought I, know that it’s mine, that it will last. In your “collection,” what do you…?

 

__        “Is that what you bought? A statuette of a naked woman? Marie, I had no idea. I mean, I didn’t realize that you, of all people, swung that….

 

__        Josey, what are you thinking? One track mind, that’ you, as usual. So all right, it’s a naked woman but there is nothing smutty about it. It’s the beauty of it that matters. Here, look at its clean, flowing line. Art Deco, 1920’s. I love it and always will have it to hold and look at….

 

__        Until you need some fast and ready cash. Then I suppose you could get a pretty penny for it, couldn’t you?

 

__        Give it a couple of years and I’m sure I could sell it for a lot more than I paid for it today, though I would hate to part with it. But that is a consideration. As long as the pieces in my collection re in mint or close to mint condition, the return I could realize could really be nearly astronomical.

 

__        The difference between us, then, is that you have to wait for your collection to appreciate in value while what I collect is given freely to me and what I give in return can be pretty damned valuable on its own to a man whose tastes are discriminating and he’s willing to show me how much what we do means to him….

 

__        Josey! You don’t mean to tell me that you actually…?

 

__        Don’t get all excited about it. It only happened once, and I didn’t even mean to. I just tossed off a silly suggestion while we were undressing each other. Something like, “Monetary considerations would be greatly appreciated.” You know, just a joke, really. I didn’t think the guy would take me seriously. I just did it to see what kind of reaction I’d get and if I could get away with it.

__        And did you…? Did he…?

 

__        Yes, he did. Fifty dollars. I think I must have felt the way an actress who’s in love with the theater feels when she gets her first paying role. Like I was stealing or something. Doing what I love to do and getting paid for it? It didn’t seem right somehow, made me feel kind of guilty. I went right out and gave the whole fifty to a priest at Saint Anselm’s for the church’s poverty drive.

 

__        You didn’t! I would have gone right out and….

 

__        And bought a Hummel violin player with a bowler hat. I know. But like I said, my collection’s free and clear. There’s nothing to buy; no money changes hands. Oh, well, sure, there are some things to buy like make-up, new clothes now and then, trips to my gynecologist and contraceptives. I would have gotten those things anyway. The big expense is alcohol. Six bucks a drink at Hunter’s but with their bartenders making vodka Collinses almost three to one, it’s really not such a bad deal. Six or twelve bucks on a bar tab and I usually get lucky. Like with your fancy bric-a-brac, I do it for the pleasure, so the money spent is worth it to me.

 

__        Bit like I say, Josey, after all is said and done, what do you have to show for it? A half hour or so of foreplay, maybe a full hour for the whole thing. A couple of orgasms and if the guy has something communicable maybe a case of the clap or something exotic that the doctors in the States haven’t found a cure for yet. All that done, your collection‘s all in your head, just some pleasant memories, that’s all. Joe, Jack, Jimmy, Bob, Bill, Tom, Dick, Harry – one has to be pretty much the same as all the others, I would think. All bunched up in your head as one face, one cock, two balls…. Like one man meshed together out of many.

 

__        Oh, no, that’s where you’re wrong. They’re all individuals. Sure, If I just trusted to memory they’d all become a single mass of faces and genitals in my head. But…. Have I you ever shown you this before?

 

__        A high school composition book? No, you never… Wait a sec. Josey; don’t tell me that this is your “little black book”? But why so big?

 

__        Look closer. It’s not a “little black book.” The phone numbers I want to keep I have elsewhere. I call this my “memory aid.” See? About a half page per each…. Well, call them conquests if you want to. I hate that word, Nothing is ever conquered when everything is given and taken freely. Except for that fifty I made that one time and that shouldn’t count.

 

__        Not if you gave it all to charity, I suppose not.

 

__        Anyway, see this sheet here? Two sides, four guys. That was last weekend’s tally of…. Well, of whatever you want to call them. Lover is a good word.

 

__        “Friday: Jason P.; Saturday: Gregory O. and Edgar R.; Sunday: Abdul Q.” Abdul?

 

__        Works for the Saudi Consulate. Young, dark and hairy as a gorilla, even on his back. Recited selections form the Koran as we undressed. Could barely keep it up, no matter what I tried. See the black X? Means loser. Sweet man, a little eccentric, but a loser all the same. Probably had some hang-up about making it with an infidel or maybe a Mommy complex of some sort.

 

__        And the red asterisk next to Edgar R?  What’d you use, a felt tip?

 

__        Edgar…? Ooh, yes, Edgar. Mmmm!  Red anything means definitely contact again. Asterisk is the highest, overall. With a name like Edgar you’d expect a bookish guy with glasses and who whispers instead of talks, shy and retiring, you know? Well, he was like that at Hunter’s – his first time there – but when I got him home…. Wow! Talk about passionate. That man could kiss. And hung like a Clydesdale. Shit, I tell you, Marie, with a shlong like that…. Ai-yi! I’ve never been split open so wide or plowed so deep I’m scared he might have hurt my cervix. If I get pregnant the kid would have to be his. Even with all my precautions – the pill, like always, and a diaphragm – I wouldn’t be surprise if his spermy flood got through and knocked me up somehow.

 

__        Josey…!

 

__        I know, I talk too much. Just read. Keep the book until I see you next, if you want. I only cruise on weekends, so I won’t be needing it for a couple of days yet.

 

__        Really, Josey, I don’t think I….  Hey, take a look here. What does “pos.” mean?

 

__        Hmn! Oh. That. It means positions. My own short-hand. But it’s all pretty self-explanatory.

 

__        “Pos. – missionary, fem-top-straddle, fem-top-lain, shower-standing-rear-vaginal, doggie-all-fours, wheelbarrow-hands-only-support, front-lain, pillow-raised-middle, side-lay-frontal, side-lay, fem-back/male-front.” Really, Josey, you expect me to believe…?

 

__        The man has staying power. What can I say? How many positions do you count there? Eight? Nine?

 

__        One, two, three…. Umm…. Nine of them.

 

__        I came like rockets with the first four. Broke the monotony with other things; it’s all there, you’ll see. The other five get all rolled together in my head. Like a space shot, all jets open to the max the whole trip, just one continuous orgasm. Notice the numbers in the right hand for Abdul, Jason and so on? I rate my orgasm with them on a one to ten scale – zip for Abdul, five and half for Jason, seven for Gregory, et cetera. With Edgar the scale exploded. I didn’t know what to put. Ten was too cheap. If it was a piece of porcelain you’d probably call it priceless. Anyway, read on; it gets interesting.

 

__        You mean where it says “Sans Int. Pos.”?

 

__        That’s it. “Sans Intercourse Positions.” It means, oh, any position that doesn’t entail actual cock and cunt screwing. You know: foreplay kind of stuff.

 

__        “Sans Int. Pos.: cunn., fell., fingers, hands, 69, athletic 69, G.S., sod. – doggie, sod. – frontal….” Athletic 69?

 

__        He sat up while I was blowing him and hoisted me so that I had my legs wrapped around his head and he tongued me crazy while I sucked him off. I was head down and getting dizzy but I loved every minute of it.

 

__        What about “G.S.”?

 

__        Golden shower.

 

__        He pissed on you or you on him?

 

__        Me on him. It was an accident, really. I was riding him, sitting up – fem.-top-straddle” is how it’s written there. I was playing with my clitty as I was going up and down with him way inside of me. Just as I was getting my first rush of an orgasm…. Well, I pissed on him. I didn’t mean to do it, it just happened. I don’t think he even noticed. He didn’t say anything and even if he did notice, it dried up pretty quickly.

 

__        And “Sod.” means sodomy, right?

 

__        Right. Don’t really like it but by the time he suggested it I’d already been laid three times – I think – and had been both the tongue-er and tongue-ee maybe twice, so I was willing to try just about anything to keep the ball rolling. So to speak.

 

__        Ball rolling. That reminds me – what about him? He was virile all this time. Nine instances of intercourse and however many of fellatio, sixty-nine, sodomy, masturbation….

 

__        What can I say? The man had staying power. I helped, of course – educated hands and an expert tongue. Five hours and he only popped three times. It didn’t seem fair to me but he said he was satisfied.

 

__        Sounds like he’s got you spoiled. Anything less will seem – hmmsh! – anticlimactic. So to speak.

 

__        Yes. So to speak. But it doesn’t stop me from trying to find better, though. Almost a lost cause, when you think about it. A five hour erection on that guy and with only two wilts. Sweet and affectionate almost to a fault when he wasn’t dreaming up some new, untried configurations. And just look at those stats.

 

__        Stats? You mean these? “Ht. 6’ 5”, Wt. 240 lbs.” Big guy, huh?

 

__        More than you know. Keep reading.

 

__        You tape measure them before you make love to them?

 

__        Don’t be silly. Just call it a trained eye. I’ve made it with enough weight lifter types to know a 45 inch chest from a 50. Those numbers are only approximate but I’ll bet if I’d asked I’d have found I wasn’t more than an inch or two off. But keep going, the best is yet to be heard.

 

__        What? Legs and arms?

 

__        They’re there, too. But something else. You know what I mean.

 

__        Oh, that. Yes, of course.

 

[PAUSE – A WHISTLE OF AMAZEMENT]

 

__        Kielbasa! Is your trained eye that good? I mean, couldn’t it possibly have been just eight or eight and a half inches?

 

__        No, it was a nine all right. Actually closer to ten but near enough to the halfway mark to make it iffy.

 

__        And six inches in diameter? Now, really Josey….

 

__        Well, that part was really just an educated guess.

 

__        Nine times in one night….

 

__        Day and night, actually. We got started at about five in the afternoon.

 

__        All right, then. Nine times in one five hour period.  And with that…?  My God, girl, how could you even sit down afterwards? Or even think of trying it later that night with mushy Abdul?

 

__        Hopes of one fantastic success being followed by another. Boy, was I ever wrong.

 

__        Still, though, a red asterisk for Edgar….

 

__        And he deserves every crossed line of it. Turns just about all the others I’ve had – or thought I had – rather pale by comparison.

 

__        You gonna call him? Set a date for the next time you’ll get together?

 

__        That’s what a red asterisk means.

 

__        And it doesn’t make you feel like a… like a….

 

__        A tramp? A slut? Whore? Nympho? Easy lay? Well, Maybe the last two. For myself, though, I prefer to call it simple eagerness.

 

__        Collecting eagernesses, orgasms, men. Quite a hobby you have there. Still, what it all really comes down to are tangibles and abstracts. For all you have written here, the main things you have collected are just memories. Abstracts. Nothing you can touch or see.

 

__        Don’t have to. The doing is the main thing: that seeing, that touching. Like an actress and her craft, once the play is over, the performance is a memory. But one which leaves her with a feeling of something accomplished, something given as well as gained. Anything of an abstract nature has that at its core. With your hobby you gain, but what do you give? Twenty five, fifty, a hundred dollars or more to Aaron’s Collectibles? Does Aaron groan in orgasmic joy and appreciation as you write out the check or place the crisp, new bills into his hand and walk out of the shop with your purchase?

 

__        You’re blowing a smokescreen over the whole thing. What it comes down to is the pleasure we derive from what we collect.

 

__        And as I collect my pleasures I also give pleasure in return. An equal exchange. The pleasure I give to the man – as much as I can find out from him about it – does too double my own. Interaction. You can’t claim that kind of satisfaction from your hobby, no matter how rare the treasure you buy.

 

__        No, I can’t. I really don’t know how to answer that, no matter what kind of defense I could mount to counter what you just said. Makes my own hobby sound like a petty, selfish thing. Get, buy, acquire, collect. All for my own satisfaction and nothing more. And it’s a pleasure which I don’t think that I could amply describe.

 

__        But that’s the whole point, don’t you see? For both of us. Our own satisfaction – owning or doing, it doesn’t matter – the pleasure involved, no matter how we go about attaining it. A shelf full of curios for you, a book full of names, stats, positions and memories for me. “Oh looky look at all that I have. Aren’t I just wonderful?”

 

__        You make it sound so petty and self-indulgent.

 

__        Well, isn’t it? I mean, maybe it is. I don’t like to think of in those terms, but I can see your point. Each of us satisfying some personal obsessive hunger. Material objects and sexual experiences. What’s the difference?

 

__        Matter of preference, I suppose.

 

__        That’s all? Nothing to do with style?

 

__        What does that mean?

 

__        What does that matter, you mean?

 

__        That, too. Style doesn’t mean anything if you’re not content with it. If you’re not content, why even do it? Style doesn’t matter a fig, then, either.

 

__        So there you are.

 

__        Just choices, then. Preferences.

 

__        All right then. That’s settled.

 

__        How about morals? Right and wrong. Something else you don’t think about, I suppose.

 

__        If it’s right for me, I try not to let it bother my conscience.

 

__        And the guys you sleep with?

 

__        Fuck with, you mean. Let’s call a spade a spade, Marie dear. I figure that if they do it and accept my terms – and they are indirectly agreeing from the first flirty glance – then it must be all right with them, too.

 

__        So, then there’s no worry what’s right or wrong as long as it’s right for the individual. That’s your story?

 

__        In a nutshell, yes.

 

__        Relativist.

 

__        You want to talk philosophies? Fine, but don’t expect anything earth shattering from me.

 

__        So, then, it’s my Hummels, Spodes, Lladros et cetera and you with your collection of cocks, balls, missionary, doggie straddling sixty niners and what not. Yours is yours and mine is mine and we’re friends because we don’t compete.

 

__        Well, that’s not the only “because,” but it is one factor of our friendship, I guess. We go for different things. Something of a harsh assessment, but fitting, as far as it goes.

 

[PAUSE]

 

__        Still, Josey, with your “hobby,” there’s nothing to see, touch or feel after the – what do you call it? – the transaction is completed.

 

__        Ah shit! Are you still harping on that?  I thought we finished with that point a while ago.

 

__        It’s not a point, it’s the point as far as I’m concerned. Look, here’s the result of my little obsession for this past week. Late 20’s Art Deco, semi-glazed female nude figurine. You can see it, hold it, feel its weight and texture. And what do I have from you? Words on paper, descriptions of penile dimensions and how it cleaved you open upon entry into your vagina. Nine orgasms, whoopee! I wish you had some pictures to show me, at least.

 

__        I’ve got an old Polaroid around here somewhere but that would mean employing a third party as photographer. Changes the whole…. Oh, what is the word I’m looking for? Ambiance? Sounds like a word you’d find in a restaurant guide but I guess it’ll have to do.  A third person changes the whole ambiance of the situation. Spontaneity goes right out the window with a flash going off in your face every so often. You feel like you have to pose instead of just enjoying what you’re doing. And who would be taking the pictures? A woman? I’d be spending half my concentration wondering whether or not she’ll want to get into the action. A strange kind of jealousy when you think about it. A man? I’ll be mentally sizing him up for his possible inclusion thereby causing the guy I’m shtupping to lose his concentration wondering if and when he’ll have to share me with the other guy.

 

__        An odd kind of dilemma. Nothing like that with my hobby. Except when another collector’s got his eye on the same piece as I do. On the whole, though, as soon as the purchase is made, no more worries. The piece is mine, it’s there in my hands, neatly and safely done up in bubble wrap for protection from any accidents. At home, proof of purchase is right there on the shelf or in the hutch. Three-dimensional for all to see. No pictures needed, no description or written notes. There it is, and that’s all.

 

__        Very nice, I agree. Pleasure to the eye – most of them, anyway. Like men, it’s all a matter of taste.

 

__        That’s the final measure then? Just taste?

 

__        Probably not. It’s a good starting point, though. But we’ve been tossing this back and forth now for what? How many years has it been?

 

__        Since high school graduation. You celebrated by going down on Mister Sulgrave, your old tenth grade math teacher – or so the rumors had it and you told me later – and me by buying my first Hummel. “Busy Student.” I still have it in my collection. Seemed appropriate at the time, besides the fact that I’d fallen in love with the sweet chubby face of that little girl concentrating on her ABC’s.

 

__        And you think that “taste” or “style” or any one word you might come up with would do any of it justice? Yours or mine?

 

.__       Well, we could chalk it up to “lifestyle.” Is that better?

 

__        Same terminology. It’s just us, Marie. Each with her own peculiarly personal preferences. Let’s just leave it at that.

 

__        I guess you’re right.

 

[PAUSE]

 

__        Josey? You busy this weekend?

 

__        Hunter’s again, I guess. Or maybe the Red Orange. Their Happy Hour is the best that I’ve found for drinks and their male clientele.

 

__        No chance of your company then, I suppose. Over at Aaron’s Collectibles or at the South County Flea Market.

 

__        It depends. Any cute guys?

 

__        I thought you’d say something like that. Cute guys? Mmm, sometimes at the Flea Market, I guess. I don’t pay that much attention.

 

__        You wouldn’t. I see that you’ve still got that old Bel Aire in the driveway. A regular tank, that car.

 

__        Always was, you know that. So?

 

__        And a back seat that could comfortably sleep two.

 

__        Uh-huh. I’m beginning to get the drift here. Keep talking.

 

__        Tell you what. You’ve got me for Saturday on one condition. Or, at least, one that will sound like two.

 

__        Whatever. Just say it.

 

__        I’ll bring my Polaroid. After the shopping is done and I find myself a likely candidate for the continuation of my “hobby,” you be the photographer.

 

__        I see. I pick up the porcelain, you pick up the guy. No competition.

 

__        You kidding me? With your figure and that adorable face? I’ll expect I’ll have to fight like hell to even get a guy to look at me with you nearby.

 

__        Thank you for that. Now about the photography…. You’re talking about you and whoever in the back seat, pants around his ankles, you pantiles with your skirt hiked up to your belly button, doing the hot and nasty while I’m hanging over the back of the front seat snapping candids…. Have I got the gist of it?

 

__        Very astute girl. That catches it perfectly.

 

__        All right. I’ll do it. But on two conditions.

 

__        I think I saw this coming. One, of course, will be that I’ll have to buy something.

 

__        Right.

 

__        And the second?

 

__        You clean up the back seat afterward of anything that might cause stains.

 

__        Fair enough, I guess. Fairer still would be the old rule of “She who makes sticky mess with man shall be the one who does the cleaning.” And I wouldn’t be surprised if you and I will have to share that little chore equally.

 

__        You mean that you think that I…?  And doing it while you and your guy are in the back seat as I and…?  Oh, please, sister, just don’t hold your breath for that little scenario, that’s all I have to say.

 

__        And don’t you expect me to spring for forty or sixty bucks on a Lladro or a Royal Doulton or something. Not the first time out, at least. Remember, dear, I’ll be a virgin in your little world, too.

 

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Travelling the Horny Moon By Charles E.J. Moulton

Xavier’s fingers raced across the keyboard, his mind working faster than his hands could follow suit. The light of the full moon journeyed from outer space through the stratosphere, hitting that computer, the ticking clock on the wall remaining as much an object as the machine in front of him.

The clock, however, was, as ever, too slow for his taste. It was almost as if Xavier worked to fill the seconds with more words, as well as with more than words. And yet – and yet – the slow and solemn night, combined with Xavier’s quick inspiration, somehow changed his perception of time. Fast became slow and slow became fast, time transformed into merely organized digits and eternal timelessness arose from the depths into his spirit.  It reminded him of his grandfather’s successful promises kept, fabricating clock upon clock in his workshop back in Lyon.

He had created this clock for Xavier. It still hung there, ticking, constant, reliable. And yet Xavier’s mind worked faster at night. Like Xavier’s literary work, his grandfather’s craft thrived on detail. Every clock had been a masterpiece. Every one was an original. Like he had been one: him, the grandfather. Like his grandfather had claimed Xavier was unique or every person was unique – every man and every woman.

“Ah, oui,” his grandfather had said. “The women are fascinating! So elusive and mysterious, quite a riddle, but a lovely one!”

This clock, eternal although time-constricted, had a picture painted on its surface of landscape, a shore with a beach and trees lit up by a moon. It was spiritual and yet sensual. Xavier’s wife had fallen in love with that clock and hung it up at that very place where it hung now. It had hung there since their honeymoon, or the “horny moon”, as she lovingly had called it. That had become a code word for sex ever since. Travelling to the Maledives for their “horny moon” and literally fucking themselves through it, that was one thing. The fact, however, was that their lust seemed to increase every actual full moon, but maybe it was just the fact that the moon inspired love.

Anyway, horny moons or no, Xavier’s wife’s boobs resembled actual moons and Xavier’s dick a rocket, so the married couple pretended that Xavier’s rocket came flying up between the two biggest moon of Saturn, squirting out its fuel on its neighbour Venus. Sometimes, they just called it titfucking.

Through the years, Xavier had watched his grandfather work, his reliability a buffer of strength. He had come to realize how like him he was: studious, hardworking and, he hoped, eloquent. Xavier’s articles thus turned rather eloquent in the end, his proofread stories seemed like fresh editions, his corrected book good enough to be published and his submissions professional. His literary skills were like clockwork: his timing was impeccable.

Time was of the essence and within the essence there was eloquence.

Outside now, though, the Queen of the Night had thrown over her brilliant blanket across the world, waiting, hoping, meditating. The stars glittering, the full moon graced the heavens brightly enough to re-awaken Xavier’s inner werewolf with the hot erection.

Xavier wanted to copulate. Who was he kidding? Xavier wanted to fuck. Inside his glass, the red Rioja reflected the lit candle’s flickering flame. Fuego’s breath exhaled sex into the fibres of his erect arousal. Time was of the essence. Inside the glass, time stood still.

Xavier found himself again being the only night-owl. His workaholic mind couldn’t stop fluttering and flying into new spheres, mixing genres, erotic with sci-fi and comedy with horror, sending off new stories to new publishers and wondering what horizons would meet him at the end of the next rainbow.

The dainty snores of his family, though, proved to be too inviting to reject. He listened for his wife’s sweet snore, her sweet restful sleep hopefully strength-gathering enough to snooze until the morning.

“What are you doing, Mom? Dad?” his daughter had asked them yesterday, walking in to their bedroom unannounced, just as Xavier found his big cock entering his wife’s hot pussy again for the one-thousandth time.

“Extreme cuddling,” Xavier had mused shyly.

And boy, had his daughter ever told her girlfriends what her father had told her as he laid on Mom. Their natural way of raising his daughter felt right, teaching her that her parents made love because it felt good. Maybe she could find a respectful husband one day with whom she could raise a free thinking and spiritual child. Their openness was neither compulsive nor was it forbidding, neither was it preachy nor revolutionary.

Sex, Xavier felt, was neither a sin nor was it against God’s wishes. Sex, Xavier felt, was creation at work, a unity of bodies and souls.

At its faithful and respectful best, sex was love.

No more, no less.

Flop. His laptop made a clicking sound as he closed it, followed by a cocky knock-back of fermented Spanish grape-juice. The house welcomed him to rest as he journeyed with the glass to the kitchen, the light of the moon again hitting the empty cold memory of wine.

Fabric by fabric, Xavier stripped and tread into the shower. The trickling water of the shower then replaced the red wine, seducing his skin with evening rejuvination. It was under the water that Xavier let his soapy hands massage his cock, rubbing it up to a glorious six inches. As he stood there, letting the shower inspire his helmet, he thought of sleeping wife, her brilliantly cocktrained mouth spoiling his dick rotten with spectacular blowjobs.

In and out of her mouth his penis went, her dickpleasing techniques glorious to say the least. He recalled giving her nicknames like “Dickraiser” and “Penislover” and “Spectacular Fuck” and “Wonder-Wobbles” or simply “The Best Fucking Cumshot in History”.

Well, Thea loved hearing him tell her:

“Come on, baby, stick my cock in your mouth and suck more than a little!”

And how she did suck. His cock felt like singing, if it could sing at all.

“You suck so well!”

“You cockh tashtesh shooooah grreath,” she would always grunt, his dick plopping in and out of her bobbing horny head. And then he would fuck her, her tits wobbling to and fro, finally squirting his cum onto her tongue penishungry tongue.

The sweet cool water dripping off his horny manhood, Xavier inspected Thea’s bathroom wall-decorations: kissing fish, randy octopus hearts, titlike jellyfish and vagina-like sharks. It was with an eager smile that he brushed his teeth, still looking at the seahorse that reminded him of a tit with many nipples. And when the towel dried his one-eyed weasel off, Xavier swore himself to lick himself some serious wifey-tit.

Once in bed, however, his dick still as erect as a flagpole, he chose to give himself a short five-finger-mambo before performing a tender sleep assault on his S.A.F. – his Sausage-Addicted-Filly, his C.T.M.C. – Cock Teasing Masterpiece of a Cockpleaser.

Laying there in the darkness, he let his hands massage Mr. Happy. He remembered his wife’s nice girlfriend arriving earlier, sitting on the terrace, drinking coffee, putting in a cake onto her sexy tongue. Xavier imagined walking up to that girlfriend’s seat, plucking out his cock and asking her to give him a blowjob.

That fantasy elaborated itself almost independantly and let his dick throb.

In that next fantasy, his wife Thea and the girlfriend Maria sat on the edge of their bed taking turns sucking his cock until he squirted on both of their faces.
Now his sex fantasies really took off. Laying there in that darkness, rubbing his long dick, he felt a pride for his own cock surge. That pride, however, did not only entail a love for pussies and tits. The sight of a cock inside the mouth of a pretty lady remained one of the most breathtakingly beautiful sights in the world. So beautiful, in fact, that Xavier wondered how it was to suck cock for real.

Xavier was a hunky and masculine man in this life, no question.

He believed in reincarnation, though, and was sure that he had been a woman in his earlier life. At that moment, his own long cock raised, he recalled being a rich woman once, on her knees in front of three men, sucking their cocks one by one, letting them squirt on her face in turn.

Xavier felt his own tits swell, large and succulent ones ready for some male tongue. He felt his wide hips tingle and his pussy throb. Every cock tasted fantastic and with every squirt Xavier opened his mouth in this life, waiting for male cum to land on a willing female tongue. One of his fuckers in that previous life was the husband in that incarnation, Henry. It had literally been a fantastic orgy. Henry, his previous female self and the two other men met once every week in their large mansion, fucking like rabbits.

He lay there, remembering how feminine he had felt back then and how masculine he felt now. Then, the surprise. Henry, the husband of his previous incarnation, had been Thea in her last carnation as a man. Man, so they had switched places just to learn what it was like to be the other gender. Thank God!

Inspired by all of this, he moved his hand slowly toward his wife’s tits, reaching under her covers. Realizing that she already had raised her nightgown, Xavier began massaging her left boob slowly and elegantly and with a joyous grin on his face, Mr. Happy now larger than ever. The left nipple grew to the size of a strawberry as quickly as Thea’s moans manifested a fine and raunchy crescendo.

With his right hand Xavier wanked his large dick into greater lengths whilst giving his wife that jugjob of her life. Soft like a pillow, smooth as silk, her knocker inspired the helmet of his penis to become as blue as a blueberry and as red as tomato, all of his body’s blood pumping into that loving hotrod.

“Ooh, yeah,” his wife mused as Xavier bent over the second tit, letting his tongue flippy-flop it to randilicious glory. “That feels good, baby.”

Xavier laughed enthusiastically.

“I’ll give you a piece of something that feels better,” he answered, grabbing her blonde head and leading in down between his legs. “Suck on this, darling!”

The sight of his wife putting his Long John Silver onto her tongue flabbergasted him every time. What was better was the fact that she kept aiming to deep throat him deeper and deeper for every gag. That whole erect prick landed in her mouth, making him fly. She didn’t seem to get enough of cock. His hands kept on massaging her cupcakes as her saliva trickled into the cockeye of his shaft. What he loved more than anything was slapping her ass a little and patting her head a little more while she blew him off.

“A countess at the celebrity reception, a cocksucking whore in the bedroom.”

“I’ll be your good girl, baby!”

That was Thea’s motto. So it often happened that Thea begged for Xavier to control her, call her a slut, ask her to be a good girl, lift her skirt and stick in his cock by surprise while she stood by the stove. If he did that well, she said, she could go back to her work as a major CEO with more joie de vivre and a feeling of more power. She had acted the part of the cocksucking whore. Her staff would know she meant business, profiling her position on the basis of skill alone. The slut in the bedroom belonged to Xavier.

Xavier? He admired Thea’s sense of organization, her intelligence, her vocabulary way more advanced than even his as a published author. So imagine the joy of getting the permission of treating his strong and respected wife like a whore in the bedroom.

With a happy smacking sound, Thea flopped his cock out of her mouth, creamy saliva trickling down her chin. No, not yet, Xavier thought to himself, straddling his wife’s face and pushing his testicles into her mouth. She sucked willingly, moaning and groaning like a sex-servant. And when Xavier pulled his balls out of her mouth and stuck in his dick, he reached back into her cunny and fingerfucked her.

The arousal exploded into a frenzy, forcing him to lick his way down past the titties and into her snatch. The salty taste of her vagina turned his oral sex into a wet dream.

“Come on, you macho clitlicker,” Thea groaned. “Stick it in!”

His wet face withdrew from Thea’s cunt with clitliquid dripping onto her bellybutton.

With a purple-blue helmet as a weapon, Xavier ignited his rocket, shooting his machine-gun aggressively into her snatch, riding her like a horny stallion rode his steed, her jugs bouncing like kiddy rubberballs on a Saturday afternoon, her tender ass feeling soft enough to slap a little and her face sexy enough to lick.

Their mutual splendor turned into a wildfire, the speed increasing.

“Thea, I have to squirt into your mouth,” Xavier exploded.

“Come on, stud,” she answered. “Give me some proteins.”

Just like Xavier had done in his reincarnated memories in the earlier dark, Thea stuck out her tongue willingly, hoping for some hot cum. He wanked harder and faster, his entire persona getting ready to fling some jizz on his wife’s sexy face. In cramp-like fits, his sperm shot out of his long and hard penis onto his wife’s cock-starving tonsils.

“Yummy sperm,” she oozed. “More where that came from, Eleven!”

On Xavier’s face a wide grin appeared, his cummy cock sliding in and out of his wife’s mouth. “Eleven. You haven’t called me that in years.”

“Well,” Thea mused, giving his willie a kiss and licking off the white stuff. “To me, you will always be my hot soccer rod with the 11 on your teamshirt. Besides,” she continued, sucking a little bit, “your cock is as thick as two other cocks, name any fucking cock. I’ve done a lot of cocksucking in my life and other guys have about half of your thickness. That’s why 11, that is two ones, is a perfect nickname for you. You fill me up like no other cock can.”

That made him happy. Mr. Happy? That, too.

Thea showered about three in the morning, cleaning the cum off her face. His daughter woke up, wondered what the matter was. Subsequently, his wife went into his daughter’s bedroom, sang her “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” and told her a bedtime story about Bobby the Bear and then came to bed, only to be fucked haard and bad by her horny man again.

Xavier wondered if his daughter Lena had heard them fucking. Thea only answered that their daughter had asked her if the extreme cuddle was fun. Thea had answered that it certainly was. Thea, Xavier realized, was not only a celebrity countess and a nightly whore. She was also the best mother the world had ever come up with.

It was Thea’s turn to be dominant that next day. Xavier mowed the lawn, cut the hedge, did the taxes. Thea went to work, commanded her staff around. In the evening, he proofread a book of his that was going to be published, called a few literary agents, planned a few booktours and brought Lena to bed, singing her a song and telling her a sweet story, as well. Xavier couldn’t be happier. He was a successful professional, had a great wife, a fantastic daughter, a great house and wonderful colleagues.

In the evening, Xavier wanked and squirted on a picture of his wife, preparing to turn into a nocturnal werewolf again, his wife Thea’s eternally happy and powertool, King of the Greatest Cocksucker Queen of the Milky Way.

Man, his wife really knew how to suck good cock.

How’s that for travelling the moon?

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.

Stabbing Pleasure By Sunni Brock

I smell your desire
Inhaling your breath
As our tongues touch then embrace
And I reach downward
Smoothing the warm mist of perspiration
Over the tingling hairs of your navel

You rise suddenly and
Your arrow pricks my finger
Leaving a single drop of sticky sweetness
On my throbbing fingertip

My nipples are racing
To escape their bindings
I feel my thighs trembling
My stomach tightens

I am clenching
Moist, warm, and waiting
Engorged with the thrill
Of your immanent entry

Maneuvering my hips over yours
Freeing my full breasts
And cupping them
Into your face

Biting, teasing, nibbling
A direct nerve
Between my bosom
And maidenhead

I feel your arrow tapping
Ready to accept my invitation
I am so swollen it aches
Engorged to the edge of ecstasy

Breath held for a moment
My lips part in anticipation
Then the tip barely probing
I feel myself spreading slowly
You gliding gently, firmly in

In…

In…

Deeper,
Slowly,
Ever deeper
Until I can hardly –

Your
Arrow
Plunges
Deeply
Into
My
Open
Heart

…and I gasp as I teeter on the brink

and you retreat

then stab again

and again

and I die a little

again

and again

Until I break open
Gushing love from my legs
in a torrent release of rapture
flowing down the creases of our bodies
into rivulets over the sheets