DESIRE: A Pornographic Short Story by Charles E.J. Moulton

It was a wonder Mr. Gallagher didn’t actually run up and wank on those erect nipples of mine. The concentration he rewarded with shot directly into my panties, my damp cunt literally overflowing with juices. I must say, I had slipped into my most hot attire, tits bouncing out of my white bra. I wore my stuff with such fury, it all looked like an attack on his penis. I knew he wanted to fuck me. I sort of longed to see how long he was, but mostly I just wanted to become a hot famous cocksucker.

     He looked at my resumé, nodding.

     “Come on,” I thought to myself. “Look up at me. After what Josh told me, I have to find out. I have wanted your cock for so long.”

     Without looking at me, he leafed through the pictures I gave him, one by one. For every photo, he raised his eyebrows a bit higher and nodded more ferociously. Finally, when that seventh picture landed on his desk, his eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Not once did he actually react to the horny slut that was sitting here and hoping to unzip his fly.

     “Where did you say these pictures were taken?”

     I tried to concentrate, my voice shaky and nervous.

     “Uhmm, in L.A. A female photographer named Jessie Barnaby took them. A friend recommended me to contact her. Jessie finally consented to take the pictures after I showed her my portfolio from Wet Dream.”

     Mr. Gallagher uttered a surprised gasp.

     “Our rival.”

     “Yes.”

     “Very good, indeed. You make love to the camera, Pamela. You will certainly raise a few cocks. Mine, as well. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

     I smiled. “No problem. No problem at all.”

     Gotcha!

     After contemplating my next sentence, I stuttered for a bit, grinning from ear to ear, thinking if I really should be so bold to say what I was going to say.

     “After all, that is what I am in this business to do. Raise as many cocks as I can.”

     He smiled, still looking at the photos.

     “You are in this business to do what, Pamela?”

     “I am in this business to raise cocks.”

     Come on, man, I thought, this just has to wake you up.

     Still not looking up, his eyeballs focused on the nude pics of mine, he continued: “What surprised me was to that you called me at all, with you speaking to Josh and all.”

     I gave him an ambiguous smile.

     “Well, Josh told me you were well endowed. You knew your stuff. You were … a fantastic dick pleaser.”

     Now, for the first time, he looked up at me.

     It was a look of awe. No. Sperm. He needed to squirt.

     “I want to suck your cock.”

     He cleared his throat.

     “I beg your pardon?”

     “I am a glamour model for men’s magazines, Mr. Gallagher,” I said. “One that has never fucked before the lense. Off the lense, I fuck all the time. I mean, I have had so many men fuck me…”

     I paused, laughing.

     Mr. Gallagher chuckled. “What?”

     “Well, I fuck around so much that my girlfriends all call me Rocket Pussy, the vehicle that needs male fuel.”

     Mr. Gallagher giggled, again. Now, his lips were beginning to dampen. They started to look like my pussy, red and wet. I knew now, that I desperately needed to suck that cock.

I just had to give him a blowjob.

Especially since Josh told me that the guy was gay.

     “What made you come here with this portfolio, Pamela?”

     I shifted in my seat, looking right and left, searching for some corner to crawl into. I knew that I needed to say this, but I had no idea how. It was strange. A girl like me, taking off her clothes for thousands of men and now embarrassed to her tits.

     Then, I just decided to say it. No mercy.

     I took a long look at him and smiled, now very much tongue-in-cheek.

     “I wanna find out,” I responded. “I came here to find out if your dick is as huge as they say it is. Josh told me you were gay. I couldn’t believe that. If you are, I wanna convert you. I mean you can’t be, being the editor of this magazine.”

     I paused, waiting.

     “Can you?”

     The editor of Great Gazongas sat back in his leather chair, putting his tongue firmly into his cheek, stroking his black chest hair with the finger wearing a golden ring.

     “I met you at so many parties,” I continued. “I went into so many back rooms and fucked so many guys. But actually, I only wanted you. Your…”

     “My cock?” he filled in.

     I nodded. “If you are that big, women just have to suck it. A cock like that is made to be sucked.”

     Mr. Gallagher grinned and sighed.

     “Well, girls do like my cock.”

     “Really?”

     “They do.”

     “And me? Can I? Please?”

     “Be my guest.”

     “So, you are not gay?”

     He smiled. “You can start sucking and find out if I react.”

     I looked at him like a kid that had just heard that Santa was for real. “What?” I cried. “You want me to fuck you?”

     I started clapping my hands, looking like a happy two year old toddler with her first copy of Winnie the Pooh on her lap. I couldn’t wait to see that thing in the flesh.

     The editor stood up, circled the table and waited.

     “What are you waiting for? Open the gift. Unwrap the schlong.”

     “Josh Templeton said you were gay.”

     Paul Gallagher threw back his head and laughed.

     “Josh is the editor of Wet Dream, baby. He is always telling people that kind of stuff.”

     “How did he know about your big cock, if he hadn’t sucked on it?”

     “Everybody knows my cock is big.”

     I looked at him with pleading puppy-dog eyes.

     Paul Gallagher, again without a word, slowly took off his Armani suit jacket and dropped it on the floor.

     “My long, fat dick is famous in this country. Every damn chick in this business has sucked it.”

     I looked at those pants with great interest. I felt like a schoolgirl, opening her birthday present and hoping her favourite toy was in there.

     With trembling hands, my nail polished hands reached for the fly. The zipping sound made my heart go bump a couple of times. What was going to be in there? How big would this be?

     I opened the buckle first, then the button, then I lowered his pants. Meanwhile, while I looked at the lump underneath those jocks, the editor took off his shirt, displaying that thick chest-hair.

I nearly went crazy. Underneath those tight jocks something huge resided. I mean, it was huge. By now, the cocks on my repertoire had been red, brown, black, blue, white and even purple. I sucked small cocks and medium size ones. One cock had been so big that my pussy still hurt a month later. Those eight inches made my cunt sing and cry at the same time. This one? Would my vagina hurt as well? I hoped so.

“I am really curious,” I grinned.

The editor pursed his lips. “Shut up and take it out.”

     What plopped out of those underpants outsized them all and it grew bigger and bigger as I watched it. Even watching it made it grow. The long thing bounced, its helmet greeting me with a friendly, fun loving “Hello!”. I felt like a tourist watching the Washington Monument for the first time. This thing had a life of its own. A snake on its way to the apple.

     My pink mouth took that salty male prick into its mouth and began sucking it. It was like sucking on the biggest lollipop known to man. Captain Salty’s delight. It was like travelling with the greyhound bus, knowing that the U.S. was not the limit. This bus would now travel globally. The thing that amazed me was that it grew bigger for every second. That penis tasted wonderful. How wonderful to suck a dick this big, I thought to myself. Size does matter. Guys, it does matter.

     The editor grabbed my head and pushed his cock into my mouth, harder and harder. I could feel that dick grow in my mouth again, the helmet just simply turning into an apple in there. I groaned.

     “How big are you, man?” I asked, mumbling as I sucked.

     The Gallagher smiled. “13 inches long, 5 inches thick.”

     “Mr. Gallagher,” I gasped, still mumbling, enthusiastic. “You taste great. Gosh, you should take this taste and make it into a soft drink. Your cock beats pop-corn!”

     “They all say that.”

     I took the cock out of my mouth with a witty plopping sound.

“Please, fuck me, now. I have just got to have you in me.”

     “Call me Paul, you horny slut.”

     “Paul,” I spat back, feeling randy and bitchy. “Shut up and just stick it in.”

     With brute force, Paul lift me up by my tush, away from my seat, ripping my clothes to shreds, not that the clothes had covered much of me anyway. Completely naked, he lay me on his desk and shoved in his big stick into my aching vagina. I saw stars. It hurt very badly, it was enormous, but it was the most horny pain I had ever felt. He pounded his cock into my wet cunny so fast and with such vigour that I felt like a real whore. I loved feeling cheap, real cheap, like a hooker, a sex-object. Gosh, this guy really could fuck.

     My 40DD tits bounced back and forth.

     I moaned, pleading for his penis to thrust deeper.

     “Let me prove to you that I am not gay.”

     My jugs bounced, doing the jive and the quickstep in his hands.

     Now, he turned me around, picked me up, slapped me around and spread my legs, shoving me against the wall. I didn’t know what to expect, but when that big penis slid into my asshole it was the most luscious hurting sensation. Now, that stud really gave it to me.

He fucked me, slapped me, rode me, called me really dirty names, massaged my funbags, grabbed me by my hair, sticking his fingers in my mouth and letting me taste my own cum.

“You are the randiest little tease I’ve met in a long time. What a horny little whore you are.”

     “Please, squirt into my mouth! Don’t wait. Take your cock out of my ass and give me your sperm on my tongue.”

     I opened my mouth and pointed on it.

     “In here.”

     He withdrew his cock from my ass, turned me around, pushed me down on the floor and threw my head back. I opened my mouth wide, sticking out my tongue, the Rocket Pussy pleading for her white fuel. Paul wanked his cock faster and faster, in fact, so fast that I couldn’t see his hands anymore. They were all in a blur. Paul threw back his head, like some fucking porn star, laughing and closing his eyes, making a mean grimace, twisting his face into a snarl.

     Then the juice came shooting out of his cock. Tons of it, glasses of it, a whole bottle full. My tits were covered with cum, my mouth was full. I was covered from head to toe in sperm.

     “Do I have the job?”

     “As long as you keep sucking my cock, yes.”

     “Then, I will suck you again.”

     “Keep sucking my dick and you will keep getting jobs.”

     “And if I stop?”

     “There are other girls willing to suck my dick!”

     We ended up laughing and fucking our heads off. This time, I swallowed every drop of his cum. The office soon smelled of sex, sperm, female juices and hot pussy.

     “So, what’s the verdict,” Paul asked me.

     “Gay or straight?” I responded.

     He shrugged.

     “That cock is straight. Definately.”

     He looked at his own cock. “It’s pointing toward the ceiling, baby. Wanna suck it again?”

     I looked at it. “You are right. I have to work on that one. It needs more size.”

     “What are you going for? The Washington Monument?”

     “Yes.”

     And so I began sucking it a third time that day.

     While I titty-fucked his prick, I said:

     “Wanna invite Josh for a gang-bang?”

     “But he is gay, is he not?”

     I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

     “You wanna find out?” he asked as I sucked on his balls.

     I nodded.

     “Okay.”

     I stood up, put on my clothes and smiled.

     “I will call you in an hour and tell you if he is gay.”

     After all, Paul knew that I also wanted to find out if Josh’s cock also was as long as people were saying. If it was, his cock was also worth being converted. I have always loved sucking on two big cocks at once.

     If I play my cards right, both Wet Dream and Great Gazongas will soon belong to me.

     I am stuck in elevator reading this into my dick-ta-phone, hoping that the repairman will fuck me on my way to Josh.

     After all, what is a poor horny slut like me gonna do without a cock for ten minutes?

Scrabble at the Widow’s Club By Paul Henry

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

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

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

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

“Define ‘amazing’….”

Sexy amazing.”

“Sexy?”

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bonnie got the idea to dress slutty.”

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

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

Bonnie protested, “I never did anything like.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To make the game more interesting.”

“And how does it do that?”

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

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

“This keeps everyone involved in every show down.”

Show down?” Bonnie asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“A Double Strip Down.”

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

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

“You wanted Jason’s attention.”

“Yes, but….”

“Are you in or out?”

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

Reluctantly Bonnie said, “In.”

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

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

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

“His shoes.”

“Boring,” Victoria said.

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

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

“What about my shoes?” Bonnie pleaded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But my tie….”

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

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

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

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

“The blouse,” Bonnie said.

I began immediately. “Should I count?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Now kiss her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I turned over the hour glass. “Begin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We began laughing.

“Now what?”

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

“What about your bed?” I asked.

“King sized.”

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

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

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

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

Occupational Hazard By Stephen Faulkner

If asked, Carl would not have been able to say what style or technique he used in his writing. All that he knew was that he did it, that it came to him – plot, theme, dialogue and motivation – and, as if in a trance, he recorded it all in a flurry of near-blind touch typing.  Others would be astounded to see the pile of manuscript pages he poured forth in barely a month’s time: 200 to 250 neatly typed pages of unadulterated dreck, “Easy as can be,” he would say if asked how he did it while he rapped out yet another sentence, formed another paragraph almost as if by telekinesis; his fingers seemed barely to touch the keys, his eyes never to consider the words on the computer screen that was slowly filling with the product of his imagination. “But let me finish this thought first before I say anything more, okay?”

His fingers flew on the keyboard, tracing another of the numerous athletic couplings of his insatiable, shallowly drawn heroine. “She watched him approach with their drinks,” Carl wrote. “She noted with satisfaction how his meaty cock hung between his strong, hairy thighs. She could not help but think what a waste it was to have him with her, both of them naked and sheening with lusty sweat on that very private beach, and not do anything about it. ‘Let me,’ she offered as she took the drinks and put them aside. Then, in one smooth, fluid motion, she took his fat tool into her mouth and began slowly to suck its sausagelike thickness. It felt like something magic the way the soft putty of his fat cock stiffened and grew in her mouth, the knobby head of it sliding over her tongue to touch and massage the dangling uvula at the back of her throat. She had known his rod was big but when she drew her face back to see what her mouth had accomplished, she was amazed to behold that it had grown to the thickness of a beer can and the length of a child’s forearm and the solidity of stone. She wondered how she had been able to accommodate such a massive wanger in her mouth without choking.

“Like falling off a log,” Carl would say with a shrug regarding the speed of his composing, “once you’ve got the basics down pat. And let me tell you I’ve had plenty of practice at this kind of stuff.”

The fact of the amount of practice he had had over the past several years since he began writing his “pieces” was not a point of pride with Carl. At the beginning he had considered himself to be a “serious” writer; an unknown writer, too, which meant unpublished, unread, that peculiar type of pariah of the publishing industry that gets nowhere without “connections” in order to find a sympathetic ear for his particular brand of talent. The connections that Carl was able to foster grew out of his friendships with several junior editors at what are known in the magazine trade as “men’s sophisticates,” and not those of the more high toned variety, either. The editors he knew and whose business he received worked for the more raunchy of the men’s magazines, each making it clear that they were not looking for quality of theme and characterization in the stories they bought as they were for quick, three and four page vignettes for their respective publication’s “letters” columns that made the most of the sexual shenanigans of people like Carl’s latest heroine, her friends and male counterparts in the most explicit of terms. “Remember,” he was told at the outset, “a penis is never a penis but a cock or a rod or a shaft or some other cylindrically phallic item. A vagina is always a cunt or a pussy or twat or a snatch, maybe even a ‘love tunnel’ if you’re hard up for a synonym. Use words like fuck and suck and ream and poke and thrust a lot and you’ll do just fine.” So much for stylistic integrity. With the how and what already predetermined, all that was left to dicker with was the who; and it was a sure bet that the readers of such simplistic drivel wouldn’t care a whit for that, one way or the other.

Those editors had been his preliminary connections; it was the secondary one that got Carl to where he later found himself. After about six months of selling his letters to three different editors and having developed a reputation for coming up with the goods without a hitch, one of them put him in touch with a publisher of “sophisticated adult fiction,” paperbacks which were often advertised in the mail-order sections of the editor’s sleazy rag, or sold in adult bookstores and occasionally off the top tiers of candy store magazine racks, away from the curious eyes of adolescents. The publisher put his wares out under several different imprints with names like “Squeeze,” “Skintight” and “Lip Service.” Carl was immediately interested and purchased a few such books to familiarize himself with their particular approach to what had become for him a habitually worked subject matter.  He finished the first draft of his first book-length manuscript in two months, the final draft two weeks after that. He sent off the “work” to the publisher with the same kind of pessimistic trepidation with which he had mailed out his serious submissions to Triquarterly, Esquire, Shenadoah, Prairie Schooner and The Atlantic, expecting to receive the ever familiar form rejection letter in due time. Three weeks later he received a check in the mail for a thousand dollars and the request by the publisher to see more of his output. A sample copy of the book, (under the spuriously chosen pseudonym of “Oscar Putznik) said the letter, would be forthcoming in about a month and a half.

So began a career that, so far, spanned two years and five months with a new “work” required by two different publishers on an average of once a month. Since that first sale his asking price had gone up to fifteen hundred per book length piece and, more recently, to two thousand, so the money was at least somewhat livable. Along with the letters he still wrote for a few editor friends (usually excerpted from whatever book he had in progress at the moment and transposed from a third person to a first person format) at a rate of about twenty to twenty five dollars per letter, Carl’s current yearly earnings reached about a few hundred dollars shy of thirty thousand.  This, coupled with his wife, Lena’s, income from her job as an editorial assistant at a small women’s magazine, had them in a pretty comfortable financial position.

Carl’s output, he would be the first to admit, was fairly prolific and mostly quite easily attained with his “write it and forget it” habit of working. Let the editors do the editing, he figured; he was just a writer.  And he never fooled himself into believing that it was anything even remotely akin to being serious writing. “At least it’s honest, though,” he would say if asked what he thought about his subject matter. “Not like the stuff Lena copy-edits for – what’s it called? – oh yes, Ladies’ Choice. Now there’s real crapola for you.  I call a vagina a cunt? Well, listen to this: she has to call it a ‘ripening fruit’ or a ‘tender flower’ or some damned nonsense. Now you tell me: which is the more honest? I’ll leave that up to you.”

***

Lena moved the ruler down to the next line of type and lazily read the words in the narrow column. This is not what I had envisioned for myself, she thought. I’ve read this paragraph three times already, the whole story in fact, each time looking for typos, inverted e’s and transposed adverbial clauses. Then, I’ll look at the next one for the fourth time and five others as well and won’t find anything more than a missed comma and a misspelled word or two for every thousand words or so. Not what I had banked on when I took this job; certainly not.

Lena recalled what had been promised (or what, at least, had been alluded to) when the final interview was over and the job was hers. “Don’t let the title fool you,” said Mrs. Halbistam, the woman who in a week’s time would be Lena’s boss. “Editorial Assistant is a misnomer; you’re really going to be on your own much of the time. The job will be whatever you make of it.” What she was to make of it, she found, was precisely what was given to her each day and no more: taking other people’s writing, shifted around and worked over to suit the stringent format of the magazine by one of the Senior Editors (usually Mrs. Halbistam, sometimes Ms. Kramholtz) and reading it all very closely to be sure that the typesetters hadn’t screwed it up too badly. If the story or article was readable and made sense after four runs past an Editorial Assistant, several bouts with SpellChek and the typesetter’s CompuGraphic, then it went to press, ready for inclusion in the next issue of Ladies’ Choice.

Lena sighed, thinking that it was a small blessing that she wasn’t doomed to read and reread diet articles, health articles and how-to articles on pleasing the eye with an artfully appointed dining room spread. At least she had the fiction section to work with, somewhere in the middle of the preference list among the assistants on the magazine. Judy, in the cubicle next to hers, had the most sought after section to edit: the sex articles on how to attract a man, how to keep him interested, the how-to aspects of where, when, how and what to do when you got down to actually making love, and advice on how to gain the most pleasure from the entire scenario. There was at least one such piece per issue and since the entire staff always started working on an issue at least four months in advance of press-time with four readings of every piece to be included in the magazine, Judy had her hands full of flesh, lacy lingerie, dildos and condoms (figuratively, of course) from the time she walked into the office in the morning until she went home at five. Lena was occasionally tempted to check Judy’s seat for damp spots or other signs of excitation brought on by such continuous exposure to the licentious and lubricious, the baser instincts of the human species. (What else would you call an article that discussed the different types of orgasms to be experience, depending on the type of sexual position you were engaging in with a man?) Such temptations never lasted, however, and were usually replaced by musing reveries on her own sex life with Carl.

The ruler remained on the page, unmoved for several minutes as she recalled her previous night’s scrambling for a balance of passion and equality of result. She had demanded tenderness from him and had gotten it, hearing the tension in his voice as he whispered his endearments. He had wanted to call her a slut, she knew, but he yielded to her wishes, calling her “sweetheart” and “sugar bear” and other conservative coochy-coo words as he labeled them. It was what she had asked for, sweetly demanded, and was surprised when they were no longer sufficient and hadn’t been for some time. Was the honeymoon so long past? Her orgasm would have been rated a 5 on the scale developed by one of Judy’s “expert” authors on the subject; as a muted hum in her crotch that never had a chance to grow to the previously accustomed roar before it was all over.

Lena shook her head, clearing it of the disappointing memory and dipped her eyes to the line on the page which was underscored by the ruler. “…the roseate aureole shadowed under the filmy fabric of her peignoir. Her firm, round breasts rose and fell with her breathing as if on the lever of her growing excitement. ‘You know you want it,’ she told him in a husky, sultry voice. ‘Just take it and it is yours.’ His hands reached….”

“Right for her crotch,” Lena extemporized, not bothering to read any further. She looked out the window and let her train of thought develop. “His finger slid into her cunt to the second knuckle, serving to kick her libido into overdrive. Now all she wanted was for it to continue, to feel his fat cock where his finger now was.” She laughed and looked back down at her work. With a deft stroke she deleted “roseate aureole” and substituted the word “nipple.” She nodded at the change. At least that’s honest, Carl would say. Taking the idea further, she crossed out “breasts” and penciled in “tits.” She looked at the revisions she had made and then shook her head with a sigh. “Now that,” she told herself. “Is getting a little too close to his sort of thing.”

She erased the penciled changes, leaving only shadowy remains of the squiggly delete marks and the two words hovering to the right of the printed column. “Honest or not,” she muttered to herself, “this kind of thing could easily get me fired. Out on my pretty ass, bouncing all the way to the unemployment line.”

***

After making love, they talked; it had become something of a hallmark of their marriage. They both agreed that their willingness to communicate with one another was the glue that bound them together. Sex was a beautiful thing, they seemed to say as they talked of many things after the bed was no longer a field of foreplay and tussle, but it was not the whole and only. There were other things in their lives to indulge in and discuss.

“How did work go today?”

“You know how it was,” said Carl as he rezipped his fly. “Same old shit.”

“That’s what I’d call it, too, “Lena answered, nodding. Her fingers wrestled with the top clasp of her bra behind her back, always the hardest for her to reach. Carl stepped forward to lend what aid he could. “Six, seven years ago and you would have spun me around, kissed me like you meant it and we’d start all over again,” she said over her shoulder as he cinched her into her garment.

“Six, seven years ago I did mean it,” he said and spun her around to deliver an affectionate smooch to her cheek. “But then we were newlyweds, it was all brand new, being married and in love, and we were as hot as smoking pistols. And what do you mean, ‘That’s what you’d call it, too’?”

“Shit,” she replied. “That’s what you said about your work and I agreed with you.”

“Are we going to start that again?”

“We never really stopped,” she said calmly, answering the groaning query in his tone. “You know what I think about that crap you write. I’ve told you often enough.”

“And I’ve agreed every time. It’s crap, garbage, dreck, whatever you want to call it. But it brings home the bacon.”

“That’s not the only reason that you continue with it. You could do something else.”

“We’ve been over all this before,” he said, his voice tinged with frustrated anger. They had been over it all before, true, and he knew what little worth anger was when the outcome was almost a fait accompli no matter what emotion he displayed. “And I never know how to answer that except to say that now that I have the contacts it’s easy money and I’m stuck in a rut.”

Lena had her blouse on and was reaching for her skirt. They were going out; it was Friday night and dinner and a movie had sounded like a good idea when they had made the plans earlier in the week. “Still, you know how I feel about it all.” She turned and smiled at him. “What I wish could happen.”

:That I’d join the staff of some magazine, read manuscripts all day, ten out of eleven of which would be written in barely readable English – if you could call it that – and the eleventh one wouldn’t be up to the editorial standards or format of the rag I’d be working for.” His answer, in spirit, was nearly memorized. They had been over all this before.

“There is some good stuff out there, though. You could be one to make a difference.”

“Wasn’t that your dream when you started at Ladies’ Choice? Make your mark, make a difference? And so what are you doing there now? Reading spinsters’ trashy fantasies about being ravaged by pirates on the high seas or in the jungle by some Great White Hunter. Checking their spelling, dotting their i’s, changing all the dirty words for less objectionable ones so that your ‘lady’ readers can get a vicarious jolt without feeling cheapened.”

“That’s for now,” said Lena defensively. “But I’ve only been there five months; things’ll get better. And you make it sound so – I don’t know – so tawdry. It’s romance fiction and that’s what it’s all about, getting your thrills from reading about someone doing it right against the odds, no matter how unrealistic the circumstances. Romance: it’s beautiful, sensual and it takes you away from reality for a little while. What’s so wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he said, surprised by the sudden heat of her reply. “But why so serious? When you started the job you’d come home laughing, telling me about what this writer or that one you were reading called a vagina or a clitoris or fucking….”

“I don’t see anything wrong with using an objective correlative,” she snapped.

“They’re called euphemisms, Lena,” he corrected. “And you only use them if you’re either trying to be cutesy, poetic or to get past the censors. Or if you’re too damned embarrassed by sexuality to call a cock a cock and instead have to have some virginal bimbo ‘gaze longingly at his phallic instrument.’” His eyes rolled comically as he recited the remembered phrase.

She eyed him coldly, or at least tried to; a smile began to form at the corners of her mouth. “You’ll always remember that one, won’t you?”

Carl’s smile was already at full shine. “You’ll  have to agree it was pretty bad. Personally I would have said ‘his stiff, drooling member’ and made it a point to spell out its dimensions. But hey, that’s my stock in trade, telling it like it is.”

“Yeah, sure,” she said facetiously. “Like it is, you pervert.” She slapped him playfully on the behind as she sauntered past him through the door to the hallway. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

***

Lena gave her husband a photocopy of the manuscript she had taken with her from the office. “Strictly against the rules, taking work home like this,” she told him as he began to read. “But I thought you’d get a kick out of it. And anyway who’s going to know? We’re certainly not going to plagiarize it for publication.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” Carl said absently as he slowly turned the pages. “This stuff is pretty damned close to my own shit, just taken from a different perspective.”

“’Bodice ripper’ type garbage,” Lena said, identifying the sub-genre. “Virginal young woman finds herself in a compromising position with a lusty-horny older man; she finds it exciting and feels driven to give in to his advances. But she must yield to decorum to maintain her reputation – as if anyone really cares these days; people will say and think what they will no matter how loud you scream.”

“Yeah,” Carl interrupted. “They might think that’s the kind of noise you make when you’re coming.”

Lena had paused to allow for his comment then went on as if he hadn’t even spoken. “And so she puts up a brave fight,” she continued. “Gets her clothes all ripped and messy in the process. In the end, the randy d.o.m. has his lusty way with her and she gets her thrill with the added plus that she can say it wasn’t her fault, wasn’t her choice. Reputation soiled but not irretrievably lost, or so she thinks. You see, because of the loss of her virginity she becomes, by nineteenth century standards, unmarriageable.  Result: she marries her erstwhile rapist, though she finds out on their honeymoon that his predilections run only to virgins. Being that he has already deflowered her, he views her as soiled property or some such chauvinistic horseshit and she is no longer desirable to him.”

“Leave it up to the reader, then, as to why the hell she even married this son of a bitch in the first place,” sniped Carl. Lena shrugged; she couldn’t figure out that part, either

“Anyway,” she said, summing up. “She lives a sexually unsatisfying life until the old boy dies afterwhich she is a rich but still unsatisfied widow. Moral of the story: she got what she deserved, as do all young virgins who give into temptation with horny older men before the gold ring is firmly placed on the left hand ring finger. The conclusion to be drawn for the impressionable young women reading this claptrap (no pun intended): it’s always your fault, no matter what the outcome, so beware the man with the tempting way and empty hands.”

Carl had been listening to this with a thoughtful, if sarcastic, air of interested respect. His response was anything but flattering. “You about finished?”

“That’s about it,” said his wife evenly, having expected such a reply. “Sounds kind of medieval, doesn’t it?””

“I don’t know. Change a few things around and it could have some glint of truth in it.”

Lena laughed. “You’d have to revamp the whole thing to make it sound anywhere near reality.”

“Not really. I mean, take away the virginity angle, make the girl a bit more experienced, knowing that the rape part was just a game to keep things interesting and you might have a pretty good story.”

“One of your stories, you mean.”

“Well, that would take a little more work.” He was silent for a moment, then: “Mind if I try?”

“That kind of thing is second nature to you,” she said. “Just a walk in the park. Just for fun, though, why don’t I try? I’ve always wondered how close the stuff you write is in the spirit to this kind of thing. It’d be an interesting way to find out.”

Carl had no complaint with the suggestion. He gave her a few pointers in composition: lists of vulgar words for genitalia and coition, an admonition that the focus of the tale should be on the act and that any conclusions should be limited to a defense of the beauty of the orgasm and continued desire. Finished with his little lesson, he watched as she repaired to her computer to begin her first trial run at pornography.

Lena’s resulting story was longer by several pages than what Carl would have concocted out of the raw material, much shorter than the original. She had focused on the sexual aspect, as advised, and had skillfully used a number of the epithets her husband had listed for her. Her one main failing, in Carl’s estimation, was the last page, her summing up. She made decided conclusions far beyond what he would have deigned to be fitting to the subject at hand. Her heroine did marry the old roué and their sex life continued on, orgasmically fiery for the both of them. Her reputation was shot in the end, however, its plummet brought about by her insatiable need for more and more couplings and her later dissatisfaction with her husband as a lover. Instead of an unsatisfied spinster living on the memories of a few passionate experiences she became a single-minded bitch-slut, seducing young men in back alleys, spending all her money on a downward spiraling series of affairs that turned into a caricature of seedy sensuality.

“Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?” he asked as he laid her efforts aside. “Cut the cheap moralizing in the bud. It’s supposed to be a story of the sport, the acquisition, not the rotting corpse after the kill has been made.”

Lena had been standing beside Carl’s chair as he read her rendition of the rape story. She was wearing the sort of loose fitting blouse and skirt ensemble that had become a comfortable habit when she was at home; in the warm months of summer, as it was now, underwear was rarely worn, seen as just an unnecessary annoyance. “It’s real,” she insisted unsurely. “At least it tries to be.” Maybe I should have toned down the part about the woman enticing young studs into back alleyways, she considered in hindsight. Even without that the point would have been clear enough.

This is real,” said Carl and without warning he brought his free hand up and under Lena’s skirt. Her legs were slightly akimbo so that his fingers found easy access to her crotch. He moved his hand deftly, massaging her firmly, this thumb rubbing and insinuating itself between her labia as if motor driven. She squealed at the sudden intrusion, then giggled and squatted in compliance to give his fingers better, deeper access. “The rest,” he said as his middle and forefinger worried their way into her vagina. “Is all unnecessary chatter signifying nothing.”

“Nothing,” Lena whispered, intensely excited as she leaned forward to fumble at the fly on her husband’s pants. This was truth, she thought, here and now. Without thinking about it she felt that she understood what Carl had been talking about. Though she missed the foreplay, the slow build up, the tender beginnings that would have proved this to be a loving rather than a simply carnal experience, she indulged herself without any real consideration. That other way, she told herself somewhere in the back of her mind, could wait for another time. This time it had all come about too suddenly, had become too immediate, too intense all at once for niceties to be applied. As her hand grasped his erect cock and his hand had her on the brink of orgasm while she still stood next to him in his chair, right then she understood too well his lesson and what its outcome would be.

In the spirit of the immediacy of the moment, however, one so impetuously begun, outcomes did not come as promptly as Lena would have liked. As soon as her sliding hand had Carl shooting his jism onto his slacks his hand had slowed its work, then stopped. When her needs weren’t being met as she wanted them to be she told Carl what he needed to do in the most vulgar terms, surprising herself at how honestly insistent her voice sounded. Sure of its purpose, the lewdly worded demands that he do her, eat her, fuck her, seemed to have come from the mouth of a woman she did not know.

***

She came home several weeks later close to tears.

Carl jumped up from his writing desk to ask the reason why or, if no reason was to be given, at least to be near enough to be of help when comfort was needed, and she needed it right away. They embraced; the shoulder of his shirt was immediately soaked through with her tears. It was a moment that he would remember for some time to come since it was the first really tender moment they had shared in a very long time. He only wished that the circumstance were brighter. What he would recall, besides the tears and the ensuing embrace, would be the story she would tell, tearing little pieces of it from her harrowing day to offer to him in scraps. He would later recall the way it came out as being a strange rush of non-sequiturs pinned to a common theme: the last story.

It was titled “Red River Meeting” and was about an encounter between a man and a woman (what other kind of tale ever appeared in Ladies’ Choice?) on a bridge over the river in the title. The main theme of the story was the unspoken yet implicitly smoldering sexuality that passed between them as they greeted one another, shared pleasantries and local gossip. They had been lovers once, their affair having ended some years before; they had been engaged when it was abruptly called off because of some misunderstanding and they went their separate ways. They both continued to live in the same town, each ever aware of the presence of the other, just across the river. In the story they singly, silently revel in their memories of the relationship they once had together, indulge in fantasies of continued love, lust and moral lassitude with the other that, even as they had dated and been engaged they had denied themselves.

“It was the best thing that had come across my desk since I’ve been there,” Lena nearly wailed, her tearful distress having turned to anger and frustration. “And she turned it into a cutesy little melodrama about how the two characters had had a chance at love and had blown it in favor of ‘safe’ relationships with other people. God! It was revolting to see.”

“What’s so revolting? It sounds like a pretty good story to me.”

“Sure; one that’s been done a thousand times before and much better,” Lena huffed as she struggled to control her emotions. “But I had seen the original manuscript. It was great, it was daring. They still wanted each other – nothing bittersweet about it – they had to have each other. She made a grab for his balls, for Christ sake!”

“Don’t yell at me. I didn’t read the thing, you did. Just tell me…. What did your Mrs. Halbistam do to it?”

“Tore the guts out of it is what she did. The girl reaches for the guy’s nuts, right? So what does Mrs. Goody Two Shits do? Has the girl’s hand flutter helplessly at the guy’s shirt while she fights the temptation to just touch him one more time, lay her hand on his chest to feel the thump of his heartbeat. Yuck! And I have to read this crap, make sure that the typesetters spelled ‘tempestuous’ right.”

“So you got a good story made bad. But that’s part of the territory of your job, isn’t it? So what does this have to do with your dramatic entrance, all the tears and yammering about – what was it? – your career going down the toilet?”

“I’m getting to that,” she said, then stopped to give him a questioning look. “Was I really yammering?”

“Blubbering is more like it. I couldn’t catch more than a phrase or two. ‘Career going into the shitter’ is the way I think you put it and then something about wanting to break something over Mrs. Two Shits’ head. Would one of the everyday dishes do? The good china is kind of expensive to be used for mayhem.”

“That’s not necessary now. Just let me talk.” She took a deep breath and seemed to deflate as she let it out. She sat down and shook her head. “I couldn’t believe it while I was doing it,” she said as she recalled her day. “I even tried to blame it on someone else when it went through.  You ready for this, Carl?”

“I guess I am,” he said, not sure at all that he was. Do what? he thought. Blame what? He sat down and pulled his chair along the floor until he was directly opposite her, knees to knees.

“I changed it back,” she said.

“Changed what back? The story?”

“Yep, just the way the author wrote it, nut grabbing, passionate kisses, hands getting lost under the clothing and all. The only reason it was caught was that it ran over the limit that Mrs. Halbistam had set for it.”

“Caught? You mean it never got to typesetting?”

“Oh it got to them, but they bounced it right back to her to make sure the length was okay. The original ran over by a good ten lines of type.” She sighed and shook her head again, still not believing what had happened. “It was only the second edit so it was really kind of stupid of me. I should have waited until the final came by me. Even so it probably would have come back to her with question marks all over it. My only defense was to demand an explanation from the old bat why she’d bought the piece in the first place if she knew that she was going to rip the heart out of it.”

“She called you on the carpet? What happened? Don’t tell me you were….”

“Fired,” said Lena solemnly. She paused and gave him another quizzical look. “Didn’t I mention that before?”

***

Time soon became Lena’s own.

There was only so much of it she could spend each day in hunting for a job, only so many ads per week she could answer, interviews that she could go on. By the end of the first month it became evident that all time thus spent was a bleak exercise in futility. Despite a rather impressive resume interviewers brushed her off as soon as her references came through. It was not long before references were not needed at all; the offers of interviews stopped coming altogether. The phone only rang with calls from friends, family members and Carl’s associates. It seemed that Mrs. Halbistam’s influence in the industry was quite considerable. The word had gotten out and all those concerned were listening attentively to what the old bat had to say: Lena was not a “team player.”

Despondency did not become Lena’s naturally active demeanor nor did the role of the harridan or common scold that she thought she might become in those first few weeks of being at home with her husband day in and day out. No; instead she began to foster an interest in his work, much as it pained her to admit it. The manuscript of Carl’s present work-in-progress was daily growing in bulk and Lena began to read it, to give thoughtful suggestions on how this wording or that might better serve the licentious action building in a given paragraph. Carl listened and then patiently explained that style did not matter so much as long as the simple point was gotten across and the scene became visually, tactilely, even tastily vivid to the reader. “Put the reader there on the edge of the bed where the action is taking place, make him know what it feels like to be there and doing it,” he said of the purpose of his prose. “That’s the whole point of the thing; just get him as horny as hell.”

“I don’t think ‘tastily’ is the right word,” she remarked. “But I know what you mean.”

“What I do,” he said, having warmed to the subject. “Is elicit the simplest response from my audience. And I have to have it done by the end of next week. You know something about deadlines, so may I…?”

“But what about the letters,” she asked. “You usually do four or five of those each month for that editor friend of yours.”

“I’ll use parts of chapters four, eight, nine and fifteen, maybe thirteen, too, if I have the time,” he answered. “Just switch the perspective to first person, change the names and maybe the setting and nobody’s the wiser.”

“But how do you manage two deadlines like that?”

“The magazine’s deadline comes two weeks after Squeeze Publications’.  Plenty of time.”

“What if your magazine editor got ten letters from you? Would he still buy them and pay the usual rate?”

“Sure. He’ll snap up whatever I send him, check in the mail upon acceptance.”

“Then let me try my hand at chapters – what? Four, eight, nine, fourteen….”

“Thirteen and fifteen,” he corrected, looking at her as if at a total stranger. “You serious about this?”

“I might as well be doing something,” she said simply as she lifted the stack of typed bond paper from his desk to extract the needed material. “See you later.”

She came back to him that first day in only four hours, her work complete on three of the five chapter/letters. “Editing is editing” was the way she explained the alacrity with which she had transformed the chapters into self-contained vignettes of first person porn. By the time he had finished the novel she had done with the final two excerpts as well as five more letters of her own. “Just let your fantasies run free,” she said with a shrug. “Really nothing to it.” Carl read her efforts, made some comments but, on the whole, had no complaints with any of them.

They had to call several other editor friends of Carl’s with whom he had not been in touch for a while in order to sell Lena’s output. She was cranking out as many as five new letters a day when she was really on a roll. By the end of the second month they celebrated with a trip to the theater and dinner in the city. Their financial status, though not too much healthier due to Lena’s involvement in her husband’s work, had improved enough for the splurge to be justified.

Lines had been drawn and, for a while, they seemed to hold. Carl wrote the book-length material and Lena concentrated on the short stuff for the magazines. When Lena’s pieces began to reach the ten and fifteen page mark (deliberately; they brought in from $250 to $400 per piece when sold) she began to pester him about her helping with his own writing.

“An experiment,” She finally offered when hints did not seem to have any effect. “Alternate chapters, man’s point-of-view and woman’s point-of-view of the same affair. How does that sound?”

Carl did not have to think about it for long. The editors at four different men’s magazines loved her for her ingenuity and profligacy and she could write a steamy sex scene with the best of them. “What’s the underlying plot?” he asked.

She held up the wrinkled, well-thumbed photocopy of a manuscript. “’Red River Meeting,’” she said of the pilfered piece. “Start on the bridge, the meeting, the memories of a torrid affair, an open marriage where anything goes, lovers galore for both of them, every position and kinky twist we’ve used and that are still being used in every porn novel around. End with two quick chapters – his version and her version – of nuts being grabbed, the impassioned grappling on the bridge. Leave it open – do they get back together or is this the final heaving sigh of a failed relationship? – maybe work out a sequel on what happens next.”

Carl nodded thoughtfully, liking the idea. “Let me see story again first,” he said, reaching. “Then we’ll talk.”

“Just talk?”  Her excitement for the project turned to sudden disappointment.

He flipped through the pages, stopping quickly to scan a paragraph here, read several lines of dialogue there before flipping again. “Talk about how we’re going to go about it,” he said distractedly. He tossed the manuscript onto his desk and rose to approach her. He pulled her into a bearlike embrace and slipped his hands under her slacks to massage the buttocks and insinuate his fingers between them while continued to knead and massage. The pleasure of his warm, strong hands on her ass drew a moan from her throat. “Something like this takes more time to work out than just sitting down at the computer and banging away,” he whispered in her ear. “Something like this takes a bit of thought and planning.”

Lena undressed slowly, said nothing as if her actions were answer enough. For this, she knew, coming to him hungrily, no thought was necessary.

***

Slow and languid, that was the way she remembered him from the last time. She looked deep into his soft brown eyes, gently traced the line of his strong jaw with her finger and saw from his expression that he remembered, too. It had been more than two years and yet she recalled their last meeting so long ago as if it had taken place only hours, perhaps just minutes before.

            “Tell me that he still makes love the same way,” she thought. “Let me believe that he hasn’t changed in that regard.” She wanted to believe that his kisses would come slow and sweet, hot against the skin, sensuously defining the hollow at the meeting of her shoulder and neck, that he would still slowly, maddeningly, slide his tongue over her breasts, muttering sweet yet mildly vulgar words of appraisal as he took her brown nipple into his mouth to work it to a tingling hardness, an excitement that would wind serpentlike through her body until she would be just about ready to scream. If that was so then she knew that she would be the same as she remembered, stifling her instinct to howl and keen, muting her voice down to a guttural moan that would serve to pique his desire further, get him to continue his ministrations, make him want more, want to push her to the limit, have her grapple him, pull him closer (though that would be near to impossible), have him make her demand what they both knew that they would have of the other in that slow, languid, wonderful way that he had.

Lena stopped reading aloud and looked up at Carl. He had been listening intently; his only comment now was a disinterested shrug. “I got tired of the ‘wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am’ stuff I was writing for the magazines,” she said, defensive against his obvious indifference. “This is going to be book length so I figured I’d do it a little differently, with a slow build-up, kind of like the way I used to like it. Know what I mean?”

“Of course I do,” said Carl. “But you’ve got to realize, book length or not, it’s all pretty much the same thing as those little pieces you’ve been doing for the men’s rags. A major sex scene per each chapter. That’s the nature of the beast. You don’t want to risk losing your audience in the second chapter. They expect sleaze; that’s why they buy this crap in the first place.”

“I know that, but I thought….”

“Look, we’ve agreed to twenty-two chapters: ten for you, ten for me, an intro and a tie-up at the end where they break things off with a vague promise to see each other again, kind of hinting at a sequel. Now, the intro’s pretty good, draws’em right in. Then…this. Ba-bing! The reader puts the book down – and I’m talking about the reader at the publishing company here – and says that it’s too slow, so no sale. Don’t call us, et cetera, et cetera. Lena, you know the rules….”

“No way to break them, be creative?”

“Not if we want to sell this thing to Skintight Press. The form is the given, no way to play around with it.”

“It’s not fair,” she complained. “I mean, I’m trying to write this from a woman’s perspective. When a woman’s recalling a sexual encounter she focuses on the kisses and the build-up, what makes the man special. Sure I can do the heavy breathing suck and fuck stuff but I figured this being book length we could ease into it more slowly, give it a glow of realism… people….”

“Uh-uh, not for Skintight. All their stuff is pretty much the same with very little variation from the tried and true. All heaving bodies and musky damp sheets, cocks and cunts and asses and tits being used in imaginative ways. Remember their motto: ‘Every page guaranteed to scorch your fingers.’ With this….” He patted his wife’s draft chapter. “You barely warm the skin. Remember your audience and what they want. That’s the first rule.”

Lena nodded glumly as she picked up the sheaf of paper. “So,” she said dejectedly. “Try, try again, eh?”

“That’s my girl,” he encouraged lamely.

***

The actual writing of the novel took only one month to complete with both Carl and Lena working separately on their respective chapters. As with Carl’s first book, more than two years before, though, it was the editing and rewriting that required the most effort. An additional month was needed in actual collaboration to segue their alternating chapters into one another and to write the tie-up last chapter together. The time factor was further lengthened by the fact that each of them were, at the time, also writing the shorter, letter pieces to provide them with walking around money since the added month’s worth of work on the novel was taking a healthy bite out of their customary income. In effect, they would only be getting a month’s worth of pay for two months of work. That averaged out to about thirty letter pieces needed from each of them just to make up the month’s deficit that the additional novel writing was costing them.

In the end, though, the effort and mild hardship seemed worth all that they had put into it. They couldn’t us the title “Red River Meeting” as they both would have liked for fear of bumping up against some copyright law against employing a previously used title for a book that bore at least a superficial resemblance to the original, shorter piece. Old Goody Two-Shits Halbistam would be just the person to find out about it and take legal action against Skintight Press and the pseudonymous “Carla Lenz,” as Carl wished to have the author of the work be known.

When the photocopied acceptance letter came through for “Rivers of Lust,” Carl and Lena celebrated in their usual, low-key style: dinner and a movie. At Lena’s suggestion they went to an art-house showing of Casablanca. Lena cried at the airport parting of Bogie and Ingrid Bergman as she always did (she had seen the movie three times already, this being the fourth).

“What a thing to do,” Carl commented as they emerged from the little theater. He said that he wasn’t sure whether to respect the Bogie character for letting go of the love of his life for noble reasons, or to call the guy a foolish idiot. “It always gets me,” he said.

“That’s romance,” said Lena, still teary eyed.

Back home she would call that which she and Carl almost immediately engaged in by the same name—romance – ignoring the stark differences. The build-up of the foreplay was the way she used to like it: slow and languid. Carl was ever the perfect lover; he knew exactly how to turn her on and keep her body humming at near peak excitement until he was ready to apply just a bit more friction, more pressure, more intensity to tip her over the edge to orgasmic oblivion. Used to like it, she realized. Now, the going was much too slow. She told her husband what she wanted in no uncertain terms. She did not giggle as she used to when he heaved her onto the bed and projected himself on top of her; this was serious and not to be taken so lightly.

She did not notice the vacant gleam in Carl’s eyes, the fact that he was doing all by rote. It did not matter to her that he was a thousand miles away, indulging in the simple, animal essence of one of his (their) many sex stories, If asked she, too, would have had to agree that Carl was not her real lover that night. The man she was with had the cock the size of a donkey’s pizzle and it was splitting her cunt ecstatically wide with every pounding, vigorous drive of his hips as he forced himself into her further and further, ramming home, pushing her deeper into the mattress as his massive dong prodded and bruised her cervix with each propulsive thrust. Just the way that she had come to need and want it.

Words were moaned and growled; there were no endearments. Words uttered, meant to sting, to hurt and arouse one another to the steepest pitch of those feelings that were by nature the most basic to all mammals. Cunt, pussy, whore, bastard, cock, fuck, ream, shove, bang, ball, pound – words of anger and incendiary lust without true meaning; there was no reality shared between them. Their meeting was completed individually, inside of each of them, Carl and Lena, singly and without reference to the other.

“Ram it into me,” she moaned heartily, huskily as she thrust her hips at him for yet another exquisitely forceful entry inside her of that massive hot cock she had dreamed for her pleasure. She was playing the character in one of their stories with no real mind, no past, no ambition save for this. “That’s it,” she encouraged greedily. “Fuck me harder. Harder, I said! Make me scream!”

And he did, puffing and cursing mightily with the effort.

And when it was done, their orgasms spent like money paid, they lay separately on the tangled, dampened sheets of their connubial bed, each breathing heavily, exhausted, staring at the ceiling in wonder. And this is what it was, the thing they each had sought in the air above them, the thought and memory that had escaped them and which they would not fully realize: that neither of them was truly satisfied. Yet the driving, heady desire was still keen within each of them.

It’s All in the Words By Charles E.J. Moulton

I sat behind that incredible looking chick, flabbergasted. There was no other word I could use to describe her. Those humungous knockers, luscious like juicy watermelons. Enjoying the sight of her astounding boobs not only raised my dick about three feet, she had my heart racing like crazy. Dive into that cleavage, boy, I thought to myself, and vanish. Move into Chrissie’s wet and pouting little vagina forever.

I know, I know, I really was supposed to be concentrating on work. This short conference had a bunch of us together from the theatre that had not done the show before. Chrissie had been assigned to brief us through the moves by the way of a video of last season’s premiere. So I wrote down my notes in the textbook, moves and intensions and so on, but all I could think of was throwing this fucking cockteaser over the desk and ramming my hard penis into her pussy from behind, watching her voluptuous bumcheeks wobble like Jell-O as I thrusted toward a five-gallon-of-sperm-climax.

Even worse, she wore a tight blouse that really showed off her curves in such a delicious way, her bra pressing down upon her voluptuous titties under her striped shirt, pressing so hard into her Victoria’s Secret and so bad into her meaty boobies that I literally saw her rack eagerly hoping to hop out onto my happy prick.

And then the belly free bit, the open skin-space between her black blouse and her beige pants. A little bit of cuddly flesh, revealing enough to leave something to the dirty imagination: the wet dream of ripping off those cute little trousers, showing off two peachy apricotlike buttcheeks, welcoming enough to make me wanna fuck the shit out of her real hard.

That blonde, flowing hair, that friendly smile, those sexy dimples, that happy-go-lucky and very open dickpleaser-personality. All of that made me wonder how many men she had fucked and sucked or how many men – and women, for that matter – had wanted to fuck and lick her lucious little pussylips.

I bet you want dick real bad, you dirty  crumpet, I felt like telling her.

Her ass, oh, how it molded into those pants. Perfection. I really sat there, imagining myself reaching into her flower-decorated panties, fingering her throbbing and dicklusting pussy. As I seriously took notes, trying my best to concentrate on work – damn, boy, work, work, work, damn it – I imagined this slut sitting naked on her desk, spreading her legs, opening her three rows of wavey pussyfolds, showing me the pink inside of her wet cunnilingus, asking me to eat her vagina. In my dreams, she sat on my face and I drank her cunny willingly, drinking litres of clitjuice in the process through a five foot straw. How’s that for a smoothie? Holy cow, she really had me by the balls.

I walked away from work that night absolutely confused. The only damn thing I could think of was how to get into her beige pants. Fucking that hot cockteaser was probably the best thing that could happen to any horny man. I knew, however, that I could not fuck her. Okay, I would have adored to. But a married man does not fuck around, even if I had enjoyed daydreaming of having Chrissie’s pouting little lips surrounding and devouring my squirting cock. That face covered in cum. How wonderful was that? Wow. That’s how wonderful.

Okay, I told myself, take a cold shower, calm down, do some math, buy an algebra book, for God’s sake, do your taxes, anything just to get that cocksucking little whore Chrissie out of your mind.

I noticed that writing a made up story about Chrissie in my smartphone app sort of healed the aching testosterone levels. It felt, inside, like I really had fucked that babe long and hard, perhaps even sticking my schwanz into that teasing bitch’s butthole for a whimper and a squeeze, turning her office desk into Cock Ewing’s Giant Hot Dog Rodeo Ride.

Gee Wiz, I desperately needed a cigarette.

Whew.

There’s a hole lot of fun a red blooded wanker can have without ever being unfaithful.

It’s all in the words.

What did I need now?

Oh. Okay. Maybe a wank.

Or fucking my wife.

Oh, yes. Indeed. My wife.

The world’s best cocksucker.

She really knew how to please a man’s long dick.

So nice and easy coming home.

I feel my dick growing now.

I gotta go and get myself some really hot and wet little pussy.

Counter Clockwise By Alex Matthews

I was out getting in my 10-15 miles on my mountain bike and the morning was cool, crisp, a little damp. It reminded me of how I woke that morning, horny and fever-broken from one those dream you deny but can’t dismiss. You’re straight, horny as hell, but straight.

I’ve always gone against the grain, modestly, subtly, and this early morning ride was going to be counterclockwise against the regular flow of traffic. But since it Sunday morning in the Bible-belt I’d be lucky to see some deer and brake for a box turtle. Just pay attention damnit, I tell myself, you need the workout, let go, but keep your head up.

I get a good pace, breathing deep in and out with alternating strokes as Miles, AC/DC, Superchunk and Coltrane shuffle through my ears. Crossing over the abandoned dirt road that I drop in by the “new” old mill cabin and drop down onto the trail that follows the stream up to the dairy barn pasture where I’ll take my break, hydrate, pop a butterscotch candy in my mouth, let the world go by for a few minutes BAM!

I’m over the bars but manage to unclip and roll into the fall. Stand up straight suddenly, shake my eyes clear and hear “What the fuck do you think you’re doing!?!” from the lush green foliage along the inside of the single-track. Males and pissed off. Well so much for that fantasy of meeting a sweaty, fit woman on the ride. Oh shit…

“Sorry dude, all my fault,” I apologize helplessly, meekly, ashamed. I help him up and notice a strong grip in my hand as I help him up to full, lean, posture covered in kudzu and grime. Instinctively I brush dirt of his smooth spandex top of his shoulder, then off his chest, brush a nipple, was that a piercing? From the look in his eyes I’m going to say yes.

“Jesus Christ!” he seethes, “Don’t you know which way to go?”

“Both ways I guess,” and for the first time in my life I have a rap, a pick-up line, that comes to me right then and there at the moment and not five hours later as I stroke my cock. And I deliver it staring into the smirk of a tall, in-shape mountain biker, about my age, ahem late 40’s, alone in the woods, with my hand still on his chest and my shorts getting tighter.

Our bikes aren’t wrecked, my front rim is bent, and the derailleur is wonky, but only his front tire is flat. Otherwise, the bikes are good, but we’re both filthy with sweat, trail muck and a little short of breath. “We should go to the cabin across the bridge, catch our breath, assess the damage,” I suggest, going with the vibe of a morning and day changing radically before my eyes.

“Good idea,” he says and tries brushing the clay off my shoulder, then squeezing it, “How’s your collarbone? If you have broken it yet riding you will.”

“It’s good but first time for everything I guess.”

The walk to the cabin takes some time. Not sure if it’s our “injuries” or just being outside. Turns out we share that appreciation for the outdoors and he apologize for his behavior earlier. “No worries, dude, it was my fault entirely,” and he winces, and I limp along. We have more in common than at first blush. We’re both divorced and horny rather than interested in a relationship. “Fuck buddies is what you mean?” I ask trying to be flirtatious, “Nah, fuck babes,” and winks. I can’t tell if he’s coy or checking me out.

The cabin is open but inside accommodations are sparse, a table, a bench, an empty hearth. It’s a nice aroma, musty, solitary. “No bed,” one of us jokes, the other tests the table, “We could put up here for the night, till the storm blows over…”

We sit side by the side on the table in silence. I doze off and awake to find him asleep on the face down on the bench. I take stock of his body, his taut thighs, the salt and pepper of his beard. “Hey,” I shake him, “You ok?”

He moans lowly, I start to trail his calf with my finger. His eye opens, “My name is Jeff,” he says. “Mike,” I reply, “Nice to meet you. Do you get some rest?” He stands up and stretches.

His sweat tastes clean with a faint, gritty hint of dirt. I run my hands over his ass teasing myself as much as him. He grunts faintly. I moan warmly. I put my finger in the elastic band of his shorts and our crotches push forward to meet.

I’m was unsure of what to do. Some things don’t matter when lust and desire are involved, especially things that once seemed to mean so much like gender and orientation. Desire overrides them. But fear of opening up on a passionate level can stop us dead in our trucks no matter how fast our heart beats or how heavily our cock throbs. I thrust my crotch against his and the texture of the spandex on spandex sends shivers along the lengths of our dicks like two firm branches rubbing together to start a fire. My cock feels two feet long.

I put my hand on his ear, his breath warms my neck, God I want his cock and him! The realization makes my thoughts swirl like I’m being thrown off my bike again.

I always carry a condom – it’s a weird damsel in distress on the bike trail fantasy – but now I starting to think, maybe today, here, now, with him? He sucks my finger and then slides it under his warm moist balls and squats a little as I probe. I turned him around and massage his brown eye and prostate with my knuckle. By the way, yes to the question above. Thankfully.

I move us over to the old wooden table in the center of the cabin. Two curtain-less windows let in the daylight. The sweat glistens on his back. I lick him clean. Then slipping the condom on to my cock I say, “Baby, my cock wants you, do you want my cock?” and he insinuates his tight ass into my rod and purrs “Fuck yes.”

I lay him on his back on the table, hook his legs under my arms and stroke his firm staff while grinding my bulging dick into his taint. I lick the pre-cum off my hands then go to my knees and take him in my mouth. So warm, so thick, his cock’s aroma fills my head as I slobber the length of its shaft. His balls taste sweaty and sweet, ivory soap turns me on, and I struggle to keep him in my mouth and when he says “Oh baaaaaby!” and I raise off him to watch his prick spasm spunk into the half light of the late morning. I grab his legs in my arms and entered.

He’s on fire as his muscles contract to meet my surprising aggressiveness with a teasing dalliance like he was just isn’t going to give it up so easily. I close my eyes and run my nose along his instep and plead, “Please give me that ass, I need it” and he relents. I go balls-deep and stream cum into the condom then collapse, unaware of the world, out of it, never to return to it again.

Paradise By Ty Vossler

An island paradise, all-inclusive, water sports, yoga, massage, aromatherapy…

The advertisement went on to describe a rich, natural experience waiting for adventurous couples.

After fifteen years of marriage, we deserved it, needed it. Lucia and I lived busy lives trying to balance work with family so that our three-year-old, Rita, would have memories of energetic, fun-loving parents when she was older. Yet, sometimes our best efforts weren’t sufficient to stave off evening lethargy. Lovemaking became ritualized, so that that every two weeks Lucia obligingly opened her thighs and said, “This’s just for you, Mr. Costner.”

Sixteen years ago Lucia obtained an educational visa from her native Mexico. I had just published my first novel, and was invited as a guest speaker for an English class at an adult school. I noticed Lucia right away sitting in the back, flashing her thousand-watt smile. She had inscrutable almond-shaped eyes, and short-cropped black hair. It all boiled down to chemistry—even as I delivered my lecture and started the class on writing project. There was just something about her. I pursued, she let me chase, and after a good amount of time, she slowed down enough for me to catch her.

# # #

After all these years, Lucia and I still love each other. After time, marriages evolve into a series of agreements, and sometimes they’re not healthy—companionship without passion, a sexless friendship. We were determined never to allow this. Middle age was upon us and we determined not to evolve into old fogies.

We live on a small family ranch in Tlaxcala, Mexico with Lucia’s mother, her stepfather and a younger half-brother. As teachers, we enjoy a simple life. Our combined earnings allowed us to travel a bit. Yet, disconnectedness had crept into our relationship—a natural consequence of responsibility. Occasionally, Lucia’s mother babysat, allowing Lucia and me to catch a movie, enjoy a quiet dinner, or sneak off to a motel for a few hours. Those stolen moments were spiritual, magical, yet far and few between. Just as we reacquainted, the date ended and we were thrust back into our busy worlds.

Clothing optional, said the ad, rekindle your passion, make new friends––couples only…

“It’s worth a try,” I said.

“Two days and nights—but it’s so expensive.” She countered.

“We’re worth it.”

“Rita will be in heaven. She’ll be the center of the universe for her grandparents.”

“Spoiled rotten when we return.”

“I’m going to try and lose my belly,” Lucia determined. Her figure was matronly after the birth of Rita.

“I think you’re just right,” I said.

“That’s because you still love me. I don’t want to walk around naked on a beach looking like this.” She went into the kitchen.

As Lucia blended a green drink to begin her diet, I set about booking tickets, and with a ceremonious final click our decision became irrevocable.

# # #

It was surreal, departing from temperate Puebla and arriving to the humidity of the Mexican Riviera. We boarded a ferry in, Playa del Carmen, which floated us to Paradise Island, a tropical spit of private land cut off from the mainland by ten miles of turquoise water.  Dressed in a thin, flowery skirt and a red cotton blouse, Lucia looked younger than her forty-five years, and I was still fit at fifty-five.

There were about ten other passengers aboard the ferry. We conversed with an elderly couple that said they’d been returning to the island for the past fifteen years.

“What’s it like?” Lucia got right to the point.

“The fountain of youth,” said the woman.

“Like being a kid again,” said the man.

Lucia and I went to the front railing of the ferry and let the ocean spray mist our bodies. Rita dominated our conversations until we docked at the island. What was Rita doing at that moment? She was getting so tall, wasn’t she? We’ll have to find something to bring back for her. Should we call to make sure everything’s all right? It took some time for the jungle atmosphere of the island to trickle its way into our consciousness.

Attractive young men dressed in linen shorts and a Hawaiian shirts welcomed us at the dock. Waiters carrying a tray loaded with extra large margaritas followed him closely. Each visitor got the royal treatment. They all spoke Spanish, yet my grasp was good enough by then to understand.

Our host had large, brown eyes and an easy smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Costner, on behalf of our entire staff, welcome to Paradise. I’m Mario, and I’ll be showing you to your bungalow.”

“Thank you. Please call me, Wyler, and this is, Lucia.”

He shook my hand and kissed Lucia on the cheek. We gratefully sipped as Mario took us on a walking tour.

“Your things will be placed in your room for you.” He pointed out gravel trails leading to various locations on the island. We saw naked couples, young and old, walking hand in hand. Most were just like us—imperfect bodies. Yet none of them seemed self-conscious.

“I feel better now,” Lucia whispered. She had managed to lose some of the puffiness in her tummy, yet not as much as she’d hoped. Squeezing her hand, I smiled and bumped her hips with mine.

We were led to our bungalow, a handsome whitewashed stucco affair with a thatch roof, French doors, and large windows all around. Dominating the bedroom was a king-size bed covered with colorful throw pillows. Snuggled in an ice bucket was a bottle of champagne. The ambiance was beginning to humidify any concerns we may have had. The bathroom boasted a walk-in shower that doubled as a wet sauna, with a tiled bench wide enough to lie on.

“I’m sure you’ll enjoy the garden,” Mario said, opening double doors to the back yard. Orchids dripped from privacy walls—there was a large outdoor table with cushioned chairs and a private Jacuzzi surrounded by thick candles. Between two ancient Jacaranda trees hung a hammock built for two.

“Here’s my card,” the Mario smiled, “If there’s any way I can be of service, don’t hesitate to call.” He gave Lucia an uplifted eyebrow and excused himself.

“Mario wants to service you,” I chided.

“Mmm,” she moaned, “shall I call?” She held out the card.

I shook my head, “You’re all mine, Mrs. Costner,” and took her into my arms. Of course, I wanted her straight away. Lucia suggested that we stroll the island to allow the champagne to chill. We followed a trail—not remembering where Mario said it would lead. The island was small enough that we couldn’t get lost.

Being surrounded by so much flesh was intimidating at first. Yet everyone was very friendly, stopping to ask where we were from and how long we’d be staying. One man was strolling alone and he stopped to smile at us.

“Bit hot for clothes,” he said, “isn’t it?’

Lucia didn’t skip. She was out of her clothes in less than a minute. I followed her lead, not wanting to appear prudish.

Much better,” the man said, nodding at Lucia.

We continued on the trail. Songbirds filled the perfumed air and we heard the chattering of monkeys and parrots.

“Wonder what Rita’s doing?” Lucia asked.

“Enjoying a vacation away from her parents,” I said.

“Touché.”

The humidity made us perspire, yet the ocean breeze cooled like a ceiling fan. The trail terminated abruptly at a lushly forested oasis, fed by a ten-foot waterfall. On a manmade flagstone embankment beside the cascade, a couple was making love. We spied from a camouflage of orchids. A handsome middle-aged black man was attending to a beautiful brown-skinned Polynesian-looking woman. She groaned deeply and dug her heels into his lower back as he plunged forward.

“Oh god, that’s good,” she moaned, “I love your cock…mmm.”

They were sweating and oblivious to rest of the world. I stepped behind Lucia to put my arms around her. Their primitive utterances meshed seamlessly with the forest sounds of water, birds, frogs, and the clattering forest animals.

We watched for another minute before withdrawing soundlessly and finding the beach trail.

“That was—

“Pretty sexy,” I finished.

“Yes. Did you see his—?

“Very impressive.”

“She liked it.”

“Like to try it out?”

“Let’s find the beach.”

Along the way, I stopped to kiss her beneath a canopy of trees, smelling the ocean and feeling like Adam. I wanted her on the forest floor, yet she tugged me toward the sound of the sea.

There were about two-dozen others laying beneath the sun, or shaded by large umbrellas at wooden tables. Others swam in the clear waters of the Caribbean. A quaint little grass hut bar served refreshments, and cheery waiters kept everyone hydrated. It was all part of the package.

Lucia drew plenty of notice as we walked. Her large brown nipples were stiff and the gentle swell of her tummy curved down into a dark, natural thatch.

We walked to where the sugary beach ended in a border of large boulders. A natural stone archway led through to a thin, sandy path. We followed the weaving footpath around more boulders and stumbled upon another couple blocking the path.

“Oops,” Lucia said.

The woman stopped churning over her partner, “Hi…oyyy,” and she resumed, sending him in and out of with graceful, ballet-like movements. “Don’t go away…mmm!” She was a beautiful black woman with straight dark hair flowing midway down her back. Her Latin lover urged her on in Spanish.

“Que rico, ay si, eso se siento bien!”

“Like that baby?”

“Ay si…me vengo!”

“Yeah baby, cum…let me feel it!” She gave us an enigmatic smile as he growled and spurted. She lay for a moment on top, and then lifted off of him. “Let’s let these people by.”

The man got to his feet and smiled as Lucia and I walked past and found a plot of sand between two boulders by the end of the trail. I kissed her, and the memory of what we’d seen so far made my cock into stone.

Lucia and I assembled our clothes into a makeshift bed. Yet, rather than lying down, she bent over, placed her hands on top of a low boulder and splayed her legs. I opened her ass-cheeks, bent my knees and slipped in easily between the mocha-colored folds of her lips. She groaned deeply and reached a hand between her legs to massage her tiny pearl- drop. Within minutes her pussy was quivering. She gasped and I felt her flex around me. I watched her asshole contracting with each successive spasm.

“Ay-ay-ayyy,” her pussy squeezed as I drove to the hilt, tapping at her  tissue boundary.

The other couple watched. Lucia bent her knees so that I slipped out, and then she lay on the makeshift bed. I settled between her brown legs and she waved over my shoulder to our audience.

Provecho,” said the man.

I lifted Lucia’s knees, scooted forward and pushed inside. The natural sunlight illuminated every detail of her snatch. Again, Lucia found her tiny clitoris. Our climax coincided and I cupped her ass, pushed in all the way and growled, spurting over and over. I stayed hard until her final shivering follow-up. When I pulled out, a stream of semen tangled in the pubic hair around her slit, and dripped on our clothes. We were both sweating profusely.

The onlookers blew kisses and walked back toward the beach. I brushed sand from Lucia’s backside and she wiped semen from her trickling snatch with my underwear.

“Hey, why not yours?” I complained.

“You’re responsible for this mess, Mister Costner,” she reprimanded.

We followed the trail to the beach. Ironically, both couples we’d seen earlier were cooling off in the shallows. The black woman waved for us to join them.

“I need to rinse off anyway,” said Lucia.

It seemed odd being introduced in waist deep water to people we’d just watched fucking.

The waterfall lovers were William and Tasha. Enrique and Maribel were the beach couple. The men’s eyes roved over Lucia and I have to admit, she was the prettiest fish in the sea.

Lucia is able to carry out a conversation about almost anything, captivating others with intellect, humor, and her unconscious sensuality. She has what the French refer to as, je nais se quoi. I’m more of a listener, although I can hold my own if I have to. We briefly shared personal essentials. William was a retired professional baseball player. I knew enough about baseball to recognize his name, and impressed him by recalling that he’d won a batting title. Maribel was an architect, Tasha owned an import store, and her husband, Enrique, was a real estate broker. Obviously, they’d come to an adult understanding regarding the sharing of spouses. William laughed when Lucia told him she was a math professor.

“When I was playing ball, I couldn’t even figure out my own batting average.”

I shared a blog site where they could purchase or download my books and short stories.

“Brought my Kindle,” said Maribel, “I’ll check you out tonight.”

“Not tonight, baby,” reminded William.

“Oh, that’s right,” she nodded.

Enrique turned to Lucia, “We have the leisure hall reserved for tonight. Would you and Wyler like to join us?”

“What’s happening there?” The look of innocence on Lucia’s face was priceless.

“Ah, well, you never know what might happen,” answered Tasha.

Lucia smiled and waited for my input. The warm water was full of colorful fish and the moment was intoxicating. “Sure, we’d love to,” I answered.

The island leeched anxieties from our minds and a crisp, cool breeze whispered of adventure in Paradise. After a time, we said our farewells and agreed to meet at nine in the leisure hall.

On the journey back to the bungalow, we wondered about Rita. After a cold shower, we called home and listened to her adorable rendition of, Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Then my mother-in-law gave us a delightful summary of her day with Rita.

We optioned for clothes to have dinner. Lucia wore a spaghetti-strap red dress that showcased her smooth brown back, cut low in front to reveal other assets. I’m admittedly biased, but Lucia was the most delightful looking woman in the dining room. I opted for a simple pairing of beige linen slacks, and a black cotton shirt. We sipped a cold, refreshing white wine and ordered seafood dinner salads.

“What do you think will happen tonight?” Lucia asked as the setting sun painted the sky a bright orange.

“You never know,” I repeated Tasha’s words, and arched my eyebrows.

Lucia glanced at her watch. I held her hand, kissed her fingers and told her how much I loved her. She returned my sentiments. After dinner, we took a trail that the waiter said would terminate at the leisure hall.

I wondered if the other two couples had children. The subject hadn’t come up. Lucia and I loved each other, and our beautiful Rita completed us. The island was bridging a gap. The others were probably patching up holes too. Their means were unconventional, yet Lucia and I had enjoyed watching the unfettered freedom of their pleasure, and our subsequent lovemaking was spontaneously stupendous.

“Darling,” Lucia said as we walked, “what if something does happen?”

“How would you feel about it?”

“We love each other, right? It would just be—

“For fun,” I finished. “Let’s see how it plays out.”

Two monkeys darted in front of us, chasing each other. I was reminded of three brittle threads: Fear, Ignorance, and Guilt—puppeteers of modern society. On Paradise Island, primitive instincts were encouraged to frolic and chase, like the monkeys. Eating, fucking, and sleeping were the only valid currency.

Dense forest, heavily scented orchids and jasmine vines surrounded the leisure hall. Forest noises filtered through a light ocean breeze. A double door entrance was open and the inside was illuminated by dozens of candles. Hidden speakers played ambient music.

“Wow,” Lucia whispered. A small man-made cascade splashed from a wall into a pool filled with freshwater tropical fish.

Centered in the room was a large, circular raised platform covered with supple, black leather padding and throw pillows. A hookah pipe with six hoses and an ember pot sat to one side.

“I want one of those,” I gestured to the pipe.

“You had your chance when we visited Istanbul.”

“They sell them in Mexico too.”

We heard distant laughter, and soon the others entered. They were also wearing clothes.

“I never grow tired of this,” William lifted his hands in the air.

They climbed the dais to greet us warmly with hugs and cheeky kisses.

“Ah, the pipe, have you ever tried?” Tasha queried.

“In Turkey,” Lucia answered.

“Are you Turkish?” she asked.

“Mexican. Wyler and I visited Turkey a few years ago.”

“You have such a great look,” Maribel added, “You could be Indian, Japanese, Italian, Middle-eastern…”

William set up the pipe with tobacco that he’d brought with him. “Ah yes… the pipe,” he said.

The fragrance of the pipe was sweet as we sat around it. I put the tip of a hose to Lucia’s lips and she inhaled deeply. When she exhaled, the cloud dissipated rapidly and she said it tasted of rose pedals.

The power of the vapor flowed quickly into our brains, and after three or four pulls the candlelight seemed to sway rather than flicker. Lucia leaned her head on my shoulder.

“What’s in this stuff?” I chuckled.

“Mind cleanser,” said Enrique.

“Spirit awakener,” added Mirabel.

“An aphrodisiac,” added William.

Lucia played her fingers in the air, “I’m floating.”

Enrique was kissing Tasha’s neck and shoulders as he slowly unbuttoned her blouse. Mirabel opened William’s shirt to trap a nipple with her front teeth.

I lifted Lucia’s face for a kiss. The mysterious vapor made our lips super-sensitive. I lowered a strap on her dress and took a brown nipple into my mouth.

Within the vaporous mist moans issued, along with sighs, and moist sounds. We observed each other. Enrique saw Lucia lift her dress over her head. Tasha’s eyes followed as I lowered my pants and Lucia leaned back on her hands and lifted her ass for me to pull her panties off.

“Gotta love that,” William smiled and nodded slowly as he gazed at Lucia’s snatch. Mirabel whispered something into his ear and his smile broadened.

I took Lucia into my arms and peppered her with kisses. My cock was pulsating— lifting with each beat of my heart. From the corner of my eyes, I saw Tasha take Enrique into her mouth. Lucia watched William lift Mirabel’s thighs to bury his face between them.

Time slowed to a single pulse. There were no questions, only answers lying everywhere around us. Moments focused and blurred as Lucia’s hand closed around my cock and jacked me back and forth. Then, there was movement—bodies shifting. Somehow I was on my back and Tasha was giving me head. Enrique was pushing into her from behind. Lucia was on my left with William between her legs. Her hands were flat against his chest as Maribel sucked her nipples. I saw William slide his knees forward. His mouth opened as if he’d found something he liked.

I didn’t remember us wanting this, yet we must have. Tasha was painting my cock with her tongue and I shut my eyes tightly. When I opened them, Mirabel was grasping William’s broad shaft and teasing it up and down over Lucia’s outer lips. She was thrusting desperately against him.

“Get inside…ohhh, get inside me,” she begged. Her eyes were glazed and she groaned deeply, rubbing her calves over his ass.

“You think you can handle this cock? You’re such a tiny little thing…” Mirabel teased.

“Ay, yes…I want it,” Lucia answered.

William pushed—Lucia’s head jerked back and her mouth opened wide. She gasped and drew a deep breath. Her eyes were tightly closed as William gradually disappeared down and in.

“Ahhh, now that’s some tight pussy…ahhh, Jesus.” He smiled over at me as reached Lucia’s boundary. She let out a long, staccato groan, and Mirabel kissed her.

“You did it…you took every inch of that big cock. Feel good?”

“Ayyy, yes…huh…ugh, ayyy…”

“Mmm,” William moaned. He pulled back and stroked forward.

Tasha paused on my cock because she was cumming. Enrique’s balls slapped against her ass and her orgasm was a high seagull cry. I reach up to twist her nipples and turned again to watch Lucia with William.

William drew back his impressive length and Lucia pulled him back in with her legs. He leaned forward for a kiss her and Mirabel was there—all three tongues lashed hungrily as he continued relentlessly, back and forth. Lucia was panting now—circling her hips—delirious.

“Ohhh… ayyy… huh, guh… oh, oh…” she crested and spilled over, “Oh guh… ayyy!” Her head thrashed side-to-side and she ground against him.

Tasha straddled me and lowered over my cock. Enrique put a dab of jelly on his cock and pushed into her asshole. I felt Enrique’s cock through the thin separating membrane. Tasha twisted her nipples and shouted, “Ohhh my god…ohhh, shit!”

Mirabel straddled Lucia’s face now, and Lucia was licking but had to stop when another climax loomed, “Hyyy, ohhh, ay, ay, ayyy!” Her climaxes was monumental. Her head jerked back, as William thrust harder.

“Uh, uh, uh, uh,” He grunted with every forward thrust.

Lucia gripped his shoulders, “Oh, uh, guh.”

Mirabel urged him on. I heard his balls slapping as he drove into her. Then Mirabel grabbed Lucia’s attention again. “Keep licking, baby…that’s it…yeah…don’t stop…lick my pussy!” Mirabel stiffened, shuddered and then bucked, “Yeah, ohhh yeah, oh right there… ooo, huh… ohhh, oh, oh, ohhh!”

Lucia’s tongue lashed at Mirabel’s clit. She tasted salty and smelled musky. She managed to free a hand and inserted two fingers into her cunt, curling them so that she could stimulate her G-spot. Lucia’s face was soaked with Mirabel’s juices. She turned her head and saw Enrique and Tasha watching her, mesmerized by the spectacle of so much primitive passion spilling out all at once into the room. She felt her juices traveling down her outer lips, into the crack of her ass. Her pleasure combined with everything that was taking place around her and she was surprised to hear herself crying out.

Within the misty vapors, a cacophony of moans sighs outbursts of pleasure. They were awash in the smell of sex—musky and intoxicating. They had become one, adding to the oneness. She heard Wyler growling as he spurted. Lucia transcended mere pleasure now. It was if she were experiencing a strong, continuous orgasm.

William shouted, “I’m gonna nut…oh Jesus…!” He arched his back, pumped his hips, “ohhh, oh shit…oh, oh, awww!” His ball sack lifted and flexed with the force of his ejaculation. Lucia was still cumming, forcing air and semen out from her taut lips.

Enrique grunted, pushed deep into Tasha’s asshole and let out a long groan. Cum dripped to my lower thighs and when he slipped out, it splashed on my legs. We collapsed into an exhausted heap of tangled arms and legs. William pulled back, and my ears were so sensitive that I heard the breaking of suction as his cockhead popped out of Lucia’s gaping cunt. Then there was the sound of semen-laden air frothing out of her. William lay on his side to watch.

Mirabel had her face there, watching her husband’s semen flowing from Lucia. “Dear god…that’s amazing. Push, Lucia…push it out honey.” Lucia pushed. There was the sound of more air escaping wetly. “Jesus, Will, you’ve been savin’ this up.”

“Come here you guys, you gotta see this,” William gestured.

The rest of us gathered to watch the spectacle of a seemingly endless flow of cum seeping from Lucia’s yawning cunt—stretched out by the thickness of William’s cock. Mirabel rubbed my back. “Don’t worry, baby, it’ll shrink back down in a few hours.”

Enrique used two fingers to gather a good amount of semen from around her cunt, and then placed it back inside Lucia. “Oh man, that’s so sexy.”

“Jeez,” said Tasha, Enrique’s ready to go again.”

Lucia’s mouth was still ajar. Her eyes were half open. She closed her legs and began wagging them side-to-side. “Think I’m finished,” she said.

Amazingly, I was hard again. Mirabel looked away from Lucia’s saturated snatch. “Wyler…somethin’ happening there?” She sidled toward me and pushed me to my back. Enrique stilled Lucia’s legs by placing his hands on her knees. Then he opened them and climbed between.

Tasha giggled, “After William… you’re gonna fall in.”

# # #

The cycle was sustained throughout the night. Whatever was in the vapor allowed continuity. When I finally had a turn with Lucia, her pussy was still gaping, and saturated with sperm. I easily slipped in and added more a short time later. Soon after, my cock was eased into Mirabel’s asshole with Enrique on bottom filling her cunt. It all became a blur after that. The last thing I remember was Lucia’s voice saying, “Slow… go slow… uhnn…”

# # #

I awakened within a tangle of arms and legs. Mirabel and Tasha were snuggled into William and Lucia was sandwiched between Enrique and me. She had her back to me with a leg draped over his hip. My cock immediately hardened, and I scooted closer. She twisted her head around.

“Wait,” she whispered. Lucia lifted her leg and I saw that Enrique was still inside of her. She gingerly disengaged and his cock slithered out to slap against his thigh.

Without a word, we wobbled to our feet, found our clothes and padded out into the beginning rays of dawn.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” Lucia complained with each step.

“You okay?”

“I think so. Nothing permanent.”

The sky was turning from pink to orange. Once outside, I took Lucia into my arms. She disengaged for a moment and used her panties to wipe fresh semen from her seeping snatch. Dry sperm covered her pubic hair, her thighs and ass. Even her tits were dotted with dried remains.

“Love you,” I whispered, holding her again.

“Te amo,” she returned, her head fitting against my chest so perfectly.

“Can you walk okay?”

“Think so,” she answered.

Returning to our bungalow, we showered and fell into a deep slumber, arms and legs akimbo. Late afternoon, we awakened and began the day with a long, lingering kiss. My hardness stabbed into her belly.

“How can you even…?” She pulled back and slapped at my cock.

“Guess the effect of the pipe hasn’t quite worn off yet.”

“That was––

“Amazing,” I finished.

“Can’t believe we…”

“Just did that,” I concluded.

“Wonder what Rita’s doing? Should we—?

“Let’s hold off a while longer.” I jabbed her playfully with my cock.

“Darling, I can’t possibly. I’m not even sure I can walk.”

“William,” I said.

“Mmm.”

“Did he fuck you in the…?”

“Mmm.” She nodded. “That’s the sorest part.”

The phone rang and Lucia answered.

“Hi…we’re both fine…tired and sore…yes, I think we can…okay…about seven… okay… ciao.”

“Let me guess—our new friends want to get together?”

Lucia nodded, “Just dinner. They’re exhausted too.”

“Don’t look at me,” I put up my hands defensively.

We took another shower, and as Lucia was soaping her pussy, she said, “It’s not as tender as I thought.”

I took her soapy body into my arms and kissed her. We were reconnected.

 

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.”