Awesome Threesome By Charles E.J. Moulton

A bouncy laugh here, a suggestive low-note there, a surprised wail, a husky lilt. Their chatter sounded like a jazz bar tune on a Steinway, a smooth classic, maybe, played at King Cole’s Bar in Manhattan.

These elegant vocal waves had me turning around. I couldn’t see the terrace from here, just the bugs, not the jugs, the lake and the sunset, but at least I had a nice view of mosquitoes dancing across the water in the light of the setting sun, waltzing dots lit by the blues, the yellows, the reds and the purples, mixing together with the darker indigo of the oncoming night. The insects not quite hitting the water, they seemed to tease the water just like the girls on the terrace teased me with the sound of their giggles.

I looked back at the screen and the blinking cursor, blinking like Danielle had blinked at me just six minutes ago.

My wife, who nearly threw a frying pan on my head after catching me wanking my nine inch penis to a photo of Kirsten Imrie, that had me nicknaming her “Killer Kimmie”, by the way, would she be willing to join me in seducing her girlfriend if I sported an erection?

I looked out across the water again. Above the hillside forest, the sky’s light of evening waves entailed a mystery. An invitation for a solitary gang-bang, to be sure. There were three other houses by the lakeside, but the owners were all gone away. The Hamptons to Malaysia, I think, the Indian author and his kids and wife back in New Dehli for the summer and that gay rock star and his lover on tour to somewhere rather. Our son had flown with grandpa to Toronto. So, yes, we were alone.

I flipped the document pages from front to back and back to front again, correcting a mistake here and there, shifting in my seat, looking at my written notes, leaning forward, scratching my chin.

It would have been great had I been sitting with pictures of Danielle, getting hot and bothered, but I sat working on an article about the island of Phuket. But the more I endeavored to concentrate on Phuket, the more did my wife’s girlfriend come into my mind.

Danielle’s dark eyes, that long black hair, that fantastic tush, my eyes watching her buttcheeks wooble as my helmet entered her arsehole, D-cup knockers dancing helplessly in the breeze. No, no, no.

“Damn it,” I whispered to myself, “You can’t fuck your wife’s best friend with your wife in the house.”

Or could I?

In secret?

Hold on!

What was that suggestive chatter about?

It sounded… inquisitive.

Danielle had been working on her second bottle of Champagne that evening when I left the table, the Tzatziki rolling down her chin like cum on ice. It had me wishing for being reincarnated as Greek bread.

Giggle and get drunk, just like back in college? It seemed like a promising enterprise if it hadn’t been for my constantly growing erection in her presence. I might enjoy the idea of joining the ladies for the spectacular Jennifer Aniston marathon they had planned with a predominant fuck as an aperitif. The guest room daintily arranged, the bed made, enough pizza to last us for three days, all of it reeked of girls weekend with me along for the ride. I wondered what would happen if I sported the most prominent erection of the galaxy looking at her best friend while she sat there herself.

I lift my Count Basie-decorated cup of coffee to my lips, recontemplating the birthday party. Kimberley had conversed with Danielle’s husband Jorge all of that evening, their conversation circling around Spanish politics. That seemed just as innocent as as Danielle’s accounts about comparing airplane models. We shared the hobby of model making, frequent flyers both of us, hobby builders of Boeing miniatures.

I ended up fucking the crap out of Kimberley in our water bed afterwards, squirting my one gallon of cum into her mouth for a very clean swallow, indeed.

Phuket all.

I poured more coffee into my cup, slurping it loud to drench Danielle’s fuckable voice, swallowing the Scottish butter cookies like I dreamed she would chew on my dick.

“I wanna fuck Danielle’s butt,” I whispered to myself, looking at the dry butter cookies left over from yesterday.

Danielle’s super sexy alto laugh finally made me switch on my Google Chrome. I soon stood there with my Uncle Reamus pointing toward the screen, wanking at babes being face-showered with sticky sperm.

It was in the middle of that delicious wank that I heard the sound of my wife, sweeter than usual, almost ethereal in character.

“Bob,” she sang, so magically and huskily that my heart almost melted, “you coming back, Sweetie?”

My right hand stopped its wild activity, fingers clutching my personal joystick, my heart beating like nuts, blood reaching my throat and clogging up my brain.

I froze.

Strip shows, facial fests, ass fucks, ball chews, foot jobs, tit shags, foot jobs, cum swallows, handcuffs, nurse role play, they all came to mind. Was this a bitter heart, a refusal to offer me bitter-flavored camembert-tasting pussy suppers?

“We wanna talk to you,” Kimberley crooned.

“Pretty please,” Danielle pleaded.

I desperately shoved my hard cock into my Wranglers, trying to think of Mikhail Gorbachev, Nikola Tesla, Saddam Hussein, farm tools or anything unsexy enough to make sure I did not enter the terrace with a massive jeans throb.

I stood up, looking down at my crotch, slapping it hard with a strict demand, shaking my head.

“Sure,” I sang, finally summoning enough smut to walk toward the terrace.
There they were, two gorgeous women, dressed in casual shorts and loose T-shirts, four D-cups waving at me, nipples waving hello.

“Sit down,” my wife whispered, raising her Dom Perignon at me,
Kimberley and Danielle exchanging ambivalent gazes.

I did, gazing at my wife and then at Danielle, sensing female conspiracy lurking in the shadows.

“You were chatting with Danielle at her birthday party last month,” my wife began.

“Leaning over,” Danielle smirked. “Like this.”

Danielle leaned over, giving me a glimpse of her cleavage.

The edge of my mouth twitched.

“You were all red in the face,” my wife added.

I shook my head.

Danielle shrugged, her titties wobbling. “We thought you needed help.”

I smiled.

“I was fine.”

“You hardly looked me in my face,” Danielle chuckled, a hint of disappointment in her voice.

I sat back in my chair.

My wife chuckled, looking at her best friend, shaking her head and eyeing heavenward. She whispered: “You spent the entire evening looking at her titties, you wicked perv.”

I cleared my throat.

My penis began to swell.

“Hey,” my wife growled, “listen…”

Now my heart was really pounding.

I had films playing in my brain of moving trucks and divorce lawyers.

“Who’s gonna start?” my wife mused, gazing at Danielle.

I shivered.

“You came up with the plan,” Danielle sing-songed.

Kimberley sighed.

“My tit crazy husband jerking off just to avoid having to deal with two randy women.”

I swallowed hard. “What?”

“Bob,” Danielle began, having woken me up enough to have me gaze at her boobies again.

“We have been comparing how you guys perform…”

“I haven’t played the saxophone in years,” I joked.

The girls broke into fits of giggles.

I raised my eyebrows, happy to hear this, feeling my fear settle and sink.
Danielle grinned at me. “My husband’s dick is six inches long. Kimberley said you… uuh… are… nine inches long.”

There was a long pause after that while I looked at my wife.

Kimberley smiled.

I laughed in relief.

“I knew you wanted to fuck Danielle when I saw you two at the birthday party,” she whispered. “I figured turning a meeting into a gang bang would be better than having you go behind my back and fuck her in some back room.”

Kimberley shrugged.

“Show her your dick.”

I hesitated.

“You threw a frying pan on me when you discovered me masturbating over Kirsten Imrie,” I said.

Kimberley gave me long sensuous tongue kiss.

“Show her your cock,” she mused.

I nodded.

I stood up, strolled up to that big jugged woman, biting my lip.
The horny whore unbuckled me, unbuttoned and unzipped me, letting my jeans flip open. As she reached into my undies, my dick plopped out like a jack-in-the-box into her face.

Danielle gazed up at me, at Kimberley, and back at my cock.

“It’s enormous. You are such a lucky lady, Kimberley. I bet you suck it a lot.”
Kimberley laughed.

Danielle lift my tan banana, put it on her forehead, gazing at Kimberley.
“Look, Kimmie, I’m a unicorn.”

They both giggled, which made me gaze at my wife, who, to my surprise, now had lift her skirt and was fondling her cunt.

“Can I suck your husband’s cock?”

“Be my guest,” Kimberley answered.

“Thanks, girlfriend,” Danielle said, ever so sweetly. “I’ll start licking his balls, okay?”

“Okay.”

Danielle now started licking my hairy testicles. No, not licking. Eating. She left me senseless, putting them both completely in her mouth and playing with them with her tongue. Kimmie never ate my balls like that. I hadn’t shaved my pubic hair, but Danielle, that horny slut, seemed to like that. She plopped my balls off her tongue and lowered my long dong, kissing and fondling my cock hair with her entire face, eating my dick wig.

Kimmie was now totally naked, having thrown off all her clothes onto the terrace floor, sticking two fingers into her furry furburger and whining like a fucking hyena.

Danielle sucked my one eyed willie so well and with so much saliva it looked like a sailor protecting the mast of a resting sailing ship with a wet, oily cap cloth.

“You blow his dickie so well, Danny,” my wife told her. “Do you like sucking my husband’s cock?”

Danielle now nodded, my schlong half way into her mouth like a regular prostitute. “It’sh the tashtiest womb brrhoom I’ve ever shucked. Shhoooo damn loooohnng.”

I really was in heaven. The woman I had longed to slap bellies with for so long now was short circuiting my banana boat like a space port docking in a rocket. And my nuptial three vulva on legs was watching us, masturbating her clit and loving it.

Kimberley took in about a third of my cock in her mouth. Danielle managed to stick in over half of it, stretching her tongue forward and licking my balls. It made me smile. The best sight in the world was still a beautiful woman with a cock in her mouth.

Now Danielle began stripping while sucking. I don’t know how she managed to do it, but she kept sucking all the while giving the best whore blowjob of my life.

It didn’t take long for my wife to join her girlfriend. Soon enough, Kimberley and Danielle were both on their knees, taking turns in giving my nine inch mouth pleaser the tongue ride of its life.

“What a fantastic sight,” I groaned.

My wife, who right now sucked on my right testicle while Danielle sucked on the tip of my lollipop, added, smiling, male hairy ball still inside her right cheek: “Did I promish you too much abouth hish penish? It’sh tashty, ishn’t it?”

“Uhmh-hmmm,” Danielle moaned.

I think it was then that I disappeared into a dream land, closing my eyes while the bimbos took turns who got to play with my marbles and who got to swallow my XXL chili dog.

In my mind, the wind caressing my bottom, my long dong in a two girl heaven, I reviewed my sexual experience, initially remembering how much I had jerked off as a teen. Sex objects like Suki from Men Only, the Eurasian crumpet with the short pussy hair, big boobed and black haired Natalie from Oxfordshire from Club International, her combed vulva had the pages sticking together every day, 60 inch knockered Jo from Mayfair, British Julie Hart with the fuckable mouth and yummy hairy cunt, dark pussied Sophie Fernandez, all those babes paved the way for my first blowjob. Conny knew how to suck in that high school back room. Not quite as fair juggied as Charlotte, whose milky-ways I squeezed after the disco one night. My first fuck, blondie babe Marie, was nice, because the bimbo had a cute butt that wobbled while I banged her from behind. She was my girlfriend for a while. Simona, a Polish babe, after a long marathon shag, said my cock fit perfectly in her pussy. Lena was a charming woman from Montreal, whose 36C tits I squirted on, who, when seeing my nine inches, exclaimed: “I don’t like you, I love you!” Tatanya from Moscow was afraid my dick wouldn’t fit in her pussy, but it did. Olinka from Madrid was my favourite pussy for a while. She was a cute and small little chick with a very sweet tasting clit that I adored shagging. We met just to fuck and drink champagne for about a year. Olga from Mexico was a big breasted thing who laughed while being shabanged. Then there was Kerstin from Hannover who asked me what we should do next, so I suggested she go down on her knees and suck my dick, so she did. Monica with the 60 inch balloons, Viola, whose ass I kissed, MILF Bertha where my condom broke, Bionda from Florence whom I fucked six times in one night (her moans, vibrating titties and happy complaints of sore cunt were gorgeous), fifty-something rock-groupie Kim sucked on my balls for ten minutes, Suzanne, who refused to go down on her knees for me, Dora, who grunted during sex, Zoe, who deep throated me, Chloé, who begged me to fuck her asshole, Mila with the longest tongue I have seen and Amanda, who exclaimed: “What a great idea!” when I suggested she take my nine inch penis in her mouth. Oh, sex. Oh, women. Oh, sperm.

Now, all that dreaming had me forgetting reality. When I returned, the bitches were still at it, sucking and licking, slurping and deepthroating. My two little whores really knew their business, it made me understand that a woman is at her best when she has a prick in her donut shoot. I had fucked Kimberley repeatedly by the stove while she cooked, slapping her butt, telling her what a good little obedient housewife she was, cooking me a meal while I stuck my Boeing in her damp little girlie snatch.

Oh, man.

I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I took out my humongous clarinet out of their Wurlitzers and threw them across the terrace table.

There they were, two buxom bitches, their rear ends waiting to be slapped and penetrated like horses at an auction.

I took turns fucking one and then fucking the other, back to Danielle and then Kimberley, then Danielle’s asshole and Kimberley’s pussy and vice versa. Oh how their asses wobbled. Dickpleasers. The sight of their bottoms wobbling, their moans high, the sun powered terrace lights now filling up the night, the stars shining, the bright full moon glittering in the lake, me leaning over to reach for the bottle and drink the rest of the champagne.

Finally, the chickies let me hump them one by one as the lay spread on the table, me squirting my sperm on their faces. We fell asleep in one bed that night, me waking up in the morning with the girls giving me a blowjob.

I can only say we had a magical weekend, my long cock getting more attention than ever before.

Jorge joined us that next day, but that is a totally different story. I can only say that it was a joy to see my wife being fucked by another guy while I shagged her big boobed girlfriend under the stars.

Advertisements

Bites By Michael Fontana

She sported a brushy black bob above a boyish neck and then there were the ears, spangled with silver circles.  I had a penchant for the taste of silver on my tongue, wearing a silver stud in it, so first came a lick of her lobe, then the slightest nibble, then a full-on bite.  She turned as soon as I did it, moving from her calm position kneeling on the bed with her back turned to me, praying or meditating perhaps, a mantra escaping her lips with soft sibilance, like a beautiful blue and gold serpent hidden in a mound of grass, alerting you to its presence, not to strike fear but to draw your proper wonder.

When she turned to me, her nipples stood erect, buds of tiny breasts.  A thin line of dark hair ran from her navel down into her more abundant pubes.  I kissed her and she kissed back, her arms wrapping around me like a sarong around a body too large for it.  Also naked there, I took the time to remove the silver circles from her ears so that not even an apparition of ornamentation remained on her beyond her own innate beauty.

As she kissed me, she rolled her tongue in my mouth and then took a bite of her own, my lower lip between her teeth.  The skin broke ever so slightly under pressure of it, and a new silver flavor, that of blood, reached the tip of my tongue.  Still I didn’t falter.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes as if resuming her prayer.  I bent my head down and kiss between her breasts.  She breathed deeply and seized my hair, pulling my head further down, past her navel, down into her thighs and there pressed my face against her.

I might have entered a rainforest since everything seemed so lush, so fragrant with ripe fruits.  Meanwhile the sounds cascading out of her were primal, animal, guttural.  This exploration went on for eternal moments, until my face grew soaked, and then the urge to bite again, this time the ripe berry that clung to the top of her opening.  With this she shuddered, bucked against me, initially pulling my head closer, holding it tight there, before pushing it away.

Leaning back, I witnessed her as if for the first time, eyes sealed, mouth open, head tilted back, hands over her breasts as if to protect them from further onslaught.  The hissing resumed.  I caressed her precious ears and nibbled at them once or twice to watch her flinch with pleasure or pain or both, I wasn’t sure, before she pulled me completely onto her and the forest opened itself to further exploration: fingers, fist, my body becoming consumed by hers in increments, until it seemed there was no separation then or ever before or ever after, as if we had become the ouroboros, the snake eating itself alive, bite by bite, into infinity and nothingness all at once.

Adventures of a Sex Addict: Hamburg Part Two By Mr. E

The next day I wasn’t intending to go to the Sex House. I wasn’t intending to go back to see Anna. She was gorgeous, she was soooo sexy. But there are hundreds of other options for sex on my doorstep in Hamburg.

And if I went back what would I do with her?

It was a wet and rainy day and as usual I had a free afternoon. So I decided I would buy a toy from the sex shop that was constantly open next door to my hotel and have another play with the lovely Anna. I bought a toy, a bullet on a string with a controller to go up my butt and give me pleasant vibrations. The bloke in the shop asked if I wanted it taken out of the wrapper, so I said yes for ease of transport and put it in my pocket. He told me to have fun, and I smiled, intending to. I popped a quick Viagra, not that Anna needed any help making me hard, but I wanted to enjoy myself as much as possible and the stimulant always took a bit of the pressure off.

Round the corner and straight up the stairs to the first floor. I wasn’t particularly worried if Anna wasn’t there, I could always find someone else to give me a hand.

But she was, a few other girls were in her corridor too.

I walked straight up to Anna, she smiled at me and asked if I wanted to go in. I was half way through the door before she’d finished speaking.

I gave her a hundred euros, there was no point messing about.

She asked if I wanted the same as yesterday. I showed her the toy and then realised there were no batteries in it. Damn.

She said she could use her fingers. I nodded, yes please.

I stripped off and lay down beside her. She started by kissing me all over, kissing my neck and chest and working her way down my torso. It was hot and sexy and tender and sweet. It made me like her more.

She slipped a condom over two fingers, and although her hands were pretty small I was a little worried. She dripped oil on her hand and then positioned herself next to my hips. I raised one knee and tilted towards her. Anna positioned her fingers right there, between my buttocks, and then pushed.

My cock stood straight up and she began working it with her other hand. She pressed in deeper into my anus and then pulled my cock hard, working me from both angles. Almost immediately I was gasping and panting for breath, the sensation almost overwhelming.

Watching this sexy young woman kneeling between my thighs, one hand on my cock, the other between my butt cheeks: it was incredible.

She worked me hard, my cock was so close to bursting I was sure my cum would hit the ceiling. But I didn’t. There were so many times I wanted to cum, but stopped myself. I wanted to feel her mouth on me again. She wanked me hard, I was gasping at every stroke. Then she stopped and asked if I wanted her to suck me. Oh yes, oh yes I wanted it so much.

She changed position, kneeling beside me, her head facing away from me, her bum easily reachable. My hand wandered all over her body as she sucked my cock. She went deeper, taking almost all of it into her mouth. She sucked harder and for longer than the day before. I just lay there enjoy it.

Then I asked her to lay next to me, I snuggled into her hot, sexy body. Her curves so soft. And I hugged her tightly as she wanked me. Then I wanked and hugged her tighter. As I came I cried out her name involuntarily. It was only after that I thought about how weird it was, especially as I work with someone called Anna. Who was I thinking about when I closed my eyes and hugged that gorgeous body to me, kissing her chest, and yanking my cock until I came all over myself.

Anna chatted to me again afterwards, but also let me know we’d gone over our time. I was happy to give her another fifty and a tip on top. Every minutes with that girl was like visiting heaven. She made me feel amazing, unlike any woman I’ve been with for a long time.

If only I hadn’t broken my cock (over-used and slightly sore) and had more than an hour on my last day I would have visited again. Good job I wasn’t there for a week, my bank balance wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

The Hot Flames By Charles E.J. Moulton

Man, that pissed me off.

I found it hard to calm down enough to get the key into the keyhole, my handbag slipping down my shoulder onto my underarm, drops of sweat trickling down my forehead, my boobs jiggling, my panties too tight for my even tighter cunny, my high heeled shoes causing my feet to bleed.

“Come on,” I spat to myself, “don’t let this creep get you down!”

Had I really thrown the content of my glass onto his face just now?

I believe so.

Had I left my job too early without permit?

Yes.

What did that mean?

How the fuck would I know?

Getting fired?

Bring it on, buster.

There were other jobs.

On the other hand, I could sue him for sexual harassment.

One question, though.

Did I really have to hide my beauty to be taken seriously?

I mean, yes, I knew I had a sexy D-cup-rack on my chest, knockers that the men loved to fondle – yes, I had raised a few cocks – but had I chosen to grow boobs? Had I chosen to be born a woman? In my eternal soul, maybe. Sociologically, no. No way. And even if, damn, were my superior looks a reason for my boss to dress me down as a mere decoration?

I know my ass looked like two ripe peaches, I know that my mouth had the appeal of a cocksucker-dream. But as Sting sang in his song on his album

“Ten Summoner’s Tales”: “That is not the shape of my heart.”

I believed that I was a relatively genderless soul born into a woman’s body. So what was sex if not just a method in exchanging emotional energy, becoming one body what was once two? Why not respect each other as equals at the same time as trading erotic vibes?

My boss seemed incapable of doing this. Respecting a sexy woman, I mean.
If my legs were long and my long fingernails red, did that mean I was also dumb? Just because I liked elegance?

I loved having a man sticking his dick up my butt, but I also loved being respected.

Why couldn’t my boss separate his dick from his brains? Why couldn’t he treat a woman he found sexy like a lady? Wasn’t that the treat beyond all treats?

If my boss was more than one thing, why shouldn’t I be so as well?
I found many men sexy, but it would not occur to me to look down on them because of their sex appeal.

Men. Damn it, they pissed me off.

Sex, to me, was no joke.

It was a revelation.

It deserved responsibility.

Wrath bubbled up within me and made me feel like a tornado in action.

In comparison, Shake, Rattle and Roll would feel like a snooze in Battery Park.

“BASTARD!”

I basooned that last word out so loud, my rich and cockraising mezzosoprano echoing way down the three floors of my apartment building, jiggling my funbags, so much so that my neighbour, curious little Mrs. White, glued her eyelid on her spyhole just to see if Victoria Badham now finally had gone totally nuts.

“It’s okay, Mrs. White,” I sing-songed ironically, play-acting calm cordiality while eyeing heavenward. “Nothing YOU have to worry about.”
I heard some grumbling noises behind the door, these noises sounding like “Foul language” or “The young people today, they have no manners” or something of that sort.

Me, trying to detect her Gruffalo-like mumbles calmed me down enough to open my apartment door, storm in and finally slam it shut vehemently.

“Chah,” I croaked, “Mrs. White, have you ever,” I said, raising my long middle fingernail at the door, throwing off my black high heeled shoes onto the bathroom floor, “been treated like a sex object? DO you know what that’s like?”

I waited, pretending the door was her, fixing my gaze at my own apartment spyhole.

“What? Oh, yes? Back when there were no cars?”

I sneered.

“Yeah, well, back then you HAD to shut the hell up and do the laundry. I don’t HAVE to be the …”

Throwing my hair about, walking into my living room, I threw my handbag onto the couch, happy I didn’t break my Chopard Wish flask in it in the process.

“… the … the … the …”

I searched in my head for the word.

“… the … damn.”

I screamed, finally slumping down onto my warm couch, numb with rage, feeling like a hawk after an explosive firestorm.

“I don’t have to be your dartboard.”

I really don’t know how long I sat there staring into the kitchen. It could have been about four minutes, but for all I knew it could have been four years. I had really drained myself of all energy.

My mind switched to numb disbelief, entering a weirdly comical version of a totally drenched Nirvana, utterly gobsmacked that there actually
were people as narrowminded as this. What had he told me, that creep?

“Stay in your corner, baby, it’s safer for you that way.”

Holy shit, now the worst thing about that was not his patronizing comment. It was the fact that he looked at my titties while telling me not to mix in. If my advice had saved the firm from bankruptcy before, why not now?Because of these Asian CEOs? I had studied in Asia, for crying out loud.

But relate to me as a bedspring and discard everything else.

“No,” I told myself, springing up and marching toward the kitchen, as if speaking to him, “my boobs don’t talk … and neither does my butt. But you go ahead and patronize your firm down the drain. I will give you the finger, you fucker.”

I flung open my fridge door and ripped out a beer. That creep of a boss, he would probably have peed in his Calvin Klein underwear if he saw his 38-26-36-sexy-hourglass of an employee acting like a regular homey. I gulped down half of my beer, brought it down to my hips and belched.

“After all I’ve done for the company,” I whispered to myself, “all the surplus hours amount to one thing. My boobs.”

Stay in your corner?

What corner?

I had my office right next to his.

In the middle of the top floor.

Oh, and by the way, who had the degree in economics?

Who had saved the company from extinction?

Who had convinced many clients to stay with the firm?

Who had worked too many hours without getting paid?

Me, me, me and me again.

And now, these Japanese tradesmen were not good enough for me nor I for them? After my year in Tokyo? After having lectured financial economics to a bunch of drunk Japs in Japanese?

I shook my head, grabbed the bag of chips laying on the fridge and slumped into the pillows.

“Calm down, Victoria,” I told myself. “He ain’t worth it.”

I figured that turning on some silly TV programme that made me snigger would help, but all I saw was Charlie Sheen admiring his girlfriend’s boobs in “Two and a Half Men”, Kenicky breaking his old condom in “Grease” and deciding to fuck Rizzo anyway. I switched to a game show, but what I saw there was a bimbo with big gazongas turning letters. I even switched to CNN, some political discussion about the White House, but the smart women there just looked like hookers. I even plucked out my 7 inch dildo and stuck it up my hairy pussy, looking at it and called it names, but it didn’t really help my frustration. In fact, it frustrated me even more. So I ended up eating too much for my own good, finally snoozing off at 7:39 p.m. just when Ally McBeal gave Robert Downey Jr. her last good byes.

I dozed off and dreamed about tieing down my boss to a bed and fucking the sweet salsa out of him, calling him my toy-boy.

When I woke up, I felt really bad about myself.

I wanted to be fair.

Revenge was not fair.

An old rerun of Dynasty was on when my smartphone exploded into coronary oblivion at 8:46 p.m., playing me Lara’s theme from “Doctor Shiwago”. Lara, who looked for love, looked for me.

Eyeing heavenward, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I plucked out the silly golden Samsung and looked at the display,

I pressed the receive button:

“Yes?” I groaned.

The voice on the other end halted, holding its breath and then found enough courage to continue.

“You sound distraught.”

I sighed, shaking my head,

“Men,” I moaned, sleepily, “they suck.”

“Uuuhm,” the other voice drawled. “Not all of us suck.”

There was a slight chuckle.

“There are a few exceptions,” I mused.

“What happened?”

I moaned. “My boss treated me like property. Although I am the one with the higher education, he told me to get back into my corner.”

I sniggered.

“The worst thing was that he inspected my breasts while putting me down.”

“What a jerk,” Tony croaked. “You deserve better.”

The warmth in my heart spread from my diaphragm to my stomach into my head. That sounded nice.

“I’m on your side, Victoria,” he crooned. “You know that. Get another job.

You’re too valuable for shit like that.”

“That’s sweet.”

There was a slight pause.

“Hey. Are you the mood for some Chianti?”

I waited, trying to decide if I was in the mood for company. I wanted to say to hell with all men, but what really surprised me was that something in me wanted Tony here. Now. Not just to fuck. Something needed to prove to me that there were good men, after all. Respectful men, friendly men, gentle men who saw women as equals.

Thinking of Tony, this guy whom I had chosen just to fuck now and then, a feeling of warmth came over me. We were more than just fuck buddies, weren’t we?

I deserved better, but Tony’s respect definitely deserved a blow-job.

“Come on up,” I said, “maybe I could use someone sane to brighten up my evening.”

“See you shortly,” he whispered, tenderly, moisturizing my cunny.

Funny thing, how we rarely said hello or good bye, we just gave each other snappy statements. But there was respect. Respect.

I looked around my couch and on my own self.

Chips on my blue skirt, beer on my blouse, chocolate stains on my stockings, loads of napkins on the pillows. Sexy? Messy was more like it.
I slouched myself toward the loo, went there and then redid my make up, threw away the messy stuff. I even had enough time to billow up the couch pillows.

Okay, I washed off my private parts with a soapy washcloth, sprayed some Chopard on my throat and brushed my teeth.

I mean, I had enjoyed so much fast and spontaneous sex with Tony in so many odd places, it was almost ridiculous: changing stalls at Primark, behind bushes in Hyde Park, in airplane restrooms. One or two squirts could only make my mood better.

As I got ready to look good for my “walking cock” as I called him, something very deep and profound hit me. Although we had agreed to keep our relationship sexual, for a long time now it felt like more, much more. He respected me. Normally, society would tell us that sexual affairs were respectless and irresponsible. This was neither. My boss had never hit on me – sexually, I mean – but, thinking back, he had always treated me as a sex object.

Tony and I had never ever exchanged a disrespectful word.
When I looked into his eyes, I saw love. That’s what I needed.

No slippery innuendos.

The question was why we had agreed on a sexual friendship at all.
Freedom. Maybe that was it. Freedom.

When Tony stood there, my favourite 2015 Italian wine in hand, naturally I embraced and kissed him, my tongue slipping deep into his mouth, his hands grabbing my buttocks, his huge groin swelling, my nipples stiffening.
It felt good to feel him around me once more, our on-and-off-relationship seguing into something that felt like love, not only just giving us some hot sex now and then. I really felt that I needed to commit myself now, find something real, at least after being treated like a slut this afternoon.
Was I searching for truth? Yes. Did I need to experience love and respect after having men patronize the hell out of me? Yes. Was that vital in order to save my faith in love? Yes. Unanswered questions:

Was I to blame? Had I spent too many hours putting on false eyelashes, buying tight skirts, blowdrying my sandré locks? I wanted to look good for work just to feel good about myself. But some men took that the wrong way, I guess. My boss, for instance. Him and his 100 % newly pressed Versace suit, his ivory white Pepsodent smile and Bruno Banani Magic Man cologne, he saw women as things.

In any case, embracing Tony was what my soul craved, his arms everywhere over me. I felt there was more there, which made me wish I had showered.
Tony didn’t seem to mind when I kneeled down in the hallway of my flat, unzipped his Wranglers, reached into his underpants, seeing his giant penis bobbing into place in front of me.

I carefully lay it on my tongue, licking its juicy length from balls to helmet, sucking on it like on an oversized lollipop. It tasted like salty pop corn, felt like a corn on the cob, growing stiffer on my tongue and making my pussy oh so wet. Oooh so moist.

In fact, his dick inspired me so much that I went further down and sucked on his hairy balls, as well. I put both his testicles in my mouth and sucked on them like candy while he masturbated over my face.

That inspired his testosterone to rise.

He grabbed me by the shoulders, lead me into the bedroom and smiled.
And as he ripped off his clothes, I ripped off mine. Soon enough, bras and panties shared floor space with a belt and a pullover.

My body tingled as he pushed me on the bed, grabbed my huge breasts and licked my nipples, licked my clitlips, buried his face inside my wet vagina. He came out soaked, his face dripping with female clitjuice.

As he finally lay down on me, thrust his rod inside me and fucked the crap out of me, I saw stars, whimpering in impossibly high tones, my Yin to his Yang, my moon to his sun, my sea to his land. His balls slapped against my butt, my huge jugs bounced and my legs lay wrapped around his hips.

His rod was bigger than my dildo and I must admit that having him thrust and slide the entire eight inch length of his prick up to his testicles into my body, up to my titties almost, made me squeal like a high coloratura soprano.

I came first, a real orgasm this time, followed by a really long orgasm on his part, long sticky strains of sperm in a seemingly unending row of squirts into my uterus. I was all respected woman. He was all hard and gentle man. Neither Tony nor I had really regarded the fact that we had just made love without even greeting each other nor that he had squirted into me without protection. Given the fact that it came on the right time, time itself would tell us if and what would happen, if anything.

We lay there in each other’s arms for a long while, cuddling, kissing, exchanging hugs and looks and caresses, but exchanging no words. It was then that I realized, in a moment of truth and enlightenment, that we were faithful to each other, although up until now we had enjoyed more of a sexual friendship, an on-and-off-agreement of sorts. I was not having sex with anyone else at the moment. I was sure it was the same for him. No, I knew it was the same for him.

And I could safely say that everything that society had told me about sex was a lie. The act that created us all was, at best, just an act of love that we were programmed to like. So who actually told us that sex was a sin? Could it be a sin to do something that was necessary for the survival of our race? As I lay there playing with his chest hair, in a positive Nirvana as opposed to the negative Nirvana I had been in before, I realized that our emotional energy bound us together, hurt no one and only made life better. So what was this whole problem with celibacy and priests? As far as I knew or had heard, even St. Paul had assumed the bishops should marry in order to understand the congregation. What was this sex-is-a-sin-thing? Power play? I drifted away into my own thoughts, asking myself why eternal souls living in bodies, travelling from body to body, really, could want to force each other to give over responsibility for a conscious creator to an organization. I was at one with Tony, a peaceful union.

As I thoughtfully played with these images in my mind, I wanked Tony up to another hard-on, sucking on his sticky and hairy cock and licking his on yummy balls.

“I love you, Victoria.”

Tony’s words were as humble and sweet as morning rain after a drought.
I looked up at his face, his penis half onto my tongue, me pleasantly smiling, surprised, joyous, my big and beautiful breasts pressing against his body, my commitment shining upon his trust.

“You are and have been the only woman for me ever since I met you,” Tony whispered.

I grinned, almost crying in the process of hearing his words.

“So this affair-just-for-sex was our mistake,” I told him. “It’s more …”
He nodded.

“Will you marry me?”

I took a deep breath, my eyes opening wide, my emotional energy tingling, the idea of marrying this gorgeous hunk of freedom fascinating. Me, the career girl out to impress the CEOs, dressed to the nines, had hit a wall, a slimy border where gender had been used as a power tool. It had driven me to beer, chips, chocolate and depression. Now I saw the faithful side of sex. Intimacy. Heat. Sensuality. Union.

Without a word, I crawled up toward his mouth and dived into his glory. The kiss we dived into was terrific, to say the least. It really felt like swimming inside his soul, two spirits literally swimming inside each other, for one instance ceasing to be two, becoming one. Our emotions reached such a zenith when his rod again entered my pussy, I fucked it blue, his hands on my buttocks, my hips rising and sinking onto his manhood. Believe it or not, he came into me again. Peace on Earth is two good shags with someone you love.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Tony joked.

And together, we laughed.

I remember this day, years ago, as the evening I saw the good and bad sides of sex. My former employer’s belittling chauvinism, going down on me for being what he felt was a sex object. And then the mutual respect of true love, shown through fabulous sex and a huge and delicious dick.

I resigned from my job that next day. My former boss tried to keep me there, but I felt I couldn’t accept disrespect.

What became a tough time eventually paved the way for my own company

Mrs. White and I had a chat which ended in a careful handshake, so I guess all is well.

Now I am the mother of twins, they used to be cherubs, now they are working actors in California, Amoria, my girl, named after love, and Fidelio, my boy, named after fidelity. Was the birth of my twins the fruit of Tony’s two rounds of cum that day? Who knows? Maybe. Amoria and Fidelio are loving and funloving people. Maybe that is proof of our twin fucks.

Tony and I still have sex, raunchy and hot sex. I have ceased to call it dirty. I believe there is nothing dirty or sinful about a good nuptial shag. It might even be a necessity. Not only does Tony’s manhood still entice me, every time we meld and morph, as I call it, I also feel like I just entered heaven.

I can only encourage other men to respect their women. Remember that there is an individual looking out at you from inside that sexy brunette or blonde body. Any body. Any soul. We might look good, smell good, have pretty and tasty pussylips you love to lick and fuck. We might be good shags and sound great when you stick your schlong into us, but we are not your toys to play with and neither should we be and neither are you. We please you if you please us. We bring your babies to the world, we support you to be your best if you do the same unto us. So be old fashioned. Open up the door for us when we leave the restaurant and, for God’s sake, literally, let us be equal partners in professional life. Then we will suck your dicks. We bring your babies to the Earth. That should be enough of a reason to respect us. And why not? Painters have always loved nude women, composers have always loved writing songs about pretty girls, and finally, sex inspires art. We love to take care of our babies. Let’s love how they’re made, as well. We have a lot to learn from each other.

This mother of twins, namely me, will finish off with a few words I told my husband before driving to work this morning:

“I love loving you!”

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

Without love, we’re lost.

Let’s remember that.

The fact that our relationship continues to work so well is due to the fact that we occasionally give each other space and freedom.

Fidelity and respect are necessities.

Beyond that, his wanking to porn sites and my big dildo inside my pussy, those things need attention, too.

Then it’s time for him to squirt on my face in long and sticky strains of yummy cum.

I love my husband and I just cherish his long, hard and sticky cock.

My pussy is throbbing again.

My nipples are stiffening.

I would like to end with a few wise words by Moliére:
“The grand ambition of women is to inspire love!”

I know that I certainly have that ambition.

And I am certain I do.

Breathing Space By Time Barrow

Through the darkness, I could see her rocking slowly, rhythmically in the hand-crafted chair, just off-center atop a small, round rug I imagined she’d woven with skills passed down from her mother’s mother. The chair’s soft creaking reminded me of the aged wooden door she’d opened to me, only hours earlier.

I’d had no agenda and actually hoped to reach the western Ireland hostel before sunset. But when she’d beckoned hesitantly from her front porch and with the sun almost down, I rerouted that plan across the small field. Maybe I wasn’t that attached to my destination, maybe it was that simple beckoning invite that hinted at a need I might assist with, maybe it was because the light behind her detailed her lower figure through her floral dress. Regardless, I easily found myself playing the part of a weary traveler, just looking for a respite from the rain.

We didn’t share a word, not even awkward small talk, before I’d shed the backpack and she began removing my wet clothes. When she shifted her attention to unbuttoning her own top, we started the feverish exchange of intermittently helping each other and removing our own items. The subsequent hours passed, actively.

I watched her in the chair, as Connemara’s nearly-full August moon extend through the wooden blinds, casting symmetrical stripes that rose and fell, ebbed and flowed across her small, nude body, strong and toned in a way daily labor produces. I’d spent my 15th summer on my uncle’s Missouri farm, learning to feed, milk, and shear sheep by day, and to whittle their likeness at night, while watching my aunt prepare full meals after a long day’s work in the field and barn.

She slowed the chair and leaned to light a wide candle on the side table. The match’s flare and resulting glow exposed her beauty in a way I’d not seen before. She was young, far younger than I’d first assumed. Her jaded, albeit kind, face belied an aged existence that had not likely seen twenty-three full years.

The men’s clothes I saw hanging might not be those of her husband, but rather of her father. It mattered little, he was the same character, serving the same role: older, quiet, distant, cruel… a rare cruelty I’d now seen twice in my life, delivered flippantly, even unconsciously, in a way that at best sidesteps—at worst exceeds—physical and verbal abuse, that takes youth and shelves it in a place so secluded that if you’re lucky enough to find it again, it’s so diseased and deteriorated and unfamiliar that you no longer recognize it, remember what it was or what do with it, and don’t want it, anyway. So, you go back to the cruelty that took it away from you, because that’s all that you know.

In the flickering light, atop the side table, lay a buck knife, a hand-whittled sheep, and a framed picture of four people, one of which could have been her.

She rose from the chair. As she walked to the kitchen, a single, glistening drop of perspiration ran down from beneath her hair and disappeared in the small of her back. My own salty liquid reawakened the fresh nail-borne stings on my shoulders. I sat on the edge of the low bed, forearms on my knees, imagining sweat was blood as it ran down onto the already-sodden sheets.

She returned with two mugs of tea, set one by my feet, and ran her still-warm, callused hand across my back, bringing a welcomed sting to my scrapes. Her touch brought an emotion that dominated the discomfort by far, especially being she’d left the bed so quickly after our experience, not staying to cling, an act I’d always rather enjoyed. I remained in a delirium of pained satiation until she felt the impromptu massage complete and returned to the rocker with her own mug.

Taking a small blanket from the foot of the bed and wrapping it around my waist, I picked up the tea and walked over to her, sliding down the wall until I was sitting on my heels. To warm my hands, I held the coarse mug between them in begging bowl fashion and sipped from between my thumbs. She gazed into her own mug. Since she continued to distance herself, perhaps she wanted me to leave.

“How long should I stay?”

She appeared uncomfortable, glancing into my eyes, then looking down, and replied, “He was due back this morning.”

Neither of us spoke until we finished our tea and then found ourselves in an effusive series of discussions on flowers, clouds, rain, sharks, tattoos, and wooden flutes. Eventually, we fell silent. She stood, took my hand, and led me back to the bed.

Before the sun rose, we enjoyed one more lengthy encounter. I imagine both my attention and performance were at least mildly affected by the sound of every passing truck that might telegraph his return. We slept late, and I awoke with her sleeping head upon my chest and with an elation her face had likely not seen in years. The smile was enough to quell both my perceived distance and any feeling of wrongdoing.

I let her sleep, while I made a late breakfast of eggs and ham, which we completed largely in silence, though amidst a sea of smiles and a giggle or two. After, she hand-washed the dishes and hummed songs unknown to me, while I collected my things and stuffed my backpack, including the whittled sheep I hoped wouldn’t be missed,

Just inside the door, I held her, and kissed her long on the neck until she gently pulled away. I knew nothing about her, but I felt something genuine for her. Whether it was her taut body I’d welcome waking up to for the next 40+ years, the rural lifestyle that seemed a bit too inviting, or something deeper, like never knowing if this one is the one, I would miss her… more than I should.

For a moment, I considered inviting her on my directionless Ireland journey, away from a situation I couldn’t know to a path I didn’t know. I quickly shed the idea. I’d done enough. She was no wounded wren that needed any uninitiated care. At least, I didn’t think she’d suggested such in voice or action.

Wandering into what was indecipherably either late morning mist or lightly falling rain, I pulled the carved sheep from my pack’s side pocket, clutched it, and headed North.

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.

Adventures Of A Sex Addict: Tributes By Mr E

Based on true events.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I needed a cheaper option.

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

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

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

I left the seeds to grow.

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

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

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

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

“I’m not sure about this,” she said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stepped towards her, my thighs hitting the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she got a boyfriend.

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

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