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Dirty Harriet Discovers Porn By Dirty Harriet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So I turned back to look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wish I could taste it.

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

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

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

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

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Lucia Finds Her Mojo By Ty Vossler

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Twilight Zone of Sensuality By Charles E.J. Moulton

Did it matter… in the long run?

There was no question that it hurt.

Cedrick just wondered if it really had any relevance at all that it hurt … in the long run.

In the long run.

Would it still hurt that he had lost her … in twenty years?

Twenty years without Jenny?

Could he live without her?

Could, yeah.

Wanting to, no way.

He wanted to keep loving her.

No, wrong: he needed to keep loving her.

Looking at these waves crash against the shore and the sunset meeting the horizon, feeling the gentle surface of the beer bottle in his hand, the summer wind against his face, that felt pretty good. Just sitting here felt good, cooling down. There was no woman beside him. No nagging woman, talking, chirping, hoping, dreaming of shopping. Oh, but no loving, kissing and hugging woman, opening wide, telling him to squirt his juice onto her tonsils. No love. In spite of all the nagging, that was what life was about after all. Love.

Holy shit. If it hadn’t been for that gnawing feeling in his gut, he would’ve been happy. The emotion lay there in his bowels, screaming for him to let it out, bashing its bloody symbolic head against the proverbial wall of his soul, yelling:

“I want her back! Damn you, call her, stupid moron and say that you are sorry! You have her number! Just say you’re sorry!”

Why had she… why had she not… why had he… what had she meant… why had she brooded so that evening? Why had he not reacted quicker when she had asked him to go fetch that necklace for her? Had he used the wrong washcloth for the bathroom?

Cedrick sighed, looking across the ocean, hearing those waves gently, ever so gently, crash against the shore, the waves approaching with that weird, steady and solitary security, knowing they would blast against the seaside and die, turning into foam and molecules.

The stone he sat on gave way for a moment, making him realize he sat on something not quite steady, not quite firmly planted in the ground. As Cedrick tumbled off, landing on the sand, quickly standing up and brushing himself off, he witnessed a small and brown animal crawling out of the hole that was under the bolder. It glanced back at Cedrick, its eye-whites glimmering in the oncoming dusk.

A stone that had been positioned between the grass and the beach had been the home for a… hiding groundhog? Yes. Well, not that Cedrick knew so much about groundhogs, but this guy seemed so agile, so quick, so alert. He popped out of the hole, scared, glancing back and forth, and scooting off into the distance, leaving Cedrick quite dumbfounded. Had this little animal actually lift the bolder out of its socket and him, the grown man, off the ground?

Whatever the case might have been, Cedrick stood there with his right hand in his Camel shorts, the wind in his hair, the salty air up his nostrils, looking at the scared animal disappearing beyond the sand dunes.

Just like that animal had toppled him off that stone just now, Jenny had toppled him off the rock of his life. Her words, oh, those mean words: “It’s over, damn it,” came from a row that had escalated out of nothing. Him not cleaning up enough, leaving pizza cartons all over the place, using the wrong sponge for the bath, whatever. And soon enough, Jenny and Cedrick were packing bags and sorting out jewelry and photos.

That damn flat in Walthamstow seemed darned empty comparing to the fine hubbub of their mutual London penthouse.

It could be that Jenny missed him, too, although she seemed to be rushing across the proverbial sand dunes of existence, hoping he would get lost… or something. Whatever. In his heart, he hoped that Jenny wanted him back.

As Cedrick loafed two steps toward the beach, minding his own business, forgetting about the strange and very strong groundhog, a lock of Jenny’s hair, that lock that she had given him during their trip to the French coast, came falling out of his pocket, landing on the sand. One lock in a small plastic folder, created for a ring, he believed. One blonde lock with the words: “I love you!” written on it in pink ink.

She had laughed when she wrote those words, remarking how pink ink actually had a very nice meaning for her. “That book by Dr. Seuss my mom gave me twenty years ago, for my 4th birthday,” she had mused with his gender halfway into her mouth and her pink pen in the other, “it was called One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. There was a funny creature in there was a funny creature there called a yink that liked to drink pink ink.”

“So, what do you like to drink, babe?” Cedrick had responded.

She had given him a wink.

“Cum on, you know that!”

The sting of dying laughter buried into his heart again like a knife, memories of a happy facial fest making him realize the little sign of love on that folder was no more. No more. Just a small lock of Jenny’s pussy hair from a delicious bush meant to be a lovely token of affection. So why was it that he had eloped to France… again… just to escape her?

In fact, they had fucked right here on this spot, on this very beach. They had thought they had been alone. Maybe they had, until they heard a branch crack. It could’ve been the groundhog. The voyeur.

Wait a minute. When had they met? Four years ago? Yeah. It could’ve been the same groundhog, regarding the fact that groundhogs lived from 9 to 14 years.

Cedrick looked over at the tumbled rock, recalling the spot just a few feet away from it. It had been the spot where Jenny had stripped naked four years ago, spreading her legs, letting Cedrick stick his tongue up Jenny’s snatch, making him bury his head deeper and yet deeper inside her pussy, tasting her juices, licking that salty liquid off her clit.

Cedrick shook his head, more tears than arousal inside his soul.

“Why do I revisit every single place that meant something to us? Am I nuts?”

He walked over, clutching that lock, hoping that the temptation of going to that brothel on the west side would wither away. That would be cheap. Right?

“Torture.”

Just a few minutes and the sun would be gone beyond the horizon. The groundhog would be sleeping and Cedrick would be joining the rich bums and the fifty-somethings in the hotel bar, getting drunk on cheap Chardonnay.

“Wonderful torture. I’ll just go back to my hotel room and squirt on Kimberley Clark.”

Cedrick turned around and faced the setting sun with all its dying dark orange and pink tinges, all its longing and mysterious bliss, all that spiritual beauty.

“Come back!”

Damn, how sappy was that.

Cedrick, the seven-inch-cocked stud, sounding like Kate Winslet in Titanic, his tears rushing down across his face. Sappy enough.

His £4,99 Woolworth sandals loafed almost involuntarily over toward the beaten path leading to the hotel, his hand sticking to that lock of Jenny’s clit hair in his Camel shorts again, his brain wondering why the fuck he did that, his soul really wanting to hold on to that pussy lock. No, not only hold on to it. He wanted to take out the picture of her he had brought along, whip out his dick and masturbate to it… as he cried… drunk and alone.

“Hell, Cedrick,” he mumbled to himself, “there are other women. It’s over, boy.”

Yeah, that other voice whispered inside him, that he had to hold on to true love.

True fuck?

That, too.

That was true. Her… what was the French word for it? Joie de vivre, lust for life. Man they had fucked in every imaginable position: anal, oral, riding, doggy-style – ooh, those wobbling buttcheeks – titfucking. They had done it all. She had made him fuck him openly in her car once, in a park behind a bush, even in the airplane rest room on their way to the Maldives once, even in her parents’ house – while the old folks were watching telly.

Heck, she had taken him into the ladies room of their local London pizzeria and given him a blowjob once, facial, cumshot, swallow and all. Imagine the looks on those old ladies faces when Jenny wandered out of the cabin with a huge smile on her face, Cedrick dashing out toward the parking lot, Jenny’s chin sporting a large sperm drop.

Now, years later, after a painful break-up, in a revisited version of the original France where they had fucked first, there were about seven people in the bar. When Cedrick arrived, piano-bar music filled the air, inspiring him to plop down by a window with a seaside view, the moon now rising over the Atlantic, sending reflections across the water, making him feel even worse, getting drunk and dying fast.

“But what do you do when you can’t let someone go? Pretend it didn’t happen?”

Cedrick’s mumbles sounded like groundhogs coughing drunken basenotes, hiding hearts overfilled with woe.

“You wallow in self-pity, crying over fucking spilled milk, hoping to mop up the droplets of tit-milk that can be saved, jerking your schlong off to a mere memory.”

The thin waiter with the blue eyes arrived, taking order upon order. As the evening went on, the waiter brought Cedrick his third Louis Royer Cognac that night and Cedrick secretly took out the plastic folder with the blonde lock of pussy hair, reached inside the bag and touched it. The ruggedly soft texture of her yummy pubic hairs brought back memories of digging deeper and deeper into Jenny’s vagina with his face.

Sure, Cedrick sat there with a boner by the window, but it was a hard-on with a symbolic knife sticking up his ass. It felt like the Chinese water torture.

Why had he followed his rage, let his impatience take the better of him? Why had he said all those things? Would she have stayed with him if he hadn’t been so loud, so obnoxious, so rude, told her that she overreacted all the time? Why had he let out all of his frustration about women being… what had he said… “such prissy bitches, overruling everything men say”? Men and women, different species, really, but Yings to Yangs, a plus to a minus, pieces of a puzzle, able to cope, becoming better people for it.

Cedrick lift his third glass of 32-year-old French Louis Royer cognac to his lips, finally thinking on deciding to call that hooker hotline, a bloody darned escort service. Tonight, he would ask for a nice redhead with big tits that he could hump until the sun came up, so he could fuck himself out of his own misery and get drunk again the next day. Maybe that would do the trick. Maybe then and only then, he could get over not seeing his soulmate again.

If it hadn’t been for the revelation that appeared before him.

As he turned around, his back to his third brandy and a rising lunar disc in the sky, facing the slowly populating bar, he saw a blonde woman. He knew her spirit, her fancy chit-chat and her endless deepthroating, her fantastic scrambled eggs and her witty text messages. In fact, he knew her vagina better than any other part of her body. That pretty and sexy blonde bush he had opened endlessly, sticking his tongue into. The clit he had eaten, tickled with the tip of his male wonder, it had returned, wearing that decent white dress that she had bought in Suffolk three years earlier. The one she had bought for the job interview at the Bank of England. It made her look “decent”, she had told Cedrick before ripping it off and setting herself down onto his erect penis and riding his blood blue.

“Decent, me arse, you’re my lusty whore,” Cedrick had whoppeed while thrusting his fat dick into her body and squirting her full of sperm.

Now, Jenny just stood there, looking like an angel, and, yes, a revelation.

Thoughts criss-crossed his brainstem, catapulting through his nerves into the bottom of his existence. Jenny? Here?

It was hard to express what he felt. His heartbeat accelerated, his eyesight failing him, sweatdrops trickling down his brow down behind his shirt into his buttcrack. Jenny? She just stood there, silent, her handbag in front of her crotch, her knockers swelling.

Cedrick’s heart soared into new heights he had not experienced flying around into since… yes, since meeting Jenny four years ago. He wanted to rush up to her, embrace her, stick his erect penis in her mouth, squirt onto her gums and ask her to marry him.

Cedrick just sat there, looking at her gently order a dry Chardonnay. There was no spite there, just a wounded question in her heart. That evil, wounded pride that he had dwelt in the last few … what had it been? Eons? The fear of never ever meeting someone to share his life with turned into dust. Maybe Cedrick would turn into a married man after all.

Or maybe not.

Who knew?

“Oui, Mademoiselle,” the thin waiter answered, leaving them to… do what? Reacquaint? Yell at each other? Fuck? That would be fabulous, but… was that possible?

Slowly, in that stately manner that so signified her entire elegance, Jenny strode up toward the barstool that stood empty next to Cedrick’s seat, resting her elegant and fuckable tush down upon a brown cushion. Cedrick watched that ass lower itself onto the barstool, not really being able to believe maybe… just maybe… being able to…

“You’re here?” Cedrick croaked.

Jenny lay her white handbag onto the table.

“Your mom told me you’d left for France,” she whispered, her voice as familiar as the moonlight reflecting on stormy waters. Jenny looked up into his eyes. “There was only one possible place I could look.”

Those eyes, reindeer eyes, deep brown lakes of love he could drown in, he would love to drown in and disappear into.

“I’ve been miserable,” Cedrick mumbled.

Jenny nodded, looking down, a sadness in her gaze.

“Are you here to say good bye again?” he added with a questioning gaze. “Or just here with someone else to rub it all in, hoping to excel my misery?”

She shook her head.

“I wouldn’t be here if I wanted to repeat any break-up, baby,” she continued, her gaze now drifting beyond the dark horizon, dreamily hoping to find that love beyond the moon inside the starlit sky of the universe.

Baby. She had called him … baby.

How nice that sounded.

How promising.

How hopeful.

Did he dare to… hope?

“You know, I sat there in my bank office, getting calls from suitors, even fucking some of them. I gave some of them blowjobs, I let them squirt on my face, they took me to the opera, I even let one of them fuck me… in the ass.”

She smiled, bitterly.

Jenny reached into her handbag and took out the cloth napkin with the rose she had bought over in Dublin, drying the two tears that streamed down her wounded face with it.

“The flat just wasn’t the same after you left,” she said, “I broke up with every one of my suitors, mostly after a week or so. I hated myself for being so… crazy. Finally, after getting so drunk I could hardly stand on my feet, I decided to call your mother and ask her where you were. I… had to… come… and see you.”

Jenny looked up into Cedrick’s eyes, that spirit beyond the body swimming inside her soul, his aura mingling with hers. The tension tingled to the point where Jenny didn’t notice the thin waiter with the blue eyes serving her a drink. The couple simply kissed, tongues playing gently with one another, saliva drifting from mouth to mouth, lip upon lip, pussy tingling, cock growing, nipples stiffening, nostrils widening. An eternity passed before their mouths parted, their foreheads meeting, their eyes closing, their hands intertwining and Jenny gently whispering:

“Just promise me one thing, Cedrick.”

“Anything you want, Jenny!”

“Never call me bitch again!”

It was hard to say what prompted the tears. Clear enough was that the tears came and that several people inside the bar turned around to see who was producing these guffaws, these desperate sobs. They guffaws accelerated into such a frenzy that Jenny had to grab Cedrick’s wallet from his shorts and pay for the drinks herself.

Soon enough, two half-empty glasses rested on a lonely table by the window, two lovers reassuring the redhead receptionist that they would pay for the extra person staying here over night, the receptionist reassuring Jenny that room 121 had a double bed.

It didn’t take long for the couple to take off their clothes, slapping themselves down on that double bed in a horny 69, Cedrick’s face inside Jenny’s blonde bush, Jenny mouth embracing Cedrick’s big cock.

Outside, the moon glittered over French waters, the Atlantic wind sending its sweet breath into room 121. Cedrick licked his girlfriend’s titties. As he thrust into her body again and again, he promised himself never ever to risk losing the love of his life again.

He would think before he spoke, just as she promised to reason before she exploded.

The groundhog that had tumbled the rock had come back to set the rock back in place.

As Cedrick squirted his sperm load into Jenny’s body that night, an angel came into his waking dream, telling him that he would become a father.

Cedrick and Jenny fell asleep in each other’s arms that night, driving home to London that next early morning. They got married in a small chapel in Walthamstow no one ever heard of. Now, many years later, they’re retired, Cedrick an ex-sports-instructor, Jenny an ex-banker. But they always tell their daughter Hope, when she comes to visit them, her own daughter Charity playing with her own toys, that she was conceived the day they got back together, back in France, back when the groundhog tumbled the rock.

Cedrick and Jenny now know where they want to buried: next to each other in St. Anselm’s Cemetery in Walthamstow. Cedrick and Jenny still make love, even at their ripe age, ever so wrinkled, even with eyes and ears failing them. They celebrate their eternal souls manifested through sexual lust. And Cedrick still thinks that Jenny is the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.

Sometimes, when they get really nostalgic, Jenny puts on her white dress and Cedrick puts on his Camel shorts, remembering their own youth.. They still fit into those garments, but not for long. They undress, they mingle, their lips and genders meeting, their heart uniting like they will in heaven. Cedrick squirts, Jenny wails. For they know in their hearts that the lust that created that their daughter is as little a sin as the sun itself.

And so they sit on that porch after sex, one drop of his cum dangling from her chin, glittering in the moonlight. They hold hands, looking at the stars, dreaming of their own youth back in France, back when emotions still were strong and the sun still glittered upon blue waves within what could be called the twilight zone of sensuality.

The Hero By Charles E.J. Moulton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are my new friends?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lidea giggled, wrinkling her nose. “No.”

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

“What are you getting out?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He is envious,” Inia concluded.

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

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

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

“Stop this nonsense!”

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

“You have taken this far enough!”

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

She turned around and faced her husband.

“The real queen!”

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

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

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

“Who are you, Nagat?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What’s happened to that?

It’s time to remember love.

Moonshine Ember By Charles E.J. Moulton

My lusciously rich beauty. My fabulous cocksucker kitten.

I secretly wondered if the museum now worked on displaying live and moving artwork. In that case, I would probably have walked up and touched the treasure. What parts? Well, I would’ve started with the knockers and slowly fumbled myself down to her ass. The crowning glory would then be trying out her damp snatch. Ah, artistic bliss. Ah, wet pussies.

The living artwork in question? More opulent than a 9 feet by 9 feet Rubens painting, more tranquil than a Monet, more exquisite than a William Turner and more crazy than a Jackson Pollock galaxy spread. Her beauty certainly outshone most artworks that I had seen in my days. And I had seen a lot of art in my young life.

At that point, though, when I saw her first in that art museum in Vienna, she was all new, all sexy, all cockraising and all flabbergasting.

I would’ve fucked her right there on the spot.

I had done quite a bit of tit examination in my day. Having chosen to specialize on baroque art was no coincidence: my love for buxom vixens really went into the extreme. I just loved big tits and round asses.

This time, I hit the jackpot.

Damn it, I told myself. I had come here to do some research for my thesis, study the details in Rubens paintings, take notes and map out a plan for my literary work. After all, my final exam was coming up and I needed to get plenty of material for my paper. Vienna’s Art Museum provided me with all I needed, including several experienced colleagues with inside information of all those fantastic baroque painting techniques and anecdotes as to who painted what in which of Rubens’ artworks? Snyder, Jordaens, Bruegel?

Rubens’ art was like sexual intercourse: a collaboration.

Well, I put my thesis on hold that spring day. My cock only cared about making itself comfortable inside its new home: her wet pussy.

I had to have her. It was as simple as that. I saw that woman and I was lost.

I wondered why the guards didn’t ask her to stand back and watch the paintings from afar. Her inspection of Rubens’ rather voluptuous and naked second wife Helene Fourment, wearing only a fur, bordered on the obsessively meticulous. Somehow, though, something told me that the guards had hard-ons as well, every male trouser in this room bulging like crazy. I could actually see them drooling.

Okay, I drooled, too. Her tight black skirt embraced her ass in a way that had my sperm factory working overtime. I really didn’t know where to look first: her ass, her boobs or her long flowing hair? It also really did not help that her skirt ended in stockings with patterns of flowers and butterflies, elegantly positioned silvery decorations squirted on the fabric. They reminded me of cumdrops or small droplets of flowing clit juice. It made me seriously wonder if her panties were as pink as her pussy. On the other hand, pussies never had the same color, but all of them tasted good.

I really did try to go back to the studying of the painting. I worked really, really hard at it, too. I even went to the length of actually turning away from the woman and going to another part of the museum just to spite myself. I mean, I couldn’t be gawking at her like a silly sophomore, could I? I mean, I was no teenager. I was close to my Master’s Degree in Art History. An art master with a hard-on? Okay, we men all have hard-ons, but during scientific research? Sexual research, maybe. Stranger things have happened.

No matter how hard I tried, though, and I did try hard, I constantly went back to where she stood. Every time that woman bent over to look at a painting, I swooned. I could see the buttcrack and it sung an aria by Mozart to me:

“Oh, art thou sweet, thou noble derriere. My rock of ages in her cleft so fair.”

It made me want to rip that skirt apart and stick my dick inside her wobbly ass, pumping her like a fucking rabbit, watching the buttcheeks bounce like two balls in unison.

It got stranger and stranger, actually. I kept finding reasons to follow her just so I could study the size of her boobs. As I said, my reputation as a boob-man became renowned even early in high school. My best friend found a couple of copies of Penthouse in my sock drawer in my room, a magazine filled to the brim with big, luscious jugs. We ended up wanking all night, telling my mom that we were working on a school project.

Anyway, after following this incredible woman for about an hour I decided that I really had to fuck her. I didn’t know how, but my cock would definitely land in her cunt eventually. Oh, how fantastic she looked when she studied those paintings, her breasts dangling down, her elegant black blouse hugging her tits like crazy. Those things had to be C-cups. D? Mmh, I dunno. Getting my hands on those lucious breasts would, in any case, be like dying and going to heaven.

So, accordingly, I had discreetly glanced over and see if the blouse had a cleavage. When I realized that it did, I tiptoed over to where she stood more than once just to sneak-peek into that wonderful oasis of mammary love and cockteasing bliss.

Long and sensually curved hair, her black locks gently falling across her gold necklace, spilling over those large round earrings. It made that precum pop out of my dick with a happy: “Hello, swallow me!”

I knew what those big earrings symbolized, as well: her love-holes. Sexy women always wore these round earrings to show men how willing they were to fuck. This girl had big round earrings, so I felt fucking lucky.

The lipstick made me feel like shoving my entire manhood onto her tongue and shooting my loud load onto her tonsils, giving her wet stomach the protein dose of its life.

While my testosterone battled with my brain about whether to leave the museum and go home or just study her buttcrack for the rest of the day, her phone rang. Everybody in the room looked up. It wasn’t as if nobody had noticed her. She was probably the most fantastic looking woman in the room, the country, the planet, the universe, whatever. Some chick in the museum, a dowdy looking things, even gave her boyfriend a dirty look for giving that fuckable lady a half-smile.

When the sexy woman’s phone rang, however, it gave that other chick a reason to think how much of a slut this girl actually was.

She didn’t care, did she?

Any man would’ve been unfaithful for Miss Perfect. She knew that.

When the girl threw her head to one side, letting that marvelous head of hers float and dangle and curve and sway, I melted. I think I came twice, actually, my sperm making little squirts in my Gucci underwear.

“Natalie Imrie here,” the woman chirped. Her accent sounded British. Hot damn, I told myself. I am in the hands of an English lass. She gave the caller a sexy laugh. “Oh, yes. Of course. Well, if you want to, sure. Where are you right now?”

This girl spoke with a posh London accent that had me want her even more.

I think I flied and went to Brazil when that woman, whom I had wanted to fuck for over an hour now, actually came and sat down on the couch next to me. Yes, I’ll admit it. I had my notepad and my pencil in my lap and I had written lots of gibberish in silly letters about the paintings I had been looking at, just so anyone wouldn’t think I was just here to study how incredible an ass that woman had.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said and smiled again, throwing me a shot of her Chopard perfume my way just by throwing one of her sexy arms onto the seat next to me. “I’ll go right ahead. No, no, that’s no problem. Well, I’ll see what happens, okay?”

Who was she talking to? Her boyfriend? An associate? Her father?

What was she going to do?

“Maybe you’ll get some good ideas. Yes, dear. I know who you mean.”

The small pause and the obviously sexy chatter by some man at the other end – and it obviously was a man – had me wondering what she was talking about. Was she going to be unfaithful? British girls, however, had the reputation of giving spectacular blowjobs.

“Bye,” the woman that I now knew to be Natalie Imrie told bid her caller farewell.

As if she had just been given a signal of some sort, Natalie Imrie with the fantastic jugs turned to me and looked me straight in the eye.

I grew red in the face at first, but then I got lost inside the color of her eyes. They were brown, but with an interesting quality that had me think of ember, the glowing, hot coal made of greatly heated wood. Her eyes glowed like a campfire on the night of a full moon, the moon being the seas of white round her ember iris in each eye. Actually, her gaze made me feel like a werewolf. Natalie looked like a kitten, her long eyelashes curved outwards with more black visible toward the edges of her eyes.

I stammered a quiet: “Hi there!”

“Hi,” Natalie sing-songed, making me tremble. “You American?”

I nodded, giggling, now feeling that I rushed steadily into the welcome parade of Natalie’s cunt. “Yes, I’m from Michigan, but I am studying art here in Vienna. I’m about half a year away from my Master’s Degree. What about you?”

Natalie arched her back, obviously giving me a closer look at those absolute incredible looking breasts. She knew it, too. “I work here.” She shrugged once, glancing over at me with a knowing glance. “I am already finished with my Master’s. I came here a year ago. My mum’s German, although I grew up in London. When I was offered a position here as an Art Director, I took the job. I have the best of both worlds.”

She looked at me for what I really felt to be three hours, although it probably just amounted to three seconds.

“What brought you here?”

Well, although I looked at her boobs all the time and not into her eyes while I spoke, I told her that I had painted since childhood, that my family had taken me on a trip to Vienna when I was a boy and that I finally decided to move here in order to study art.

When I looked up at Natalie, she glanced at me with that disarming look that had me screaming for sex. She started chuckling. Out of nowhere, she put her hand to her mouth and giggled in such a knowing way that I almost felt insulted.

“What?” I asked, feeling ashamed of myself and not knowing why.

“You,” she finally said, putting her one hand with its long red fingernails on my leg, “are so easy to see through. Mr. Transparent.”

My mouth twitched a bit. I now felt insecure. Was she toying with me?

“Why?”

“Mr. Bulge-in-his-pants.”

I cleared my throat, feeling like someone just caught jerking off in a public place.

She shook her head. “What’s your name?”

“Uhm, Kevin.”

“Okay, uhm, Kevin?”

“Yeah?”

“You have been following me around this museum for over an hour!”

“You noticed?”

She laughed even harder now, her boobs jumping up and down as she did. A couple of visitors looked her way as she did, probably thinking she was just a stupid slut and not the Director of the Vienna Art Museum.

“Uhm, Kevin, the moment I walked into the Rubens Room, you made me feel like a painting by Rubens,” she added provocatively. “I bet,” she added, leaning over to whisper in my ear, making me smell that Chopard perfume even more intensely, “that you have had lots of fantasies about me over the course of this hour. Me, naked, pouring honey over your cock and licking it off with my elegant lips …”

I started chuckling nervously.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

“Come on, uhm, Kevin,” Natalie whispered again, now touching my ear with red lips, “you wanna fuck me, don’t you?”

Her sultry gaze had me cum again.

I nodded.

Natalie continued: “I don’t know why I am doing this, but I might be willing to let you inspect my pussy a bit closer.”

She now put her hand on my lap and rubbed it gently.

“It’s shaved, you know.”

I giggled quietly and frantically, if such a thing is possible.

“Where do you want to fuck, Natalie? Here?”

I kept looking behind me, above me, to all sides, just to see if anyone overheard our conversation. Everyone seemed to be busy studying art, while I was studying Natalie’s C-cups. She shrugged.

“Let that be my concern. Fancy a shag, love?”

I giggled again and nodded, feeling like a little schoolboy.

“Then cum!”

Natalie stood up, shook her tits a bit, took my hand, looking like Venus. I literally felt like a school boy being pulled by his mom to art class. Natalie escorted me through the Monet rooms, the Rubens gallery, the Bruegel chamber, past the Van Eycks and Vermeers and Velasquez paintings of the Spanish Habsburg Infantas. When we arrived in a rather posh office with a large chandelier, Natalie closed the large white door and locked it.

Surrounded by silver trays and expensive art, I held a woman’s hand who had been just a wet dream a moment ago. Natalie still had not arrived where she wanted me to be, obviously. She escorted me into an even smaller room, equipped only with a bed-like couch, a nighttime table, a few books and a lamp.

She locked that door, as well, once we came in. I think I lost my nerve, because I started shaking. My legs shook, my hands shook and my shoulders shivered.

And I got the biggest hard-on of my life.

Natalie, who up until now had been amused by me, looked down on the growing bulge in my jeans and couldn’t stop groaning.

“What’s that?”

I shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Look promising,” she mused. “Is it already Christmas?”

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

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

“Holy shit, uhm, Kevin,” she moaned. “It’s huge.”

“9,4 inches,” I said proudly. “24 centimeters.”

Natalie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around my shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process.

That fabulous sensation made me see stars. She licked my cock, gave me deep throat, sucked on my balls. She was ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that I knew she could be.

The helmet of my penis was now blue, all of the blood in my body pumping into my crotch. “Oh, ah shuhsst lovvve schucking your cockh,” she mused.

I banged my cock into her mouth, my big tasty cock dripping like crazy. I felt like flying, moaning and groaning in higher and higher tones.

With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound, it sounded like she had just finished a lollipop, she took out my long dick out of my mouth and wiped off her own saliva with an exclamation: “Show me how good a pussy licker you are, baby. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy.”

I didn’t have to wait long in order to follow her dominating orders, my dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind.

In fact, Natalie Imrie stripped faster than I have ever seen a babe strip. Her boobs made my dick laugh, sing, holler, dance, squirt, love and cha-cha-cha all at once. I think I disappeared into that cleavage for an hour before moving down to drink me some pussy. I had the feeling that I buried my face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw her shaved pussy as pink as her knickers.

The sound I made was quite similar to the sound I made when I ate me some spare ribs: sloppy. There were liters of salty clitty juice in there and I was going to drink it all. I laughed to myself, aroused by this amazing sensation.

I heaved myself out of her crotch, my face dripping wet with cunt-liquid. When I thrust my prick into her cunt hole, Natalie sang, actually sang Gilda’s “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto”. She seemed to ache with excitement, her grunting telling me that every part of her clit throbbing with pain, a pain that she actually enjoyed.

I withdrew my dick and stretched it out into the open air, jerking off like crazy, her insane gaze giving me the impression that’s she was in a sexual trance. Willingly, she crawled about on the couch toward my throbbing cock, looking like a seal, swirling around from her position on her back to a position under my dick, opening her mouth wide and sticking out her tongue, making little squeaking and horny tones.

“Give me your cum,” she moaned, sticking out her tongue. “Come on, baby. Squirt on my face.”

My hand movements now accelerated, my face grimaced, my head bobbing, my dick even bigger and bluer than before. Finally, my cock erupted, a long string of cum skyrocketing into onto her tongue. The second portion shot onto her left cheek, the final dessert of this three course sperm-dinner landing on her nose. Every portion of her face was covered in cum. She licked it all off, swallowing every drop. A stunned silence now came over the room, our mutual copulation inspiring us. The office became our symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of our burning desire.

Then, she laughed.

There she was, naked, full of sperm, shouting with laughter.

First, it felt cool. Then, I wondered what she was laughing at.

Laughing with me or at me?

“Man, uhm, Kevin, you were the best fuck of my life. Wait until my husband hears about this.”

It felt like I had been stuck with a pin, my cock almost immediately shrinking down to the size of a peanut.

“Your husband?”

Natalie sat up, rubbing her boobs as she did.

“That was the guy I talked to on my phone when I came and sat down next to you,” she began. “We go to lots of swinger clubs in our free time and keep looking for things to spice up our sex life with. He called me on my cellular and told me to try to get you to fuck me. It wasn’t hard, though. I think he got some good tips in how to fuck me well.”

“He saw me watching you.”

She caressed my cheek. “He’s a security guard here.”

Natalie raised her voice.

“Wolfgang?”

In a jiffy, a back door opened and another naked man wandered in, holding a camera.

In a thick Austrian accent, he said:

“Fantastic fuck, uhm, Kevin!”

Flabbergasted by this turn of events, I started laughing as well.

Not only was Natalie’s husband naked, his equally long cock raised, a film obviously now available on DVD for our mutual viewing pleasure. He had also brought something else with him from the back room: three naked ladies, one blonde, one brunette and one redhead, all of them with huge boobs, all of them ready to have themselves some dick.

I definitely knew that if I played my cards right, I could get a job here.

After all, I would have fucking nice colleagues.

Ah, my moonshine ember and her wonderful friends.