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.

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Squirt on This by Charles E.J. Moulton

  1. Ava, Alienated

Maybe, I thought to myself, there is genuine interest there after all. I realized quickly, by the disinterested look in her face, that my answer would hang there like a “piñata” waiting to be smashed to smithereens.

“How’s work? Still singing?”

A personal question? Coming from Kayleigh? Miracles do happen after all.

Kayleigh expected positive simplicity, of course, not a complicated lecture. Polite small-talk carried out while giving me dirty looks, the kind of dirty looks this whole family seemed to be giving me: that’s all I ever would get.

“She has big tits, a tight ass, she is a famous star, she probably cheats on Kenneth, also: she’s arrogant.”

That was probably what they were all thinking.

I know how sensitive I was., but I just couldn’t help being sensitive with all those strange looks coming my way. I realized that having big knockers, liking to dance and being a popular stage performer actually worked against me among country folk.

I swallowed my damn pride, let the damn chick sneer at my good sexy looks and I told Kayleigh that I worked on the side in order to find artistic fulfillment, that there was stress and competition and bad attitudes and that, in spite of everything, I really didn’t know how I should find time to learn all that music. Her response was to yawn. Yes, baby. Yawn.

“Ah, yes,” I was expected to say. “Everything is great.”

So it was as if I had not even been saying anything at all. I felt like a fly landing on somebody’s damn leg, slapped away by an angry hand. I hadn’t spoken long, however, when my husband Kenneth came striding up with his usual confidence and interrupted my story.

“Look at what we experienced yesterday, my son and I,” Kenneth told Kayleigh. “He just loves the rollercoaster. We filmed the occasion with my small camera.”

Me? I was left there, looking like a beautiful and abandoned swan, following my husband’s tight ass with my eyes. Did he have any idea what he had just done? Probably not.

Kayleigh took the camera in question from Kenneth’s hand, willingly, and disappeared into the house.

God, I was angry at Kenneth.

Too many times now, I had wondered why so many swords of indifference cut into my innards. I saw them all leave, knowing that I was just simply the fifth wheel around here. This was my new family, but they understood as little about what I did for a living as a mouse could understand what life was like for a camel. My heart wounded, my pride felt penetrated by all kinds of virtual arrows.

Why couldn’t I just be respected by my in-laws? I spoke to myself, or to my higher self as they case might be. I left the garden going out onto the street, circling the block, wondering why I really felt this way.

“I’m good looking, I’m nice, I’m interesting, I have a great profession, but it matters more to me if I my family cares what I feel – and they don’t seem to. Why am not popular around here?”

I called it the hamster wheel. My anger rose to new heights, primarily because I spoke to myself and accordingly conjured up new emotions. My son loved me, I had brought him to world, breastfed him, changed his diapers, brought him to school every morning, but all he could talk about right now was my husband.

I returned through the garden gate again just as Kayleigh asked my husband where I was. I promptly interrupted her that I was back. Ava, the curiosity among the hoagies, Ava, the sexy but weirdly arrogant chick with the sexy looking ass, Ava, she had returned.

I sat there, watching my family work on making juice out of the peers I had helped pick from some tree today. My sister-in-law listened politely while I told her about my work. I was hurt, because I missed the general interest in my life or my general feelings.

When she threw a jibe at the expense of Kenneth and myself, “Little Ava with the big jugs says nothing about how much her beer-guzzling fool of a husband drinks”, I only answered that the world was a big place and that I was happy. She should be so lucky, I muttered to myself under my breath. Other people know who I am, but no one is a prophet in his own homeland. Kayleigh eventually stood up, without really giving me any actual comment about what I had told her, only telling me that she had to go back to the diner she was the manager of.

“I am my own manager,” I answered her.

Kayleigh laughed at this, oblivious to my pain, and left me with my hands in my knickers, squeezing pears and wishing I had more artistic things to do. In fact, soon almost everybody left for a stroll through the forest. Kenneth was left doing the kitchen and I, feeling like a silly child, walked back into the kitchen to tell Kenneth that I thought Kayleigh had been unfair in calling him a beer-guzzling fool and that I thought he was great.

His reaction was shallow, dismissive and rather arrogant.

“Uh-huh,” he moaned and asked me to help him dry the dishes.

Rednecks, I thought to myself. Damn Rednecks with capital R’s. How come that I, the daughter of intellectual Broadway artists, had married into this family filled with these damn Rednecks? Hillbillies. Fuck, I was steaming. I had to do something in order to feel better. Why had I married this man? He had been so understanding in the beginning of our marriage. Now he had become an asshole. I had to get him to want me again.

“Ava is a singer,” another sister-in-law had told her three year-old daughter last week. “She makes lah-lah. “

“It’s more than lah-lah, sister,” I chuckled.

“Even more than lah-lah,” she laughed. “Wow.”

Lah-lah? Jesus Christ, I thought to myself. What was that? I could, of course, have resorted to actually telling the woman off what professional music was about and that everything I had learned in the academy had a reason. But I had held the same lecture years ago at a party and Kenneth had told me off so harshly that I cried myself to sleep many nights. I felt like getting back at someone, holding my own, something, anything to boost my self-confidence. What could make me feel better?

If I was to get him back I would have to play hard to get. It came to me as I dried one of the longer glasses, one that looked like a very thick and short cock. Sex.

  1. Ava’s Physics

I dried the dishes like a good girl, then walked up to the upper floor of the house, changed into my training gear, turned up the stereo and punched myself into shape, constantly looking at my sexy boobs and hot ass, stretched my million dollar body, fondling my boobies in the process, and spoke to my higher self about what to do next.

This time I would not act out of frustration. I would have my husband eating out of the palm of my hand. Memories of logging into Facebook yesterday night appeared in my mind. I found myself silly in actually having confessed my erotic desire to a male colleague that was a self-confessed Casanova. He hadn’t answered me. I also knew that I could not tell my husband that I felt awkward about his family of self-confessed Ohio Rednecks. I knew that my nightly chatty PC excursions with the male Casanova colleague could not be openly discussed. I also knew that I had actually just contacted that brief acquaintance with the sexy eyes because I was frustrated.

My vacation this year felt like a row of board games and house chores.

Oh, yes, and barbecues.

That old song from “A Chorus Line” came to mind as I stood up there, “Who am I anyway? Am I my résumé?” Finally, I really got into a swing when the sounds of The Buggles’ old song “Video Killed the Radio Star” blasted through the speakers.

When Kenneth came up behind me, standing in the doorway, my confidence suddenly soared. He must’ve watched me there in my sports-wear for quite a bit, my E-cup knockers bouncing to the beat of the song and my pony-tail swinging to and fro. I felt like an 80’s crumpet, back in my teens, remembering my young years, stretching my legs and buns to the sounds of Duran-Duran. I felt transported back to the old days. I had found my recipe for success. “He likes to watch,” I told myself. “Well, I will give him what he wants.”

So I gave him the benefit of the doubt, a rush of confidence now rising in my soul. I kept dancing, shaking my arse, twisting my hips, stretching my tits just enough to give him a clear view of them and the nipples visible through my tight J-Lo T-shirt. My hunk of a hubbie did not move. He simply stood there watching me, probably getting hotter by the minute.

I could just picture his big cock growing as he saw me dance. I could picture him dreaming about fucking me. Hard to get, I just had to play hard to get.

Kenneth had an effective sperm factory working in his testicles. Would my provocation change that, you think? If I left him standing there and if I actually spent the day ignoring him, he would walk into the computer room at night, search the porn web and repeatedly squirt on a tissue. Then I would walk in and laugh at him just as I saw him squirting. That would be the thing, wouldn’t it: 40 year-old, confused and nervous milf, a crumpet with no self-confidence but a fantastic rack of jugs and a good-looking ass, playing hard-to-get. I sighed, yawned, smiled to myself and turned up the volume of “Ring My Bell”. Once last dance, I thought to myself, and then the real show begins.

I bent over, letting those sweet buttocks telling my husband to shove it. I swirled around, stretched, performed a kick-ball-change and a leap, enjoying it thoroughly, and promptly walked toward the doorway past Kenneth, grabbing my towel, drying myself off and slapping him on the butt as I walked by. Little cock-loving me, giving him no double whammies, not getting down on her knees pleading for his penis, not jumping down on the bed and spreading her legs in order to let him fuck her, not showing him her asshole so that he could stick in his big dick into her soaped and creamy love-hole. Little sexy me with the big jugs simply walked into the bathroom and stripped naked, Kenneth only watching.

From the corner of my eye I saw his shorts actually getting too tight for his comfort. He shifted in his step, wiggling his hips, pretending to adjust his belt. He would be taking out his dick at any minute.

I had Kenneth where I wanted him now: wanting me to suck his cock. I would keep him wanting me, pushing his desire rise to new heights. I would laugh at his erect cock a few times and then have him fall on his knees and let him beg. Maybe I would allow for him to fuck me then. Just maybe.

  1. Provocative Ava

As I showered off my sweaty boobs and dripping pussy, I heard my husband quietly mutter my name as he stood in the doorway, sort of hoping that I would answer him. I ignored him, like he had ignored me an hour ago. I stuck one finger into my snatch, masturbating just a little bit just to keep my desire burning and ready for his dick tonight. Then, happily horny, I turned off the shower and opened the curtain. Kenneth was still there, his cock now out of his pants, big and dangly. His cock was not erect just yet, but it was growing steadily by the minute. He said nothing, but he looked like a horny beagle, hoping I would get on my hands and knees as always and let him squirt on my tonsils.

“Why don’t you just lock yourself in the computer room, honey, and squirt on a tissue?” I looked up at him, wearing his cocker spaniel expression, his cock now erect, touching his own full length. “The web is so full of cum … uh, fun,” I said, feeling triumphant about showing him all this female independency. “Cumshots? Big Jugs? Kirsten Imrie? Torie Wells? Chloé Vevrier? Colt 45? Busty Dusty? Katie’s Load Delivered? Brandy Taylore? Tiffany Towers? Nina Hartley? What tickles your balls?”

Kenneth now masturbated like crazy, watching me rub my clit usisng my Hello Clitty towel. “You drive me nuts,” he panted.

I laughed, putting on my pink knickers. “I have licked more pussy than you know,” I lied, putting on my white 40E bra and shaking my knockers. Kenneth’s hand was now jerking off his absolutely enormous dick so fast that I saw the package only in a fast forward blur.

“Oh, please let me fuck you, Ava,” he moaned. “Please.”

I really honestly felt like saying yes, or my pussy did. My pride, however, remained steadfast. I wanted to be the winner once. So, accordingly, I played hard to get.

I choose the see-through dress with the daisies and the pussy-willows hanging on the small closet door and slipped into it. I ruffled my hair a little bit, checked the mirror for corrections, carefully added lipstick, rouge, eye shadow and the obligatory beauty spot on my left cheek. His one-hand merengue accelerated and now he used both hands to masturbate.

He panted again. Now louder than before. “I have got to have you.”

I shook my head, happily. “Have yourself, dear,” I laughed, arrogantly. “You know you like jerking off. That cock of yours just seems to adore your hand. It looks like fun.”

I searched the bathroom for a tissue, interrupting my cosmetic moment, found none and finally ripped off some loo-paper instead and gave it to him.

“Squirt on this,” I told him, dismissively. “Those sperms of yours like flying.”

Confused, he took it.

“Now, little guy, use my ass as a sex-object. I will grant you that much, baby.”

I kept on making myself up, carefully lifting my skirt and letting him look at my ass while he jerked off. I knew I had him now. Soon enough, his grunt grew more rugged. Then, only silence followed. Slowly, I turned around, looking at him with his schlong out of his shorts, that sticky liquid swimming on the loo-paper.

I smiled, opening the toilet-lid, and walking past him, more triumphant than ever before. “Don’t forget to flush,” I said, walking past him as fast as I could.

“I need your clit, Ava,” he said, desperately. “Even now.”

“You’ve had your sex for today, Kenneth,” I laughed seductively as I walked down the stairs, leaving him standing there like a kid with his hand in the cookie-jar. “If in doubt, fuck yourself.”

I just had to laugh to myself as I opened the fridge door and took out the cold Italian white wine that I had bought in Wal-Mart yesterday. I stood there for one moment, drinking that alcoholic liquid, feeling quite good about myself for getting back at my husband in this way. I was going to let him fuck me tonight, but only on my own terms. The chill of that wine slipped down past my boobs into my stomach, tickling my cunt, and making me giggle.

I had not been standing there long when I heard Kayleigh’s voice again, now with her entire family of Ohio Rednecks slamming with BBQ cutlery and walking in and out of the guest house, turning on the barbecue, laughing about bad baseball players and weird politicians. I left them to their shallow conversation and walked into the sitting room, turned on some Mozart on the stereo, leafed through a coffee table book about Rubens and masturbated to the painting of Rubens’ second wife Helene Fourment. I was very aware that anyone could come in here at any moment, including my son Joshua, but I kept fingering my pussy until I came during the third movement of Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony.

I realized how lucky I was, not needing a tissue to squirt on while masturbating like my husband did. My knickers were a little damp and that was all.

  1. Ava’s Inspiration

With my underwear sticking to my clitty, I listened a bit longer to the music of my favorite composer, fully aware how sexual he had been as well. I had often sung the arias of the Countess from “The Marriage of Figaro”, knowing how erotic the story was of the adulterous Count Almaviva and the games everyone played with him as a culprit. The Count finally consented to excusing himself in front of the Countess, kneeling down in front of her instead of her kneeling down in front of him. I am sure that fellatio was common in Mozart’s day, as well, but I also knew that Beaumarchais’ play also had the Count kneel down in front of the Countess as a comment to Rococo feminism. The servant Figaro also had the Count kneel before him, because Figaro had helped the Countess get back at her husband.

I was alone in my sexual game, but I knew that when I sucked my husband’s dick tonight he would be following my every move, obeying every rule.

I refilled my glass in the kitchen and walked out into the garden, my cunt still dripping with female cum. The party was in full swing as I walked out. Beer was being guzzled, steaks were devoured, hot sauce was being poured over penis-like sausages, boob-like potatoes were slapped on the grill and vagina-like hot peppers were shoved into willing male mouths, There was no Mozart out here, just Billy Ray Cyrus and Shania Twain. No artistic coffee table books with Rubens paintings discussed, only the texture of the Beef or the length and color of the hot dog buns were analyzed.

I felt strong. I suspected that my husband was still upstairs, probably performing another acrobatic trick with his one-hand-girlfriend, letting his sticky juice squirt over another length of loo-paper. I now transformed completely. Knowing how I now was capable of playing a sexual game with my arrogant husband, I was able to joke about the things they joked about and even tell my in-laws about how it was to be a performer on an opera-stage without being interrupted. I now had these country folk eating out of the palm of my hand. Finally. Playing hard to get really gave me confidence.

My husband came down, probably having jerked off to the pictures of Amber Lynn a thousand times, his hands sticky with sperm. He guzzled a few beers, told a few jokes, but I was the star attraction. By the time evening came I was drunk with Italian wine. My husband was horny and very sad.

I didn’t care. I really did not care and it felt fantastic.

Heck, I even helped with the house chores; I even played a board game with those country bumpkins. I knew my husband had been holding his own dick a moment ago and now I was holding the sword and shield. Down by the riverside, my ass.

“Mommy,” Joshua came up to me toward the evening and said.

“Yes, dear?” I responded, sweet as could be, happy that he now was returning to me with a question instead of just going to Kenneth.

“Mike asked me if I wanted to sleep over at his house,” he sing-songed. “They have a new Star Wars-game on Wii and we also wanted to play some basketball.”

“Well,” I answered. “If it’s okay with dad and if Kayleigh is okay with that, I’m okay with that.”

Joshua looked at me with a gaze that spoke of surprise. He noticed that a new won confidence had arisen in my heart and recognized that something old and familiar now lived in my heart. “Kayleigh and her family have invited us all to join them for a round of scrabble at their house. So, we will all be going there. Dad won’t go. He has to finish his project on the computer, he says.”

I smiled to myself, knowingly. His penis-project, my mind mused, jerking off for the sixth time today and hoping I would fuck him like I used to fuck him. For hours on end.

“I will stay here as well,” I answered my son. “I want to paint a bit.”

My son nodded. “Will you show me the painting when it’s finished?”

I nodded, actually bonding with my son again after so long a time. Happily, I packed a small bag for him, putting in his favorite games and explained to Kayleigh what to think of and what not to worry about. Soon enough, Kenneth and I were the only ones left over in the house. That really felt good.

My cunt tingled with excitement, thinking about how his large cock would penetrate my asshole and cunny soon enough. I had to plan this well. I was going to make the rules.

  1. Ava Copulates

All the way up to the upper floor, I chuckled to myself. My canvas, my paint brushes and my acrylic colors waited, Kenneth was horny again. I heard that familiar faint thumping of hands against testicles, “Slap! Slap! Slap!”, rubbing a seven inch erect penis.

Getting more excited by the minute, the idea of Kenneth so damn frustrated, I took all the time in the world stripping completely naked, hoping he saw me. Soon enough, I stood there naked painting my landscape painting, now and then reaching down to rub my cunt, pushing my paintbrush into my vagina.

Oooh. Then, the moment arrived. The sensation of my husband’s erect seven inch penis touching my snatch aroused me in ways I cannot describe. I knew I had played hard-to-get long enough and so I bent over, showing him my butt clear enough for him to be able to stick his cock inside.

“Will you be a good boy, Kenneth, and respect me in the future?”

“Oh, yes, Ava,” he answered.

“Will you do what I tell you?”

“Well, okay. If you say so. Just, please, pretty please let me stick my dick in.”

“Oh, all right. If you really must then, by all means, stick your silly thing in.”

My furburger dripping wet with my own clitty-liquid, his hot precum turned my insides into a cocktail of sexual glory. I felt his hard groin pumping my ass and making my butt cheeks wobble like crazy in a kind of boogie-woogie-rhythm. I held my paintbrush in my hands, pretending to paint a tree and some dark green grass.

I had to be honest, though. I couldn’t concentrate on emulating William Turner right now. I had to concentrate on my husband’s hard hands gripping my waist and thrusting his long dick into my wet pussy. It really grew harder by the minute. That fabulous sensation made me see stars. We hadn’t fucked like this for years. Playing hard-to get was really the best way to enflame his desire. I even had to glance over my shoulder just to see if it really was Kenneth that was fucking me. But it was Kenneth and he was red in the face, just as red as his cock was.

Surprisingly fast, my husband withdrew out of my clit, slapped my butt really hard and threw me around. I was ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that I knew I could be.

Kenneth took my head in his big masculine hands and pushed me on my knees. This time, I obliged. I opened my mouth and he inserted his long prick into my obedient mouth. The helmet of his penis was now blue, all of the blood in his body pumping into his crotch. His brain was on leave. Right now, Kenneth was a sex machine and I loved it.

“You are such a good dick pleaser,” Kenneth finally said, his eyes glowing with excitement. Now I had to admit that I loved his cock.

“Oh, ah shuhsst lovvve schucking your cockh,” I mused like the prostitute I was with him penetrating all my holes, speaking with his big dick still in my mouth. “Bhutt youh gotta letth meeh bee the bossh occasionally, okhay? Letth mhe bhe yourh dhominatriksch onsche a dhay.”

“I will be submissive, you bitch,” he mused. “As long as you suck my dick once in a while.”

Kenneth banged his cock into my mouth harder and faster than I ever before. His helmet felt like one of those big hard walnuts and his big tasty cock had the hardness of a wooden pole. My cunny dripped like crazy. Cumming on the floor under my cunt while his gender pumped in and out of my word hole aroused me in ways that defied gravity. I felt like flying. I moaned and groaned in higher and higher tones.

I knew that he loved my voice range climbing into the extreme high range. Although I was a dramatic soprano, I had also sung Mozart’s Queen of the Night during my college years. I had even sung it once while he fucked me. Now I sucked his cock and exerted small staccato squeaks as he rolled over my tongue.

With a thunderous plop and really sexy splash of a sound that sounded like I had just finished a cocktail, pardon the pun, I took out his long dick out of my mouth and wiped off my own saliva off my chin and exclaimed: “Let’s go into the bedroom, you horny fuck. Lick my pussy long and hard – or else. Show me how good a pussy licker you are, baby. Lick this sexy bimbo’s cunt like a good boy. Show me you are good for something other than to bitch.”

Kenneth didn’t have to wait long in order to follow my dominating orders. He lift me off the ground, his dick bobbing in its erect position like a flagpole in the wind. We passed the bathroom where he had squirted on the loo-paper for the first time this morning and entered the temple of our nightly sin. The sun was setting as he inserted his tongue into my snatch for the first time. I had the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into my clit by the second. So deep, in fact, that I soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of my pubic hair. I alternately rubbed my E-cup titties and his by now ruffled hairdo.

The sound he was making was quite similar to the sound he made when he ate spare ribs. The slurping and licking sounds made me think that there were gallons of clitty-juice in there – and there probably was. I laughed to myself, aroused by this amazing sensation. I loved the way my husband licked my clit. It really made me understand why I had married the man, arrogant asshole or not.

Now we were in the final stages of our copulation. Kenneth heaved himself out of my crotch, his face dripping wet with my cunt-liquid. When he thrust his prick into my hole, I sang. I really sang. I began singing not Queen of the Night, but Gilda’s “Caro Nome” from Verdi’s “Rigoletto”. The tones just swam out of my mouth as my husband fucked me harder and harder, my tones wobbling as hard and as intensely as my pussy ached. Kenneth closed his eyes, humping me harder and harder. I sang, his cock getting harder and harder as his rhythm accelerated faster and faster. My pussy was sore. It actually hurt me, every part of my clit throbbing with pain. But it was a pain that I actually enjoyed, being fucked until I was sore. I knew that I would come out of this a winner. After this I was going to play hard-to-get again, but not right now. Now I just wanted to be fucked.

Finally, Kenneth withdrew his dick and stretched it out into the open air, jerking off like crazy, his insane gaze giving me the impression that he was in a sexual trance.

“Let me squirt on your tongue, baby,” he moaned. “Show me just how submissive I was. Give me your endless desire.”

I crawled about on the bed, looking like a seal, swirling around from my position on my back to a position under his dick, opening my mouth wide and sticking out my tongue, making little squeaking and horny tones as I did. I stuck out my tongue even further, pleading for his sperm. “Give me your cum,” I moaned. “Come on, baby. Squirt on my face.”

His hand movements now accelerated to arrive at an insane pace. I saw his thick arms tense up, his face grimace, his head bob, his dick grow even bigger and bluer, his muscles flex. Finally, his cock made a small dancing movement and erupted into a long string of cum that positively skyrocketed into my mouth and onto my tongue. The second portion shot onto my left cheek, the final dessert of this three course sperm-dinner landing on my nose. I licked it all off, swallowing every drop. A stunned silence now came over our mutual copulation. The bedroom became our symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of our burning desire. Every portion of my face was covered in cum.

I wasn’t going to go wash up. I was going to let the sperm dry on my face and then let Kenneth squirt on my face again. Now I had the recipe for self-confidence and erotic success. Playing hard to get, holding my own, so to speak, was my tool to be the best I could be.

  1. Ava, Consulated

I fell asleep pretty soon, but woke up sometime during the night with Kenneth squirting cum on my face. I can only conclude that married life really has its advantages, especially while being married to a man able to produce as much sperm as my wonderful and arrogant husband Kenneth. The best thing is that we actually began speaking about our marital problems after that. I rarely eat protein pills. You will probably know why. I have my own recipe for success: cum, cum, cum, cum and – boy, oh, boy – cum again. All night.