Mr. 2:47 By Charles E.J. Moulton

Radiant. Indescribable. Mysterious. As rich as Spanish Corona wine, as full bodied as apricot brandy, as lucious as moist Irish cream, more mouthwatering than a tropical watermelon, yummier than any other sweet pussy on the planet: salty, sweet and cumming.

When Brandy, for she bore the name of that intoxicating drink, walked into the bar that night, my heart skipped a beat, her curves a violin, her jugs a sunrise over the hillsides of Wales, her butt a spectacularly rich and dark-red rose. More than anything else, her female forms resembled the soft sanddunes of Morocco.

Her physically perfect “S” enduced in my midst a perfect inverted “T”, a long pole reaching toward her wet and dripping cunt, long, curvey sandré coloured hair reaching way below her shoulders. A black unbuttoned light blouse with red flowers, underneath it a black V-neck T-Shirt that showed off that marvelous body, watermelon-sized knockers, a cleavage-blinking glory​, cum-inviting, ready to receive the distress call of any male energy in the room. The black skirt caressing her fabulously fuckable ass. My antenna wanted to plant itself into the holes of her roof, drilling up through her basement and working itself up to her top.

There she was, blouse and hair blowing in the breeze coming in from the outside of the briefly open door, remaining there for fifteen seconds, searching for someone, someone not yet there. I raised my glass to my lips, somewhat in a daze, the brandy in my glass making love to my tastebuds, Brandy by the door making love to my eyes, inspecting her, imagining what I might want to do to or with her, imagining what was like under her clothes, if she had shaved her furburger or not, if she was tight or not, if her pussy would hug my dick real hard or not while I fucked her and while she squealed like a hungry seal.

Just as I, for a moment, was about to disappear into the glass-dwellings of my second mistress, as lucious as the woman’s namesake by the large glass door with the bar’s initials, a maitre d’ stopped by Brandy’s side with a startled gaze. He’d been striding joyously across the floor in almost gay showbiz manner. When he saw Miss Nubile Nipples, the immediate change in his manner became visible: slow head movements, a transfixed gaze.

She asked him something, he answered in mumbles, Brandy seemed distraught, nodded, was shown to a table and sat down, ordering something rather, whatever it was, looking at her watch.

I knocked back my alcohol, ordered a second drink. My body made the decision for me … actually, I am sure it was my spirit, my intuition or whatever it was taking over my body and shooting up. I knew I had to talk to her.

With drink in hand, my feet strode up to her, a lump growing in pants, my masculinity bleeping proverbially like a radar, the helmet of my penis turning blue. She leafed through what seemed to be a folder of papers, at first pretending not to notice me.

“Miss?”

The deepest and brownest reindeer-eyes I have ever seen gazed up at me, formidable sea of lush promise feeling like a bed of roses, a bathtub of coconut cream, a pool of cocoa butter.

“Yes?”

“You seem quite …”

I half-smiled.

“… gorgeously lost.”

Brandy sat back in her chair, giving me a grin.

“There’s a pick-up line I haven’t heard befoah.”

A chick from Brooklyn? Her accent revealed as much.

“May I?”

I gestured toward the opposite chair.

“Uhm, Mister, uhh …”

I stretched forth my hand.

“Cleo, Paul Cleo,” I nodded. “Marketing Department.”

I could see the wheels turn in her mind, making her wonder what Marketing Department I spoke of.

“We work at the same firm across the street,” I laughed, “big building, 500 employees, nobody knows anyone, we just know the boss but he doesn’t know us. He just pays us. Ring a bell?”

She held on to my hand, twisting and turning it lightly, shaking my hand not up and down but sideways as some blowjob-worthy women tend to do.

”I have the office down the hall,” I added, chuckling.

I could see how the penny was dropping ever so slowly. I had said hello a few times and she had responded, but with hundreds of people working there, what would you expect?

Suddenly, a proverbial lightbulb lit up above her head. ”Mr. 2:47!”

I took a step back, almost spilling my drink. The twang in her voice caressed my enigma, at least for the moment. Had I fucked a Brooklyn crumpet yet? I didn’t think so.

“Mr. … wh-what?”

Brandy giggled, somewhat shyly now.

“The girls in our department call you that.”

This was obviously more humorous than I initially had thought. A dark secret known only to the chicks in accounting, with which I had nothing to do. Well, almost nothing.

“There’s way too little contact between the departments, I see that now,” I said, quite seriously.

“No, no,” she demanded,  “Siddown. I gotta tell you this.”

As I grabbed the chair, feeling a weird mix of eagerness and fear of being ridiculed, Brandy continued. Now I heard that something in her voice that didn’t quite match her Hollywoodesque Monaco-like appearance.

“Christmas, year befoah last, you drank yourself silly. I mean, none o’ us in gals in accountin’ knew ya, but …”

She shrugged and giggled.

“Us Brooklyn-nookies just thought you had a cute ass. We all wondered how … well, uhm … uhm … well, never mind …”

I smiled, feeling my cock rise again in spite of Fran Drescher’s voice coming from a supermodel’s body. I wondered what receiving fellatio from her would be like, Brooklyn fillies reputed to have nubile gums, also when shutting up.

“Ya know, every woman foah herself and awll that. Punch in, check out, lock down. Anyway, you were with all the Marketin’ guys. I’d been gigglin’ with mah colleagues in this huge joint they’d rented, remembah?”

I recalled that party. Huge gathering. That was when I had noticed Brandy for the first time, but only because of one of her friends called out her name real loud.

I nodded. ”I noticed you, too.”

“We were still about 100 people there, very late.”

She threw a glamorous gaze my way, one that spoke of wine, men and song. Oh, yes, and lots of sperm on those lips of hers. Maybe her complexion was so gorgeous because she had been given more than one cum-on.

“The band was playing slow dances. ‘How can I live without you?’ or sumthin’. You were dancing with a chick. Dunno who …”

“Uhm, uhm, Barbara. My ex-…”

“Ah,” Brandy said, pausing, looking at me with that inspecting gaze men take or mistake as interest, whatever the case may be. “Anywho,  out of nothing, you started shouting: ‘Damn, it’s 2:47 in the morning,’ and ya left. Your … uhm … ex?”

I nodded.

“She started laughin’ real crazy-like. Dunno why?”

“She …”

I gazed downwards.

“… always said I gave her too little attention. That everybody else seemed to be important but her.”

I looked up, grinning.

“That wasn’t true, though …”

Brandy shrugged, flashing her grin. “Anyway, after that night, to us, you became ‘Mr. 2:47′.” She popped a pink bubble. Smelled like strawberry. Probably just as pink as her furburger. “She caused quite a ruccus after you left, calling you names and smoochin’ with othah guys.”

I half-smiled, really aroused by the idea of squirting on a tongue so full of diphthongs.

”She broke up with me,” I croaked. “I guess I needed some excuse to leave. I was pissed like never before.”

“Angry or drunk … or both?”

I cleared my throat. “Drunk enuff to remember your name.”

“My name?!”

There came that look I knew so well. Too well, in fact. The look that said: ‘Am I in the hands of a psycho?’ Maybe I wouldn’t have to deal with getting laid with a gal sucking on my testicles in long vowels. I held up my hands in a gesture of forfeit.

“No worries. I remember it only because I just had ordered a brandy at the bar and one of your girlfriends called out your name.”

Another pause.

A faint smile. ”That’s cute.”

Fran Drescher Two blew a popping bubble again. If this wonder-woman could only be quiet I’d consider burying my head inside her salty snatch.

An awkward pause followed. Two people looking right and left, trying to avoid the obvious. I looked back at her, clearing my throat, sort of wondering what caressing her boobs with my blue helmet would be like.

“You waiting for someone?”

Brandy looked around again​, trying to detect someone she had missed. ”I volunteered to help with someone’s taxes, but it looks like that someone split the whistle.”

“I hope not my whistle,” I mumbled.

“Figure of speech,” she whispered, waving her eyebrows.

I have no idea how the next thing happened or why. I just knew that I sat there realizing how different your image of reality could be of the actual reality.

“Sorry I’m late,” a voice came from behind me.

I recognized the voice from all the slow dances, from a last scene at a Christmas party and from weird feelings of neglect on both sides. I know I didn’t mind hearing that voice because I had spent the past two years dreaming of it, dreaming of sweet blowjobs, chasing dreams and wanking my cock under the moonlight. I still had my manners, though, so I ended up popping up, aware of the identity of the other woman behind me.

Barbara, my ultimate dream … ex-fuck.

I think she was as startled as me, actually. She blinked, for a moment caught in a twilight zone between the current reality and the world that was. I looked at her. The edges of her sexy mouth twitched twice, an insecurity with the origin of a new life and a question of being confronted with an old one.

If I was totally honest, I think we both travelled back in time while gazing into each other’s eyes. This made me uneasily horny.

”Hi,” I said, softly.

Barbara smiled.

“Hello there,” she answered.

I pointed at Brandy, who flashed me a very quick and rather dishonest smile which disappeared as fast as it appeared. Raising my eyebrows in surprise, I shrugged at my ex- and wondered: “You getting help with your taxes?” I asked.

Barbara nodded, her C-Cups wobbling lightly inside her bra.

”Yeah,” she chuckled softly, “you know me and numbers. That hasn’t changed.”

Fascinating, how fast a situation could change and turn 180 degrees.
Inside, a very warm and cozy sensation spread from my diaphragm on to my belly and my face. No doubt in my mind what it was. Hungry for pussies.

With a very sensitive smile, I stretched forth my hand and shook Barbara’s hand. I nodded toward Brandy, who waved back with arousal. The hand I lay on Barbara’s upper arm was met by her own on top of mine.

”Nice to see you,” I blurted out.

She half-smiled, first in shock, the sides of her mouth twitching.

“Want to meet and catch up … sometime?”

She nodded.

“Why not?” she squeaked, letting her gaze travel down toward my groin.

This a time trip was one so surprising that I knew I had to fuck her now or split.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” she continued.

“Really?” I answered.

She looked down again, bewildered.

“Really?”

When she looked up again, she smiled, a red blush spreading across her cheeks, a blush as red and the spanked buttcheeks I had slapped rosy while fucking her asshole two years back. Sweet memories, oh, sweet and overworked penis. Yes, she had adored mine.

Holy shit, I fathomed in my brain. Here I was, Mr. Horny, wanting to hump Miss Brooklyn Pussy, and my ex-filly turns up. Was I happy? I was blissful, memories came flooding back and I found myself dreaming of having my cock embraced again so fantastically by Barbara’s hot and lickable clit.

“You still have my number?”

“If it hasn’t changed?” Barbara asked.

I shook my head.

“I’ll leave you girls alone.”

The girls both watched me leave, open-mouthed with heaving jugs.

I walked away toward the bar, knocking back my brandy in one gulp, actually contemplating giving up the drink for something more healthy … like tea. I felt bad about leaving, but Brooklyn Pussy there had triggered an erection in me. Now Barbara came along and gave me a trip down mammary lane. I just had to grab some air before my head exploded.

“See ya tomorrow, Mr. Cleo?”

I looked up from the wallet in my hand, giving Scott, the bartender, a nod.

“If I don’t win a million bucks by then and quit my job,” I swooned.

I put two five dollar bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”

“You’re a good customer, Mr. Cleo,” Scott said. “Hope you find your true happiness one day.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“What makes you think I am not happy?”

I paused.

Scott waited.

He cocked his head.

”It’s not my place to mingle into other people’s affairs, Mr. Cleo.”

“It’s okay, Scott.”

“I guess the gals are busy.”

“Must be the brandy that has me blushing,” I answered.

“Brandy,” Scott mused, serving another customer a drink, “or your brandy?”

I looked over at the two fuckable ladies, leaning over folded papers and restaurant bills. The lonely bar behind me seemed to have my pawprints all over the woodwork and Scott’s ears had turned white from listening to my glum lilt of quickies and quick cumshots.

“Both,” I mused, feeling my dick throb.

I walked out into the evening sunshine that day, looking at the huge building I worked in. It made me wonder how everyone in there seemed to know only the people inside their own department. I crossed the street, on my way to my flat, only a short walk across the plaza. To my left, the gigantic building I worked in. To my right, five minutes away, my flat. My life within a few yards and Scott serving drinks to boot.

Barbara.

And Brandy.

Brandy.

And Barbara.

I pondered over that for a bit. Barbara had quit working at Lincoln Industries after we broke up. When I left the party that night, the night they obviously named me Mr. 2:47, Brandy remarked that Barbara went berzerk, smooching with lots of guys. She could only have known Barbara through me. Barbara worked in the diner downstairs and had made no effort to contact Brandy during the party. Which probably meant she didn’t know her. What that meant about the two chicks meeting now in a bar I regulary hung out in after work? I had no idea. I just know I left the plaza behind me that night, somewhat confused as to my own feelings: my libido vs. reality, my current reality vs. what I obviously still felt about Barbara.

I went home, grabbed a few beers out of the fridge, watched a few episodes of ‘Game of Thrones’ on my laptop out on the shady balcony. I got bored rather quickly, so I googled up Bangbros and wanked my hard dick, squirting my cum on a printed out picture of Brandy from the website of our company, along with another picture of my ex-shag Barbara. I went to bed, dreaming of strangers and strange friends. My sleep was deep, deeper than a hardcore meditation filled with Linda-Lovelace-clones.

The next morning, in my office, I was in for a surprise.

“Now, what?” I pushed the start button on my Macintosh again, but the darn thing did not and would not start. ”Hell in a hand basket,” I spat and I would have laughed at my own silly curses if I would not have to finish my marketing plan for the next year.

“George?!”

I knew plenty about computers, but how to fix a broken one? No idea. You could’ve asked me how to climb Mount Everest or solve a nuclear physics problem. That would’ve been easier. I shot up out of my chair, peeking into my colleague’s office, but I found only an empty desk. At the spur of the moment, as I criss-crossed my office carpet, I tried to think of someone to fix my PC. Running out into the hallway, my thoughts were centered only around getting my damn marketing plan ready for the coming year.

Obviously, I was not prepared to see what I saw. The two girls I had left alone in the bar yesterday were chit-chatting, standing two feet away from the soda machines. They were holding no papers, no tax forms, no envelopes. Just two girls, chatting about whatever girls chat about. Men, muscles, blowing long hard dicks, swallowing sperm, getting fucked, riding penis? Maybe not. Shopping new hand-bags was more like it.

I think I waffled to and fro for two seconds, watching my ex-girlfriend chat with a chick I had had the hots for. I did wonder, however, what Barbara’s new interest in Brandy was about. Instead of actually wandering over to them and acting like a schmuck, I decided to stay on my intended course and try to fix my workplace. So down I went, below upon the floor, next to the PC Tower, under the desk, checking cables, pushing buttons, pulling switches and, oh, yes, biting my fist.

“Paul?”

As so often is the case, my gut heard the voice and immediately ventured to look up who intruded my hard labour. What ashame the edge of my desk was in the way.

”Ow, holy shit,” I cursed. “Damn.”

I crept forth, rubbing my knuckle-like and now aching head.

“Oh, dear,” the voice exclaimed, “did I cause this?”

So, then I finally saw Barbara.

I grinned, shaking my head.

“Just male insanity,” I chuckled, looking back at my desk, still rubbing my bloodless wound. “I hate desks. Everyone should just work next to light plastic garden tables.”

Barbara laughed. She actually laughed. I’d forgotten about how she had laughed at my jokes. I really don’t know why. I never found myself very funny until I met Barbara. So I must’ve looked up at her with a kind of humorous bewilderment.

”What brings you here?”

I let go of my head and sighed.

“I’m … uhm … how do I say this? Back,” Barbara mused, causing me to widen my gaze an inch, “working here, I mean.”

“You’re kidding me,” I sing-songed. “Since when?”

Barbara looked down, smiled, looked right and left. Then she gazed back at me.

“Can I sit down?”

I was taken aback by this turn of events, but I do admit it felt like a blessing.

I ran up to the coffee table, showing her the chair, my dick throbbing again.

“Can I offer you a coffee, a tea, water?” I said, nervously pointing at the fridge and water boiler in the corner, wondering a bit why I was nervous. I did get my free weekly ration of Maxwell House and Lipton. Did I just want to fuck Barbara? I know I had cried for the first month after our break-up, but then I had buried my loss in brandy. Not the sexy chick with Fran Drescher’s accent, but the drink. You know, your worries are good swimmers. Anyway, Barbara held up her hands and shook her head.

“I’m okay,” she smiled. “Just had a decaf.”

“You still drink that shit?”

“From time to time.”

I had not forgotten Barbara’s contemplative gaze, her half-closed eyes, her concentration. I interrupted the silence with an offer to assist.

“Can I help you, Barbie?”

She looked up at me, sparkling twinkles in her eyes. Not a word was said, but I knew my old nickname for her brought back memories. Back then, calling her Barbie was met with a mix of mirth and irritation. It was my personal sign of affection. She used to answer that my name would have to be Ken. Now, it triggered something old in her. Something old that had turned new. It triggered something old in me: memories of squirting my cum into her gums.

“Uhm,” she chuckled, “actually, yeah.”

A pause, an ever so short one, before she looked up at me with those deep brown eyes. It was a direct gaze, very heartfelt.

She gave me a short smile. Then she started fidgiting with her hands. “It’s been a long time, it’s weird, I know, especially since I am the one who broke up with you.”

That warm feeling that came over me the day before now returned. Old emotions, hopes, how I had felt about myself back when I had been with her, all that resurfaced like foam rubber on calm waters, like structures revealed by the withdrawing of silk veils, like fishing hooks in Capri lit by the full moon, like sperm in bath water, like cum drooling out of a horny chickie’s mouth.

I saw her insecure gaze, her fluttery eyes, the way she bit on her lip.
Me meeting her at the bar had been a coincidence, or had it?

Barbara laughed, rather shyly, standing up.

“I’m being silly, I should go.”

I shook my head, laying my hand on her wrist.

“No, stay,” I answered, feeling like having my dick sucked.

She grinned, insecurely, sitting down again. “I  actually miss you.”

My heartbeat fluttered and I noticed how the warmth of her persona poured over me. I had even stopped believing that I could be with her again. Now that I knew I could, things started happening.

“I’ve … I’ve had a thousand one-night-stands since I broke up with you, fucking every guy I could find,” she began. “But the fact is that I was only trying to find someone with …”

She giggled, very shyly.

I stretched out my hand and lift her chin.

“Someone with … what?” I whispered.

There was that feeling again. Our gazes met, our heads, our lips. We almost fell off our chairs in the process. The warm rush of a kiss with lots of saliva and tongues. She reached for my groin and started rubbing my hard cock. Her hands, oh, those sexy red fingernails, they reached for my zipper as we smooched.

“A bigger and more lucious cock than yours,” she moaned. “There ain’t none.”

Her female hands reached past my suit pants and into my Calvin Klein’s, reaching beyond my hairy pubic region down to a stiff schlong. A groaning woman’s kiss, eating my tongue. A button opened, a buckle, and the awareness that I was in my office and that anyone could come in and witness us shagging was … fantastic. Barbara let go of my mouth and went down on her knees, forcing me up on my feet. I did what I always had done when she got that look in her eyes. I stood up, waiting for her to do her thing. Transfixed on my crotch, she spoke again:

“I have been looking all over, baby, for someone with one as good as yours, but …” She gave me the most astounding blowjob-point-of-view-gaze I had ever seen. “I want to feel your cock again, baby.” As my pants dropped to the floor and my big hard sausage bounced out of my underpants, Barbie gasped. “I’ve missed your penis.”

With almost meditative bliss, Barbara opened her mouth and lay my cock on her tongue, first letting it slide to and fro on it inside an open mouth, throbbing deeper and deeper toward her tonsils. Then she closed that mouth, embracing my helmet with her lips, painted in pink. Every sloppy plop of her mouth, every single moan, every raise and fall of eyebrows, every wrinkle of her nose, every deep throat, every button she unbuttoned to reveal a full set of sexy C-Cups, every move enticed me. She loved my cock and I loved the way that babe sucked it. Occasionally, my sex-object of a chickie looked up with enticement and blurped:

“Am I sucking it as well as back then, Master?”

I nodded, happily. “You are still the best cocksucker around, you sex object!”

“Better than the other crumpets you fucked in the meantime?”

“Much better,” I said.

“Then show me how well you can fuck me from behind,” she mused.

Without a single moment’s notice, she stood up, stripping naked, taking off her skirt, her undies, her bra, her stockings and shoes in record time. Suddenly, this bimbo stood there stark naked in my office and I got the jitters that someone would enter and see us. That would mean a probable end to my work here.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Big Cock,” she chirped. “I’ve put the “Don’t disturb! Conference!”-sign on the doorhandle. You can fuck me until I beg for mercy!”

I laughed, for then I remembered all of those fantastic sex-locations of ours. On the lawn behind bush on top of Colorado mountain, I had fucked her asshole. In the back room of a Disneyland museum, I had titfucked her, jizzing on her nipples. In the changing room at the Harrod’s clothes department, I had licked her pussy. In the airplane on our way to China, she had ridden my dick. Now, here in my office, I licked her boobs while she wanked me off. I dived into that cleavage, disappeared into it, grabbing those sweet little man-pleasers, those cockraisers, those little dickteasers. After that, I had no choice but to rip off my own clothes to the last thread, bend her over the fridge and fuck her, pounding my groin against her wobbling arse, her buttflesh bouncing like a “Toys ‘R Us”-ball.

I was in the middle of that glorious frigging-session when my office door opened. I think I shrieked like a schoolgirl with pigtails, but we all know that a man stops thinking when he is fucking. I was afraid of who actually barged in, but I kept on shagging Barbie’s butt, holding on to her hips.

Barbie, or Barbara, she gazed over, women being rather on top of things, as it were, knowing instinctively who was coming in. The door closed before I was even aware who had entered. Maybe my dick had the intuition of a second dream fuck entering my office, because soon I heard a key turning to lock the door. I kept on shagging Barbara’s cunt from behind, slapping her butt almost on automatic, while Brandy, chewing her bubble-gum, came over toward me and leaned against the wall. She nodded, raising her eyebrows, while I kept fucking that sexy ass, pumping my ex- like a machine.

“You’re right, Barbie,” Brandy crooned. “He is good.”

Barbara smiled, her head tossing to and fro as I banged her.

“He is, isn’t he?” she gasped. “Wanna try him?”

I really couldn’t stop fucking that clit. It was rather astounding what Barbara’s ass did to me. Her body had this addictive quality and I kept shagging, no matter what.

“Brandy wants to discover your cock, Paul,” Barbara mused.

So there I was, fucking like a crazy man, and I saw Brandy slowly strip off in the nude while I did. Off with her blouse, off with her bra, and oh, those cockteaser-titties. Off with her belt, off with her skirt, off with her undies, and oh the hairy pussy I was looking forward to lick. Soon enough, another naked female butt graced my office.

“You can switch pussy now, Paul,” Barbara chirped. “Compare us.”

Now that was an invitation I did not bother to neglect. What was even more amazing was the fact that Barbara sat down on my couch, fingering her snatch and masturbating while I slowly slid into Brandy’s body. I got the chance to be a real MCP, a Male Chauvinst Pig, a I believe these two dicklovers wanted it that way.

Here were my notes: Barbara’s cunt was not as tight, maybe some serious gang-banging had fucking opened it up, but it made more sloppy and wet noises while I shagged her. Brandy had a more trained ass, which meant that it did not wobble as much. Both pussies were unshaved and I liked unshaved: so much bush to fuck, so much hair to kiss and lick like diving into cotton candy. This was becoming a marathon.

“We want you to rate us,” Barbara sing-songed while she fingered her clit.

I was still in my frig-modus, unable to stop moving my groin, so I answered in blurts.

“Huh?” I moaned.

“Tell him, Brandy,” Barbara chuckled.

“Well,” Brandy began as I massaged her big boobs while I was fucking her clit, her big round earrings swaying as she got banged. “I knew you hung out at Scott’s Bar. After all, you were Mr. 2:47 and I knew Barbara since she broke up with you. We had shared some guys and eventually, one day after fucking a big black dude, we contemplated getting you back. I knew you wanted me and had secretly taken pictures of me bending over the soda machine. Barbara really missed you. Most of all, she missed your big dick. I was curious about your cock, so I staged this meeting at Scott’s and … you know the rest.”

There was a pause. I kept banging Brandy’s wobbly butt. She gazed over at Barbara, still masturbating her clittie.

“Shocked, you pussy-teaser?” Brandy chirped.

I laughed. “Uh-uh. Happy.”

Then, again with forewarning, Barbara stood up, followed by Brandy’s very decisive withdrawal. I don’t know where it all came from, but suddenly there was this notebook and a pencil and the girls laying up a list with different topics. I stood there with an erect and bouncing cock, looking at one page saying: “Pussy-Taste, Brandy vs. Barbara.”

“Your choice,” Brandy commanded, sitting down on one couch, spreading her legs wide opposite Barbara, also now back on her couch. “Lick us both and give us notes.”

Well, we men all know how decisive and commanding women can be. A man’s gotta do what I man’s gotta do, so wordless I knelt down and began licking Brandy off.

“And tell us what you think while you’re licking, Paul,” Barbara barked.

“Okay,” I answered, getting back to Brandy’s snatch. I opened her pussylips again and inspected it. “Dark-pink pussy with a light mid-core.” I licked. “Salty with a pleasant aftertaste. Easy to penetrate. Yummy aftertaste.”

I looked over at Barbara, who was taking notes. “Tasting of what?”

I licked again, sticking my tongue in deeper into her hole. “Salty pop-corn, I think. Lots of butter. Luciously wet.”

“Okay,” Barbara mused. “More?”

I started licking Brandy’s pubic hair a little, giving it small kisses, licking with my tongue back into her clit. “I like her pussy hair. It’s soft, sort of like silk.”

“How does she groan?” Barbara asked. “Or does she squeal?”

I heard Brandy’s horny squeal and nodded while I licked.

“A cute and horny sound,” I answered. “She squeaks.”

“Pussy rating from 1 to 10?”

I looked up at my ex-girlfriend boobs. “Is this a competition?”

The girls looked at each other and smiled.

“Just answer us with a judgment of points,” Brandy commanded and shoved me back into her hairy cunt.

“A full 10 points,” I answered. “Great taste, great hair, great colour, great lickability.”

Not a second was wasted. Brandy shoved my head away and pointed toward Barbara’s snatch. “Now lick Barbara’s pussy. I’ll take notes.”

This really felt like a university of fucking.

Off I went, running off to Barbara’s couch, Brandy following me to get the notebook and the pencil. I knew what to do. Barbara’s pussy was familiar. I had spent hours and hours licking it, but licking her again brough back fond recollections. Hers was a lighter colour, softer edges, more hair to fondle and a little harder and thicker hair at that. It was deeper and easier to sink into. It tasted sweeter, sort of like chili cheese nuggets. I gave Brandy the notes and Barbara’s cunt received a moist and horny equal 10.

Now the real fun began.

I had to judge the grabability and lickability, how wobbly or tight their tits were, how wobbly their butts were in fucking, the tightness of their assholes, the quality of their erotic dance, their qualities as cocksuckers, how good they were at riding my cock how good they were in swallowing my cum. Needless to say, I gave the two girls 10 points in all categories. They ended up licking off my dick for a full hour.

When my alarm buzzed I nearly jumped out of my bedsheets, tossing and turning a few times after banging fiercely on the clock. I lay my arm over my face and remained in that position for a few seconds until I realized what I had in my groin’s midst: a rock hard cock unwilling to limp down. I looked down onto my raised bedsheets and looked at my saluting One-Eyed-Willie, realizing I had just had my most pornographic dream, inspired by meeting those two ladies the day before. The orgasmic orgy I had just experienced twisted in snake-like patterns in my brain, causing me to gasp.

“Holy Gazongas,” I groaned. “What a dream.”

Upon stepping out of bed, I almost put my feet on the paper I had printed out the night before: pictures of Barbara and Brandy, now sodden with loads of male sperm. I gazed for a bit at my own dried cum and smiled, that cute little UK magazine named Breasty Fillies next to it, a gem with Chesty Summerville being banged senseless by a cool giant-cocked man named Kenny. Brandy and Barbara, Barbara and Brandy … and Mr. 2:47. Sighing myself into my shower, I wondered if something so incredible could come true.

I guess I wanked myself through breakfast, imaging my toast being Barbara’s cunt and my grapefruit Brandy’s left boob. It wasn’t until I reached my office a half hour later that I realized something was amiss – or at least different than usual. My secretary Amy, a buxom blonde I had titfucked now and then, jumped out of her chair, declaring seriously that I had guests in my office: guests who wanted to have a serious chat with me for an hour or so.

I shrugged, sort of taken aback by this strange turn of events. The CEO and his Vice President? Had someone found out I slept around? My hands started shaking and suddenly I feared being fired. Weird, though, because as I walked toward my office door, I thought I heard Amy giggle. I didn’t react to it, though. What I did notice, however, were the giggles and moans coming from the inside of my office.

Once I entered the room, my eyes caught sight of two stark naked ladies, fondling each other’s tits. They looked up, smiling happily. “Brandy here,” Barbara squealed, “has been hearing so much about your big penis, she just had to see for herself to believe it rules.”

At that very moment, my secretary wandered in, hanging the “Don’t disturb! Conference!”-sign on the handle, locking the door behind her. As she strutted over to my desk, giving me the sexiest strip-tease I have ever seen in my life, dropping her garments on the office floor, I realized I was going to have the time of my life. Soon enough, there were three naked women opening my fly and sucking on my balls. And I knew, right then and there, that reality sometimes offers you a better ride than any erotic dream: a fantastic and fucking fabulous foursome with constant switches between nine holes on three frolicking females. When you have three red mouths, three wet cunts and three tight assholes to fuck, you know that a sensual paradise is only a cumshot away. Mr. 2:47 was a lucky man.

And you know what I found out? That Brooklyn chicks do profit from mouthing in diphthongs. We all live together nowadays, the four of us, and I fuck them in rotation, they keep strict track of my track record, but that is an entirely different story. And, oh, yes, the Brooklyn Pussy has won my heart as the best dickpleaser on Earth.

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Lucy’s Paradigm Shift By Charles E.J. Moulton

Harry was uptight.

In fact, his uptightness had been legendary for quite a while.
It wasn’t that Harry was unfriendly. No, not at all. He smiled when you met him, he listened attentively to you when you spoke and occasionally, at parties, he would hold a very precise conversation entailing a wide variety of subjects.

Harry was no loser.

As a consummate professional, he meticulously prepared academic research papers, like he had back in college. Here a piece about the Napoleonic Wars, there a thesis about Roman Cuisine. He would often read these pieces to his university students during lectures, before returning home to his cigar, his Armenian Ararat Brandy and his CD-collections of Edward Elgar and Gustav Holst.

Harry was good looking, a very suave blond hairdo, impressive stature and large blue eyes, so it came as a surprise to many female students that such a man in his early 30s could be so shy of girls.

His parents had taught him to be impeccable.

The parents themselves?

No possibility in seeing Harald Carruthers Senior cuddling his Deirdre. Kissing? Impossible. They were friendly folk, loyal Bromley citizens from Billy Idol’s Small Town, England. They took Sunday strolls in the park, closed their own and their son’s eyes when a lightly clothed woman was shown on TV.

What goes around, comes around.

Harry Carruthers, Junior, developed a shame for his urges, although his secret drawer with the lock in his room had been filled to the brim with copies of Large Jugs Mag, Foot Fun, Sazzy Legs, Brash Blowjobs, Sexy Asses and Big Ones. And every time he squirted on Kimberley Clark’s Kleenex, he begged the heavens to forgive him.
This was his life until his a few days before his 31st birthday, a life spent remembering the one girlfriend from high school, the one with the large boobs, who left him because, you guessed it, he was just… too uptight.

It was a regular Monday afternoon, Harry returning from campus after an especially strenuous day. Big crowds of students, no or little reaction to his efforts, and that one girl sitting in the first row, eyeing him during three of his lectures. Lucy Holmes.

Harry knew he had given her his cellular phone number a few months before. She had needed the university password for the online research archive and he had let her use the spare computer in the back of the library.

She had eyed him back then, her big braless basooms stretching her V-shirt, nipples perkily pushing the cotton to say a becumming “Hello!”

It had been incredibly hard to hide his hard-on back in the back of the library, as hard as it had been to hide his hard-on today. Harry had not been able to help himself, so he spent most of his lectures behind his desk today sporting a massively throbbing erection, trying not to study Lucy’s fantastic D-cup wossnames too openly.

It was tough, real tough, having such uncontrollable urges.

Harry closed the door to his two room flat behind him that day, closing his eyes, breathing heavily. This had to be wrong, Harry told himself. Feeling this way, he meant. Being ashamed of loving titties, lots of titties, big titties, small titties, medium sized titties. If he only could overcome his fear and shyness when a pretty woman flirted with him. He spoke freely for hours on end about history during his lectures. Why on Earth was speaking a problem when it came to girls? He, a university professor. Shy. Getting a stiff prick two seconds after seeing a sexy female smile, squirting after a handshake. Impossible.

Harry threw his bag on the couch, shoved a Gershwin CD into the stereo, a frozen pizza into the oven and poured himself more than a half glass worth of Armenian Ararat Brandy. There he stood, on his miniature balcony, gazing at lawns and lawnmowers, cars and parking lots, houses and doors, exists and entrances. He had no idea what the thought was that was forming in his head or even why, only that the time was ripe for change. What change? How? The fuming vanilla cigarillo acting the Yin to the brandy’s Yang, Harry only understood then and there how lonely he felt.

Sex, a sin? No, loneliness, a bigger sin.

Half-way into his American Pan Style Chili Cheese Pizza, the familiar urge soared again. Harry ripped his desk drawer open, flung open his jeans, took out his throbbing erection, wanked, spread eagled the Score Mag Centrefold Babe, licking her sweet paper pussy, leaving a few strains of Chili Cheese on her pink clit. He imagined shoving his entire face into that wonderful cunt, coming out completely wet, his entire face dripping of oestrogen and clit wine. He felt his hand beat his willie so fast it sounded like a stampede, faster and faster, strains of pizza mixing with make-believe cunny soda.

At that moment, Harry’s phone rang.

“Lucy Holmes,” the display read, the photo he had taken of her in front of the university entrance, masturbatory boobs flashing on the display, de Falla’s Fire Dance reverberating as a ringing tone.

“Lucy,” Harry whispered to himself, thoughtfully, carefully wanking his penis, thoughts criss-crossing his mind as to why she called him now after work … in private.
Harry’s trembling hand swooshed across the display, causing the red receiver to turn green. Harry carefully raised the phone to his ear.

His dream fuck.

Harry was terrified.

“He-… Hello?”

A moment’s silence before any reaction came, fears of a student prank, a joke on his expense, causing his cheeks to turn red again. Then a very sweet and tender voice spoke in shy waves of tenderness.

“Mr. Carruthers? Lucy here. Lucy… Holmes.”

He looked at the nude model on the centrefold, as he listened to Lucy’s voice, masturbating his cock as he heard her sexy voice croon.

“Miss Holmes,” Harry crooned, “a … a pleasant surprise.”

She laughed. “I do hope I am not interrupting you.”

Harry stammered, looking at his half eaten pizza standing half way onto the porn babe’s jugs. “No, no. How can I be of service to you?”

“It’s sort of an emergency, Mr. Carruthers,” she began. There was another pause. “You have a minute?”

Harry, intrigued and terrified at the same time, croaked a quiet: “I have time,” which in retrospect seemed more horny than academic, but he was the teacher, right?

“Great,” Lucy chirped, which made Harry quietly wonder what the emergency was.

“I submitted an academic research paper to my uncle’s literary journal in Dublin,” Lucy continued, “and now he phoned me, telling me that they have a blank spot in the next issue. An author withdrew his submission. It’s an issue about Scandinavia. He told me he would publish it only if I add more information about the people’s uprising of 1542 against King Gustav Vasa under Nils Dacke.”

Lucy exploded out into an insecure laugh.

“I thought he was kidding,” she sing-songed in a Yorkshire lilt, “but he wasn’t. Apparantly, there are several pieces about Scandinavian uprisings in the issue and he wants it in there before 6 tomorrow evening.”

He didn’t know what it was, but hearing her voice just made him even more horny, but then there was the weird feeling of guilt in the back of his head.

“You’re the expert,” she swooned, coquette, “I’d pay you. I wouldn’t stay long.”

Harry imagined humungous racked Lucy here, discovering his hard-on.

“You live not far from here, right?”

“Yes,” she chuckled in a frilly bounce, “we strolled past your apartment building… the day you took those photos of me, remember?”

If she only knew how many times he had looked at those photos.

“How does seven o’clock sound?” Harry crooned, his cock still facing the ceiling, massaged by his firm left hand.

“Fantastic,” Lucy chirped. “Thanks ever so much, Mr. Carruthers. It would be my first published piece. I would be thankful for any help I could find.”

“See you soon.”

“Bye,” she whispered.

This all confused Harry. Had this something to do with her appearing in three lectures of his today and smiling.

Well, Harry’s dick went into his pants again, the pizza wandered in segments into his mouth and the Centrefold’s Yummy Chili Cheese Tasting Pussy into his drawer.

As he with shaking and nervous hands lit some candles and injected an Enya CD into the stereo, he remembered photoshopping Lucy’s pics, zooming in on her jugs and using the photo as a screensaver. He had even printed out the picture a couple of times just to squirt on it. Enya sang, Harry ran. Until he remained standing in the midst of his tidy flat, asking himself again and again why he had no fears about work and every fear in the world about meeting girls, a college teacher spending his life licking paper pussies.

Harry showered, making sure cock and balls and asshole were clean, sprayed some Cartier on his throat and brushed his teeth. He paced the hallway, shivered and mumbled silly nothings to himself. Maybe it was all a practical joke?

The doorbell gave him quite a start. It caused not only his heart to flutter, but also his cock to twitch. One look in the mirror later and Harry opened the door to reveal Lucy, sprayed with something smelling of magnolia and roses, Chopard or Christina Aguilera, wearing that T-shirt from the picture with “Malibu Beach” written on it. There was a beach on it that looked like a continent by the way the tits stretched it … and the nipples? Well, let’s say they stuck out like flagpoles in the wind.

“Thanks ever so much,” she repeated, stretching forth one bottle of red wine. “Rioja?”

Harry nodded. “Uhm-hmm. Co- … come in.”

She wandered in, rubbing her pink skirt, causing Harry’s tight trousers to seem even tighter. “You have a really nice flat, Mr. C.”

“Tha-… thanks.”

Harry took the bottle of wine, shaking his head.

“That wasn’t necessary.”

Lucy shrugged, her knockers shaking in the process, causing him to glance at them. She noticed he was gazing at her tits, but for now she only gave him a sly grin, looking down at his swelling crotch.

“Oh, yes, it was, you helping me with my article and all.”

“I’ll get two glasses.”

Harry thanked the Lord that the cork didn’t break and that he did not spill any of that wine. Lucy brought forth her USB-stick, forcing Harry to focus on his work. It was difficult to explain thoroughly how a Swedish farmer revolted against the royal regime of 1542 when a buxom brunette frequently spent her evening leaning toward the computer screen, shoving her milk-factories under his nose.

Three quarters of an hour later and Lucy had an impeccible written addition to her submission, not her own, but albeit a very adequate one that would make any Irish, English or Swedish historian proud. So much for not staying long. On the other hand, the longer Lucy stayed, the more did Harry actually want to fuck her, the more he actually felt he had the guts to make a move, the more he felt he could just grab her boobs and stick his dick between them. Shaky and quite red in the face, Harry strolled to the kitchen to get the chocolate chip cookies, hearing Lucy rave about his great work, when, suddenly, out of the blue, Lucy stopped talking. She had been chatting about a lecture of his when…

“Oh, my God.,” she exclaimed.

There was a very long pause, which caused Harry to think that Lucy had left.

When Harry returned with a crystal plate of cookies, Lucy stared at a bouncing screensaver. Harry took a few steps toward her, that fuckable woman with the monumental wankable whammers, her mouth open.

“That’s me, Mr. C.,” she said, giving Harry a sudden attack of the nervous fright. Pictures of unlawful sexual conduct came to mind, Lucy running out and screaming. She did nothing of the kind. Instead, she just smiled. “You made a special close-up of… my tits.”

She looked at Harry, more immobile than the Statue of Liberty, Lucy with a sexy and innocent kind of grin on her cocksucker lips.

“Lucy, I don’t know how to say this, but…”

“You like my tits, Mr. C?”she crooned.

No response. “Uhm, uhm…”

She looked up, licking her lips.

“You can say so, if it’s true, Mr. C.”

Harry nodded slowly, clutching the plate.

Lucy looked down below Harry’s plate toward the growing bulge in his trousers.

“Yes, I do like your tits,” Harry said. “Very much.”

And as Lucy stood up, catwalking toward him, the cookies on his plate rattling against the glass, she licked her lips.

“You wank to pictures of my tits, Harry,” she asked.

Harry nodded. “Yes, I do. Often.”

“You print out pictures of me and squirt on them?”

Harry nodded again.

“I like that,” she said.

Harry chuckled nervously.

“What’s that in your pants?”

She took the plate, put it on the coffee table by the couch and slowly rubbed the very prominent thing that now more resembled a long coke can than a small fish.

“Something for me?” she crooned, stroking the bulge slowly.

“It’s growing,” she chuckled, waving her eyebrows, giving him a kiss. “Can I ask you a question, Professor Carruthers?”

“Uh-huh,” he groaned.

“How long has it been since someone gave you a blowjob?”

“Gosh,” Harry croaked. “Dunno …”

“Uuuh-ooh,” Lucy whispered, taking off her Malibu T-shirt. “You probably wanked yourself silly over my titties, squirting on my printed picture. Well, Mr. C., you sexy wanker.”

Lucy went down on her knees, unbuckling his belt with the look of a kid who just discovered that Santa was real.

“I want to taste that big dick of yours, baby,” she mused.

The zipper went down, the pants went down, the underpants went to the floor and when she saw his monster cock, as big as a foot and as thick as a coke bottle, she opened her mouth, giggling. It was with a smoothe grin that she freed a penis that simply bounced out and smiled at her with its eight inches and one happy eye on a happy plum sized helmet.

“Mr. C.! Now I am about give you a private lesson.”

Lucy carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around his shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process. At the moment Lucy Holmes took his Long John in her mouth, Harry saw stars. The way she sucked his cock had to be felt to be described. She literally embraced his penis with her mouth, letting it touch the back of her throat, making little groaning and squeaking noises as she sucked, occasionally letting the cock plop out with an elegant little pop onto her chin for a fine little lick of the tongue. A quick kiss on the one-eyed helmet, a gentle suck on the tip, a long lick at the shaft, a tender long slobber at his balls, taking one testicle into her mouth, bouncing it up and down with her tongue, then the other, grabbing his buttocks as she sucked. Then, she was back to sucking, harder and harder. Harry was amazed that he had not squirted yet, but she sucked so fantastically it made sense to wait and enjoy. While she sucked it, she massaged his balls, managing to circle the shaft with her tongue during her expertise sucking work. In fact, he felt his dick grow in her mouth only because she managed to give him such good oral sex. Lucy half-smiled while sucking, nodding ever so sensitively, her cock-hungry eyes glittering in moonlight from the window.

“Do I suck you well, Mr. C.?” Lucy said, licking his balls again.

“Oh, yes,” Harry said, suddenly free of fear. “You are a great cocksucker.”

“I wanna please you, Mr. C,” she teased. “Do I please you?”

Harry moaned something unintelligible.

Lucy slowly worked herself down to his long schlong and devoured it deep throat, balls and helmet and pubic hair and all.

“You wanna see me ride you, Mr. C.? My tight little arse ride your long and hard dick? Or are you in the mood to lick this good little girl’s clit first?”

Freedom made Harry invincible. “I think I wanna drink your cunt first.”

Harry had never ever seen a woman run so fast to the bed and Harry was not slow in responding, stretching out his tongue for a taste of some Yorkshire pussy.

Harry’s head literally disappeared totally into that furburger. Between every pussy lick, Harry had to take breaks for air. He was soaking wet, but her clit tasted so damn good. It was like a juicy fish filet and he wasn’t gonna stop licking and pleasing that sexy woman, sticking his long tongue way into her cunny, fucking her with his mouth. She grabbed his hair, pushed his face violently into her snatch and then begged for him to fuck her.

And fuck her, he did.

Hard.

Harry did not recognize himself.

First, she rode him, just like those sluts on Facial Fest. After a Blowjob POV, now an arse ride. “Am I fucking you good, Mr. C.? Am I your submissive little sex object?”

“Yes, Lucy.”

“Will you give me a good grade on my thesis, Mr. C.?”

“Yes, Lucy,” he said, looking at those wobbling buttcheeks. “And you get high honours in fucking. Fucking good grades.”

A while later, Harry turned around his randy little cockteaser, man-frigging one-night-hooker-fuck and shoved his prick into her pussy from the front. Seeing those incredible boobs wobble in front of his eyes was like going to heaven. It was a sight for the Gods.

He made her cum. It was a sight to die for, Lucy closing her eyes, raising her eyebrows, yearning and burning. It made him want to squirt, too. So he straddled Lucy funbags, fucked them, felt that burning sensation in his cock, slid up to her mouth, opened it, causing her to stretch out her tongue, begging for his sperm.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Lucy begged. “Wank on my face, you maggot.”

Harry’s hand movements now accelerated, his face grimacing, his head bobbing, his dick even bigger and bluer than before. Finally, his 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, their mutual copulation inspiring us. His apartment became a symbiosis, the restful oasis of a green acre that had appeared after the hot fire of lust of a burning desire.

The load that came shooting out of his shaft, landing inside her mouth and all over her face, had made them connect.

Suddenly, with all of his sperm covering Lucy’s face, Harry retracted. He saw his upbringing, his sterile parents who never ever seemed to touch each other, his mother calling every attempt to copulate “sick” … and Harry wondered.

Lucy lay there, licking off his sperm, tasting it, savouring it, it seemed, lost in a world of sperm and post-copulation.

“Yummy sperm,” she swooned­. “I love the salty taste of sex. A real cock-tail.”

Harry sat down on the edge of the bed, lost in his world of post-horniness, that feeling he got after sex. Before an orgasm on a tissue: “Wow! I wanna squirt!” After orgasm on a tissue: “I wish I hadn’t!”

Lucy whispered: “Your cum tastes marvellous, it reminds me of that tunafish steak I had in Crete. You have such a great cock, Mr. C.”

There was no response from Harry, so big boobed Lucy looked over while licking off bits of his cum and giggled: “You didn’t like the sex?”

Harry looked over at Lucy, laying there, spread-eagled, pussy-lips spread, covered, cum all over. “Oh, you are a fabulous fuck.”

“So, where’s the problem?” she said, now cleaning off entire strains of sperm with her hand and licking the strains off.

“It’s a sin,” he said.

Lucy laughed. “Who says?”

“Society,” Harry says.

Lucy sighed. “Who are we hurting?”

Harry looked over at Lucy, surprised.

“I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Who are we hurting?” she repeated. “If it’s a sin, that is. I mean, that’s what I understand as a sin, something that hurts someone else. We are not hurting anyone, are we?”

Harry looked away, wondering silently to himself.

“I never thought of it that way,” he wondered. “No, we are not.”

“And we are just embracing each other, loving each other’s touch,” she continued. “With all the violence that occurs in the world, a little bit of nice and honest sex is not bad, is it? At least, I think it is pretty okay. You’re unattached. I am unattached. We’re just making love and that’s all there is to it.”

“My parents were very uptight,” Harry said after a moment’s pause. “I never even saw them embrace each other.”

“They were missing out on lots of great experiences. That’s probably why you are so shy of girls,” Lucy pointed out, sighing. “And be honest, Mr. C., without sex, we would have no humanity. Sex creates babies. Why do we love babies and think sex is a sin? That makes no sense. It’s like loving food and hating cooking. If we stopped having sex, humanity would disintegrate. We have to set our priorities straight. We call babies holy. Then we should call faithful sex holy, too. I believe in the eternal soul. I believe in reincarnation. I believe in heaven. I also believe in making love.”

Harry nodded, looking over at Lucy, suddenly brave, Lucy’s paradigm shift making him realize how strained he had been. “Damn it, you’re right. Sex is necessary.”

“And faith.”

“So we can have sex as long as we’re honest and faithful about it?” Harry mused.

“We have to,” Lucy shrugged. “Yeah. Violence is a sin. Sex is a necessity. Give me a kiss.”

Harry did.

“I came here to loosen you up,” Lucy winked.

“Here’s to Kama Sutra,” he giggled.

“And the eternal soul beyond sociological compartments,” she replied.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, the touch of their bodies sending signals to their souls that they were alone no longer. They became a couple, created four lovely babies, one boy and three girls, with their sex, and wrote books about the joys of marital love, reproduction, procreation and even one book linking inspired artistic creativity to creating a baby. Harry was a changed man with the signals they sent each other and others.

He held lectures on a regular basis about love in sonnets, nudity in art and sex in music and claimed how universal love was and the necessity for human touch.

He claimed that a person who accepted and respected sex as a part of his eternal being never ever could commit a crime.

“We cannot avoid what is a part of us,” was one of his credos, “we can only begin to understand how we can use our parts to benefit all.”

Harry lived a good and very fulfilled life.

Not For The Birds By Andrew Miller

Janice sprinted into the living room, shot past Larry, grabbed a pair of binoculars from the book case. “Unbelievable,” she said, “unbelievable.” She raced toward the back porch.

“Something interesting out there?” Larry had the latest issue of Natural History Magazine in his lap and didn’t look up. “Fall migration’s about to start. Should be some warblers out there.”

The door banged shut behind her. “I’ll let you know.”

She and Larry had arranged the furniture on their porch, an old couch and three wicker chairs, so they could watch birds in their back yard. The had installed floor to ceiling screens on all three sides, which kept out mosquitoes and flies and provided a wind break during chilly weather. Janice adjusted the focus, sighted past three birdfeeders, a row of azaleas, a wooden trellis crawling with morning glories. Holy, holy shit, she thought, I wasn’t dreaming.

She held the binoculars steady, licked her lips, wiggled her butt. “Larry,” she called, “Come quick. Ya gotta see this.”

“Need the bird book?” He tossed the magazine on the table, got to his feet.

“Forget the book, come here.”

“Check that out.” She pointed toward the back yard, handed him the binoculars.

He began a sweep of the hedge. She shook her head. “Not there. The porch on the gray house.”

He let out a low whistle. “My God, look at that. Penis erecti.”

“Yep, subspecies: elongatus.”

“They are really going at it.” He held the binoculars steady. “A rare sight, this time of year, a pair of mattress thrashers. In full breeding plumage.”

“I knew you’d like the double breasted one. Gimme the binocs.”

“Not so fast. Now they’re doing it standing up.” He dropped one hand to his crotch for a quick adjustment. “She’s got her legs wrapped around his waist… clawing his back, sucking on his neck. Passion… passion… whew… he’s got his fingers up her ass…” He leaned forward, tugged at his pants again.

Janice squeezed the bulge in his trousers. “Come on, let me see.”

“Damn, wish I’d bought that tripod. It would be nice to have both hands free.” He passed the binoculars to her.

She zeroed in on their neighbors. “I don’t know what I like better, watching them or listening to you describe the action.” She adjusted the focus. “They’ll make an evening of it. See that bottle of wine on the table?”

“Sure.” Larry leaned forward, squinted through the screen. “Now what’s happening?”

“She’s strapping on a dildo.” Janice shifted left to improve the view. “And,” she glanced at Larry, “hers is longer than his.”

Larry pressed his forehead against the screen. “Longer than mine?”

“Oh, hell no. He looks like a Georgia peanut next to you.”

Larry nodded, stood a little straighter.

“Hang on, he’s down on his knees—great set of buns—ready for his pegging.” Janice moved closer to the screen. “I’d love to sink my teeth into one of his cheeks. Hard, firm, like they were chiseled out of oak.” She glanced at Larry’s pants. “Her fake schlong is ready for action… now she’s on her knees… she’s got both hands on his shoulder… pump-pump-pump… and rubbing his big dick…”

“We’ve got a live sex show. Didn’t have to pay a cent.”

Janice eyed Larry’s trousers. “Whatdaya think, big fella?” She kicked off her shoes, squirmed out of her shorts, black panties, slipped off her light blue polo shirt, unhooked her bra. She hopped on the couch, landed knees first, twisted her butt toward him. “We’ll do it while we watch.”

“I hear you. Damn, we need another set of binocs.”

Larry pulled down his pants, being careful not to damage Mr. Ready-For-Action. He jumped up behind her, scooted close, began to massage her breasts. He pressed in close, poked his rod between her cheeks.

“Slow down. Take off your shirt. Give me some chest-to-cheek grinding with your pecs.”

“Okay if I leave my socks on?”

“What do I care about your socks—get on with it.”

He tossed his shirt on the floor, bent at the waist, squeezed his pecs against her smooth, round buns. While he stroked her breasts with both hands he moved side to side, massaging her cheeks with his chest. She arched her back, raised her butt. He stroked her boobs, continued chest-rubbing. She said in a low voice, “Keep at it, big boy, I’m getting into the mood. A couple of times she felt his penis poke up her crack. She held out the binoculars. “Here, take them.” A few minutes later she turned her head., “Okay…”

He slid inside. In real slow; he knew how she liked it. He gripped the binoculars with one hand, fondled her breasts with the other, started to rev up. “I’ve—never—done–this—before,” he said between strokes. “Never—never—nev—er.”

She reached between her legs, gave his nuts a twitch. Uh-oh, she thought, getting to the hard-ball stage. Won’t be long now. “Slow down, I’m not ready for Mr. P to go limp, lose his umph.”

“Ok.” He eased out, watched the couple for a while, then continued, “She stopped pegging.” He pressed in close to Janice. “Their porch is like ours. Got a couch, table, and bunch of chairs. Except, they’ve got a hot tub. Maybe they’ll jump in later.” Larry slipped inside, moved slower than before. With his free hand, he touched her breasts, felt her nipples firm up.

Janice moved her butt in a circular motion, matching his rhythm. A warm feeling spread down her legs, up to her breasts. “Tell me some more.”

“She yanked off the dildo. Now they’re having a glass of wine.” Larry stopped thrusting, continued to fondle her nipples. “It’s kind of odd…every once and a while…one of them disappears behind some sort of partition…”

“Too get more wine?”

“Maybe, hard to say… okay… they’re getting at it.” He watched for a while, then, “Now she’s got one leg on this little table, and he’s about to go down on her.” Janice closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of him inside, made all the richer by his description of love-making from afar. “He’s got his head between her legs—tongue’s a flying—she’s gripping his neck, scratching his back, moaning and writhing…”

“Let me see.”

She took the binoculars. “Ooooo, very good, his butt’s writhing and twisting all over the place… look at that cheek separation.”

Larry slid out, then pressed his chest up close, wrapped his arms around her. Do you know those folks?” His voice was low, husky. She could tell he was close.

“Sure, its Ann and Henry Scott. Don’t know him, but I see her at the gym. Sometimes we go for coffee.”

“Does she walk around naked in the locker room?”

“All the time. And plays with herself in front of the full-length mirror.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You wish.”

Janice flipped over, positioned herself on the arm of the couch so she could see the neighbors. “Do me like Henry is doing Ann.” She squinted through the binoculars. “Gotta make sure they are in view before licking begins.” She shifted position, then motioned him closer. “Come on.” She slipped her legs apart, pulled Larry’s head toward her crotch. “Put that tongue in gear. Our neighbors are ahead of us.”

She slipped her palms behind his neck, locked her fingers. She felt his tongue dance up and down her thighs, tiptoe over her pubics, then zoom straight to her hot spot. Janice sighed, swiveled her hips, sucked in air. His fingers began to tease and tickle, wander about, probe here, probe there. She closed her eyes, stretched her legs, flexed her toes, dug her fingers into the cushions, raised her butt, began to moan.

#   #   #

Larry felt her chest heave, her body tense. She’s getting close, he thought, I gotta go slow, steady, not spoil it by making unexpected moves. He knew she was at a critical stage. Any unexpected motion, distraction from anywhere, would wreck everything. She’d lose her footing, slide off the mountain without ever reaching the summit. He felt her fingers on his scalp, gentle, soft, now on his shoulders, slight pressure. Closer, closer, her fingers said, go a little deeper, but stay gentle. He shifted his position. He knew that the contractions were about to start.

The liquid, rich, whistling notes of the Baltimore oriole are the most beautiful of any American songbird. A series of chirps and trills up and down the scale, part warble, part bubbly gurgle, unlike any musical instrument. Larry had found the ring tone for her on a bird-watching website. She was enchanted by the song, happy to use it instead of any of the preprogrammed ones from the manufacturer. Whenever someone called, she delayed answering for as long as possible, just to hear the oriole’s melodious call.

That wonderful song came from Janice’s phone, which lay on the table in the living room.

Larry’s eyes snapped open. “What the fff…. Let the damn thing ring!”

She sat up, pushed his head aside. “I better get that. Might be Mom.”

Janice bounded into the living room, grabbed the phone, hustled back to the porch. She flopped down on a chair opposite Larry. He clenched his teeth. God oh God, he thought. How did this happen? What class double A jerkoff is calling? If they had only waited five more minutes.

She pressed the phone to her ear. “Hello?”

“Hi, this is your neighbor, Ann Scott. We see each other at Love Your Body Health Club. Remember?”

“Oh yeah. Hi—how’s it going?” She mouthed to Larry, who was slumped on his side, “This will be quick.” She winked, spread her legs, gave a couple hip thrusts.

Ann had more to say: “Henry and I were wondering— are you guys bird watchers?”

“Yes, yes we are.” Janice slid her legs together.

Larry groaned when he heard, ‘Yes we are.’ Oh no, he thought, we’re going somewhere. He looked at his penis, beginning to shrink and shrivel. Soon it would look like a button mushroom that had been abandoned for weeks behind the potato salad on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. Larry took a deep breath, let it out slowly. His sex plans had taken an unexpected nose dive. The phone rang when Janice was seconds from an earth-trembling climax. What was supposed to happen—if the phone hadn’t rung—was to bring her to a screaming climax, let her recover, then slip inside, stroke slow and steady, slow and steady, for as long as possible—she’d be climaxing all the time of course—then throttle up for one gigundamunduss, super long, off-the-Richter-Scale organism that would blast their heart rates off the charts, leave them both panting, near death. To miss all that, just because of her Mother on the phone?

Janice took a deep breath when she heard: “We saw that you were watching us.”

“Oh yeah?”

Larry didn’t notice the anxious look wash over her face; he was still agonizing over his shattered plans. They’d open that bottle of Merlot, break out the special cheeses and crackers, the red grapes. Legs tangled up, they’d eat cheese, drink wine, watch their neighbors go at it while he repressurized down below for the next tumble. Grape juices would meander down her chin, drizzle onto her boobs. She would get up every so often, pour them more wine. He could watch her bustle about with no clothes on—luscious, bouncy.

“We’re bird watchers, too. And, we have a 40-mm spotting scope. Great for detail.”

“Uh-huh.” Janice continued to hold her breath.

“Yeah, it’s hidden behind this partition. Don’t want to spook the birds.”

“Yeah…”

“And, we noticed that Larry has a weird line of freckles across his chest.”

“Uh-oh.” Janice frowned, rubbed the back of her neck. She squinted through the screen at their neighbor’s porch. Laughter on the other end of the line.

Larry closed his eyes, continued to dream about the lost sexscapade. After hors d’oeuvres they’d order pizza from Gino’s, slice up some heirloom tomatoes and cucumbers from the garden. Stay naked all evening. Eat on the porch. Light candles, rev up the CD player. It could be a two, maybe three-orgasm night. Finish up by watching an old Sopranos episode. Then a mutual shower. Maybe she’d even suck a little, do a bonus soap-off to tide him over ‘till morning.

“And we’ve been watching you watching us.”

“Oh wow.” Janice sat up straight.

Larry saw her snap to attention. Oh no, he thought. New plans for the evening—but what could be more fun than sex? It might be her good-for-nothing brother Alfie, wanting to go bowling at Bubba la Flubba’s Magic Lanes, five hundred feet from the end of Runway Five Zero at the international airport. If I drive, Alfie will spring for the shoes, plus a round of heart-burn hotdogs and all the diet soda we can drink.

Janice began to exhale as Ann continued, “That’s okay, don’t worry about it. Anyway, it got us thinking. How would you and Larry like to come over, sit in the hot tub with us?

Janice smiled and nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“And we can…do whatever. Henry and I are fine with this. Okay with you two?”

“I’ll ask Larry, but pretty sure the answer will be yes.”

“Your man Larry has a scrumptious ass, by the way.”

Janice nodded, smiled, flexed her toes.

Ann continued: “How about staying for dinner? We’ve got a couple of rotisserie chickens on the spit.”

Janice leaned forward in the chair. “Sure. Can we bring anything?”

Larry heard ‘bring anything?’ and groaned. This is worse, he thought, no one brings food to a bowling alley. Not even la Flubba’s. Sounds like dinner at her Mom’s. Tuna-noodle casserole buried in soggy potato chips, a basket of rock-hard biscuits. No beer or wine, only lukewarm tea with no ice. For desert, a mushy apple pie made from some cheap canned filling. Her father waving his arms and yelling about fantastic life was when he was a kid. How he doesn’t give a flip about computers, email, smart phones, Facebook, or texting. Janice’s brother griping because can’t find a job, doesn’t have a girlfriend, can’t drive more than 100 miles without putting two quarts of oil in his old Chevy.

His penis, shriveled and limp, lay like a jellyfish, stranded on the beach at low tide. How can I get out of this family dinner? Janice already said ‘yes.’ Isn’t it time for my prostate exam? Maybe I’ve got a couple more wisdom teeth that need extracting. Aren’t I supposed to be making ‘Bag Your Dog Turds’ posters for the Bird Club?

Janice nodded as she listened to Ann: “Bring some cucumbers and fancy tomatoes from your garden. I’ve got rice pilaf in the crock pot.” Janice saw the pained look on Larry’s face. “And bring towels, anything else needed for a fun evening—know what I mean? It’ll be the four of us.”

Janice nodded. “Sounds fabulous, more than fabulous.”

Larry stared at the ceiling. His charger, once stiff and hard like a hickory stick, had shriveled to nothing, lay hidden under its pubic hair blanket. How did this happen?

Janice smiled. “Okay, we’ll be there in thirty minutes or less. Bye.” She dropped the phone on the table, jumped to her feet, winked at Larry.

“You’ll never guess what’s cooking for the rest of the day, maybe the rest of the night.”

Dirty Harriet Explores the Internet By Dirty Harriet

I switched on my iMac, pulled my short black skirt up to my waist and sat down at my desk. The 27 inch screen glowed at me, and I quickly opened up the Safari browser and clicked on the link in my list of favourites.

I settled into the seat of my chair, the tops of my warm thighs sticking to the leather. I leaned forward a little, feeling my cheeks spread just enough and then I settled back gently, spread against the cool of the seat leather.

The fingers of my left hand gently stroked against my left thigh. My right hand flickered, controlling the magic mouse, shifting it swiftly across the screen, pulling up my favourite webcam website and logging in with just a few clicks.

I changed the basic view to my personal preference, and then found my saved performers. Almost a hundred photos sprang up, each time I hovered over a photo it turned into a live-view of the performer if they were online.

I scanned them all quickly. Mostly females, a few well-muscled men, half a dozen couples. That was what I was looking for, but none of my favourites were online.

My left hand turned into a claw and grazed my thigh.

I wasn’t in the mood to wait.

I clicked live-cams, changed the setting from girls (who I had been looking at a couple of night ago) to couples. There were about twenty to choose from. Some too old, some too fat. Some just not attractive enough.

I thought about checking out the girls, may be I could see one of them instead.

I checked my saved performers, but there wasn’t anyone there who would do it for me.

I could try downloading some porn, but I checked the time. It was late. My need was now.

My left hand continued to stroke, my right hand eagerly searching for someone to help get me off.

Then the notification popped up.

Bisexcouple1 had come online. They were one of my favourites. I couldn’t help but grin.

I clicked on the notification and it took me to their free live preview.

My left hand was working its way up inside my left thigh. I could feel the heat there buried between my legs, I could feel the ache. I tensed my thighs together, squirming in the seat.

I typed out hi, hru? (how are you).

They responded enthusiastically, I was a regular and they remembered me.

I’m wanting some nasty action, you guys ready for prvt (private), I typed.

For you always, they typed back.

I clicked on the button that said “private show” and the screen blinked and we were suddenly together. Just the two of them and me. No one else to annoy either of us or to interrupt.

She had long black hair almost to her slim waist. She wore a virtually see-through skin-tight body-suit, showing off her ample breasts and long slender legs. She had a pretty face and dark gorgeous eyes. He was slim, a little older than her at 26. Short hair and a big cock and loads of energy.

We wave at each other as my webcam clicks on, now they can see me and I can see them.

She blows me a kiss, then he disappears off-screen to work himself to hardness while she seductively removes the bodysuit. Her body makes me want to touch her, her alabaster skin looks so soft and clean. I want to lick her. To kiss her. To touch her and feel her body against mine.

My fingers press against the lips of my vagina as she undresses.

Then he is there. I can’t remember either of their names. If I wasn’t so horny I could talk to them and get to know them a little better. I know they are married and live somewhere in Romania, that’s as much as I remember. What I care about is that they are sexy as hell.

What you want us to do for you today darling, they ask me. It’s almost always her typing. I think her English is better, but both of them understand all of my instructions.

Just the usual I say, suck his cock as deep as you can for me. Then I want you to fuck doggy style and I want to see that pretty face up close and I want him to fuck you as hard as he can. And then I want to see him cum over that pretty face for me.

I put a smiley face after my instructions.

She looks at me and winks, and her husband has come back onscreen, his cock big and hard and pointing up at her face. She grabs it and takes it into her mouth. She devours it. She sucking the end of it, nibbling it, kissing it, licking it. Then she takes it deep into her mouth. All the way. She gags and releases it. Then takes it deep again. They know exactly what I like.

She continues with the deepthroat. Taking him as deep as she can, until she can’t take any more. She gasps and his massive cock pops out. Her breasts heaving as she wrestles to breath. My fingers feel the trickle of wetness between my thighs, then press against the lips of my vagina again.

He takes hold of her head and pushes her face into his crotch, his cock entering her mouth, going deep into her throat. She struggles to release herself but he holds her there as she struggles and my fingers enter me.

He holds her head and throat-fucks her. His cock moving in and out of her wide-open mouth, her head angled up so he can enter her as deep as possible and look down into her pretty eyes. She chokes and pushes him away, wiping tears from her eyes and spit from her chin. She smiles at me and I smiles back. She is so pretty. She looks beautiful with tears in her eyes and cock in her mouth.

Two fingers slip inside my vagina, my thumb and the palm of my hand resting against my clitoris, gently brushing it.

He pushes her head down onto his cock and holds it there while she struggles to release herself. Her hands pushing at his thighs. She looks like she is choking on his cock, and then he lets her go and she gasps in a breath. Her eyes continue to water, and she wipes her eyes as he gently slaps her cheeks with his cock.

You want doggy now, she asks.

You like to suck that big cock, I ask her.

I like it so much, she says, licking her lips. She’s so sexy without even trying.

Yes please, doggy style, and fuck her hard, that’s how I like it, I tell them.

Wish you were here, she tells me.

Me too, I tell them.

She positions herself in front of the camera so that she is facing it. I get a nice view of her face and her breasts are clearly visible. Her arse is there just in front of where he kneels, behind her. He gets into position, inserts his big cock and as he enters her I slip another finger inside myself, pressing more firmly with my palm against my clitoris.

He smiles at me, he is shy and quiet and not normally one for engagement.

Fuck her hard for me, make me fucking cum on your big fat cock, I type.

He nods eagerly. She licks her lips and smiles at me.

He slams his cock into her. Then another hard slam. Immediately they are fucking. Working their bodies against each other. Grinding into each other.  They work up the speed and ferocity, he is banging her hard, their bodies slamming together until I can hear it, his cock slapping deep inside her. Her face is a picture of pleasure and pain combined. My hand is slapping against my crotch, my fingers delving deep inside, my palm pressing against my clitoris. My right hand leaves the mouse and flicks against my blood-filled nub, pressing, pushing, flicking, brushing.

He is fucking her hard, her tits are banging against each other. Her face is screwed up, a little bit of pain, plenty of pleasure. He pulls her hair and her face lifts up, her back arches and her breasts heave towards me. She looks at the screen, watching me watching her. My hand flaps faster and faster.

The right hand fingers flickering, brushing against my clitoris. Pleasure building.

They briefly pause to get their breath back, big deep breathes, and then start again. He’s banging away into her backside. He pulls her arms back behind her, fighting to dig his fat cock deeper inside her. Her beautiful breasts slapping up and down. She is heaving against him, he enters her so deep it hurts now, but she’s enjoying it as much as I am. She is really being fucked now.

My fingers work my vagina, left hand slapping slapping slapping, three fingers working inside me, in and out, in and out. Like his cock inside her. My right hand working my clitoris. Pleasure bubbling.

Then he pulls out, he stands on the bed in front of the camera and she is there, kneeling before him. She quickly adjusts the camera and opens her mouth. He tugs on his cock hard, she takes his balls in her mouth, and then pulls him closer to her with her hands on his buttocks.

He cries out, sperm shooting over her pretty face and she smiles as the last of it drips down into her mouth. She licks it around her lips.

And that’s when the explosion in my groin takes over and I cry out, my fingers slipping out as my vagina tightens, my clitoris throbbing ecstasy through my entire body.

She uses her finger to collect his spunk and licks it from her fingers. My left hand goes to my mouth and I lick my finger, tasting my pleasure just as she tastes his.

Thank you, you sexy bitch, I tell her.

Always a pleasure for you darling. Hope to see you again soon.

I nod, they will see me again.

My leather seat is damp with my sex juice. I’d better clean up, I think and click off. My pleasure reached.

Work By M. Earl Smith

It was 11:30 on a dreary Friday morning in November. The thermostat had dropped almost thirty degrees in the past month, and the coolest days of fall were upon us. You were sitting at your desk, working away on some worthless spreadsheet, when the text message popped up on your screen. It was, of course, from me.

“Go back to the same locker room and take a selfie for me.”

Shaking your head, you looked at the clock and laughed. “Y”

“Trust me on this one.”

Sighing, you went to the aforementioned room and positioned yourself in the mirror. With an exasperated look on your face, you lined up the picture. Little did you remember that this was the weekend I was due back from Philadelphia. As you hit the shutter button, I clicked the door locked, and stepped around the corner, draping my arms across your shoulders as I did.

You started for a moment, but, upon seeing who it was, you grinned, and craned your neck upwards for a kiss. Our lips locked, and my hands slid from around your neck, starting at your hips, which I used to pull you against me, so you could feel how hard I was. Grinning, I slid my hands under your shirt, under your bra, and on to your breasts, where I teased your nipples between my thumb and forefinger.

“I want you. Right here, right now. It’s been a month, and that’s far too long.” By this point, I was whispering in your ear, nibbling as I did so.

Without a word, you reached behind you and, unzipping my pants, pulled my cock out, working it with your hand in slow, steady strokes. Someone knocked gently on the door, but we both managed to ignore it as I worked your pants down your slender hips and onto the floor.

The knock came again, a little more insistent, but we ignored it as the person let out an exasperated mutter and went on their way. After a few more strokes, you grinned, and slowly started to bend at the waist as I pulled your panties to one side. After rubbing your pussy with my two fingers a few times, I chuckled, and quickly slid my cock into you, reaching forward to take your hair and pull you gently back.

The month apart hadn’t killed any passion between us, as we both came hard and fast right where we stood. As we finished, the knocking started again, almost at a pound, as we both giggled and worked our pants up. I used your hair to pull your mouth around to me, and after a passionate kiss, I let go.

“Text me later.” I said simply, tossing the name badge I had used to gain entry to the building in a trash can. You followed me to the window as I crawled out, jogging across the parking lot to climb onto a motorcycle. Tossing my helmet on, I fired up the bike and peeled out.

 

Hide and Seek By Ty Vossler

A beautifully hand-written invitation was put in Lucia’s graduate student mailbox. She shared it with me when she returned to our tiny Binghamton, New York apartment:

Dear Lucia,

You and Wyler are cordially invited to attend our fifth annual Summer Solstice Festival in our home on the night of the twentieth, beginning at 9:00 PM. Bring your appetite, a favorite wine, and an open mind. We hope to see you here!

—Ben Thomas—

An email address was provided to RSVP.

“I wonder what he means by an open mind?” I asked.

“Sharma was impressed that I was invited,” she said, “He’s heard that it’s an exclusive gathering.”

It wasn’t surprising that Sharma, also a graduate student, knew of the event. He enjoyed keeping up with all the latest gossip.

“Why did you get one?  Ben Thomas isn’t your Ph.D. adviser.”

“I haven’t a clue,” Lucia answered.

Of course, I had my own theory. Lucia is a full-figured, exotic-looking Mexican. Her dark, short-cropped hair, almond brown eyes, and soft, full lips scream of potential. You won’t see her on the cover of a checkout stand magazine, but she has je nais se quoi—that special aura that attracts men. Marriage isn’t much of a deterrent for the men who recognize it. I further postulated that Dr. Benjamin Thomas was smitten.

Lust-worthy wives offer certain advantages. After watching another men devour Lucia with his eyes, I am the one she goes home with and then the fireworks start. I often use fantasy to ignite fleshy conflagrations. Lucia has only to conjure a recent admirer, and we’re off to a blazing start.

The night of the party, Lucia allowed herself a lot of time to prepare. When she was ready, I was astonished by the results. An East Indian skirt showcased the outline of her strong, thick thighs and the generous curvature of her ass. A red stone necklace dripped down into the V of an orange blouse that she had purchased in Oaxaca, Mexico. Her earrings matched the necklace and she wore a tinkling ankle bracelet that she had purchased at a yard sale. Lucia didn’t give her face much attention—a little moisturizer, red lipstick, and voila.

I wore the New York look––black on black, always fashionable. Lucia stepped close to adjust my collar. Then she buckled on a pair of metallic gold high heels. I had a strong urge to coax her into bed for a quickie.

“Lord almighty,” I drew her into me.

“Wyler,” grabbing a small black purse, “we’ll be late.”

# # #

We arrived at 9:30—fashionably late in England, unconscionably late in Germany, and an hour or two early by Mexican standards. Although we were there to celebrate the summer solstice, unseasonable clouds had developed in the moonless sky. Ben Thomas greeted me with a firm handshake us and kissed Lucia’s hand. I presented him with a gift bag of wine and he ushered us into the living room, where a barrister served drinks. There were half-a-dozen couples milling there, and other voices wafting in from adjacent rooms.

“We are so glad you could come. You’re in for an interesting evening. Please, explore the house and meet the other guests. After-dinner amusements will require that you both have a precise knowledge regarding the layout of the house.” He held his hands up defensively, “I can’t say any more than that.”

“It’s a lovely home,” Lucia said.

“Thank you,” said Dr. Thomas. “Other than the fact that winter power bills are highway robbery, Giselle and I enjoy it.”

Many of the homes in Binghamton are two-story Victorian’s with large front porches, full basements and attic space. The cost of upkeep had kept Lucia and I from considering purchasing one.

The doorbell rang and our host excused himself saying, “I’ll sound the gong when dinner is served.”

“A gong?” I whispered to Lucia.

“Shhh,” she admonished, “someone will hear you.”

Lucia and I wandered the house, and judging from the others it was a couple’s only affair. Each guest gave us a thorough appraisal.

“Do you know anybody here besides Dr. Thomas?” I asked.

“A few just in passing, but there are no other mathematicians.”

We ascended the squeaky stairs to the second floor and poked our heads into the rooms. The bedrooms were richly appointed with canopy beds, Berber carpets, and lustrous antique wood furnishings. Fresh flowers topped each nightstand and a collection of nude oil paintings graced the walls.

Lucia pointed, “That’s Giselle, Dr. Thomas’ wife.”

I stepped closer. Mrs. Thomas was recumbent on brightly colored throw pillows, one leg lifted to reveal her blonde, sculpted pussy.

“Hmm, where do we find pillows like that?” I joked. Lucia poked me in the side.

The bathroom fixtures were gold, and the Turkish-style bidets impressed Lucia, as did the walk-in showers, tiled with coupled Hindu’s in various positions. The den was nearly wall-to-wall bookshelves. In addition to a great many science and mathematics books, a large collection of erotic literature and tabletop art volumes graced the shelves. Above the worn brown leather couch hung other nudes. “That’s one of the other guests,” I observed.

“The woman in the red kimono,” Lucia noted, “I think she’s married to the Chinese professor.”

“Excuse me,” a well-dressed man, hired for the occasion, walked to the picture window facing a large wooden desk. He closed a pair of wooden shudders and drew a heavy set of purple curtains that fastened with Velcro. Then he smiled at us and left.

“Strange,” I said.

“Maybe we’re in for some bad weather,” Lucia suggested.

The gong sounded. We descended the stairs hand-in-hand into the living area and were greeted with pleasant smiles all around. Doctor Thomas stood next to the gong that was perched on a small secretariat. He was holding his wife’s hand.

“Giselle and I wish to welcome you all to our humble abode. Dinner is served!” He announced.

Lucia and I were ushered to opposite ends of a long dinner table. Everyone introduced themselves by name and country, and I hopelessly tried to memorize each. The woman seated to my left wore a stunning black dress, v-cut in the back. She held out her hand and I wanted to kiss it.

“Hello, Wyler, I am Nonna, You are a writer,” she said.

“Yes,” impressed that she knew my name.

“I teach physics at the university,” she added.

“I was never too good with the sciences,” I confessed.

“Most artists are right-brained.”

“My wife—

“Is Mexican and she is finishing a doctorate in Mathematics,” Nonna finished, “That is her talking my husband, Donovan. No doubt you saw some of his paintings upstairs.”

“Yes, indeed, they are very impressive.”

Nonna lifted an eyebrow, and raised her glass, “Here’s to the arts and sciences.”

I wondered how she knew so much about me? We clinked glasses, and I saw that Lucia was sandwiched between conversations—Donovan one side and Ben Thomas on the other. I noticed other ladies present were represented upstairs on canvas.

The man sitting to my immediate left was Alwin, a sociologist, who had recently published a book about the effects of technology on pro-social behavior. We exchanged cards.

I told him, “You may not believe me, but I actually shot my television seventeen years ago.”

“Bravo, Wyler” Alwin laughed, “I merely tossed mine into a dumpster.”

Giselle, sat directly across from me. She smiled and lifted an eyebrow. As dinner concluded, her husband stood and tinkled his glass with a fork.

“Esteemed colleagues, it is an honor to have you in my home to celebrate this year’s summer solstice. A little background might be appropriate for our first-time guests, Lucia, and Wyler.” All eyes turned toward us. “The word solstice originates from the Latin, sun stands still. It occurs in December and June when the earth’s axis tilts toward or away from the sun,” he looked directly at Lucia.

“Tonight, summer solstice campfire celebrations will burn in cold northern countries such as Iceland, Poland, Latvia, Denmark, and Sweden. The holiday is more common in northern communities, such as Reykjavik, where the sun barely sets on the solstice.” His eyes rested on me and then gazed around the table.

“The rock formations at Stonehenge are a solstice party hot-spot, with as many as 30,000 revelers awaiting sunrise on solstice morning, including hippies, ravers, and modern Druids. A similar sunrise watch occurs in Orkney, Scotland and continues with a weeklong music, literature and drama festival.”

Doctor Thomas paused, gazing at his guests. Some were nodding, yet others merely smiled. “Look around you. China, Sweden, Germany, Mexico, North America and Turkey are represented here tonight.”

“You forgot Ireland,” complained Donovan.

“Forgive me, Donovan,” Thomas pursed his lips into a smile, “and Ireland.”

“Everybody always forgets poor old Ireland,” Donovan finished.

“You are no doubt wondering what is in store for us on this summer solstice?” Ben Thomas continued. “You will find out after dessert.” He smiled knowingly and sat.

We were served hazelnut mousse and I was drawn into several interesting conversations. A distinguished middle-aged Chinese professor named, Jian, swallowed a blue pill and said that he had read my novel, The Journal of Desperate Living.

“Ah, so, you’re the one,” I said—a standard writers joke, but he laughed all the same.

“I enjoyed it very much,” Jian added.

My ego swelled along with my stomach. We were offered a choice of after-dinner drinks. Everyone imbibed slowly and no one appeared to be tipsy. Lucia had warned me to go easy because I get drowsy when I overindulge.

As plates were cleared, the other guests spoke in hushed tones. An atmosphere of expectation suffused the room. Lucia blew me a kiss.

“Shall we retire to the living room?” Giselle suggested, taking her husband’s hand.

Some of the furniture had been pulled back and replaced with leather beanbags placed in a circle at the center of the large living room. Again, Lucia and I were seated away from each other. She sat with ankles crossed. When everyone was comfortable, the lights dimmed. I observed that all the windows were shuttered and curtained. Then the lights were doused and the darkness was stygian.

A small overhead theater light slowly intensified, illuminating our circle. Giselle spoke, “Friends, for most of you this celebration will add new experiences to others you have enjoyed,” she paused while everyone smiled and nodded. “Tonight, we are honored to have Wyler and Lucia with us.” Polite applause followed. “Before we embark on tonight’s amusements, I must advise our new guests of the golden rule—weather or not you choose to participate in tonight’s activity, you must give your solemn oath never to share your experience with anyone outside of this circle.” She looked first at Lucia and then to me. We both nodded in agreement. “Very good,” she gestured to her husband, “Ben?”

“Thank you, darling,” he kissed her hand. “As always, it is perfectly acceptable if you choose not to take part and no questions will be asked. You may take your leave with our blessings.” No one budged. I cleared my throat and everyone watched me for an embarrassing moment before Ben continued. “Tonight’s game is hide-and-go-seek.” There were giggles from the other guests. “As you can imagine, our version is quite distinct from the game we played as children.” More sniggers. “All clothing must remain within the circle. You may wear jewelry, but timepieces are not permitted. Each of you will be blindfolded and escorted to a location within the house. The power will be turned off so do be careful. Once everyone is placed, the gong will sound and you are free to seek. Are there any questions?” Dr. Thomas finished.

Lucia timidly raised her hand and everyone smiled at her. “What are we seeking?” Ben lifted an eyebrow. “Oh,” said Lucia.

What a mixed bag of feelings we carried. Of course, Lucia and I had indulged in sharing fantasies to stimulate the appetite. Yet, here we were faced with the opportunity to act out our whimsies. The good-looking Nigerian Economics professor with his exotic Turkish wife, a lovely Swedish architect with deep blue eyes, Donovan the artist, the Chinese couple and the others swiveled their heads between the two of us. Lucia fidgeted with her necklace and looked at me.

“Wyler and Lucia,” Ben Thomas looked at us each in turn, “will you be joining in tonight’s festivities?”

Neither was sure how to respond, and yet the atmosphere was infused with spontaneity. I watched Lucia’s head begin nodding and I followed, not wanting to appear foolish.

Thomas stood, “Excellent,” he said, “Shall we?” He slipped out of his clothing and the others followed. Lucia and I were slowest to finish. Being surrounded by so much flesh was daunting. Each body was beautiful in its own way. Of course, Lucia drew the most ogles. The Nigerian had a thick, attenuated shaft of ebony and his tiny Turkish wife sported a manicured snatch and childishly small tits. She contrasted sharply with Lucia’s untamed triangle and larger breasts, accentuated by large, brown nipples.

Benjamin produced a box of airline quality blindfolds, and addressed his wife, “Sweetheart, please escort Lucia and I’ll go with Wyler’s.” Blindfolds were passed around, “You may remove your blindfolds once the gong has sounded.”

“A final reminder,” said Mrs. Thomas, “talking would, of course, ruin the effect, so any sounds should be related only to—”

She didn’t need to finish. Ben Thomas slowly led me away from the circle, stopping for a moment to give me a few disorienting twirls before continuing. After a short while, he whispered for me to sit and I was greeted by the comfort of a leather chair somewhere downstairs.

“Bon voyage, my friend,” he whispered, patted my shoulder and was gone.

Sitting alone, I began having serious second thoughts. I imagined Lucia groping in the darkness, contacting flesh, finding another pair of lips, tasting an unfamiliar tongue, a stiff cock pushing into her warm pussy. These thoughts made me dizzy and I resolved to find her before someone else did.

Some minutes passed before the gong sounded and when I removed my blindfold it was pitch-dark. I stayed put until I was oriented, listening for movement. Old houses are never quiet. They snap, crackle and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies. It wasn’t long before someone touched my arm. I reached out and felt thick arm hair. His hand patted mine and he retreated in search of softer flesh.

Now there were noises all around me and I listened for Lucia’s ankle bracelet. To my left, I perceived a deep sigh, followed by moist kisses. A man’s soft moan intensified into a deeply satisfied groan and the woman responded in kind.

Lucia’s ardent voice is a fingerprint and I would know it anywhere. This woman wasn’t Lucia. I groped until I found the stairs. Lucia and I had been strategically separated all evening, so it was logical to assume that she was upstairs. On hands and knees, I ascended carefully. At the top, I sensed a presence, groped with my hands and contacted soft skin. Feminine arms pulled me in until we were lying side-by-side on the wooden stair landing.

She pressed a nipple into my mouth. Then her lips found mine and she tasted good. Her tongue was soft and playful. She lifted a leg and my cock was deliciously sheathed in her pussy. As we fucked, another hand located us—a woman’s. Keeping my cock inside, my lover rolled on top facing away and the newcomer positioned her body so that she was able to suck my balls, which caused me to cum almost immediately. My lover was climaxing too, and I was able to stay hard enough so that her contractions didn’t spit me out.

After I slipped out, the women stayed together, kissing as I continued my journey to find Lucia. I felt the open door to one of the bedrooms. Inside, bedsprings squeaked and I discerned labored breathing—the rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. A woman issued high, piercing seagull cries—not Lucia’s.

There was a myriad of sound all around—panting, groaning, sharp cries, laughter and none belonged to Lucia. I found another bedroom. At first, I thought it was empty, but then I heard a slurping sound. A man gasped, grunted and the sound stopped. There was movement on the floor and I heard the bathroom sink running—sounds of rinsing and spitting—not Lucia.

I crawled to where the office was and was immediately rewarded by the spicy odor of books. Soft moans were coming from the leather couch and I crept inside. I perceived a tinkle of jewelry. A portion of the curtain joined by Velcro was slightly agape, allowing a sliver of the streetlight to filter in. I could now distinguished silhouettes on the couch.

The leather squeaked and Lucia’s ankle bracelet tinkled as her hips churned over him. “Ayyy,” she moaned.

“Oy, sweet Jesus,” the Nigerian’s voice was deep and filled with passion.

My throat felt as if I had swallowed a spoonful of gravel. The shadows moved together, I heard Lucia taking a deep staccato breath followed by a deep, guttural homage to ecstasy.

“Ay, ay, ay, ayyy!” Her hands rested on his chest and she rocked as her orgasm squeezed his cock.

The Nigerian lifted for a moment to suck her tits, and then lay back down. He grunted loudly, growled and poured into my wife. I tried to remember his name—the name of this man who was cumming inside my wife.

“Yes, baby,” she urged, and she climaxed again.

Their lovemaking was followed with tender kisses, “You’re an angel,” he whispered.

“We have a mess to clean, Musa” she replied.

Musa, I thought, the man who caused the mess. A man’s heart is a mysterious world. Instead of waiting my turn with Lucia, I left. Finding the stairs, I fumbled my way down until I reached a couch. Pre-cum oozed from my cock. I wasn’t alone for long. A hand touched my thigh and grasped my cock.

She took me into her mouth, painting the underside of my cock, jacking me until I was pulsing in her hand, and then she straddled me. I slipped in easily, clearly aided by another man’s spunk. I pictured Lucia as this mysterious woman sent me in and out. I twisted her tiny nipples as she toiled and she came repeatedly before I added fresh spurt. I guessed her to be Musa’s Turkish wife, Sabella.

We kissed farewell and she continued her wanderings. Done in, I resolved to return to Lucia. She wasn’t there, so I sulked self-indulgently on the couch. After a few minutes, I stood to leave, feeling confident that I could find my way without going on hands and knees. I paused at the curtains and refastened the Velcro. Someone appeared, as I was ready to leave, so I stepped into the darkest corner. He went passed without noticing me, and stood by the window next to the desk. A short time later her ankle bracelet announced that Lucia had also returned. She carefully made her way to the desk.

“Psst!” she said.

“Here,” he replied.

My Velcro repair work didn’t last and again, a sliver of light entered the room. Lucia was seated on the desk. Musa lifted her legs by the knees and Lucia groaned deeply as he pushed inside. He stroked back and forth to the rhythm of her grateful responses.

A large lump, more like a rock developed in my throat. Occasionally air escaped from Lucia’s pussy as the Nigerian delivered deeply. Lucia cried out and Musa grunted and groaned in a shivering voice. Then, after a short time to catch their breath, he pulled out.

“I found some tissues,” Musa said in a low voice.

“Thank you,” Lucia replied.

“How many others—?” Musa wanted to know.

“Doctor Thomas.”

That was no accident. How did it go?”

“Quickly,” Lucia said.

They both giggled, having broken all the rules of the game in one fell swoop.

“I had better be going,” Musa said.

“Why?” She replied, and I heard her kissing him again.

“To find my wife. Perhaps next week we can have lunch.”

“Okay,” There were kisses again and my erection mocked me.

The Nigerian helped Lucia down from the desk, “Are you coming?”

“No, I think I’ll rest here for a while,” she said.

“Mmm, if I don’t find my wife I will return.”

Another kiss, and then I saw him leave. Lucia sat on the sofa, and I stood frozen in the corner until I heard the deepening of her breathing and knew that she had fallen asleep.

I waited another five minutes before taking her into my arms, “Hit baby.”

She lovingly stroked my hair, “How are you?”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?” She detected hesitancy in my voice.

“Yes, what about you?” I asked.

“I need to find a bathroom.”

I kissed her softly, smelling sex—the intoxicating combination of body chemicals, colognes, and perfumes. I brushed my fingers over her body and felt a wad of tissue between her legs.

“Let’s find you one.” I took her hand and we found an empty bedroom. Commandeering a shower I lathered her body and desperately wanted to fuck her, to conquer her, yet my cock was out of fuel.

Afterward, we climbed into the empty bed and Lucia soon drifted off. My brain prevented me from joining her right away. I replayed her reaction to having the Nigerian’s cock inside her. How would I compare after an experience like that?

When we awoke, our clothes were neatly stacked on a chair and the smell of coffee wafted from downstairs. Early morning light filtered in through the open bedroom curtains.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Good morning, my love,” Lucia stretched luxuriously and pecked my mouth.

“How do you feel?”

“A little tender.”

“How many—?” I already knew the answer.

“Three,” she said, “and you?”

“Two—it’s different for men, you know. We only have so much ammunition.”

“It was like a dream.”

“Yes, it was surreal. I tried to find you.”

“You finally did.”

Lucia and I dressed and went into the kitchen. Most other guests had returned home. Dr. Thomas was in the kitchen wearing a robe and concocting a large omelet.

“Top of the morning!” he enthused. “I’ll wager you’re both starving. Such a night makes for mighty appetites.”

Before we could answer, his wife, Giselle, breezed in, “Buenas dias,” she greeted, kissing her husband and giving us pecks on the cheek. “I’ll make a green juice.”

“Let me help,” said Lucia, and they began chopping vegetables.

Benjamin motioned me over to a strange looking contraption, “Ever had coffee made with a French press?”

“No, how does it work?”

He showed me, and in no time we were sipping the best coffee I had ever tasted.

“Quite a night, eh?” Benjamin lifted his eyebrows.

“Unforgettable,” I answered.

“I already have an idea for next year,” Giselle said.

“She’s the creative one,” Benjamin gestured with his head.

The Nigerian professor entered with his petite Turkish wife. I watched Lucia’s lips curl into an enigmatic smile.

“Good morning everyone,” Musa blew a kiss to the whole room with both hands. When he kissed Lucia’s cheek I saw him whisper something. Lucia smiled and blushed.

“Wyler is making more coffee, Sabella,” Giselle informed her.

Musa’s wife pressed in behind me to peer over my shoulder as I practiced my French press skills, “Mmm, smells lovely,” she moaned.

“It’s nearly ready, Sabella,” I said, happy to say her first name.

Donovan the artist trudged in without greeting anyone and helped himself to Ben’s coffee mug.

“Barbarian,” remarked Giselle, “where’s your wife?”

“Still asleep,” he grumped. He shuffled over to kiss Giselle’s cheek and waved a feeble greeting to the rest of us.

“What the world needs now is love, sweet love,” Ben sang to Donovan.

Donovan murmured something as he sat on a barstool, then whirled around to face Lucia, “I’d like to paint you.”

“I had a feeling you might,” Lucia replied.

I imagined Lucia joining others on the time-honored walls. Giselle looked at me wistfully and her husband eyed Lucia furtively.

“This coffee is from Kenya,” Giselle told Musa.

“Ah yes, some of the best coffee is found in Ethiopia and Kenya,” Musa said.

# # #

After breakfast, Dr. Thomas walked us to our car. The morning air was fresh—the birds were out in force and a light breeze stirred through the pine trees that forested the neighborhood.

“We have bi-monthly get-togethers. Now that you’re in the circle, there are marvelous opportunities to be had. By the way Wyler, I was wondering, do you play golf?”

I barely heard him because I was busy wondering what Musa had whispered to Lucia in the kitchen.