Squirt on This by Charles E.J. Moulton

  1. Ava, Alienated

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

“How’s work? Still singing?”

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

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

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

That was probably what they were all thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, I was angry at Kenneth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His reaction was shallow, dismissive and rather arrogant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava’s Physics

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

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

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

Oh, yes, and barbecues.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Provocative Ava

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Confused, he took it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava’s Inspiration

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava Copulates

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

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

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

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

“Oh, yes, Ava,” he answered.

“Will you do what I tell you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  1. Ava, Consulated

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

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A Dream’s Reality By Charles E.J. Moulton

So it came to pass that Sophie Fernandez again lay in her Kensington art-studio loft, sleeping. She looked like a Goddess, maybe Aphrodite, maybe Artemis, maybe Hera. In any case, her custom of painting in the nude had resulted in a dormant oasis.

After finishing her work, she simply passed out, her jugs full and ripe, her unshaved pussy wet, the locks of her pubic hair curling and waiting for a long and hard cock, her fuckable body resembling mountain-hillsides of creamy canyons.

One empty bottle of Ribera del Duero 2004 stood on the table, a remnant of a solitary celebration. She had made sure to buy the best and favorite Rioja for the completion of a fine artistic reproduction. After all, a British lass of Spanish decent should always drink Rioja wine. So, Olé! Or as the case may have been: Voila! Her painting was finished. She was ready for sex. That was a sweet cause for celebration, indeed.

She looked just as much like a work of art as what she painted. Tall, brown eyed, nougat complexion, enticing hair, long fingernails, soft seductive eyelashes, pink cheeks, her aura peaceful, as peaceful as the softer passages in the Water Music by Händel that had been playing on a loop for God knows how long.

It soothed her subconscious as she slept on that old large couch with no back or ends. Alone, sleeping out an afternoon hangover, dreaming interesting dreams where a man she did not know visited her and told her that he had written a story about her.

Sophie’s one leg lay across the green cloth, emulating the position she lay in within her dream, the foot resting on the fabric, and the other plopped down upon the parquet floor, her pink nailpolish catching the light of the sunrays as her toes twitched. her right hand stretched back above her head and the other softly touching her sleeping cheek, her bare skin sprinkled by little specks of paint, her nipples now bearing a small coat of greens and reds, parts of her tits sprinkled in blues and yellows, wishing for that strange man to come and add some sperm to the color.

It was as if Sophie Fernandez was a part of the art she painted.

It seemed decadent, of course, painting in the nude, drinking wine, eating chocolate, but the kicked off blanket displayed a tanned body: two orbs of glorious mammaries, lickable, shagable, soft, round, bouncy, hot, cool, spermhungry, tit-job-willing, softly leaning to each side, her shaved genitals heaving and sinking along with her suntanned stomach. That slight snore, audible only if a person stood completely still next to her, transporting serenity, sexiness, fertility and, ultimately, love.

She didn’t know it, but someone was in there with her, flying in and out between her dreams and her reality. That spirit, the Goddess of love, Aphrodite, someone that knew more than she did about who she was: someone watched her intently as she slept. That spirit heard Georg Friedrich Händel’s Water Music blasting through the speakers, the tired body of that struggling artists strained, limbs aching, eyes numb from the endless concentration of gazing on a large canvas.

Meticulously, Sophie had spent the last three weeks perfecting a replica.

“The Arrival of Maria de Medici at Marseilles”, on display in Paris at the Louvres, was still her favorite of Rubens entire cycle of 24 paintings for the Queen and mother of Louis XIII, so it came as no surprise that she jumped at the chance to reproduce it. Her rich customer in Oxford, who had ordered the painting, would sure get his money’s worth.

Sophie Fernandez lay there like a drunken swan, the London breeze tickling her aching muscles, the reproduction on display in a room, empty of furniture, filled with paintings, wine and, yes, a stereo.

Sophie woke up, gasping for air, realizing that she had passed out after that last gulp of the delicious wine, the glass still on the table. She felt the breeze caressing her body, the chill feeling a bit like a tongue finger caressing her shoulder. Sophie ruffled her hair, uttered a well formed: “Oooh!” and closed her eyes, protecting her sensitive eyes, and leaned against her hands. Breathing into her palms, she sat there for longer than she could recall, and thought about the dream. Had it been a dream at all?

She looked up, realizing how loud she had set the CD-player and wondered that she had been able to sleep through all of that. She walked across the room and turned down the music, saw her white kimono hanging on the wall, put it on, but kept the recording running in its own loop.

Blinking into the open room, Sophie wondered. Two hours? Three? Four? What time was it? Sophie glanced over at the Dali clock, closing her robe, studying the clock, designed to look like it was melting, and saw that it was five in the afternoon. Sophie had fallen asleep, drunk, at one. Oh, my.

Mom only knew that Sophie was very successful, but living a free and bohemian lifestyle. Not that she emptied a bottle of Rioja and a box of chocolates every day, but only in order to celebrate the finishing touches of her painting. The gentleman paid £ 4500 for the replica, which gave Sophie something to celebrate. She would buy her mom something special. A computer or something. A good one. Or a tablet. Maybe she would ask her dad to come over alone and she would paint a portrait of him for mom. Maybe she would paint them both. Maybe she would create a sculpture for them. A sculpture of love.

Dazzled, tired, half-drunk, aching and a bit dizzy, the sunrays triggered those dark lucious eyes. Sophie stood there for a moment, basking in the sunshine, letting the silhouettes of the London houses seduce her. London seemed like a good way to celebrate a good month’s work, catapulting out into the familiar funloving life.

Then she remembered her dream. The man. The story. She felt like researching who this charming man had been who had visited her in her dream. It seemed so real and yet like a mystery waiting to be solved, especially since the man in her dream had told her that Sophie had him in the painting.

In that Rubens painting? She had added a face of her own, to be sure.
Mischievous, to be sure. Mischievous to paint an extra face on a painting that was supposed to be an exact replica. But people expected it by now. Ever since grade school, even then she had tried to copy other work, adding something of her own in it. Now it had become her trademark. Even in her replicas of Mona Lisa, her fans tried to find out what element was new in her replica. A tree that wasn’t there in the original? A mountain that had another color? A river that meandered east instead of west? Her fans had become almost like Hitchcocks fans, who waited for his appearance in his own movies. What has Sophie Fernandez planned now?

That’s what they were saying.

Now, in that Maria de Medici painting, Sophie had painted an extra face: the face of a sea-man, a merman if you will, not a mermaid, splashing around next to King Neptune and his chubby sea nymphs. This face had been totally her own invention. She hadn’t even chosen a friend or an associate to pose for the painting. The sea creature had a sympathetic, intellectual face, one that would be her own signature, her own trademark for this special replica.

The new owner of the replica, the rich man from Oxford who paid her £ 4500 for the artwork, had in fact kept saying how eager he was to find out where the new element would lie hidden.

Now, this man in her dream claimed that this face was the face of the dream man named Charles E.J. Moulton. Thoughtfully, Sophie Fernandez walked up to her canvas, reaching for the Mozart-Kugeln, looking thoughtfully at the face, how it smiled at her. Those chocolate covered candy sweets, that lay so a sensually on the table next to the canvas, seemed to be screaming: “Eat me!” at the top of their lungs, as if they had any. They were as candescent as the dream, as rich as the wine, as lucious and her own breasts, as mysteriously candescent as sin.

That face, could it be the face of that person the woman had spoken about? Charles E.J. Moulton? Did a person like that exist? Was this the face of Charles E.J. Moulton? Hmm. Sophie let the chocolate melt in her mouth slowly, picking up the wine and looking at the bottle. Some of her friends claimed that only French wines were real wines and that anything else was a fermented grape juice. Be that as it may, to Sophie Rioja was a work of art. A dangerous work of art, it seemed. After all, one bottle of alcoholic fermented grape juice could produce quite a few strange hallucinations. The effects of wine, however, were just as mysterious as the effects that dreams had on the soul. The names were real memories from dormant dreams though, and Sophie kept remembering those names.

A dream man had just fucked her in her sleep.

Who was he?

As Sophie stepped into the shower that day, rubbing off the paint off her naked body, she wondered. Sophie slipped into her Victorias Secret lingerie, floated into that black Gucci skirt and let that white Versace blouse produce the crowning glory of her looks. Like a perfect recipe for a successful apple pie, Sophie, with that Water Music by Händel still blasting through the speakers, put on her L’Oreal eyshadow and her Revlon lipstick and her Jade rouge and sprinkled herself with some Chopard perfume, turning herself into a work of art, just as much a mystery as a dreamy wine.

When she walked out of the bathroom, she glanced one last time on her reproduction and smiled. She did not have the answers as to what the dream meant, but she maybe the answers would come to her. Maybe she would take some time tomorrow and research who these people were and if they existed at all.

“£4500, she whispered to herself. There’s a good reason to fuck.”

Turning off the stereo and letting that German dude from Halle take the royal break of his sexy afternoon and let King George be a stranger, she strode royally, like the sexy Queen she could be, toward her penthouse door, ready to leave her art loft, ready to experience amorous salvation.

The small “bleede-leep” of her laptop indicated that someone waited for her. Sophie wanted to ignore that someone and just leave, go where ever the wind took her, take her Porsche and just forget about the strenuous detail-obsessed paintbrush-picking and the endless chit-chat of her neurotic voices. After all, London waited for her to rediscover her.

London, the mistress, the casanova, the blowjob.

Sophie glanced over a well formed shoulder, looking over at her Samsung PC, how it blinked and winked at her, telling her that perhaps a new customer was knocking at her virtual door, hoping that she would say yes to an offer.

That familiarly uneasy feeling of being drawn between profession and leisure kept her doing a small fandango of sorts in her doorway, back towards possible work and forth towards a possible one-night-stand. Sophie looked at the decending sun, inspecting it for a moment, making believe that it spoke to her:

“Come to me and I will lead you to my friend: the night, the sun said. Come and dance, wine and dine, sing and laugh. You’ve earned it.”

This time, though, Sophie Fernandez really knew in her heart that this mail couldn’t wait. She quickly walked up to the PC, her heels seductively clicking on the parquet floor.
Impatiently clicking on the keys of the keyboard, Sophie finally and proverbially arrived in her mail programme in an art forum she had joined a month ago. Commercials for a seminar. Her mail site had gone bing just to show her how great a companion this art forum could be. Spam? Nothing but spam?

Sophie pursed her lips, both pairs: facial-lips and pussy-lips, shaking her head in anger, and was just about to close the computer when she saw a strangely familiar name flashing across the screen. It was familiar to her, at least familiar within her dreams. It was an anglo-saxon name, but she was not really sure if the person bearing that name actually was Anglo-Saxon. This man could be British or Australian. International.

Charles E.J. Moulton.

If he existed, was he worth a fuck?

At first the name seemed distant, as if she hadn’t dreamt about that man at all.
Slowly and ever so carefully, Sophie sat down and read the excerpt that was flashing across the screen. The New Members section of the info mail from the art forum now had a new budding trainee: a man in the prime of his life who displayed his paintings in a British art forum. At first, it scared Sophie. She could feel her heart flutter. How come then that this man now appeared on the flashing computer screen in her penthouse? Thoughts of hallucination and conspiracy came to mind. Scary thoughts of possession and obsession meandered through her brainstem and hit her fluttering heart.

Her hands began to shake, her forehead produced light sweat drops that now trickled down her elegantly made up face, ruining her make-up. Sophie felt herself stiffen like a corpse. She felt like laying down, curing the hangover that she again felt. Had she heard that name prior to the dream? No, she had never heard that name. Then why was this name now here on the screen? She didn’t know why, but this scared her.

Carefully, her painted fingernails shaking so hard that they clicked repeatedly against the keys of the computer keyboard, she clicked on the painting that came with the name: a Bob Rossian kind of painting with the red and yellow colors mingled together and black silhouettes of elephants and palm trees gracing the front. The screen waited, bleeped and searched for its source and soon the artist bio presented itself.

The text ran on for quite a bit and she saw that the man was a Renaissance Man of sorts. Sophie felt herself gasping for air, leaned back in her chair and slapped her right hand against her mouth. Uncontrollably, she began laughing. It was a high chuckle, one that helped the initial fear actually transform itself into joy.

Someone was here with her. Aphrodite. How could one otherwise explain the fact that two such unique names presented themselves to her in her sleep and then showed themselves in black and white on the screen.

It didn’t take long to find out that Charles had written a short story named “A Venus Born in London” about a succulent British-Hispanic reproductive artist named Sophie Fernandez. What was this? Demonic possession? Angelic magic? A sign from above?
Had this man been prying in on her life? On the other hand, with the web as prominent as it was, it was not difficult to guess that he had found something about her and decided to write a story about her. But … Sophie winced, looked out toward the London dusk and tried to figure this one out. How could that be?

Sophie completely forgot about time. She walked in to her kitchen and brought out another bottle of wine, a French Bordeaux one this time, a 2006 Chateau Latour. Taking her first sip with her right hand, she clicked on Charles Facebook-site with the other.
She clicked on Charles name, requested for him to be a friend, not really knowing what was happening to her and why she was so afraid. She actually wanted to run out into the open street and leave in her expensive car and forget that this was happening.

She nearly jumped out of her seat, jumping almost as high as her art studio ceiling, when she saw that Charles not only answered her request, but also that he was online.
Sophie laughed again, this time even more uncontrollably.

And suddenly, the urge to eject into the London party scene vanished with the afternoon breeze and was replaced by solving a mystery.

“Hello, my name is Sophie Fernandez,” she wrote. “I would like to be your friend.”
“Hello back,” Charles responded, “that sounds nice. Do I know you?”

“I am not sure,” Sophie answered.

“Tell me something about yourself,” Charles added.

“I live in London,” Sophie wrote, “this is all very confusing, Charles. Who are you?”

“I am an actor, an author, a singer, a painter. I’ll ask you again: do I know you?”

“I would think so. I mean, you wrote a story about me,” Sophie laughed.

“What? How so?”

“Your story ‘A Venus Born in London’ is about a British-Hispanic artist living in London. She paints replicas of famous paintings. That is what I do. That is who I am. You must’ve done a lot of research about me.”

Charles crooned: “Hold on, Sophie. I made those characters up. That all came from my own imagination. I even made sure that the website that I made up in that story didnt exist. I checked and double-checked it. You’re telling me you exist?”

Sophie shook her head and spat: “This is spooky. You mean, you have never really heard of me? That can’t be. You’re putting me on.”

“No.”

“Look, I dreamt about you, Charles. In my dream, I heard your name and a spirit told me I had painted your face into my replica of the Rubens painting.”

The long wait in the online conversation had Sophie thinking that Charles had left for good. Then, the shock. The amazing coincidence. Aphrodite’s prediction. The dream man.

“Sophie,” Charles wrote.

“Yes?”

“I’m in London right now,” he said. “If you tell me where you live I could come over. I mean, if I wrote a story about you and you painted my face into the painting, we should meet. I mean, I would love to meet you.”

“I just showered,” Sophie mused. “I could get naked for you. I mean, I was sort of looking for someone to fuck.”

“Okay.”

“Kensington High Street 45. Fernandez.”

“I’ll be there in 30 minutes.”

Sophie trembled like a crazy cat in a snowstorm for that remaining half hour. This had to be real, though. She looked at the pictures of Charles in the net and realized she had painted his face into the painting without knowing it. Then he must’ve invented the story about her without knowing that she was real. Aphrodite had been here.

Sophie stripped naked and waited, combing her pubic hair and massaging her tits a bit, ruffling her hair. When the doorbell rang, Sophie jumped, feeling like a schoolgirl meeting the man of her dreams for the first time, his voice mellow, his face grinning. Crazy thing to strip naked for a strange man, but Aphrodite had brought her someone she could fuck.

The mystery man.

He arrived, that mystery man, saw her naked and smiled. They kissed, he touched her breasts, two strangers who had met before. Sophie showed Charles her painting and his face gracing the corner. Then and there, they realized it was time to fuck.

Fate had brought them together.

Sophie looked down upon the growing bulge in Charles’ jeans.

“What’s that?”

Charles shrugged.

“Something for you.”

“Is it Christmas?”

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

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

Red elegant fingernails grasping glory, she opened her eyes wide, making a very indicative “Ooh!”-movement with her lips upon seeing what was waiting for her. Her one index finger grabbed the buckle of his belt and seductively felt how hard it was.

With a very spiritual and candescent looking grin, a six inch gender literally catapulted out of his pants into her face.

“It’s huge.”

“20 centimetres.”

Sophie carefully opened her mouth and wrapped her elegant cocksucker lips around his shaft, making little squeaking noises and smacking her lips in the process. That fabulous sensation made her see stars. She licked his cock, gave him deep throat, sucked on his balls, ready to be a submissive whore, letting that game of hide-and-seek go and just become the cock sucking hooker that she knew she could be.

With enthusiastic lips and swirling tongue, Sophie boobing her head back and forth like a regular slut, she gave Charles the blowjob of his life, tasting that salty sausage and feeling its length tickling her tonsils.

The sun was setting as he inserted his tongue into Sophie’s snatch for the first time, giving her the feeling that he buried his face deeper and deeper into her clit by the second, probing her like an oil-drill. So deep, in fact, that Sophie soon only saw his hair looking like an extension of her pubic hair. The sound he was made was quite similar to the sound a man made while drinking beer. The slurping and licking made her think that there were gallons of clitty-juice in there – and there probably was.

She laughed to herself, aroused by this amazing sensation.

Soon enough, Charles turned Sophie around and stuck in his cock from behind. Sophie knew that her ass-cheeks wobbled as he fucked her. Well, Charles fucked her through and through right then and there and she bet he really enjoyed seeing how wobbly her butt could be while he pounded her. No tightness there. Just a nice wobbly butt that loved being fucked like the cocklover’s ass it was.

It didn’t take very long for Charles to change holes, so to speak.

For every thrust Sophie’s horny lust grew more insatiable and Charles’ dick harder, Sophie’s back entrance tight and lovely. They were getting into a steady rhythm now, sort of a marching beat: thrust in, slide out, thrust in, slide out. For every time he thrust in, her boobs bounced to and fro, causing her to look only to moan and yelp and their almost choreographical dancing beat giving her a second orgasm. Charles bent over to lick her back as he fucked her ass. It turned into an amazing ballet of cock and butt, tongues and tits.

With a fantastic smacking sound, Charles slid out his cock out of her asshole, jerking off quicker and faster than Sophie had ever had seen anyone jerk off before. His manhood grew so big that she literally felt like watching a tower erupt out of the ground.

“Come on, mystery man,” she gasped, “squirt on my face!”

Shockwaves of bloodshots came racing down from his chest, the sperm factory now preparing for a spectalar lift-off.

“With pleasure, fictional fuck!”

One gigantic load pinpointed her open tongue, sliding down into her throat. The second shot spread onto her happy laughing cheek. The third came flying across her forehead, landing on a lock of her hair.

It was then that Sophie woke up, realizing that she had been dreaming.

That evening, she turned on the computer and found Charles’ name in the web.

The rest is history.