So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie)

It was midnight over the Arctic Ocean, and the moon, my oldest and best friend, shone down from a cloudless sky, casting her soft light over miles upon miles of shattered ice. A wide white frozen ocean, still as death.

“The whole back cabin is empty,” the stewardess leered down at me, “if you want to stretch out your legs.”

She could have been my age, or older, or younger. It was hard to tell under the flame-retardant polyester uniform, the caked-on makeup, the frazzled, hairsprayed hair. She might even have been attractive, I honestly couldn’t tell. Plastic-looking freckled cleavage peeked out at me from under her blouse; the top two buttons were undone and I could see the black lace of her bra.

Why does everyone always assume I’m a lesbian? I’m not, though I was momentarily tempted to take her up on her offer. I hadn’t been properly laid since I split up with Travis, my New York City boyfriend. He couldn’t deal with all the travel; he couldn’t deal with the academic knife-fighting; he couldn’t deal with having an open relationship; but he could deal with fucking nineteen-year old undergrads behind my back.

I wondered if she shaved her kitty. She probably did. Everyone does these days, everyone but me.

It was a charter flight and there were only us three passengers, and we were all up in first class where the comfortable seats are. Bud was sprawled across three seats, reading a book and chewing gum irritably. Tiger was dicking around on his computer. If I slipped back into coach with—I read her nametag: Christie—the boys would never let me hear the end of it.

I smiled and shook my head ‘no’, and asked for another bottle of water. Christie brought me a small Evian and gave me a smile and a look that said ‘Offer’s still open. Are you sure?’ I was sure. I closed my eyes for a while and pretended to sleep, and nearly succeeded in fooling myself.

We touched down in Narita just as the sun was rising, and I wanted to curl up and dry-heave, but I pulled my carry-on out of the overhead compartment and got off the plane instead. Christie squeezed my hand and gave me a pouty look on the way out. Her loss.

Our plane was waiting for us across the terminal. Another charter. We got on and sat for an hour while they located the pilot, and then deplaned and sat around the airport for another six hours while they replaced a bum hydraulic line.

Bud got drunk. Tiger alternately napped and dicked around on his computer. I went exploring.

In an out-of-the-way corner, past a forlorn Pizza Hut and a kilometer of empty gates, I watched a young Japanese couple fuck.

They were young, early twenties maybe, and good-looking in a non-descript sort of way. Their clothes were neatly folded up on the floor next to a courtesy phone. They didn’t look like the type to screw in public at the airport; they looked like a pair of eager go-getters working their way up the corporate ladder. Mitsubishi, Sony, Honda. Middle-managers or junior project leaders.

He had tan lines, which I suspect is rare in Japanese businessmen; a sunken chest with a few stray hairs around his nipples; and a really big dick, which may or may not be a good thing in bed, but certainly makes for entertaining watching. She was a petite little thing with small, conical, bouncy breasts. She didn’t shave her pussy either. There was a thick, dark triangle of hair between her legs.

He was flat on his back, behind an empty Nakanihon service desk. She was straddling him, bouncing up and down on his oversized penis. He wasn’t wearing a condom, and his dick was slick and shiny with her juices. She would lift herself up so just the head was nestled between her plump lips, and then slowly drop down until the whole appendage was buried inside her cunt. I was kind of shocked that the whole thing fit inside. Guys get to brag about having a big dick, but girls don’t get to brag about having a deep pussy. Personally, I like them medium or smaller, and I like girth. But, damn, it was hot to watch. She enjoyed every inch of it. Her tits shook as they fucked, and I felt my own underutilized pussy getting wet inside my pants.

She noticed me watching and tittered behind her hand in that inimitable Japanese way, and whispered something to her partner. They switched positions, so they were both facing me: her down on her hands and knees, and him fucking her from behind. Her little tits dangled down and jiggled with every thrust. I could hear his cock squelching in and out, I could hear them both grunting and gasping. I stuck a hand down my pants. I was soaked.

He pulled out and she spun around, and he jerked off into her open mouth. He came silently, his face screwed up in a Noh mask of passion. He pumped pearly-white semen onto her outstretched tongue, and she clearly relished it, gobbling it all up and cleaning his penis after, lavishing her tongue up and down and all around as he slowly wilted. God, I missed that! Not that particular act so much, but the intimacy of it. Double-As will only get you so far. I missed sex. I missed dick.

Grinning stupidly, his huge cock now very much reduced, he slumped against the wall. The airport P.A. system rattled off a warning about leaving luggage unattended in seven different languages. My hand was still busy inside my pants. She smiled shyly at me, spreading her legs to show me just how wet her pussy was. I could actually see her clitoris, which I thought was pretty hot. She nodded eagerly and beckoned. Why does everyone think I’m a lesbian?

I turned around and fled, losing myself in the labyrinth that is Narita. Stepped into a ladies’ and changed my panties. Maybe I should have licked her pussy. Maybe I’d like it. I’ve been told that before. Maybe I’ll try someday. At the moment all I wanted was to get some dick and finish my dissertation. I’d been called out for fudging some numbers, just a little, just enough to make the dataset fit the predictions, and my advisor had totally lost his shit and my funding got pulled and now it was back to square one. Or maybe square zero.

They got a new plane for us, and we crawled onboard like refugees and took off. Mercifully, I slept a little on this leg: weird, surreal, semi-erotic half dreams of fucking in airplane bathrooms and airport corridors. Riemann sums and zeta functions and beta particles and oversized cocks.

The landing in Damascus was one of the scariest things I’ve ever experienced. We came in steep and we came in fast, and when the gear hit the tarmac, I thought the plane had broken in half. We taxied to the gate, and they hustled us off the plane and onto another charter, an aging A300, and it was one more flight to Tehran, through Iraqi airspace up above a thick layer of cloud that could have been anywhere in the world, and then it was a quick puddle-jumper turboprop to Ardakan, and then a bouncy ride in a white SUV with black tinted windows to the hotel. My insides felt like microwaved scrambled eggs.

When we got off the plane in Tehran, they had given me a veil, and now, stepping out of the SUV into the brief intense Persian sun, I put it on. I felt faintly ridiculous, like I was getting dressed up to go trick-or-treating, and I had to suppress a wicked case of the giggles.

As we schlepped into the air-conditioned hotel lobby, the azan was called, piped in through loudspeakers, calling the faithful to prayer. We stood around in the plush lobby, feeling like fools, weary and jetlagged fools, the only people in the room not kneeling down and facing Mecca.

Prayer finished, and we were shown to our rooms, and then we were brought down to a conference room where Farhad, our contact, apologetically told us that he was waiting for the paperwork to come back authorizing us to do our work, and that there would be a slight delay. That was fine by us: we had been ready to go to work on the spot, but they were paying by the day, and if they weren’t ready for us, that was their problem. He advised us to go up to our rooms and get some rest; the matter would certainly be cleared up by the morning. That sounded OK by me. Farhad glanced at me, and his look contained a question and a suggestion that would probably have made his Supreme Leader blush and might well have earned him a public whipping.

I didn’t seriously consider inviting Farhad back up to my hotel room; I may have been horny and hungry for dick, but I did have standards and Farhad wasn’t my type. He was slick, greasy, and effeminate, and he had a big black bushy beard. I returned his gaze with a look of uncomprehending indifference. Anyway, I needed my beauty sleep.

Up in my hotel room, I stripped off all my clothes—I always sleep naked, when I’m not actively bleeding—and luxuriated in the fresh, clean high-thread count sheets. I briefly considered masturbating, but before I could even get down to business, exhaustion won out over jet lag, and I fell asleep. At least for a while.

I was woken up by a tapping at the door, soft but insistent. Outside, it was still bright and sunny, a fact that punched me in the gut. I assumed that the paperwork had come through, and Farhad was summoning us to the facility. I sleepily pushed the button next to the bed that unlocked the door.

It was, in fact, Bud. Hunky, beefy, gruff and taciturn Bud, with his Fu Manchu mustache and soul patch that our hosts seemed to find quietly hilarious.

I didn’t know Bud all that well: we were acquaintances academically, and had worked together a couple times now, but we’d never hung out or talked much. I knew he’d been drummed out of MIT for, of all things, boinking an underage undergrad.

I realized, belatedly, that I was stark naked. I realized, as well, that Bud was just fine with that fact.

We retreated to an entrenched position on my bed, where we proceeded to set about kissing and making out, for what seemed like a very long time.

I really liked being held in Bud’s arms; he was strong and solid. I really liked the way he kissed and touched me. I liked his hands. I liked the attention he was paying to my breasts. The only thing I didn’t like was that I was undressed and he wasn’t. So I took it upon myself to remedy that situation.

He had a firm, round belly, a deep navel, and a short, fat dick. The crown was juicy red. It felt really nice with my hand wrapped around it, and Bud’s kissing took on a new level of urgency. His large, hairy hand slipped between my legs and found my scalding hot slick wet pussy.

There was a knock at the door, a sharp rat-a-tat. Definitely Farhad this time. Well, he would just have to wait until I had an orgasm. My hand was moving insistently up and down Bud’s stout, stumpy erection. One of his fingers had just slipped inside me, and it felt delightful. My clit was bulging up and out, eager to join the fun.

I certainly didn’t buzz him in, so Bud must have. It wasn’t Farhad after all, it was Tiger, and he moved purposefully into the room, as silent and focused as a hunting cat, letting the door clunk shut behind him.

I didn’t know Tiger well at all. We’d worked on one project together before, that was it. He was young, crazy young for a post-doc student, in his very early twenties at most. He was short and angular, with spiky hair and intense brown eyes behind square glasses. I don’t know what he’d done to get booted out of Stanford, but it must have been pretty awful, because he was genuinely fucking brilliant.

He stalked silently across the room, almost gliding. He shed his clothes by the side of the bed. He had a nice, taut body; chunky muscles like he worked out in a gym; a fluff of dark hair on his chest and under his arms; a shaved set of cock and balls. His dick popped out of his tight white briefs, nice and hard already; not too long, with an aggressive upward curve, a drawn bow. I wondered what that serpentine cock would feel like up inside my pussy. Pretty damn good, I bet, especially with Bud’s stubby one lodged in my butt.

He crawled into bed with us. My hand found his dick, and I squeezed. He was hot and hard and smooth. Bud’s finger was moving incessantly in my cunt. I was in heaven: a nice thick dick in each hand! I rolled over onto my back, spreading my legs wide. Tiger’s hand joined Bud’s, and now I had two fingers, belonging to two different guys, up my twat. I wanted some of that dick inside me, and I wanted it, like yesterday.

Bud broke off our kiss, and Tiger leaned over and kissed him full on the mouth. The two boys necked while I continued to jerk them both off. Then they squirmed away, sliding their wet fingers out of my gasping, engorged, juicy wet cunt.

The boys maneuvered into a 69 position next to me on the bed: Bud on the bottom, Tiger perched on top, feeding each other cock. I had an excellent view of fat balls, hard wet dicks, slurping tongues, tight buns and assholes. The only thing missing from the picture was me. I stroked Tiger’s compact little ass while my finger slowly circled my own swollen clit. I watched as Bud licked Tiger’s crinkly, hairless ball sac and tongued his tiny little asshole.

They rolled over, dicks wet and hard and urgent, and Bud scrambled around, manhandling Tiger into position. One hairy paw on the boy’s throat, the other one guiding his own cock. There was no condom. I wondered if they’d done this before; the routine seemed practiced and familiar to them both.

Bud speared Tiger with his short, fat dick. Tiger grunted out something unintelligible as Bud penetrated him. It might have been “more”. Bud started fucking his ass, nothing slow, nothing subtle, slamming his asshole hard and viciously. He had one hair in Tiger’s black hair, the other was wrapped around his curvaceous dick, busily jacking him off. I lounged against the head of the bed, watching the show, diddling myself slowly. I didn’t want to come until they did.

It didn’t take long. Bud was huffing and puffing like a prizefighter, fucking Tiger hard, handling his lithe young body like a rag doll. He growled and skewered Tiger one last time, crammed his thick short dick all the way up the kid’s anus, and held him close while he came deep inside his asshole. Then he yanked his dick out, spun Tiger around, and wrapped his lips around the livid red crown of his cock, frantically jerking off Tiger’s C-shaped shaft. Tiger threw his head back and roared, shooting off into Bud’s mouth. Bud sucked it all up, I didn’t see one drop of semen escape his lips.

Very conscious of the guys watching me, I started to masturbate in earnest. It didn’t take me long either, I was way too worked up. I wished I had a dildo, or maybe two dildos, or at least a vibrator, but of course I had packed nothing of the sort. I slid a finger up my own asshole, jammed a finger up my pussy, and used the palm of my hand to grind against my swollen clit. I came, and I came hard, writhing on the bed, riding the wave that rolled through my body, tossing and tumbling over me, overwhelming me with pleasure.

We fell asleep like that, though it was only late afternoon and the sun was still shining; a sticky, sweaty, intertwined mass on my bed. When I woke up, it was dark and they were gone. There was no sign that they had been there at all. The whole episode might have been a dream, a hallucination brought on by jetlag and pent-up lust. I lay in bed the whole night and tried to sleep, but sleep wouldn’t come. I whacked off again, and while it felt good, it didn’t help. I lay there under the soft hum of the air conditioner, staring at the ceiling and pondering sketchy numbers and fudged datasets and enriched uranium until long after dawn.

As predicted, the paperwork came through bright and early. Farhad packed us all off to the facility, past big, stony-faced men in robes with beards and Kalashnikovs. We made the necessary adjustments to the centrifuges. It didn’t take long; their own grad students should have been able to do the work, but we weren’t about to say anything. This would make a nice fat dent in my student loan debt; the fee would come from a Swiss consulting firm that nominally provided services to the Brazilian aerospace industry.

We were whisked back to the airport and aloft, back home via Indonesia and then Amsterdam; a big fat credit lodged safely in our bank accounts. Back to New York City;  my messy studio apartment, my laundry basket overflowing, my sails in rags, my dissertation shattered, my drawer full of sex toys, my ex-boyfriend who might or might not be up for having casual sex with me.

Deep down in my abdomen, I felt the first twinging cramps of my impending period. I gazed out the small oval window of the airplane and saw the moon, my oldest and only friend, flying high above the languid waters of the Arabian Sea.

END

The first time I ever saw her was on a junior-high field trip to the City Museum. I remember it clearly, even though most of the rest of that period of my life is an unpleasant adolescent blur, a hormonal hangover.

I was already enough of a geek that I was really into the museum. Other than my friend and fellow dweeb Emily, my classmates all thought it was boring, or just a chance to goof off. I loved the old artifacts, the pottery shards and medieval weapons, the old paintings, especially the portraits of people long dead, and the big moody romantic landscapes of mountains and tangled dark forests.

And then I saw the statue. It was toward the end of our excursion, the other kids were hungry and irritable, and the teachers were frazzled. She was carved out of white marble, and sat atop a low pedestal. She was looking over her shoulder, as if she was checking to see if anyone was watching, and she was completely nude. Her breasts were out there for anyone to see.

I was at the unfortunate age where the sight of bare breasts was both unbearably fascinating, and somewhat mortifying. The sculptor had done a fine job with hers: they were beautiful, petite and round with perfect little nipples. Her legs were crossed, but you could see, just below the slight swell of her belly, the etched suggestion of pubic hair.

There was a slight smile on the statue’s face, a mischievous look, and I swear her eyes twinkled.

I left the museum feeling deeply self-conscious about the hard-on that was jutting out from my crotch like a signpost. Apparently my classmate Emily, friend, fellow nerd, and sometime co-conspirator, noticed. According to her, I narrowly missed losing my virginity later that afternoon, or if not my virginity per se, I might have at least gained some valuable carnal experience. All I would have had to do was say something. But I didn’t.

I didn’t see my statue again for several years. But I didn’t forget her either. Sometimes when I masturbated, alone in bed at night, she’d be there, peeking over her shoulder at me. As if things weren’t confusing enough.

It was another field trip. This time it was Art I, a high school elective, and we were supposed to pick one thing from the museum to sketch in our notepads. I went straight to her, half afraid that she’d be gone, or that I had made her up in the first place.

She was still there. She hadn’t moved. Or had she? She was in the same place, a non-descript corner near the exit, and she held the same pose; still naked and looking over her shoulder with that ghostly smile on her face; but this time I noticed that her legs were slightly parted. If you looked, you could just make out the crease of her labia. And I did look.

I sat down and tried to sketch her. It didn’t go very well. First of all, it was hard to sit comfortably with an erection bulging in my pants. And secondly, without really meaning to, I kept sketching all her naughty bits in excruciating detail. I’d start trying to capture her neck and shoulder, and find myself drawing her breasts; I’d work on the line of her legs, and end up focusing on her half-hidden crotch. Eventually, I gave up and tried my hand at copying one of the renaissance portraits that I loved. It was harder than it looked.

Emily caught up with me after class. “I saw what you sketched today,” she said. I turned the color of a ripe tomato.

“It’s OK,” she giggled. “I thought it was a pretty good drawing. Can I tell you a secret?”

“Sure.”

“Meet me back at the museum after school. I’ll tell you then.”

***

I hustled my butt over to the museum right after sixth period algebra, but Emily was already there waiting for me. It was close to closing time, and the museum was nearly empty; all that remained were a few old ladies and a more-or-less equal number of security guards.

“What’s the big secret?” I wanted to know. She just smiled guiltily and told me to follow. She led me to the Hall of Antiquities.

We stopped in front of an out-of-the way statue in a far corner of the Hall. It was a white marble figure, a young man carrying a bucket. The plaque next to the statue said ‘The Water Carrier”. It seemed like a pretty innocuous statue; he was nude, but they all were. You could see his penis, but it didn’t seem like anything to get excited about: a small and limp-looking noodle resting on a round bulge that suggested his scrotum. But Emily was blushing furiously.

She looked quickly around, checking for little old ladies and security guards, but the coast was clear. Then Emily reached out and touched the noodle with the tip of her index finger. I swear to God the statue twitched.

She stroked it, like she was petting a tiny baby kitten, drawing her finger lightly up and down, back and forth; and slowly but surely the stone penis engorged and grew erect. I was fascinated. It was big, but not huge. It was roughly the size of my own gear. Eventually it was standing straight up, the white marble head peeking out from inside the white marble foreskin. The statue had gone from an ordinary, unremarkable figure study to an obscene pornographic masterpiece, fit to give a House Republican conniptions.

“Lick it,” I heard myself say, and after another quick check to make sure we were alone, Emily did. She bent over, stuck out her tongue, and flicked the tip of the statue’s cock with the end of her tongue. I swear, the statue twitched again, and his penis seemed to grow another half inch.

“Come on,” Emily said, “Let’s try yours!”

We waited while a little old lady with an oversized black umbrella shuffled past. My statue looked perfectly ordinary, her legs crossed primly, her head turned, looking over her shoulder behind her. The octogenarian finally tottered out the end of the hall, and when I looked back at my stature, something had changed. Her legs were no longer crossed, but were in fact slightly parted. The hint of a crease between her thighs was no longer just a suggestion, but a carven valley, a crevice between puffy sculpted labia. When I looked closely, I could even see a tiny white marble clitoris.

“Touch her!” Emily urged.

Hesitantly, I reached out my arm and did just that, insinuating my outstretched arm between her thighs and petting her stone crease. She was cold and hard and smooth as polished glass.

As I ran my finger up and down her stone labia, she blossomed. It was like watching one of those time-lapse films of a white flower, a lilly say, blossoming. Her lips puffed and pealed back, her clitoris emerged from its carven marble hood.

“Put a finger inside!” and I did. It felt weirdly non-erotic, my finger slipping into a tunnel of finely polished marble. The statue sighed softly and her legs parted a little wider.

Just then, the loudspeaker informed us that the Museum was now closed, and a security guard ambled along to kick us out. We high-tailed it out of there, double-time.

***

I still can’t believe we did it; I can’t believe how easy it was; I really can’t believe we got away with it. We just ducked into the Museum later that same night through a propped-open side door while a security guard took an illicit smoke break.

Once inside, we both got a wicked case of the giggles. “Who goes first??” We couldn’t decide, so we played rock-paper-scissors for it. Emily picked rock. I picked paper.

Together, we went into the Hall of Antiquities. Our footsteps seemed to echo all out of proportion.

We found ourselves in front of Emily’s statue. He looked normal and unassuming. His penis had returned to its original state; small and flaccid but not soft.

“Touch him!” Emily said, and I did, reaching out and petting his marble penis. He twitched visibly under my touch. “Lick it!” Emily urged. Why not, I thought, it’s only a statue. I got down on my knees, stuck out my tongue, and slurped the marble of his penis. This time he definitely twitched, jumping and growing in response to my touch. I gave him another experimental lick. His dick was pointing up at the heavens now, carved in exquisite detail and, of course, hard as stone.

“I think that was the sexiest thing I’ve seen all day,” Emily said. “I’ll just take it from here.”

I moved out of the way, and she got down on her knees and starting slurping up and down the statue’s penis, taking him between her lips, swallowing most, if not all, of his shaft, swirling her tongue around the alabaster head, playing with his stone balls. My own cock was at least as hard as the statue’s.

I opened my big fat mouth. “You should take your shirt off.” Emily stopped what she was doing and gave me a sharp look. She didn’t say anything, but she did pull her t-shirt off, up over her head, and she unsnapped her bra.

Her breasts were small, freckled, almost conical affairs, with tiny, dimpled, pink nipples. They jiggled as she moved. I thought they were beautiful.

Emily sucked his dick a little bit more. By this time, his penis was straining skyward, fat and thick, and it glistened with her saliva. She got up off her knees, glanced around and shrugged. “Here goes nothing.”

She shucked her black pants down around her ankles. Pink panties emblazoned with white unicorns followed. She had a fluffy puff of pubic hair, and I could see her pussy pouting open. A glistening strand of wetness lingered, stretching from her pink pussy lips down to the crotch of her panties. This is actually happening, I thought, this is for real. It was far and away the sexiest sight I had ever seen.

She waddled forward, stood up on her tippy-toes, and nudged the crease of her pussy up against the tip of the statue’s cock. “Mmmmm,” she whispered to me, “Shit yeah. It feels amazing.”

Slowly, gingerly, Emily lowered herself down his dick, impaling herself. “Shit yeah,” she said again, “It’s so fucking good!”

She started moving up and down, lifting up until his penis was just barely nestled between her labia, and then plunging down again. Faster and faster she moved, her breath becoming husky, her breasts bouncing, her skin flushed, her forehead wrinkled in concentration. She looked gorgeous like that, awe-inspiring. I wanted to touch her, but I was afraid. I wasn’t sure what she’d think.

“Oh,” Emily cried in a small voice, “Oh, I’m coming!”

She bore down hard on the statue, burying his entire cock in her pussy, scrubbing hard between her legs with her head thrown back, her eyes clenched shut. Her entire body shuddered. It was amazing to watch.

Finally, almost sheepishly, she disengaged herself from the statue and pulled her pants back up.

“That was SO hot!” I told her.

She gave me an unreadable little smile, located her bra, and pulled her t-shirt back on.

“Your turn.”

My statue was back to her more-or-less prim self, lounging with her legs crossed at the ankles, looking back over her shoulder with a secret little smile. I swear I saw her legs part a little bit as we approached.

“Lick her pussy.” Emily told me. The way she emphasized the word pussy punched me in the gut.

Indeed, the statue’s legs had parted just enough that I could squeeze in between her knees. I crawled in between her stone thighs, and found myself face-to-face with the crease of her marble vulva.

I felt faintly ridiculous, down on my knees, licking the sculpted marble. It was cool and smooth under my tongue, and tasted like nothing at all.

My licking, however, had an immediate and dramatic effect. There was no shade of primness now, my statue’s legs were splayed wide apart. Her pussy was wide open, her marble clitoris was bulging out, and her inner lips practically glistened.

“Fuck her,” Emily urged. “Fuck her pussy.” She savored the word, enjoying the sound of it rolling off her tongue.

Feeling a little bit self-conscious, and more than a little bit ridiculous, I unzipped my jeans, and fished out my straining erection. I could feel Emily’s eyes on me as I maneuvered myself in between the statue’s wide-spread legs. “Here goes nothing,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. I slid my dick straight up that stone pussy.

The sensation was amazing. At the time I didn’t have anything to compare it to, other than my own hand, which it felt nothing like. She was smooth as silk, hard as granite. It was a little like fucking a tube of Reddi-Wip, straight out of the refrigerator. It felt so damn good!

My statue’s head was now lolled back. Her nipples strained out, her toes pointed at the ceiling. If Emily’s statue would give House Republicans conniptions, my stature would give them a collective heart attack in its current pose. I glanced over at Emily. She was staring at my cock, watching it slide in and out of the white stone portal. One hand was down the front of her pants.

“Play with her asshole,” Emily whispered.

I reached under the statue’s buttocks and found her carven anus, which yielded to my probing finger.

“Oh fuck Emily,” I swallowed hard, “I’m not going to be able to last much longer…”

“Fuck yeah,” Emily responded, never once taking her eyes off the action, “Come inside her. Come in her fucking pussy.”

I was already there. It just felt too damn good! I was fucking her faster and faster, grinding my cock in and out of her tight stone orifice, bucking my hips in an over-excited frenzy. A part of me felt like I must look ridiculous, a goofy-looking kid with his jeans down around his calves, humping away like a madman at an old Greek statue; but mostly I just surrendered to it. I came, gasping and grunting, pumping what felt like gallon after gallon of semen deep into my statue’s vagina.

When it was all over, when my dick was finally waning soft, I reluctantly withdrew. My come leaked from the statue’s vulva like the trail of a slug. My heart was thumping and I was all sweaty and sticky. I felt sheepish and un-sexy, but Emily was grinning from ear to ear!

“Now, THAT was the second-sexiest thing I’ve seen all day!”

While I put my dick back in my underpants, and pulled up my jeans, Emily got down on her knees and gingerly stuck out her tongue and lapped a little of my come off of the marble pussy. She noticed me watching and turned bright red. “I just wanted to know what it was like!”

We slipped out the back of the museum, out into the night. It was late and the stars were out and the moon rode high above the city. We walked along cracked and deserted sidewalks, hand in hand and hip to hip. I don’t know about Emily, but I felt like I was glowing.

END

Ugh. Monday.

I always dread Monday mornings, but this one was worse than usual. What a crap weekend it had been! Saturday was my Aunt Flora’s memorial service; what a disaster. Plastic sunshine, and bottled saccharine; half-truths and blatant lies; and it had dragged on for hours. They made her out to be some sort of saint, when in reality she had been a crabby, alcoholic old biddy. To make up for that torture, on Sunday after church I had locked myself in the apartment with my illicit vibrator, about forty gigs of confiscated porn, and a jug of bathtub vodka. And now I was paying the price.

At least the coffee was hot. I looked at our list for the day. It was like a thousand names long. My Chief Inquisitor and I exchanged a look. Melinda knew just as well as I did that there was no way we were making it through that list in one day, and tomorrow there’d be a fresh one, just like it. Ah well, we’d do what we always do: start at the top and work our way down.

Melinda put in her earbud, and I took my seat in the control room behind the mic, and I had them bring in the first client.

A pair of burly Adepts walked him in. He came along meekly, already naked of course. I checked my list. Ezra E Elmendorf, 25, single, male. Occupation: Topiary Artist. Topiary artist? For real? It was either a joke or the perfect cover story. This guy had no red flags against him, but a list of yellow ones a mile long. The usual collection of questionable, but not quite illegal, internet hits. He’d been suspected, but not actually accused, of writing anonymous erotica in high school. He went to the same church as Samuel Sikes, the Seattle bomber. Again, in high school he’d been friends with Damien Davies, the convicted pornographer. His name had been mentioned ‘under extreme duress’ by both a defrocked librarian and a female ex-coworker. A short list of girlfriends, all of them with dodgy, but not quite loose, moral ratings. He’d been in Boise two weeks before a bomb blast that had killed sixteen people. And he’d just bought tickets to Denver. Holy shit, no wonder they’d hauled him in.

He wasn’t bad looking, not at all. Even naked and in custody, he stood tall and defiant, doing his best to look unafraid. His genitals betrayed him, though. His gear was all shrunk up, tiny and wilted and trying desperately to hide. One of the nifty things about male equipment is that the flaccid state tells you almost nothing about the excited version. Under the right circumstances, this shriveled and cowering frightened little penis might well blossom into a proud, solid, aesthetically pleasing erection.

I spoke into the mic, “Warm him up.” And the Adepts did their job, bouncing him off the plywood walls like a dodge ball; punching him in the kidneys and gut; and kicking him roundly once he went down and stayed down. I liked these guys. Very professional. Some Adepts take way too much pleasure in their jobs; these fellows were all business.

“Let’s see what Mr. Ezra has to say,” I said, and in the room Melinda took over. The Adepts backed off, leaving him prone and gasping.

She nudged his penis with the tip of her boot. Classic. Implied threat. I love working with Melinda. “Let’s talk,” she deadpanned.

She worked him for the full twenty-five minutes, occasionally letting the Adepts step in and dribble him off the walls and floor, or hose him down with cold water, but mostly just asking questions: Where were you, when? What did you do there? Why did you make that trip? And always: names, names, names. He gave her nothing. He was either completely innocent, or doing a very good job of playing dumb.

We had a list to get through. “Let him go,” I said into the mic, “We’ll bring him back in tomorrow.”

Next up was a weepy adulteress from East Brooklyn. She was easy, but loud and shrill. I finished my first cup of coffee and poured another. The hangover was pounding between my ears. It was going to be a long old day.

I looked Ezra up after work. He was exactly where his personal file said he would be, in a medium-sketchy coffee saloon on the Lower East Side. I sipped decaf and watched him from across the room. He showed no sign of having been worked over that morning; but our Adepts are well-trained, and a Derma-Patch will work wonders on bruises and abrasions.

I went up to him. This was all way outside my brief, total yellow flag territory. “Pass the milk?” I bent over, practically dangling my cleavage in his face. Nothing. He looked up at me, smiled, handed me the little metal carafe. He was reading a novel; not exactly scripture, but nothing too racy either. I took the cream and went back to my seat, quietly seething. I sat and watched him read his book and sip his latte for the next hour.

He was a good looking man. I tried to picture him naked. I had, of course, already seen him at his nakedest, but with male nudity, it is all about the circumstances. And, I thought, under the circumstances of my bedroom, he’d look pretty good indeed.

The next day, I had the Adepts spend the first fifteen minutes of the session working over the soles of Ezra’s feet with rubber straps. He screamed until his voice was a ruined husk. “Please! Stop! No more! I’m a gardener, for God’s sake! I take care of plants!”

Melinda dumped a five-gallon bucket of ice water over his head, and the Adepts stepped out of the way. “Well, let’s talk then.” She squeezed his scrotum; technically in violation of protocol, but she always knew exactly how far to push it. “Give me some names.”

“I don’t have any names! I don’t know anything,” he sobbed. “I don’t know anyone.” I was embarrassed on his behalf.

I had the Adepts go back to work on his feet, beating them left-right-left with all the regularity of a metronome while Melinda waited, one eyebrow slightly raised, shadow of a smile on her face, pencil and notebook in hand, just waiting for him to name some names. We went four minutes long, and he screamed until his screams were a hideous choking croak, but not one name did he name.

Not that night, but two nights later, I saw him again at the sleazy coffee dive. He sat there, calm and composed as the Buddha, reading his novel and sipping his latte. He’d discreetly slipped his shoes off under the table.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Be my guest,” Ezra rasped. His larynx was still trashed.

I sat down next to him, letting my knee brush casually against his. He flinched as if I had just touched him with a live electric wire. I did it again, pressing my flesh against his, just to let him know it wasn’t an accident.

“This drip coffee isn’t too bad,” I said, “but I have a new espresso machine at home. Would you like to come over and try it out?”

As far as dropping hints, it was only slightly more subtle than pulling off my panties and waving them under his nose. Ezra wasn’t stupid, nor was he gay. He took the hint. He gingerly put his shoes back on, and we walked out the door together, arm in arm, and took a taxi back to my place.

Premarital sex is straight-up illegal, a big fat red flag. Fooling around, on the other hand, is a grey area, a statutory demilitarized zone; officially frowned on, unofficially permitted. As long as it is done discreetly, between a man and a woman, a little heavy petting is generally tolerated as a kind of pressure relief valve. Yellow flag at worst. We shamelessly and un-discreetly made out in the back of the cab all the way back to my place in Park Slope, while the driver tried hard to look like he wasn’t watching in the rear view mirror.

Ezra was a good kisser: neither too tentative, nor too sloppy. He kissed like a man who had some experience kissing, and I liked it. I snuggled up next to him in the back of the cab, enjoying the warmth and solidness of his body next to mine. I squeezed his erection through his pants. “I am going to eat you alive,” I whispered in his ear.

Back at my apartment, we wasted no time. His shoes came off first, followed by the rest of his clothes. He looked beautiful in this context; tall and lithe, he reminded me of some graceful bird. A crane, perhaps. His cock jutted out eagerly, thick and taut and proud.

I stripped down to my panties, leaving them on out of some vestigial sense of modesty, and we curled up together on my bed. We kissed and touched a little more. It was delectable. His cock got even harder than it had been before, straining purple and urgent. His balls were plump and warm. His feet were swollen, and there were bruises around his thighs from the restraints, but we didn’t talk about that. I got down to the business of sucking his dick.

It was a real pleasure to go down on him. He tasted clean and male, and he was trembling with excitement. Just trailing my tongue down the underside of his erection made him groan with pleasure. I kissed his balls, kissed his perineum, kissed the underside of his drooling glans. Then I swallowed him whole, lavishing my tongue all around the head while my hand stroked his shaft. He came hard, and he came fast, filling my mouth with his salty-bitter semen, hot and sticky and sexy beyond measure. I held him between my lips until he finally popped out, soft and spent.

We drank a little bathtub vodka, and kissed some more, his come fresh on my lips. He fingered me through my panties, and found my pussy wet and ready. As he probed my juicy pussy, his cock slowly got hard again, rising like a phoenix.

“I want you to fuck me,” I said, and I meant it.

“What?” his voice was painful to listen to.

“Fuck me,” I repeated. “There’s condoms in the top drawer.” Funny. Condoms are illegal, but everybody has them. Even the Inquisitor has a stash, tucked in under her prim and proper undies.

He pulled back hard. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, “I’m not sure I can do that for you. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Are you for fucking real?” I pulled back the crotch of my panties to reveal my hungry hole.

“I’m just not sure I’m comfortable with that… I’ll go down on you if you want.”

“Forget it,” I said. The moment had passed, my mood was shot. “Get dressed. Go home. I can take care of myself.”

Sullenly, I watched him get dressed and hobble out of my bedroom. I suppose I should have let him stay and have a go at licking my kitty, but that was not what I was in the mood for. My mail-order Canadian vibrator did the trick. It did the trick very nicely indeed, and when I was done I slept harder and deeper than I had in a long time.

I had Ezra pulled in again. Bumped him to the top of the list, and then skipped a few names past him, just to make him wait. We came back to him just after lunch. The Adepts brought him in, naked and obedient. I could smell his fear, all the way through the thick plexi window.

“Dunk him in the bucket,” I whispered to Melinda through my headset, “Four minutes.”

“Three minutes is the legal limit,” she subvocalized back, not telling me anything I didn’t know already. “Do you want to kill him?”

“Four and a half,” I said, “He’ll live.”

The burly Adepts crammed his head into the five gallon bucket, and held him there while he kicked and struggled. As the seconds ticked by, I felt my cunt getting wet and my clit tingling inside my uniform pants, and I know Melinda was feeling the same thing too. Four and a half minutes, not a second longer, and they yanked him out and dropped him on the floor, where he vomited profusely, coughing, choking and convulsing in a puddle of his own urine; his bladder had emptied involuntarily.

“Talk to me,” Melinda urged gently, towering above him.

“Fuck you,” he croaked.

“Take his fingernails,” I said.

Melinda did it herself, with a pair of stainless steel pliers. It only took three before he started singing. He named names for the next twenty-six minutes, as fast as she could write them down. He left the room a broken man, hands bandaged, head bowed.

Melinda and I screwed that weekend. I went over to her place, an austere apartment in a neo-art deco high-rise on the Upper East Side. I brought a briefcase full of files with me; if anyone asked, I was there for a business meeting.

We had been together before, but this was the first time we had ventured into full-on unadulterated red flag territory, which only made it all the more exciting.

Melinda possessed an exquisite, hand-carved strap-on walrus-tusk dildo, smuggled in from Canada, and she proceeded to fuck me with it. She did it exactly the way I had imagined Ezra doing it to me: from behind, tucked in close with her breasts pressed against my shoulders, tugging my hair and nipping at the back of my neck while she fucked my hungry pussy.

She fucked me hard and mercilessly. She pulled hard on my hair and drilled my cunt. She fucked me until I didn’t think I could take any more, and just as I was about to ask her ‘Please’, she released my hair, put one hand over my mouth, and reached down between my thighs with her other hand and found my clitoris. I came, screaming silently into her hand, impaled and writhing on her ivory phallus.

I gave just as good as I got. Melinda didn’t feel like getting fucked, so I licked instead, starting with her firm, perfect breasts, and working my way down to her petite, wet and slippery, red-hot little pussy. She was so sopping wet down there my face was more or less instantly coated with her juice. She tasted fresh and musky, a little bit salty, a little bit tangy. Her pea-sized clitoris was pink and swollen. I lapped up and down her vulva, parting her labia with my tongue, teasing her clit. I ventured down between her ass cheeks, experimentally brushing her tight, crinkled anus with the tip of my tongue. I was rewarded with a husky moan as she pressed back fiercely against me, spreading her cheeks wide for me. I drilled at the tight little hole with my tongue, straining to get deeper up her ass.

I ended up finger-fucking her asshole and her pussy at the same time, the flat of my tongue pressed hard against the bulging button of her clitoris. She came hard, her entire body shaking, chewing hard on her pillow to keep from screaming out loud. Her body squeezed my invading fingers spasmodically. It was deeply gratifying.

Afterward, we kissed and cuddled for a long while, and inevitably, we both got excited all over again. This time we both did it with our fingers, lying face to face on her bed, kissing throughout as we molested each others’ wet and slippery pussies, and when we both came, our lips were pressed together, and we moaned softly into each other’s open mouth.

I would have liked to have spent the night, wrapped comfortably in her arms, but that would have been far too dangerous, so instead I got dressed, packed up my briefcase, checked my hair and wiped my face, crotch, and pits with a moist towelette, and took the elevator down to the lobby, past an impartial-looking doorman who, I’m sure missed nothing, and out into the street. I hailed a taxi, and rode back to my place in Brooklyn. Alone.

Her scent still lingered on my fingers.

Early on Monday morning, a bomb went off at the Denver office of the Department of Moral Hygiene. Six people were killed outright, dozens more wounded. Try as I might, I just couldn’t bring myself to care.

END

It is far too early on a Saturday morning, and outside my apartment, the Peaceable City slumbers silently. The empty streets are a still life, a daguerreotype, an idealized architectural sketch, and it is shaping up to be another grey and rainy day. I am going to be hung over. I can tell already: the buzz behind my ears rings threateningly, an angry hive, an unrelenting alarm clock. I want a cigarette, badly, though I haven’t smoked since my senior year of high school. Not tobacco, anyway.

I don’t feel like masturbating, no not at all. I feel like going back to sleep and staying that way, but my body insists, and I am nothing if not a slave to the flesh.

So I roll over, unsnap my rig, and slide out of my harness. Ever since college, I’ve slept wearing my strap-on. It’s sort of like a phallic security blanket.

I let my hand slide inside my boxer shorts, past my scruffy patch and down in between my labia, where my liege and master, that impatient little nubbin Mistress Clitoris lies waiting for my undivided attention.

It isn’t happening. The requisite wetness simply isn’t there. I get up, pee, and swallow a mouthful of water. Then I climb back into bed.

I pull off my boxer shorts and my red t-shirt, and sprawl across the crumpled sheets. My mouth feels like the factory floor of an asbestos plant. Never drink and wallow at the same time: it always leads to disaster.

I close my eyes, and think about one of the first times Jeremy and I were together. Not the very first time. Like most first times that was an awkward experience; rushed, clumsy, hot as a flash fire, sexually unremarkable, and rather blurry in my memory.

This was the second or third time, and though I’m by no means a prude, I’m a little embarrassed to say just how early on in the relationship this was. I think it was our second ‘official’ date, and I think we ditched the ‘date’ part. Such is life.

I was packing, and I wasn’t at all sure how Jeremy would react. We’d been making out in his open front doorway, halfway into the hall, and I could feel his erection pressing against me through his jeans, and I was pretty sure he could feel my own boner through my skirt, and he tugged me back inside in the direction of his unmade bed, and I put up no resistance. I proceeded to spend some quality time sucking his dick: I’d already gotten intimate with his gear, but this was the first time I’d had the opportunity to enjoy him at my leisure, lights on and unrushed, and I was enjoying myself immensely.

And then he reached up inside my skirt, and found my own cock. It was roughly the same size as his, but perpetually firm, and an entirely different shade of electric blue. I wasn’t wearing any panties under my harness, and my cunt was as wet as Niagara Falls.

He didn’t skip a beat; that was the moment I knew he was a keeper. He opened his mouth wide, swallowed more of my hard-on than I would have thought possible, and proceeded to suck my dick while finger-fucking my pussy to a quick-and-dirty, wet-and-squirmy orgasm. Then we fucked.

Jeremy did it to me from behind, jerking me off as he slid his dick in and out of my pussy, and teasing but not actually penetrating my asshole, and I remember thinking it was hotter than hell. My tits swung like pendulums, and my silicone cock felt like an extension of my clit. But he couldn’t come through the condom, so we disengaged, and ended up sitting on his bed, watching each other whack off, which was also pretty damn hot. I’ve always liked watching dudes masturbate. It’s sexy.

Ok, so now I’m plenty wet, and my clit is hard and poking out, and this is happening for a second. And then I think about the very last time Jeremy and I had sex, and I totally lose it. Breakup sex is supposed to be wild, rough, and uninhibited, a last hurrah; ours was saccharine, mediocre and apologetic. Unsexy like a credit card bill. Just like that, I am dry all over again, arid as alkali flats.

I get out of bed all over again, and go for the quick fix: internet porn. I want to watch some videos of cute guys with big dicks jerking off, or jerking each other off, or shyly kissing and giving each other head. But between my antique laptop and my crappy internet connection, it is more frustrating than a fistful of limp dick, and I am forced to fall back on my imagination. Which, when it comes down to it, has always been my drug of choice anyway.

I walked in on my brother masturbating once. Looking back, I’m pretty sure he set it all up. His bedroom door was halfway open, and he was naked on his bed, surrounded by magazines.

He had the biggest dick I’d ever seen, at the time; and at the time (I’m ashamed to say) that was a huge turn-on for me. He didn’t stop what he was doing; he just looked up and leered. I turned right around and ran back to my own bedroom, where I masturbated like a feral weasel. This was before I’d discovered the joys of pornography, and that was the single sexiest thing I had witnessed to date. In retrospect, I’m fairly certain that Leo had intended for me to stay, and maybe join in with him. In retrospect, sometimes I wish I had.

Much, much, much later, I stumbled across my dad’s porn collection, hundreds, maybe thousands of photoshopped and airbrushed pictures downloaded off AOL. His taste was not my taste: he was big on 25-year old cheerleaders and busty women in improbable-looking Little Catholic Schoolgirl outfits, all neatly indexed and catalogued.

The image of my dad, bathed in the blue light of the computer monitor, dick in hand, masturbating to these images is almost painfully erotic. I imagine ambushing him, catching him in the act, wearing nothing but thigh-high stockings and my rig. I sit on his lap, our boners wagging in concert as we browse porn together. I stroke him, and he strokes me. And then he slips his penis inside… I may be a sick little cunt, but at least now I am wet.

Filthy and disgusting. Now things are slippery enough that I can masturbate. As long as I am thinking perverted, disturbing thoughts, I imagine fucking a dog, a big, black, shaggy dog with a long, slobbery tongue, sharp nails, and a fat, bulbous dick.

I manage to rub out a small orgasm. It is distinctly unsatisfying, and leaves me feeling frustrated and disgusted with myself. My hangover is rolling in like the high tide. I decide to take a shower. Lord knows I need one.

Red, red wine stains my lips like cheap lipstick. My mirror image sizes me up. Overall, I don’t look too bad. My tits aren’t the perky things they were back in college, but they’re still pretty cute. I’d fuck me. I crank the water up as hot as I can stand. My mirror-self disappears behind a billow of steam. She’s got a pretty cute ass, too.

In the shower, I think about my college girlfriend, Cynthia. We taught each other about kinky sexy, making it all up as we went along. One time she told me that I couldn’t do anything to her that she’d ever say ‘no’ to.

The first harness I ever bought was made of crappy black plastic that looked awful and fit worse. The dildo that came with it was an obscenely veiny latex schlong, the exact same grey color as cadaver flesh.

I bushwhacked her one afternoon while she was studying. Grabbed a double-fistful of her long, brown hair, and dragged her struggling across the dorm room. Never once letting go of her gorgeous, nut-brown locks, I crammed my dong down her throat until she choked and gagged. While she coughed and dry-heaved, I took the opportunity to handcuff her to the immense Victorian radiator that clicked and hissed and spat. Her pussy was sopping wet, purple, swollen, pouting open and droolingly ready. I poured lube all over my dildo and down between her pale ass cheeks, and shoved my dick up her virgin asshole. Cynthia screamed until I thought she was going to cough up blood. The rest of the dorm must have hated us. She never said ‘No’ to me.

Afterward, I lounged on the bed and stroked my cheap latex dick and ogled while she masturbated. It was the best sex I’d ever had, though I didn’t even have an orgasm. She looked at me like a beaten dog, and we broke up shortly after that, and I went back to dating guys, for the most part.

I only pegged Jeremy once, which is kind of ironic because I’d been wanting to do exactly that to him ever since I first set eyes on his sweet little ass. When he finally asked me, shyly and sweetly, my heart swelled up inside my chest, my clit stiffened and my pussy drooled.

Jeremy was nervous, and crazy tight. I tried to be super gentle with him. I can’t tell you how sexy he looked, splayed out before me, back arch and muscles tense, dick pointing straight out, impaled on my fat blue cock. I think I enjoyed the experience a lot more than he did. He never asked me to do it to him again.

Thinking about all this has made me hot and bothered again. I could masturbate right here in the shower, under the hot spray of water. I even own a vibrator designed expressly for that purpose, a small waterproof unit. I used it on Jeremy sometimes, when I would blow him in the shower: I’d hold it against his soft skin, that spot just below his ball sac, while I sucked his dick. That used to do the trick quite nicely.

But I am not in the right head space for the vibrator. I am feeling perverse and perverted. So I turn off the water, and exit the shower, leaving wet footprints across my bedroom floor. I strap my harness back on, and my cock juts eagerly out in front of me, bobbing as I move. I grab my fleshlight from its hiding place under the bed, and I slather it in lube. The orifice is shaped like a crinkled little asshole, soft and creepily realistic.

I jam my dick up inside. The toy swallows me readily. I hold it still with both hands, fucking it with my hips. I fully intended to start slow and soft and work my way up, but that isn’t happening. I back the toy up against the wall, and slam it with everything I’ve got. Each time I thrust, I get a jolt of pleasure from my clit as it is crushed against the base of my dildo. Harder and faster, and I am grunting and grimacing, the fleshlight is squelching satisfyingly, my dick slides in and out, and I am going to fucking come. This time it is for real. My ass clenches, my toes curl, my boobs shake and my nipples stiffen, and I howl out loud, and keep on fucking. The orgasm washes over me, pounding through me. I am tossed and tumbled, lost in time and place.

It wasn’t the sex that did Jeremy and me in, not at all. It was the Ten Thousand Things. All the small, stupid, mundane, crappy things that just piled on and added up and gummed up the machinery of our relationship until it simply didn’t work any more. Too much weight and friction. I’ll miss him, but now I am ready to face the day.

I take three Advil and get dressed. As usual, I am packing, a smaller, more discreet rig than the one I use for play time. If you look, you can see the bulge in the front of my jeans: a tangible ambiguity.

Outside my apartment, the sun is peeking through the clouds, and the Peaceable City is just waking up.

END

The Big Bad Wolf is playing EmpireCraft and doesn’t particularly want to hear about it when Little Red Ridinghood stalks into the apartment. She slams the door after herself, which makes Wolfy flinch and hurriedly close the website he had been browsing in between turns. If Ridinghood saw what he was looking at, he’d be embarrassed.

She sets her picnic basket down heavily on their twelve dollar Ikea coffee table, making it sag dangerously. The Wolf is familiar with this routine and knows what it means: another one-night stand; another swing-and-a-miss.

“I don’t get it,” Ridinghood announces petulantly.

The Big Bad Wolf makes a noncommittal wolfish sound. The game was going poorly anyway. London is on the verge of capitulating to the Irish Horde. It doesn’t help that he has been browsing porn while playing.

“I just don’t get it,” Little Red Ridinghood repeats. “Why can’t I come when I’m with a guy? I do just fine by myself. I can orgasm for days on end. But with a guy it’s like… I get this close, but it stays just barely out of reach.” She sat down heavily on the couch behind the computer desk. “It’s like… I get so fucking close, and then he starts humping away like crazy, and totally loses the rhythm. It drives me insane.”

There is a clunk and another clunk as Ridinghood takes off her boots. The Big Bad Wolf knows that her jeans and trademark red hoodie will be next. Ridinghood has a really bad habit of wandering around the apartment in nothing but her skivvies. He is going to have to say something to her about that. Sometime.

On the screen, Cromwell is fiddling while London burns. The Big Bad Wolf hears Ridinghood squirm out of her street clothes. Despite himself, his dick tingles and stirs inside his pants. At the same time, his tail bushes up like a Halloween cat. He wonders if she gets the connection. He wonders if she even cares.

“Guys are easy,” Little Red Ridinghood went on, “All you have to do is apply a little friction, maybe add a touch of wet; rub, repeat, and not stop. Why do girls have to be so tricky?”

“Maybe you should try fucking a girl,” the Wolf says, “and then you both could not come together. I heard Rapunzel goes both ways.”

“Up yours,” Little Red Ridinghood tells him, but not in an unkind way. She ruffles the Wolf’s hair between his ears, which makes him crazy, and retires to her own bedroom. The Wolf tries, and fails, to ignore the muffled humming drone of her vibrator.

*

“Bigger isn’t always better,” Little Red Ridinghood announces over coffee. The Big Bad Wolf winces as the toaster ka-chunks and spits out a pair of PopTarts. He is hung over, in a pretty brutal way. Goldilocks was over last night, while Ridinghood was out with Rumpelstiltskin. Wolfy and Goldi wrapped themselves around an improbable amount of gin and tonics, and hung out and talked into the wee hours of the morning. Bitching and complaining mainly, mostly about their love lives and the lack thereof. The Big Bad Wolf could probably have fucked her, or at least gotten a blowjob, if he’d made any serious effort. But he hadn’t. Probably for the best, the Wolf reflects; Goldilocks is a friend and a really cute girl, but she has her own issues, and more than her share of baggage. The Big Bad Wolf gets a reasonable amount of sex, for a single creature, but he is a lonely Wolf.

Ridinghood is unfailingly chipper in the morning, a condition the Big Bad Wolf alternately envies and loathes. She likes to recount her previous night’s adventures over PopTarts and coffee, and the Wolf likes to torture himself by listening.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Little Red Ridinghood continues with a smirk plastered across her face, and a frosted breakfast pastry in one hand. “I like a big dick as much as the next girl. But Rumpelstiltskin’s schlong is way out of bounds. I mean, it hurt. Holy shit, just getting it in was an engineering challenge. And then he wouldn’t just be done. He’s one of those guys who thinks that the girl always has to come first, and who get’s all pouty and bent out of shape if she doesn’t…” She sighs, bites the PopTart in half. “I had to fake it, just so he’d get off. I’ve gotten pretty good at faking it, over the years.”

The Big Bad Wolf has heard plenty of Ridinghood’s fake orgasms, and he disagrees. To his ears, they just sound fake. But he keeps his big fat trap shut. As usual.

*

The Big Bad Wolf has a lunch date with Grandma. They meet up at a hipster little bistro on Gingerbread Lane, a couple blocks off the L train. Grandma wears leather pants, probably an unfortunate choice, the Wolf reflects ruefully. She’s not bad looking at all, not for her age, but still… Leather pants?

The Wolf always feels a bit like a whore when he’s out with Grandma. He eats a tiny, exquisitely crafted and shockingly overpriced baguette, and they go through the requisite motions:

“My, what big ears you have!”

..sigh… “The better to hear you with, Grandma.”

“My, what big eyes you have!”

“The better to see you with, Grandma.”

“My, what big paws you have Wolfy! I wonder what else you have that is big…?”

This is the Wolf’s cue to signal the waiter. Grandma picks up the check as always, which the Wolf shouldn’t really mind, but does anyway. It’s kind of emasculating. Being kept can be a mixed blessing. They retire to Grandma’s apartment, the doorman winking knowingly and obnoxiously.

Once inside, Grandma peels off those hideous black leather pants. She takes good care of her body; she must have been seriously hot when she was younger. She still looks good, damned good. The Wolf is fully erect, and it isn’t just a Pavlovian response.

Grandma likes it hard, rough, and from behind. She bends over her Barcalounger, and pulls her lacy sapphire panties to one side. The Big Bad Wolf slathers his cock in lube (Grandma doesn’t get wet like she used to), and jams it up inside her. Grandma grunts and the Wolf utters a long, drawn-out howl. He may feel like a whore, but right now feeling like a whore feels pretty damn good. She likes it hard and fast, so he gives it to her hard and fast, shoving his cock all the way up her pussy before pulling it almost all the way out and then slamming it back inside. The wolf smacks Grandma’s ass as he fucks her; he claws at her back and nips the back of her neck with fangs that could pierce bone crush vertebrae. Grandma loves it, and she lets him know, loud and clear. It doesn’t take long. She comes hard on the Wolf’s thrusting cock; and when he yanks her steel-grey hair and slides one slick, manicured finger up her crinkled asshole, she comes a second time, just for good measure.

The Big Bad Wolf finishes inside her. Which isn’t a bad way to finish, no not really bad at all.

They relax nude over Bombay Gin with just a hint of tonic, thrown in for propriety’s sake.

“So, when are you going to fuck her?”

“Who?” the Wolf asks, startled out of his hazy post-coital reverie.

“Your roommate, of course. Red. When are you going to fuck that spicy little piece of ass?”

“Oh… Her. She says I’m her best friend. She says I’m too nice. She doesn’t want to spoil a perfectly good friendship.”

“What-ever.” Grandma lounges back in her Barcalounger, spreading her legs and giving the Wolf an eyeful of her juicy, freshly-fucked twat. A twat that appears to be ready for round two. “Fuck her. I would.” She takes a big fat drink, and smacks her lips. “If I were in your shoes, I’d totally jump on that red-haired action.”

*

Little Red Ridinghood walks right in on the Wolf masturbating to a porn video. The wolf likes amateur porn, and he favors redheads.

“Oh!” she exclaims, “Excuse me!”

She almost seems to hesitate a moment, and the Big Bad Wolf almost thinks about asking her to stay. But she is already gone.

*

Morning coffee and toasted PopTarts. The Wolf drank too much again and has a headache. Little Red Ridinghood is just as chipper as always, though the Wolf knows she stumbled in not three hours earlier after a date with Pinocchio.

“I swear, that boy doesn’t know when to stop!” Ridinghood bitched, with a peculiar combination of petulance and smugness. “I mean, he’s made out of wood!”

The Wolf sighs. He’s not sure he wants to hear this. But he is all ears.

“He fucked me raw. He’s not all that hung, you know, he just never gets soft. The boy is insatiable. It was kind of cute at first, but then it just got painful. My coochie is going to be sore for days. And it’s not like I even got to get off.” She sighs dramatically, spreads her legs and runs her fingers gingerly up and down the crotch of her grey sweat pants. “He can do some pretty interesting tricks with his nose though…”

This is too much for the Big Bad Wolf. He excuses himself, makes his exit, takes six Advil and a very long, very hot shower. He jerks off under the running water and feels sorry for himself afterward.

*

The Three Little Pigs are a trio of fat, greasy, horny little porkers, and they make no apologies for it. To get into their apartment, the Big Bad Wolf has to go through the whole “I’ll huff and I’ll puff…” routine, which was cute like ten years ago, but is kind of annoying when you have a hard-on the size of the state of Florida wedged into your pants. But when they do open the door and let him in, it’s all worthwhile.

The Three Little Pigs adore being eaten out. The one thing they all like almost as much as being on the receiving end of cunnilingus is watching a fat, juicy piggy pussy getting licked. The Wolf is always happy to oblige.

The Piggies get naked faster than you could say ‘higgledy-piggledy’. They are utterly uninhibited little creatures, all pink and roly-poly and jiggly and wiggly. Their breasts are big and bouncy, their bottoms are wide, their pussies are wet and slippery, and their tails are tight little corkscrews. They lounge on the bed and watch lasciviously while the Big Bad Wolf gets undressed. His cock is already plenty hard, and they ‘Oooh’ and ‘Aaah’ with unfeigned admiration. The Little Piggies are nothing if not an enthusiastic audience.

The First Little Piggy spreads her legs, and the Big Bad Wolf dives in. She is sopping wet and juicy, and her taste is oh-so-slightly reminiscent of bacon. The Big Bad Wolf would love to slather maple syrup all over her crack, and lick it clean. Maybe sometime he will. He slurps up and down her pussy, dragging the flat of his long tongue between her puffy pink labia and slathering her clit.

The Big Bad Wolf inserts first one, then two, and finally three thick fingers into the First Little Piggy’s cunt. He finger-fucks her, gently at first, spreading her wetness up and down and all around, then harder and harder, until he is lifting her pelvis all the way up off the bed with his fingers. With his fingers buried deep inside the First Little Piggy, he bends over and laps at her clitoris.

The other two Piggies ‘Oooh’ and ‘Aaah’. They will all get their turn, but they are not patient creatures, and they have started in on each other while they watch the show, touching, nibbling and kissing. The Piggies are certainly not lesbians, and it is just a little bit like incest, but right now they don’t care. The Second and Third Little Piggies are intertwined like double helixes, stubby little fingers getting busy between fat thighs; their little piggy eyes glued to the Big Bad Wolf and the action on the futon mattress.

The First Little Piggy surrenders to her excitement, grunting and squealing and huffing and puffing her way toward a massive orgasm. Meanwhile, the Big Bad Wolf is already thinking about where he is going to come. The Piggies don’t hold with fucking or sucking, but once they have all gotten off (at least once, maybe twice, or more), one of them will jerk him off, and he gets to choose where he comes: boobies, or ass, or squirting off onto a wide-spread piggy pussy, or into an open mouth, or even all over one of their plump pink porcine faces. It’s not a bad arrangement. Not at all.

Once the First Little Piggy has settled down and extracted herself from the Wolf’s long and sticky fingers, he goes to work on the Second Little Piggy, who is halfway there already. Delayed gratification has never been the Piggies strong suite.

It doesn’t take long for the Big Bad Wolf to finish off the Second and then the Third Little Piggy, and by then the First Little Piggy is ready to go all over again. The Wolf is getting tired and frustrated, but he does his duty, using more tongue and less fingers this time, bending the First Little Piggy over the back of their ratty old couch and burying his long snout between her cheeks, licking up and down the cleft of her ass, alternately tonguing her pussy and asshole, letting her do the clit stimulation herself, until she comes one last time, squealing and oinking with pleasure. It is, he has to admit, pretty gratifying.

The Big Bad Wolf has made his choice. The Second and Third Little Piggies each lend a hand while the First Little Piggie sprawls limply across the futon. It doesn’t take long; it has been several days since he has gotten off, and he’s overexcited anyway. Howling at an invisible moon, the Wolf shoots off all over the First Little Piggy’s not-so-little tits. His balls twitch and tremble and he squirts gobs and gobs of pearlescent white semen across her chest and beyond, splashing onto the futon. They will definitely need to change the cover after this afternoon.

Temporarily sated, the four friends get dressed and have a drink. The Piggies favor vodka tonics, with more vodka than tonic. They want to know when he’s going to get around to fucking Ridinghood. He tells them she just wants to be friends, and they laugh at him, which is annoying. Mildly buzzed, the Big Bad Wolf strolls homeward, his balls hanging low and loose, the intoxicating smell of piggy pussy still lingering on his fingers.

When Wolf gets back to the apartment, Riding Hood is in her bedroom, getting loudly and vigorously fucked.

The Wolf attempts to ignore it. He fires up his computer, puts on some music, tries to concentrate on EmpireCraft. It doesn’t work. The sounds of Riding Hood getting banged keep leaking right through his expensive headset. Who is it? The Gingerbread Man? Tom Tom the Piper’s Son? Jack Sprat? It doesn’t really matter. Whoever it is certainly is enthusiastic. And Riding Hood is faking orgasms all over the place.

Wolf splits over to the House of Candy and proceeds to get fucked-up drunk.

*

Several days later. Wolf was supposed to have a date with Grandma, but she cancelled at the last minute, and he doesn’t really mind. He is playing EmpireCraft, and looking at naked girls on the internet; alt-tabbing between the two, and as usual, his game is suffering for it. The Ottoman Empire is foundering; the Irish have developed mechanized warfare and are overrunning North Africa. He doesn’t hear Riding Hood come in.

“Cute tits,” Little Red Ridinghood observes.

The Big Bad Wolf is looking at redheads, in various states of undress. He alt-tabs back to his game, where the Irish Hordes are sacking Jerusalem. Under his fur, he is blushing, but Ridinghood doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’d do her,” she goes on. “I wish mine were a little bigger. Not huge, just a little bigger.”

“I think yours are perfect,” says the Wolf. His tail is poking out the back of his pants, big and bushy, like a scared cat. It always gets big and bushy when he gets an erection.

“Thank you!” Ridinghood says. “I’d like to see her pussy.”

The Big Bad Wolf switches windows and clicks on the ‘next’ button. This picture does indeed show the cute redhead’s pussy. It is shaved, with fat, pouting lips.

“Cute pussy! It looks a little like mine, except I have more hair. It would look cuter with a big fat wolf dick stuffed up inside it though.” Ridinghood informs the Wolf. His tail gets even bushier. Before he can think of an appropriate response, she is gone.

*

The Big Bad Wolf is in the shower. In the kitchen, the coffee pot is burbling and hissing. Ridinghood is still asleep in her bedroom. She always sleeps in men’s boxers and a t-shirt. The Wolf is seriously considering jerking off in the shower. He hasn’t started yet, but as far as his penis is concerned, the decision is already made.

Little Red Ridinghood walks into the bathroom. She is wearing tartan boxer shorts and an oversized t-shirt that reads ‘WHO THE FUCK IS MICK JAGGER?’ She still has sleepy eyes. She reaches around the shower curtain, grabs the Wolf by the erection, and pulls him straight out of the bathtub.

She waits while he does a perfunctory towel-off of his soaking-wet black fur. The whole time he can feel her eyes on his body, hungry.

He follows her into her bedroom, which is a mess of an epic sort. They land on the bed.

There is a lot of kissing. The kissing is really nice, and they both want more of it, but they are also both eager to move on to other, more urgently pressing matters.

The Big Bad Wolf pulls off Ridinghood’s boxers. She does indeed have a very pretty pussy with pink, eager inner labia and a soft muss of red hair atop it like a cowlick. He takes an ankle in each paw and lifts her up to his face.

He drags his tongue along the length of her pussy, exploring in between the puffy outer lips. She is very excited. She tastes delicious. When his tongue brushes across the erect nubbin of her clit, she bucks and squirms. “Fuck me!” she demands, her voice raspy and urgent, but the Wolf does not stop.

Up and down, up and down he laps, the flat of his tongue dragging lazily across her labia, caressing her clitoris. Wolf is holding her ankles up over his head so that the only part of her body that is touching the bed are her shoulders, outstretched arms, and the back of her head. Her red hair is flying like it is in a whirlwind. She struggles, but she doesn’t get away. The Big Bad Wolf is a strong animal, with long, ropy muscles. “Fuck me Wolfy! Goddamn it, fuck me! Fuck me, please!”

He lifts her up a little more. Now it is just her red hair that is touching the sheets. He buries his snout between her ass cheeks. His long, wolfish finds her anus and squirms up inside. She squeals incoherently, twisting and flailing, whimpering his name, begging him.

Finally the Big Bad Wolf relents. He plops Ridinghood back onto her bed, where she lies, twitching and mumbling, her legs spread wide apart, her fingers running lightly petting her sodden cunt. The Wolf could watch this show all day. But not today.

He wastes precious time looking for condoms, before Ridinghood tells him “In the little wooden box, under the bed.” There are some other interesting items in there too, ones that the Wolf would be very interested in trying out with Ridinghood sometime. But not this time.

Properly wrapped, the Big Bad Wolf slides his cock right up into Ridinghood’s pussy. She is hot and wet and slippery and very excited and ready for him. She wraps her legs around his butt, just under his tail, pulling him closer and deeper. He is too far-gone to last very long; she doesn’t care.

Her cunt squeezes him tight. He is fucking her as slowly as he can stand, and it isn’t slow enough. He is going to explode.

She starts to huff and puff. “Oh, oh, oh, oooh, yes! Oh yes Wolfy! Yessss!”

The Wolf stops fucking, curls his tail and clenches his toes to keep from popping off. He bares his teeth and snarls. “Oh no you don’t. Don’t you dare fake it! Not with me!” He is still an alpha predator. His hair bristles angrily.

Ridinghood quiets down, knocks off the moaning and sighing, kisses him on the snout. “Just come inside me then Wolfy. Just come for me” He is happy to oblige.

He cups her ass in both paws, lifts her up, slides one finger from each hand up her asshole, and fucks her hard and deep. He lasts longer than he imagined he might. She keeps quiet, biting down hard on her lower lip, watching him fuck her. She almost comes, she tells him later. She could feel it. She didn’t quite get there, but almost.

After he comes, he keeps his cock inside her, and she rubs her clitoris for him. This time she really does come, and it is beautiful to watch. When she finally orgasms, holding her breath and flexing her abdominal muscles spasmodically, her face is a mask of silent ecstasy. Her pussy twitches on his cock. You can’t fake that shit.

They kiss some more, and he extracts his wilting, condom-enclosed cock from her still-drooling pussy. She sits on his chest and masturbates to another orgasm, this one just as beautiful as the first. He helps by slipping a finger up her pussy and tickling her asshole. They will fuck again after they’ve had coffee.

“Wolfy, did you know you’re my best friend?”

“You’re my best friend too, Red.”

“I’m crazy about you Wolfy.”

He squeezes her tight. Maybe next time they fuck he will make her come. Or the time after that. Maybe she’ll come rubbing her clit with his cock wedged in her ass; maybe she’ll come all over his long and slurping tongue, or on his probing insistent fingers. The truth is, it doesn’t really matter. It will be a long journey, and they will both have a lot of fun.

And they live happily ever after.

END

I wake up with a start, suddenly shockingly, lucidly conscious. I’d been having a disturbing dream that I don’t quite remember now, but which lingers on the edge of my memory like an unpleasant taste. I look over at the glowing red digits of our alarm clock. It is 2:22 a.m.

What woke me up? I have no idea. Certainly not Dennis, my husband. He is lying next to me. I can hear him quietly breathing.

The bed is shaking, trembling oh so softly. It takes me a moment to figure out what just what is going on. Dennis is jerking off, right there beside me in our bed. He has the sheet flipped back, so that his cock is exposed to the darkness of the night, and he is slowly, softly masturbating.

I almost reached over and grabbed his dick from him, finished the job myself. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t.

I wish I could tell you how long it’s been, but I can’t. Dennis and I get it on once ever couple, three months. It usually seems adequate. We’ve been together twenty years now, nearly ten of those years married. I guess I always assumed that he jerks off from time to time, but the reality of it stabs me in the gut.

I think back to Kristov, my very first. I was in my mid-teens, too smart for my own good, and horny beyond description. Kristov was my tennis instructor, and if my mom ever found out, even today, it would kill her. He was ten, fifteen years my senior, easy. He should have known better. He did know better. I blatantly seduced him.

We’d been flirting all the way through the lesson. Kristov seemed to be flirting back There was a lump in the front of his white tennis shorts that hadn’t been there earlier. I was gratified to see that my newly minted powers of seduction were working. I stuck my hand down his shorts and told him I wanted him to fuck me cross-eyed. The poor guy didn’t know what to say. But his dick answered loud and clear.

With that established, we progressed rapidly through tongue-kissing and dry-humping to the art of furtive handjobs and finger-banging (a joy in and of itself!); with a brief pause for refreshment; and then straight to the main event, which occurred in the passenger seat of his little black Miata on the bottom floor of a parking garage. The ambience wasn’t what I’d call exactly romantic, and his sports car was only slightly more cramped than a Soyuz capsule.

I thought his dick looked beautiful, crowned with an explosion of blonde pubic hair, and I wanted it inside me, like yesterday. He didn’t want to wear a condom, but I insisted. I was horny, not stupid. He had some in the glove compartment. By this point I was beyond excited; my pussy was quite literally drooling, leaving slime trails all over his black leather bucket seat. Safely wrapped, he climbed on top and kissed me some more and played with my tits a little before skewering my cunt. I won’t say it didn’t hurt when he penetrated me, but I didn’t really mind. I’d expected it. And once he was well inside and thrusting, I knew that I’d hit jackpot.

I wrapped my legs around his white little butt, kicking the rearview mirror right off the windshield, grabbed the headrest with both hands, and screamed like a howler monkey. He shot off inside me about two seconds later, his cock pulsating and spasming like a dying animal, thrusting like mad and filling the condom to overflowing with his hot semen.

In retrospect, I know that Kristov had a fairly small penis. Not that I’m complaining; on the contrary, for my purposes it was perfect. I couldn’t get enough of it either. He taught me to suck it for him. He was uncircumcised, which was kind of exotic, though I didn’t know it at the time. He was no mini, but definitely on the petite size. It fit inside me perfectly. Possibly a little too perfectly. I could feel myself starting to get addicted.

Kristov fucked me three times, and each time was a little better than the time before. He lasted a little longer each time; the last time he did it to me, I even had an orgasm on him.

I broke it off after that. Quit tennis, never played again. I was in danger of falling in love with Kristov and his scandalous dick, and I wanted to nip it in the bud. I hope I didn’t do him any damage. All in all, he was a pretty good guy.

Next to me in bed, Dennis’ rhythm has changed. He is doing it a little faster, a little more insistently now. I wish I could see, but I can barely make out his profile in the darkness, and I don’t want to move and let him know I am awake.

I don’t know why it should bother me that he is masturbating now, in our dark bedroom, but it does. I could never get enough. Even back in the day, when me and Dennis were crazy about each other and screwing like weasels, I used to whack off behind his back, look at pornography, fantasize about fucking different guys, teasing and flirting and generally pushing my luck.

Oh, I’ve strayed a couple times. I even paid for it once. Yes I did. It wasn’t so long ago, last summer. Our regular receptionist called in sick (Hung-over, most likely. Ricky was a pale and anorexic-looking tight-jeaned young raver. Not my type at all. And yes, I would probably fuck him given half a chance.) The temp that they sent over was exactly my cup of tea though. He looked just like Teddy Ruxpin. He might have been twenty-one. He was a little chunky; he had curly brown hair and hairy forearms and a bit of a belly, and the biggest, most adorable brown eyes.

I flirted with him shamelessly all morning, and he seemed to be flirting back. I am well aware that I am no supermodel, especially since I’ve gained some weight, so as he responded to my playful innuendo, I just got bolder and bolder.

I sat down on the counter next to his swivel chair. “What are you having for lunch?” I asked. If he looked, he could see straight up my shirt, black panties framed by fat white thighs.

“I brought a sandwich,” he said, holding up a paper bag as evidence. “What are you going to eat?”

“For a nickel,” I informed him, licking my lips lasciviously, “I’d eat you.”

He turned bright tomato red. “I have a girlfriend,” he sputtered. I don’t think he would have said that if I was skinny.

“Doesn’t bother me,” I said. My panties were distinctly moist, my hands trembling. “I’ll give you sixty bucks, but you have to go down on me first.”

“For real?”

“For real.”

I gave him three twenties, and we retreated to my boss’ office. Sharon was out for a lunch meeting, and I knew she wouldn’t be back until after three. We did it right there on her desk. I’ve never told her, but I’m pretty sure she would approve.

I peeled off my panties and sat back, and he went to town. God, he was good! His girlfriend was one lucky gal. Dennis eats pussy too, but not like that! His tongue was busy, restless, dancing up and down my slit, darting here and there, circling my clit and then moving on, teasing me mercilessly, intentionally or not. It was sweet, sweet torture. I was wet like Lake Michigan. When I finally did come, I pretty much suffocated him between my thighs. Not one word of complaint though.

As much as I enjoyed him going down on me, I relished sucking his dick even more. It had been ages since I had sucked a cock—Dennis and I usually just skip straight to the main act—and I relished it. I relished every inch of it. He was pretty hung; nice and thick, slightly bent, hairy and circumcised. I would have happily taken it in my pussy, climbed on board and ridden him, bouncing up and down until he filled my pussy with his juice, girlfriend be damned. But I restrained myself. I sucked him like a gobstopper. The head got more and more purple and swollen the more I licked. He tasted delicious. I love the taste of man, sweaty and clean. I loved playing with his fat balls. He squealed out loud when I stuck a wet finger up his asshole. I think he may have been a virgin to that. I kept my finger lodged up there while I jerked him off, my lips wrapped tightly around his over-inflated glans, and shortly thereafter he came in my mouth, grunting like a bear and pumping out what seemed like about a gallon and a half of sticky, salty semen. I was pretty much in heaven. I swallowed every drop and licked his wilting member clean before gently extracting my finger, a process that made him giggle.

“I’d have done it for free,” he said.

“Yeah, but this way you made sixty bucks,” I told him. “Take your girlfriend out to dinner.”

She’s a lucky girl. I kind of wish I had fucked him.

There is this girl at the gym I am dying to fuck. I don’t even know her name. We have roughly the same workout schedule. I’ve been watching her get undressed, shower, and put on her street clothes for the last couple months. I’m pretty sure she knows I’ve been watching too. She always picks a locker close by mine, and she has dropped all pretensions of modesty with her towel.

She has short hair, black with a blue streak. She’s probably half my age. She shaves her pussy, the way all the kids do these days, I guess. She has these enormous, round boobs that I am absolutely dying to touch. And to suck on. And I don’t even like big tits!

This girl has the sexiest ass ever. I would love to fuck her little asshole. I wonder if she likes it that way. Dennis used to butt-fuck me from time to time. He was always a little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure I was really into it. I’m not sure when we stopped doing that. It always made me come. It feels so intimate! There is nothing like coming with a cock in your ass, your clit bulging out and on fire, your pussy drooling and grasping at air while your man abandons restraint, thrusting deep inside you, fucking your harder, pummeling and brutalizing your wide-stretched anus.

I’d love to fuck her that way. I’d take her right there in the locker room. Bend her over the bench and lick her from clit to asshole and back again, making her pretty little pussy all wet and wide open, sticking my tongue in her ass until she is positively begging for it. I’d start with one finger, wet with my own pussy juice, work it gently inside. Damn, she’d be tight! The sound of her moaning would change, get softer and more intense. I’d keep my tongue busy, kissing and licking her backside while I worked my finger deeper into her anus. I’d add a second finger, and she’d growl with pleasure, humping back up against me. My other hand would find her clitoris, her tiny, needy button, and I’d pet it, just barely stroking, drawing little circles, while I sodomized her deeper and deeper. And then she’d come, her whole body flailing and bucking and twisting, while my invading fingers stretched her to her absolute limit.

She’d kiss me shyly, and get dressed and leave, leaving me there to masturbate shamelessly right there in the showers, where just anyone could walk in and see.

Next to me, Dennis’ hand is moving faster and faster. The bed is making tiny squeaking noises now, like a hamster wheel. Suddenly he freezes. His hand stops and his whole body goes rigid, and I know he is coming. I hold perfectly still, waiting for his breathing to resume.

He gropes by the side of the bed for a dirty sock to wipe up with. What is it with guys and dirty socks? Maybe I should reach over, dip my finger in the puddle spread it around his belly before bringing my wet finger to my lips and tasting his salty essence. I could lick him clean, kiss him on the lips, whisper in his ear that I still love him.

It is 2:26 in the morning. My pussy is drenched. My clit is hard and erect, throbbing urgently with every heartbeat. I am making a little wet spot on our clean sheets. I can hear Dennis breathing again, the slower, deeper sound of sleep. I wonder what it would feel like to be divorced.

END