Archive for April, 2011

The Decline and Fall of Master Andrew

He told me to be there at seven. He told me not to ring the bell. He told me to wait for him, so I did.

I sat on his stoop and waited, as the evening gloaming fell upon the streets of Brooklyn. The night air felt cool on my pussy; he had instructed me not to wear panties under my skirt and it was getting chilly.

I sat and waited more-or-less patiently for over an hour. I knew he did it on purpose to get at me, so I tried not to let it get at me. Now and then a passing dude would try to make conversation with me: a lonely white girl in a daisy-print white summer dress and floppy hat sitting alone, all by herself. I ignored them. He was getting to me.

It was almost eight-thirty when Master Andrew finally showed up, his latest girlfriend unsteadily in tow. She was a raven-haired beauty with flawless pale skin and no hips. I loathed her already.

They didn’t acknowledge me as he fumbled with the lock. I followed them inside. They reeked of liquor, sweat, tobacco smoke.

“Disrobe,” he barked once we were inside the building. His voice echoed in the stairwell. His girlfriend watched with a sneer on her face. I left my flowery dress draped in a bundle over the banister, and meekly followed them up the stairs, naked, my tits bouncing as I walked.

He told me to kneel on the carpet in front of his sofa. They made out for a while on his couch. Her boobs were smaller than mine, as was her butt. She had a simpering way of kissing him that I found singularly unsexy. She looked like she was about twenty-three. She could have been a model.

They ordered pizza, and noisily snorted lines of coke off his glass-topped coffee table.

He told me to suck his dick, and I eagerly complied. I love sucking dick, and I like to think I’m pretty damn good at it, too. She watched, fascinated and aghast, as I stuck my head between his thighs and went to it, kissing and licking and lavishing attention onto his dangling ball sac before working my way up to his semi-erect cock.

I knew what my mission was: to pleasure him without letting him get too excited. Under no circumstances was I to make him come. I was deeply tempted to bring him off in my mouth just for spite, and then to endure whatever punishment he felt like heaping out on me, but I refrained.

Once his dick was fully erect, I let my wet mouth bob slowly up and down the shaft, languidly slathering my tongue around the glans, making him shudder. Now and then I’d stop, blowing playfully on his wet cock, or licking his balls, or flicking my tongue at his pink pee-hole, or nuzzling and kissing the sordid hairy crease where his butt-cheeks came together. I was thoroughly enjoying myself, and I felt her eyes on me the whole time, felt her discomfiture and annoyance, and her steadily increasing arousal at the whole situation.

The pizza came, and they relocated to the dining table, drinking beer to go along with the pie. He kept his cock hanging out the fly of his pants, and it was my job to kneel under the table and keep him erect. When they were done with their pizza, they threw the crusts on the floor for me to eat.

Master Andrew handcuffed me, tighter than was strictly necessary, and dragged me by my hair into the bedroom. I was made to squat in the far corner of the room while they made out some more and got naked.

She was thin as a signpost. There was no muscle on her arms or legs, and her ribs stuck out like stacked firewood. Her boobs were small and conical, and she had a generic-looking tribal tattoo on the small of her back. Her pussy was neatly shaved into a tidy little black landing strip. Compared to her, Master Andrew looked downright obese. His hard cock waggled obscenely underneath his belly. She grabbed his penis possessively, shooting me a gloating, possessive look.

Finally, after a lot of necking and touching and writhing around, she lay on her back on his bed, her legs splayed apart like a porn star. He made me come kneel at the side of the bed, setting my head on her stomach so I had a front-row seat to their fucking. She may not have liked it, but he didn’t ask her.

He fucked her cunt desperately hard and fast, his breath coming in dry gasps, like a man who is running for his life. Her cunt squelched and farted as his cock pistoned in and out of her. Every six or seven strokes, he would pull out of her and jam his tangy-slick cock into my open mouth, letting me suck him for a few blissful moments before he resumed fucking her. From the whiny-moany sounds she made, she resented every second his dick was in my mouth.

The speed of his fucking suddenly increased, and he reached down between his legs, squeezing his balls hard. I knew he was about to come, and I hoped that he might pull out one last time and shoot off into my hungry mouth. Instead, he grunted throatily, as if he was getting punched repeatedly in the gut, and buried himself deep inside her cunt, his hairy pubes crushed against her nearly bald labia, his balls scrunched up against her ass. He collapsed on top of her with a sigh, capturing me between their bellies. The smell of sweat and sex was intoxicating. I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma, even as his bulk threatened to overwhelm me. She squirmed underneath me, trying to reach past my head to masturbate.

He made me eat her pussy after that. I don’t generally mind eating pussy at all, but I despised eating hers. Her cunt was hot and wide open, and oozingly full of his come. I deliberately did a lousy job of going down on her, enough so that she complained to Master, and he gave me a powerful stinging smack across the ass and told me to stop fucking around. I got the message, concentrating on her hard little clit, hating her with every lick. She crooned as she came, rubbing her cunt against my face, and pulling my hair hard enough that I was afraid she’d rip chunks out of my scalp.

They got up and did some more lines. I don’t know where he got the money for all that blow; in real life Master Andrew is an assistant manager at Target. I’d be willing to bet that the ‘cocaine’ they were snorting was nine-tenths talcum powder.

Master Andrew finally uncuffed me, lit a post-sex cigarette and told me sleepily to get lost. I shook the blood back into my tingly hands and asked, trying not to sound plaintive, if I could please masturbate first.

“Two minutes,” he said, “I’ll give you two minutes.”

My hands shot between my legs, where my pussy was liberally salivating, drooling sex all over my thighs. I plunged two fingers deep inside, pressing my palm hard against my over-stimulated clit. Two minutes would be just about all I needed.

She lay on her stomach next to him on the bed, smirking unabashedly, and watched as I fingered myself.

After a period of time that seemed to me distinctly less than two minutes, he stood up and flicked his still-lit cigarette butt in my direction. I flinched and she grinned triumphantly.

“Time’s up,” he said, “Get the hell out of here.”

I traversed the four flights of stairs down to where my forlorn summer dress and floppy hat still hung. I was naked, pissed-off, frustrated, and painfully horny. I didn’t even wait to get home first; I sat on his concrete stoop with my dress hiked up, and rubbed myself to a delightful, blissful, bone-shaking, tendon-wrenching, teeth-rattling orgasm that left me dizzy and smiling. Fuck them both.


He called me up and told me to where to meet them. The place was noisy, packed, and tangibly hip. It was an after work crowd, and I felt distinctly old, shabby, and uncool.

I found them at the bar. He was still wearing his work duds, but he had traded his red blazer for a black leather motorcycle jacket. She had on a purple corset that scrunched her little boobs up into a mockery of cleavage, and black pants with horizontal tears ripped up and down the legs that showed off the pale flesh underneath.

He made her give up her barstool for me, which she did grudgingly, shooting me a vicious look.

He whispered/yelled into my ear to unbutton my blouse, to give the bartender a real eyeful. The bartender was gay and could have cared less.

I was drinking bourbon, straight up, and lots of it. He had a collection of bottles going on in front of him, Bud Light, and he was obsessively peeling the labels off and stacking them in neat little piles. She looked bored and was imbibing something blue and poisonous-looking out of a martini glass.

He stuck his hand up under my skirt, fingering my pussy, making me squirm. He announced loudly “She’s soaking wet! Have a feel!”

Not exactly soaking, but definitely wet.

She did have a feel, jabbing fingers with scary long nails into my crotch.  “She is wet!” she simpered in an exaggerated little girl voice, “Horny little slut!”

His larger, softer, manicured hand joined hers between my legs. I was beginning to draw interested looks from our neighbors at the bar. He slid a finger up inside me, and it felt really nice.

“Who’s going to get my cock later on?”


“Who’s going to get good and fucked with my big dick tonight?”


People were definitely paying attention now. A knot of hipsters pressed in close around us, gawking openly. She smirked and preened.

He spoke loudly, almost bellowing to be heard over the semi-ironic classic rock that was blaring out of the retro-style jukebox that was really just a dressed-up iPod. “Do you want to come?”

Yes! Yes! Yes, of course I wanted to come! His finger inside me was driving me crazy. Her nails were scraping the inside of my thigh in an idly painful sort of way. But I didn’t want it bad enough to do it the way he wanted, to grovel for it in front of her, in a crowded bar full of hipsters. Besides, I knew him, and the odds were very good he’d stop just before I got off anyway, leave me hanging out of pure maliciousness. I clenched my teeth and kept silent.

He withdrew his finger, offered it to her to lick off. She made a face, but licked it clean anyway.  “Wait for us at home,” he told me.

As I left the bar, pushing my way through the crowd, I felt hands, strangers’ hands, male and female, groping me; squeezing my ass and tits, sliding up my skirt. It was like wading through a forest of grasping, clinging, kinky, impetuous kelp. I found my way out to the sidewalk; hot, flushed, bothered, slick and wet and horny.

I waited on his stoop for what seemed like hours. The street was quiet. The night enveloped me like cold, still water. It was chilly, and I wished I had more clothes on. I masturbated a little under my skirt. I was a little drunk, and then I started to sober up.

“I said, could I bum a light?” It was the second time she’d asked me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t smoke.” I looked up. She was cute. Shorter than me, probably younger than me too. Built like a forest sprite. Sticky-outy ears with multiple piercings. A magenta streak in her shoulder-length brown hair. Small hands with closely trimmed nails. Baggy sweatshirt, spattered in paint. Baggy, paint-spattered jeans.

“Don’t be sorry,” she said, “It’s a terrible habit. You look chilly.”

“I’m ok,” I said.

“I’m Penelope. Penny. Pen. I live just up the street if you want to warm up.”

I watched her walk away, across the street and up into a building near the end of the block. She might have had a cute ass. It was hard to tell in those baggy jeans.

I’m not sure what time it was when Master Andrew and his girlfriend got home. They were pretty sloppy drunk. I followed them upstairs, where they did a bunch more blow, and she got a bloody nose and watched me venomously with a paper towel clamped to her face as he made me undress and crawl on all fours out onto the fire escape.

He gave me a nice solid spanking, which got me good and revved up all over again. I wondered if Pen could see me from her bedroom window. I liked that idea. More than a little.

And then he let her have a go at me. She was a vindictive slapper, but she was weak, and I got the feeling it hurt her hand more than my ass, which gave me sour pleasure. Then she got frustrated and went and got a wooden spoon out of his kitchen. That hurt a lot, and not so much in a fun way.

He took a piss on me, out there naked in the night air, his urine splattering down off me and onto the pavement four stories below. Normally that is a huge turn-on for me, but at the time all I could think of was Bud Light. For a little while they worked on trying to shove a wine bottle up my cunt, but then Master Andrew got bored with that and let me go take a shower.

When I came out of the bathroom, they were both naked. He had me squat in the corner again while she worked on blowing him on the bed. It took her a long, long time and a lot of work to get him hard. I could have done a much better job. Then they fucked. I could have masturbated; he hadn’t forbidden it; but somehow I wasn’t in the mood.


He told me to be there at seven, not to ring the bell, to wait for him. So I did.

I sat on the stoop and waited. Eight slipped by, and eight-thirty. It started to rain.

“You can borrow my umbrella if you’d like.” It is Pen, my little wood nymph. There is concern in her voice. I can taste salt on my face. I’ve been crying, and I hadn’t even realized it. “You’re soaking wet.”

She is wearing a black t-shirt with the arms cut off. Her jeans have ragged holes in the knees. Her hands, forearms, shirt, and pants are spattered with paint, every different color. She is holding a red umbrella in one hand and she is looking at me, worried.

I look up at her blankly, trying to blink the tears out of my eyes.

“Come on back to my apartment,” she says, “We’ll get you all warmed up.”

Penny’s place is tiny, dark, enormously cluttered, and comfortable. She has a futon sofa that does double duty as a bed and is currently covered in stretched, primed blank canvases.

“Are you an artist?” I ask.

“Painter.” she confirms with a shy grin.

“What do you paint?”


(It’s true. She does portraits of penises. Big and small, hard and soft, circumcised and non-. Her canvases range from the size of a postage stamp to a small billboard. And she manages to make a living doing it!)

I catch a fleeting, tantalizing glimpse of lime-green panties as she peels off her damp, paint-encrusted jeans and pulls on comfy-looking sweat pants. Her sleeveless t-shirt comes off over her head. She is wearing a black sports bra underneath. Her boobs are quite big for her body; she isn’t exactly top heavy, but she must be a C-cup at least. Whoever said ‘More than a handful is a waste’ was a fool. She puts on an oversized green flannel shirt, and catches me staring.

“We should get you out of those wet things,” she says, and then shortly thereafter we are all over her futon, canvases clattering onto the floor, kissing desperately, which is slightly weird because I am naked and she is fully dressed, but really that only makes it all hotter.

My cell phone rings. It is Master Andrew. I reach over and turn off the phone without answering.

And then I am lying on my stomach, between Pen’s warm, strong, clenching thighs. There is an unruly muff of hair down there, the same color brown as on her head, soft as a baby bunny. Her pussy is small and shy, and takes a lot of careful licking to bring into full wet bloom.

I look up from between her legs. “Would you do something for me?”

“Are you kidding?!? Anything, just don’t stop!”

“Pull my hair a little while I do this…”

She complies very nicely as I eat her out. When she comes, she wriggles and squirms and cries like a little bird, and her whole body shakes and shudders and my face is thoroughly coated in her clean, salty, sexy juices. Her orgasm is the most beautiful thing in the world, and as she finally relaxes her grip on my hair and I come up panting, I realize that I am turned on beyond belief.

“Stay like that, just like that.” she instructs me.

She smacks my ass, once on each cheek, hard and loud, and I feel myself coming just from that, a little orgasm that makes me shake and whimper.

I am still kneeling down, as if in prayer. Pen reaches behind me, deftly slips a finger up my sloppy-wet cunt, and then works another up my asshole. She fucks me like that, shockingly hard, and a few minutes later I am coming again, coming hard, loud and out of control, harder than I’ve come in a long, long time.

When it is all over, we cuddle and kiss for a while. It has gotten very late and I have to work in the morning. I get dressed. She sits naked on her window sill and smokes a cigarette out the window and asks if she will ever see me again and I go over and hug her tight and tell her ‘Yes’.

That week I collect eight voicemail messages from Master Andrew. I delete them all without listening. Someday we will pass each other on the street, and not make eye contact.

We are sitting by the window in a little mock-Parisian café near my place. Pen drinks her coffee black, thick and dark as crude oil, with no milk or sugar to dilute it.

“You’re kinky.” she says.

“Yes.” I admit.

She smiles, and it gives me the butterflies. In a nice way.

“I like that,” she says, “I like that a lot. Kinky is fun.”

We drink our coffee in comfortable silence for a minute. Her knee brushes against mine under the table and in an instant I am wet.

“So do you switch at all?”

“I don’t know,” I say, “I’ve never tried.”

“Do you think you could tie me up and give me a spanking?” She blushes and squirms uncomfortably. It is almost painfully cute. “Or, say…. Um, fuck me in the ass with a big black dildo?”

I take her hand and squeeze it. Her hand is small, strong, sweaty, and trembling slightly. I kiss the back of her fingers.

“I’d certainly be willing to give it a shot!”


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I met him at a party, a friend of a friend sort of thing. His name was Arthur, and the truth is that I was attracted to him, not necessarily sexually, but attracted the way two masses are attracted by Newton’s law of gravitation, from the moment I’d first seen him across the shabby, cluttered, thirty-something choked room.

I hadn’t planned on going out with him when we were first introduced, even though I felt inexorably drawn to the guy. I had fallen out of the habit of going out with anyone at that stage of my life; things just got too complicated, too quickly. And yet… He had that hot scientist thing nailed. He gave the impression of being made out of tinkertoys; tinkertoys with pale-olive skin draped over. He was tall and gawky, like a stork, with outrageously big hands and chestnut hair mixed with gray and ears that stuck out like the parachutes of a drag racer. We sat next to each other on the broken-backed beige couch, and conversed while the party swirled on around us.

He was smart. Crazy, ridiculously smart, he was getting his PhD in a branch of mathematics I’d never even heard of; and he had a very dry and offbeat sense of humor. Arthur was the kind of guy who would say something absolutely hilarious, and you would only realize that it was hilarious about two minutes after he’d said it, by which time he’d be talking about something else entirely, and would look at you when you cracked up laughing with a curious tilt of his head, his big brown eyes saying ‘Is this chick fucking insane?”

He stood a full head taller than me, and he had a loping half-gallop, half-shuffle that I had to scramble to keep up with. He also had the most beautiful penis I have ever seen. (Of course I didn’t know that at the time, that detail I only found out later!) It certainly wasn’t the biggest cock I had ever encountered, but it was definitely the most lovely: a beautifully proportioned, beautifully sculpted column of male flesh. Michelangelo’s David should be hung like that!

When he asked me out, he was so earnest and cute and vulnerable that I, despite lingering misgivings and misapprehensions left over from the Darla debacle, heard myself saying ‘Yes’.

Why not? After all, it was only dinner and drinks. Nothing had to happen. And so here I was, inside his charmingly ratty little apartment, splayed out nude on his futon mattress.

Oh sweet Jesus he was good too! Not just smart and cute and funny, but genuinely talented in bed! I was unbelievably turned on by him; not just my pussy — which was absolutely soaking wet — but my whole body was in lust with this guy. He had it down: everything about him was sexy, from those big oven-mitt hands to the unruly mop of already-graying hair to the delicious-looking, quiveringly hard penis that jutted out from his crotch like the bowsprit of a sailing ship. I wanted him. I wanted him to take me and use me and do filthy things to me. I wanted him to fuck me.

That looked to be exactly what was about to happen. He gave me a look that seemed to ask permission, half-shy and half-defiant, and fished a condom out of a shoebox next to the futon mattress. I caught a glimpse of something secret; anal beads? lube? And then the box was closed again.

Arthur attempted to suavely tear the condom wrapper open with one grand swift, sexy gesture, like a matador flourishing his cape. At this he failed entirely, and ended up having to gnaw the foil packet open with his teeth, which to my way of thinking, was just as sexy. If not more so. Flickering candles stuck in wine bottles on milk crates to either side of the bed, casting writhing, surreal shadows on the walls of his bedroom.

He’d been at it for hours, torturing and tormenting and pleasuring me with his lips, fingers, and tongue until I was a gelatinous, squirming, red-hot ball of jelly, making a large wet puddle on his sheets. He went down on me for so long, I don’t even know, hours it seemed like. It is really hard to get me off that way, especially when I am trying not to come, but he had me right on the edge. My clit stuck out like a big wet sore thumb.

He towered above me like a naked, disheveled scarecrow, tormenting me with his beautiful erect penis, rubbing it up and down my vulva until I was literally panting with desire.

When he finally skewered me with that hot, hard as marble, exquisite, condom-sheathed cock, I just gave in, surrendering to the sensation, letting myself go. I made a sound like a cartoon chef sampling a perfect soup: “Mmm-mmmm-mmm.” I wrapped my legs around his back, pulling him even deeper inside me, humping back against his every stroke, bringing us both inevitably closer and closer to climax.

My grasp on chronological order is tenuous at best. It happens all the time: my concentration lapses and I jump ahead or fall back five minutes or an hour. Sometimes I wake up in the morning a day or a week out of order. It’s quite vexing, and socially awkward, but nothing I haven’t learned to cope with. But when I orgasm, I come totally unstuck. I get catapulted completely out of sequence, months or years out of sync with the rest of the universe. The last time I’d had an orgasm was with Darla, and that had ended in disaster. That was three fairly-contiguous years ago; since then I’ve tried not to come at all, and not to put myself in a position where I might be tempted to get off.  Usually I put a stop to things way before they get anywhere near that far. Not this time.

He was fucking me hard, fucking me fast, his eyes glazed over, sweat beading up on his forehead. His cock made sexy squishing sounds as it slid in and out of my juicy cunt. Nothing makes me come harder than a nice fat cock in my pussy! I was on the edge, slipping, slipping past, slipping, spinning over that edge.

“Oh fuck yes, fuck yes, fuck me! Oh yes, yes, yes, oh so good! Oh yes, I’m coming!”

And away I go. Unstuck.

I am in the bathtub. I’ve been here a million times before, so I know what’s going to happen. I just relax and enjoy it.

I’m a little girl. I’m still not sure exactly what age this is; old enough to take a bath by myself, not old enough to have been swept up in the tides of puberty.

I have just recently discovered that if I squeeze my rubber ducky (of all things!) and press him hard up against my vagina, and then sort of rub him back and forth, that it feels really, really nice. Glowingly nice. Achingly nice. Compulsively nice.

This activity isn’t exactly naughty, but it also isn’t something you do around other people. So I confine myself to doing it in the privacy of the tub.

This was going to be the first time, and I knew that it would be particularly intense. I found the sweet spot, pressed my rubber ducky just so, moved him up and down just so, and I felt it coming, building inside my young body. I mentally braced myself for the shock, even as the waves of pleasure built and built, faster and more intense, like storm-driven Pacific swells crashing upon a rocky beach. I knew what was coming and I didn’t stop, didn’t back off, clutching the duck in both hands and squishing him against my pussy even as the orgasm broke over me, making my legs flail and kick, splashing bathwater out of the tub and onto the tile floor. The sensation was better than anything I had ever felt. I was instantly addicted.  I wanted it to go on and on forever even as felt myself slipping away, even as I came unstuck.

I am in my cubicle, staring at the computer screen. I am not sure how old I am or what year it is. I know that I worked for Hokkaido Consolidated for a while in the mid twenty-teens, and that I should probably be doing something work-related, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what. The spreadsheet that is open on my computer doesn’t clue me in one bit. The rows and columns full of numbers mean nothing to me. Some kind of report, possibly?

I give up puzzling over the spreadsheet and turn to solitaire. What will be will be. Shortly thereafter, my phone buzzes.

“Ms. Takahashi wants to see you in her office. She says to bring a hard copy of your quarterlies.”

I print up the spreadsheet on my computer and set off to find Ms. Takahashi’s office. Walking past row after row of cubicle, I am overcome with a wave of déjà-vu that sends me spinning five minutes or so into the future. I find myself standing in front of Ms.Takahashi’s office door, clutching the quarterly report in my sweaty hand. I know I ended up getting fired from this job. Is this the day?

I rap nervously on the fake wood veneer door. Her cool, aloof-sounding voice drifts through the plastic material: “Enter”, and with butterflies in my stomach, I bounce back three or four minutes, wandering through the hallways trying to figure out which office is hers without looking like a complete ass.

I finally find her office, mainly by good fortune and process of elimination.  I rap nervously on the fake wood veneer.


Clutching the crumpled quarterly report in my sweaty hand, I walk into her office, shutting the door behind me.

She is sitting on her desk, tall and imperious-looking, carelessly swinging her long, long, long sleek, slender legs. She is half-Asian, which definitely helps you climb the food chain at this company, and I know she is an utterly ruthless corporate animal. She is beautiful in the glossy magazine sense of the word. She doesn’t dye her hair; she doesn’t need to. It is steel-grey and elegant. Her face might have been chiseled from a block of composite jade analog. Behind her fashionable titanium-rimmed glasses, her eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Come on in,” she says, “Sit down. Do you know why I called you in here?”

I swallow hard and make a non-committal nodding gesture.

“You were fantastic last night! I never would have suspected that you had it in you. Just set that report in my inbox, I’m sure it’s fine. I never properly thanked you for last night… I never truly expressed my appreciation.”

She kicks her shoes off. They are expensive-looking black high heels, the kind that make my ankles hurt just looking at them. This woman is so far out of my league it’s not even funny.

Ms. Takahashi purrs as she slithers out of her navy-blue pinstriped business suit; her breasts are strapped down by a bra that probably cost half of my weekly paycheck. Under her pants she wears a very sassy black lace V-string. I would bet you anything in the world she that her jade gate is waxed totally bald under those fancy panties.

I think about how thin the walls are, how well that door conducted sound. “Aren’t you afraid someone will hear us?” I stammer as she crawls on all fours toward me, like a panther prowling through the jungle. She might have been a freaking Calvin Klein ad. I realize that I am wet, despite myself; wet and swollen and tingly with anticipation.

“Well,” she says as she slinks up onto my lap, pressing her predator’s body against me and kissing my face, ears, and neck, “You’ll just have to keep it quiet then, won’t you?”

Her hands are inside my shirt, inside my bra, tweaking, pinching, cruelly tugging on my already hard nipples. I stifle the urge to scream, gurgling instead. I slump down in the swivel chair, my legs spreading of their own accord.

She is already tugging my underwear off: boring grey boy-shorts. She presses the damp crotch into her face and inhales deeply. “I can’t tell you how much I am going to enjoy this!” My panties land right on her desk, draped half-across her daily planner.

Man, she was good at it! It was as if someone had given her an intensive week of corporate training in cunnilingus just for my benefit. Her tongue was at least a meter long and was strong as a boa constrictor. She had me balanced right on the edge, bouncing back and forth in time, a few seconds forward, a few seconds back, as she licked my pussy like a well-trained expert. She’d lap at my cunt, tease my clit, nibble my thighs, slide a long finger with a perfectly manicured, dangerous-looking nail deep up inside me and then drag it out and up and down; and just when she had me completely flummoxed, she’d pull back and just blow on my wetness. I was dizzy with lust, inflamed desire, and temporal instability. I may well have been screaming by that time, I’m not really sure.

We end up with her face mashed in between my thighs, her tongue sliding up and down my clit, two or three fingers crammed up my sopping wet pussy, another pressed against my asshole. I can’t hold back any more. My body shakes spasmodically as waves of pleasure take over and I come, come hard, spinning completely unstuck and out of sequence.

I am in Mr. Schock’s fourth-period German class. It is hot and it is humid, and a big fat fly is repeatedly trying to kamikaze the window panes as Mr. Schock drills us on irregular verbs. One of the fluorescent lights is going bad, flickering and buzzing annoyingly.

I know I never should have taken German. I never ever used it later in life. I don’t remember any of it. Nipponese or Korean or Arabic would have been way more useful, but none of those classes were offered at my high school.

I squirm behind my desk. The seat is hard and uncomfortable. This class seems to last forever. I wish I were somewhere else, anywhere else. High school is the deepest pit in hell.

I raise my hand.


“Um, can I go use the bathroom?”

“Sagen, dass es in Deutsch.”

I furiously wrack my brain. “Kann ich das Badezimmer?”


Crap. The minutes slowly, painfully click by. Where is temporal distortion when you really need it? The only mercy is that at least Mr. Schock doesn’t call on me. I squeeze my legs together and make rude faces behind his back.

As soon as the bell rings, I make my hasty exit into a hallway crowded with adolescence, teen angst, and pheromones. I head straight for the girl’s room. Lock myself in a stall, yank my panties down past my knees, hands fly straight between my legs.

It just isn’t happening. I am dry as dead wood. It doesn’t help that giggling, snide teenage girls keep coming in and going out of the bathroom, banging the doors, shrieking, farting and flushing. I try slicking things up with spit, but it doesn’t help at all. I try to think about Darla, the kinky things she will do to me sometime in the future. It doesn’t seem real. I don’t even begin to get turned on, never mind approach orgasm. I feel about as far from unstuck as I ever have. Time clicks by in a painfully linear fashion, second inexorably following second.

I give up, pulling my panties back on and zipping my zipper, and I go on to suffer through the remainder of the school day. Pre-calc seems to last forever; Civics is even worse. Teenage drama plays out all around me, giggling and passing notes. The teacher drones on and on, going through the motions. Chalk squeals on the blackboard. I can’t stand this place. The girl sitting in front of me is quiet, studious, and charmingly hot in a black skirt and purple sweater. She is the kind of girl who would never get any attention in high school. I think she’s beautiful. I wonder what she is wearing under her skirt, wonder if she’s ever thought about fooling around with another girl.

Now my pussy is moist. Maybe when I got home I’ll have a nice satisfying wank and get off and get my ass out of this high school purgatory.

I ditch my backpack in the front hall and positively run upstairs to my room. The familiar old house seems unreal to me. It is so much smaller than I remember. I slam the bedroom door after myself, kicking off my shoes. My clit feels like a fat ripe cherry. My panties are around my ankles as my ass hits the bed. I wish I owned a vibrator at this point in my life. Just as I start to let my fingers do the walking, my Mom taps on the door and asks if I am ok. I say “Sure”, scrambling to pull up my jeans before she pokes her head into the room. She looked at me a little funny, but just asks if I am still going to that party with Grahm and the other kids. I say I guess I am. She tells me ok, but I have to do my homework first, and take the recycling out and clean my room. When that is all done, she tells me to have fun and to be really careful.

It is always bittersweet when I cross paths with Grahm, my first real boyfriend. I know he comes out as gay later on and dies of AIDS in the late ‘80s. I wondered where we were currently at in our relationship, which had begun tentatively and sort of faded out after two mostly fun years when he owned up that he liked guys and I got interested in exploring other girls.

“So where did you just fly in from?”

Grahm is one of the very few people I ever told about my non-linear condition.

“Ugh,” I say, “My mid-thirties. Corporate hell.”

“That doesn’t really seem like you.”

“It’s not me at all. I don’t think that gig lasted very long.”

“Do you know what we’re going to do tonight?”

My breath catches and my heart flutters in my chest. We are finally going to do it. I am going to lose my virginity tonight.

Grahm’s friend Jamie’s parents are out of town, and a bunch of kids are hanging out at his house. It’s our crowd; nerds, geeks, dweebs and freaks. There is beer, Olympia beer in cans, which holds no novelty for me. Grahm and me discretely migrate upstairs, to Jamie’s bedroom, and lock the door.

We’ve done plenty together already; basically everything you can do without actually fucking. I am nervous, jumpy, jittery, and horny.

The sounds of the party going on leak upstairs in a muffled sort of way as we make out on Jamie’s bed. Grahm has a nice, almost feminine body; soft and pale and curvilinear. His penis sticks out like an exclamation point. How could he not have known he was gay? In retrospect it is glaringly obvious.

I wondered if me and Grahm and Jamie would ever get together on this bed, all three of us at once? I can’t remember such an event ever taking place, but it seems only natural that it might.

We fool around for a while. I go down on him. I had forgotten how much I enjoyed sucking his dick. It is a very nice size, I could get the whole thing into my mouth without choking or gagging; and Grahm is always extremely expressive while I was doing it, moaning and groaning and gurgling in ecstasy, which is a huge turn-on for me.

I am wet. He is harder than hard, swollen and trembling, slick with my saliva, red and purple with bulging veins and a big fat dribble of pre-come oozing out the end. I am so ready for him!

I lick off the pre-come. It is sweet and sticky like thin honey. I help him roll on a condom; I know he doesn’t have HIV yet, but being a time traveler is hard enough without being pregnant too.

“Are you ready for this?”

I nod my head eagerly, my legs stretched so wide it hurts.

“Are you scared?”

“No,” I lie.

He awkwardly climbs on top of me. I like the warm bulk of his body, his appendage probing between my legs. My cunt is slick, wet, I am so ready for this, and yet I am scared. I figure I am safe this time, there is no way I’ll have an orgasm the time I lose my virginity. No-one ever does.

His fingers intertwine with mine. I squeeze his hand. He kisses me on the lips. The latex-covered head of his cock is nuzzling up against my horny pussy, driving me insane with lust. With a huff, he collapses his full weight upon me, sliding his dick straight up my cunt.

Ouch! It fucking hurts! I feel myself tearing, and I try not to tense up, try not to cry aloud. All that comes out is a tight-throated little whimper.

Grahm is thrusting in and out of me with joyous abandon. It feels like he is bulldozing my poor torn-up pussy. His dick isn’t even that big, thank God! His eyes are glassy with pleasure.

“Oh baby it’s so good! Your pussy feels so good on my cock! Oh yeah, it’s even better than I had imagined! I can’t believe I’m fucking you… oh God, I’m going to come!”

Amazingly, I am too. The orgasm is trickling up through the pain, threatening to overwhelm me. I fuck back up against him, arching my back and squeezing him between my legs, picturing him doing a hot teenage boy like this, dicks flopping together, balls jiggling, kissing and touching each other as they fuck. I wonder if that is what Grahm is picturing too. I am really close, even as his breath starts to come in ragged pants and his humping became harder and more erratic. I slip a hand between us, down to where his cock was running rampant in my cunt, slick with blood and joy juice, and help myself along, petting my engorged clitoris…

I am in Darla’s apartment, tied face-down to the bed, squirming with unsatiated desire. How long has she been teasing me? My ass stings from the spanking I must have just received.

She is sitting cross-legged on a pillow at the head of the bed, inches from my face. She is, as always, beautiful: chunky in a reassuring way, dark muppet-hair spilling down over one eye, ears sticking out. She has the biggest boobs of any girl I’ve ever dated, and they are not just big, but gorgeous, with huge areola and shy, winking nipples. Her stomach is soft and round, her navel charmingly deep, her legs are thick; she has small princess-like feet and high arches. Her toes are tiny and delicate and the nails are painted green.

Her pussy is spread open and wet. It is surrounded by a forest of whisper-soft dark hair, which is currently slick and sticky with her come. I can see her clit. It is fat and eager and pink and exposed. She lazily slides two fingers all the way up inside, removes them and holds them out for me to inspect. They are covered with her juice, absolutely coated. She smells delicious.

“Do you want this, Baby?”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

“That’s good, ‘cause you’re going to get it. But first I’m going to fuck you in the ass.”

Oh God, anal sex. I’ve been terrified of it and fascinated by it for years, scared it will hurt, curious what it feels like, shy to ask for it. I know that later in life I will adore it, actively seek it out, relish a nice, well-lubricated cock up my ass; but so far I’ve never actually experienced it. The immediate prospect sends a horny thrill through my body, which translates into a rush of wetness in my cunt. What is that pleasant/painful aching sensation in my breasts? It turns out I have these scary-looking stainless-steel clamps affixed to my nipples. I try to force myself to relax, telling myself I really want this.

Darla unties my ankles, leaving my wrists securely fastened. She casually swats my ass, hard, making me yelp. She grins. I get up on my knees, my face pressed sideways on the pillow. I can smell her arousal.

She spreads my ass-cheeks apart with her hands, tut-tutting happily as if she had just sliced open a delicious loaf of home-baked bread and it had turned out just right. I hold my breath. The anticipation -and the nipples clamps- are killing me!

She kisses me on the base of my spine, just above the crack of my ass, and unceremoniously sticks her thumb up my sopping-wet pussy. *Whack* she slaps my ass again, and again I yelp and start. I was going to have one sore bottom the next day!

She kisses her way deliberately down my ass, studiously avoiding my anus, and any remaining shreds of self-consciousness melt away. My asshole feels like a lotus blossom, the pulsing, exuberant, hyper-sensitized center of my universe. Finally, after an eternity and a half, she has mercy on me. The tip of her tongue finds my clenched asshole. It worms its way up inside, like a honey bee extracting nectar from an orchid. Her tongue feels like a naughty, kinky snake, squirming away deep up inside of me. Her thumb keeps moving, slowly, patiently, inside my pussy. I feel myself starting to come, and I slip back a few seconds, to where she is parting my ass cheeks and tormenting my anus. I clench my jaw, willing myself to stay present.

At long last she comes up for air. Her tongue leaves my asshole winking and gasping. Her thumb slips out of my cunt. She embraces me, her huge breasts pressed warmly against my naked back, nuzzling the nape of my neck. Two fingers slid back inside my pussy; her slick wet thumb presses hard against my virgin asshole. We stay like that, joined, breathing hard for a long moment. Then my body relaxes ever so slightly and her thumb is inside me, invading my asshole, and she is fucking both my holes at the same time, and I am coming, coming oh so hard, and the world shifts as I come unstuck.

I am in bed with Arthur, and it’s not his apartment, so it must be the house we bought together later on. We are spooning, his dick is soft and wet between my ass cheeks. I feel the warm, pervasively relaxing glow of a very recent orgasm. The wetness between my legs confirms this suspicion.

“Where were you just now?”

“Darla’s apartment. She just fucked me in the ass.”

“Mmmm. That girl had good taste.” His fingers find my pussy, wet and open and slick. He starts caressing my clitoris, softly, lazily, as if he were petting a tiny kitten.

“You’re going to make me come again,” I warn him.

“Well, that was sort of the point.” His fingers are working their magic. I can feel his penis swelling between my butt cheeks. Despite myself, I am playing with my own nipples, pinching and twisting, as he kisses my hair and strokes my clit in tiny, never-ending circles.

The pleasure takes my body like a wave, and I am transported, even as I wriggle seductively back against his hardening cock.

Cock. I am surrounded by it, yards and yards of cock. The room reeks of sweat and sex and excited maleness. My nipples are swollen and sore, my jaw aches. I am flat on my back, and someone I don’t recognize is fucking my pussy, hard, deep and fast. He is a black guy, and he looks pretty hot. His cock is making sexy squelching noises as it pistons in and out of my pussy. Two other guys are jerking off over me, apparently intent on coming all over my face and/or tits. I reach down and pull back on my clit, exposing it like a pencil eraser. The guy who is fucking me grins broadly and licks his thumb, playing my clit like a banjo as he fucks my cunt. I can hear myself wailing as the orgasm rocks through my body.

It is amazing how cold the desert gets after the sun goes down. I am bent over the hood of our Winnebago, and the residual heat from the engine feels nice against my boobs. Arthur is fucking me from behind. I’m not sure how I know it is Arthur, but I know.

My pussy is dripping wet. It may be artificial wetness, there is a bottle of lube close at hand, but nonetheless it feels delightful. He feels delightful inside me.

The full moon lights up the desert in stark contrast. Tall cacti stand like sentinels. Closer in, sagebrush lurks mysteriously. I look at my hands. They are old, lined with age, wrinkled and bluish and withered. I am in my seventies, at the very least. I can hear Arthur behind me panting raggedly as he fucks my pussy.

“Oh my God, it feels so good! So good!” I tell him.

“Oh yeah Baby,” he gasps. His voice has been roughened and worn thin by age, but it is still his. “Come for me… Come for me!”

I know he is not wearing a condom, we are way past that now, and I am filled with lustful desire to feel him shoot off inside me, to feel my pussy flooded with his semen. But the orgasm is coming on too fast, washing over me, and he knows just how to excite me, tickling my asshole and pulling my hair as he fucks harder, harder and faster and more urgently, and I am calling out his name as I come.

I am back in Arthur’s bachelor apartment, on the futon mattress with him. We are both naked and the candles are guttering low. The aftershocks of my orgasm are still trembling delectably through my body. I am glowing. I feel happy and sexy and safe.

There is a worried expression on his face. His dick is soft, but he hasn’t yet removed the condom, and it looks slightly ridiculous.  “Are you ok?” he asks.

“Oh Arthur,” I say, “If you had any idea just how okay I am right now!”

I pull him down to me, kissing his salty lips, removing the spent condom from his not-entirely soft penis. I am going to fuck this guy again. And again. All. Night. Long.


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Once upon a time, probably not that long ago, it had been a fashionable, expensive, upscale resort. The place had gone downhill. It was now kind of run-down, rather seedy, and cheap.

My boyfriend –now ex-boyfriend– had turned me onto the place three summers ago. It was run by an old Latvian couple; the rooms were on the small side and the beds were kind of lumpy; and though there was technically lake access, there was more mud and cat-tails on the beach than sand. Most people preferred to walk the half-mile or so to the public bathing area.

One of the nice things about the place (other than it being cheap) was that it was never crowded. I imagine once upon a time working class vacationers had flocked in by the busload; this particular summer there were only four other guests. Six if you count the kids. There was an older Jewish guy, and his younger, fatter wife; and there what I dubbed the Wall Street family: a frosty, Nordic-featured married couple who looked like they might be investment bankers or stockbrokers and who spent a lot of time typing into their Blackberries and complaining about the spotty cell service; and their kids. The girl was sixteen or seventeen, and I had a raging crush on her from day one: she was all soft and fluffy and bubbly, and she had big bouncy boobs and a big squeezable butt. Her boobies looked to be bigger than mine, and were definitely perkier. She kind of reminded me of a bunny rabbit. A very sexy bunny rabbit. I wondered if she was a virgin. I wondered if she fooled around with girls. I wondered if she masturbated. And then there was her younger brother, a young teen, on the portly and doughy end of the spectrum. The kids had their own rooms, presumably so that the parents could get some much needed quiet time. I wondered if they ever powered down their laptops. They never seemed to even look at each other.

On the morning of the first full day of my vacation, I ate my breakfast downstairs while the Jewish couple kvetched and the Wall Street family squabbled; I downed a Bloody Mary, grabbed a towel and a smutty book, and headed out for the lake.

The Wall Street family left just ahead of me, hiking off toward the public beach. Mom and Dad had their laptops in hand, and were both yacking irritably into their cell phones. Their teenage daughter wiggled and jiggled behind them in a skimpy little purple two-piece swimsuit. She had a mop of curly blonde hair, and her pale skin glistened with sunblock. I thought about how nice her skin would look glistening with my girl come. The younger brother skulked along behind in a red pair of swim trunks. Lucky little shit; he’d probably seen her naked!

Tempted as I was to follow them to the beach, perving on my teen-dream and her bikini bottom the whole way, lusting after that cute little dimple that demarked the beginning of her butt crack, I turned off the road and took the half-overgrown trail toward the resort’s private beach access. Hardly anyone ever used it. The trail was muddy and indistinct in places. It ended abruptly in a little clearing right on the water. A pair of beach chairs were decomposing there amongst the reeds. Not a human in sight. Perfect.

I spread out my towel on the least rotten looking of the chairs, slathered sunscreen, lay down on my back and read my smutty book. I was having trouble concentrating, but that was ok. My thoughts kept drifting back to that jail-bait teenage girl. I imagined coming back to the resort late that night, a little drunk. I imagined stumbling into her room by mistake. It could happen to anyone! The door wouldn’t be locked, and she would be lying on top of her sheets in the un-air conditioned summer heat, wearing nothing but a pair of panties, her hands busy between her shapely thighs. I’d strip without a word, letting my summer dress fall into a heap on the floor, sliding into bed next to her, pressing my sweaty flesh against hers. Our lips would meet, soft lips brushing against each other, tongues shyly, tentatively exploring as my hand replaced hers inside her panties…

I was getting seriously hot and bothered. What the hell, that’s exactly why I came out here, right? Taking a quick look around, just to be sure, I pulled my top off over my head.

Usually, more often than not, I masturbate in conventional fashion. Fingers on clit; vibrator on clit; or if I’m feeling particularly ambitious maybe a dildo in my pussy or possibly my asshole. Sometimes, however, I don’t even touch my pussy. I can, with a lot of work, make myself come just from nipple stimulation; it takes a while, but the result is well worth the effort.

I rolled my nipples between thumb and forefinger, feeling them stiffen and swell, savoring the pleasurable twinges that radiated out all the way down to my clit. I tugged harder, distending my nipples, making it hurt a little. I thought about feeling her wetness inside her panties, tugging them distractedly off while we kissed, her breasts squeezed up against my own. I tugged harder on my tits, pinching them viciously. My hips were responding involuntarily now, squirming and humping against air. I imagined sliding my head down her soft young body until my head was between her thick, pale thighs. I imagined pressing my face into her fluffy muff, parting her puffy lips with my tongue, and sampling the taste of her already wet virgin little pussy…

A flash of movement in the corner of my eye. Red. I was not alone. I looked, and looked again. There he was, behind a tree at the edge of the clearing; the pudgy pasty younger brother. Spying on me. He had one hand down the front of his red swim trunks. Little shit.

I didn’t stop. Partly it was because I was already too far gone to quit; partly it was because my inner pervert liked the idea of having an audience, even if he was a shit head middle school punk kid. My clit was throbbing like a joy buzzer and my cunt felt wet enough to soak through my swimsuit. I tugged, twisted, pinched, pulled on my nipples, moving rhythmically, really getting into it, moaning out loud, arching my back, and not just for his benefit. I could feel myself slipping over the edge, into a long, slow, deep orgasm, and I surrendered to it. Mmmm, it felt nice. The tremors hit me again and again. When I was finally done twitching, I relaxed my grip on my tender nipples and sighed, slumping into the chair. My pussy was squishy and wide open; maybe I’d go for it again in a little while, only this time dabbling my fingers in the main attraction. First, though, a little swim. I sat up and retrieved my swimsuit top. No sign of the boy now. He was gone.

I ran into him back at the resort that evening after dinner. I was on my way up to my room after a session drinking solo in the dank little hotel bar; he was at the coke machine. He was shorter than me. Toe-to-toe, his face was level with my tits. He leered at me, and I scowled back.

“I saw you this morning” he said smugly.

“Well, duh.” I told him.

“You wanna give me a blowjob?”

“Who are you? I don’t even know your name.”

“I’m Oliver,” he said.

“What’s your sister’s name? She’s pretty cute.”

“You’re pretty cute too. Her name’s Olivia.”

“Really? Oliver and Olivia? That’s kind of fucked up.”

“My parents are pretty fucked up. I think they’re getting a divorce.”

“Sorry. Wanna come back to my room? You can watch me whack off again, but no touching.”

“Ok!” There was a big fat smile on his greasy young face. What was he, 13, 14? I wondered if he’d ever seen an actual pair of naked breasts before mine. The thought made me feel oddly smug and self-satisfied.

He followed me into my room, closed the door, stood nervously in front of it. He seemed unsure what to say, what to do with his hands. I nonchalantly stepped out of my jeans and peeled off my top, setting my breasts free. The nipples were already excited, pointing up and out.

“Do you like them?” I asked, massaging my boobs, playing idly with the nipples.

“They’re pretty nice,” he said, “My sister Olivia’s are bigger though.”

Damn, kid! You sure know how to sweet talk a lady. Even if it was true…

I kept my eyes locked on his as I tugged and pulled on my nipples, getting myself nice and warmed up. It wasn’t taking very long, I was already feeling mighty juicy down there. I lounged on the bed, sticking one hand inside my panties. Good and wet.

He stepped closer. I could feel his eyes on me, I could see the boner in his pants. He wanted me. Good. I pet my clit inside my panties.

“Let me see your cunt,” he said.

“Call it a pussy, that’s more polite,” I said. I was drawing tiny concentric circles around the red-hot little pea that was my clitoris. Right now what would feel really good was a big fat cock jammed right up there.

“Can I see your pussy?”

“No,” I said. Mmmm that felt nice! I was going to make myself come, and soon.

“Can I masturbate?” he asked. Was that a touch of desperation in his voice?

“Be my guest,” I told him.

Quick as a squirrel grabbing a nut, he had his zipper down and his erect penis out. It was cute, definitely on the small side. It looked like it would fit easily in my mouth, the whole thing, no gagging. A practiced hand started jerking off. I matched his pace.

“I wanna cum on your face, slut.”

Little shit had obviously watched a lot of porn. “No way,” I told him.

“Can I cum on your tits then?”

I was close. Real close. “Sure,” I said.

My hand was moving like a banjo strummer inside my panties. I slipped over the edge into a strong, uterus-shaking orgasm, just as Oliver hollered out “Oh Fuck!” and shot off, squirting hot, sticky boy-come all over my face. It landed all over my cheek, on my lips, up my nose. I was still riding the waves of my orgasm, grinding against my own fingers. The whole scene was downright pornographic.

I’d never had a guy come on my face before. As rude, demeaning, and clichéd as it was, the perverted part of me kind of liked it. Probably for exactly those reasons.

“Okay,” I said when the last tremors had passed and I lay still on the bed, glowing quietly, “Time for you to go to bed.”

“Your bed?”

“Nope. Your bed. In your room. Alone.”

He looked slightly crestfallen, his limp penis hanging out his fly, still drooling come.

“I’ve seen her naked,” he said.


“Yeah.” He twisted his face into a grimace that was probably supposed to look sexy. “I ‘accidentally’ walked into the bathroom when she was taking a shower. She’s blonde all over.”

“Meet me lakeside tomorrow. Same place, same time. Don’t be late.”

Alone in the hot, dark room, I masturbated again, Oliver’s adolescent semen drying on my face. It had been a long while since I’d had a real, actual penis in my vagina. Oliver had a cute penis. I wondered what he’d think if I told him that; it might make up for the breast comment and the uninvited facial. Tactful little shit. No guy in history has ever liked having his genitals described as ‘cute’. I wondered if his cock was small because it was small, or if it was just because of his age. When I came, my head was filled with confusing, twisted images of brother and sister intertwined, naked, and me somewhere in the middle.

Through the thin plaster-lathe wall I could hear the Jewish couple; the fat lady and the elderly man, fucking. Their bed creaked obnoxiously. I wondered if they’d heard Oliver and me getting off earlier, and I suppressed a wicked case of the giggles.


He wasn’t late.

“Do I get to see your cunt today?” He leered at me.

“Fat chance,” I said, “Get undressed.”

No arguments there. He was kind of a pudgy little dude; he had a gut, and his boy-boobs could have fit an A-cup bra. There was not one trace of hair on his barrel chest. He had the barest patch of fluffy, whisper-soft, light brown pubes. His cock, I was pleased to see, was already hard, straining skyward.

I pulled off my top, setting my tits free, enjoying the look on his face as he ogled me. I felt a sudden thrill at the dangerousness of the situation: what would happen if someone happened to walk in on us? My clit twitched and tingled with excitement.

I lay down on the creaky, rotting beach chair, and had him stand straddling me, his bare feel planted to either side of my hips. I had a fantastic view of his gear: his jiggling, fuzzy balls, his erect dick. I slipped a hand inside my swimsuit bottom. My pussy was nice and wet. I brought my slippery fingers up to my erect nipples, pinching, pulling and twisting them cruelly as he jerked off above me. Within moments we were both moaning, groaning, and whining with excitement. His cock seemed to swell and pulse, his hand moved up and down like a metronome.

“Oh shit!” he suddenly wheezed, arching his back and squeezing his cock so hard his knuckles went white, “Take it, Bitch!”

Hot boy jizz squirted out of his over-excited cock, spattering come all over my tits in big fat drops like a summer rainstorm. I watched greedily, pulling hard on my nipples as he milked every last drop out of his diminishing penis.

He was panting, breathing hard as if he’d just run a mile. I stuck a hand back down my shorts. Wet does not begin to describe the situation down there. “Now lick it all off,” I told him. He did.

The image and the sensation of him licking his own semen off my breasts, combined with the action of my fingers inside my drenched pussy and on my clit brought me off like Fourth of July fireworks. The orgasm wracked through my body, making me twist and curl up, mashing my boobs into his hungry face. It was the most satisfying one I’d had in a while, and the aftershocks kept me twitching for a long time.

I let him lick my sticky fingers clean. His dick was getting hard again. “Get dressed,” I told him, “Get lost. Get out of here before somebody wonders where you are. Go play with your sister.”

“She’s a virgin,” he told me.

“How do you know?”

“I’ve read her diary.”

I bet you have, you little shit.

And then because I couldn’t help myself: “Does she like girls?”

Oliver leered knowingly at me. “I think she’s bi-curious. I know she’s had a crush on a girl.”

“Come back here tomorrow and we’ll do it again.”


The vacation days slid quickly by, turning inevitably into weeks. Oliver and I got together every single day, sometimes twice, for a jerk-off session. He still wheedled and cajoled me for a blowjob or a look at my cunt, but I suspected his pleas were mostly pro forma; he seemed perfectly happy with our arrangement. As was I.

He continued to call me a cunt, a bitch, and a slut, and I didn’t correct him. Sometimes, if I was in a generous mood, I’d let him play with my boobs while I whacked off; if I was feeling especially magnanimous I’d let him come on my face, which really seemed to do it for him. I remained somewhat amazed at the large quantity of come his body was able to ejaculate on a daily basis; but then again he was a 14 year old boy. Or 13, or whatever.

One morning, near the end of the holiday, we were walking up the road to the public beach together, with bad intent. That is, I knew I had bad intent: the two Bloody Mary’s I’d had for breakfast and the buzzing in my clit told me so; and I suspected he had the same kind of intent from the conspicuous lump in the front of his swim trunks.

A group of five or six poser skate punks about Oliver’s age were hanging out in front of the convenience store, and as we walked past they sneered at him:

“Wazzup Olly? How’s it hanging?”

He resolutely ignored them, facing straight ahead. I could feel the tension in his body.

“Is that your girlfriend? I bet it’s his babysitter!” Snorking derisive laughter all round.

I realized with sudden clarity that Oliver, for all his bluster and bluff, was not and never would be one of the cool kids. These guys were popular; they would join cliques, date cheerleaders, lose their virginity in parked cars, and get varsity letters. Oliver would be the fat kid they made fun of in the locker room; he was a geek, a nerd, a doofus; he’d spend his high school years jerking off to internet porn in the solitary darkness of his bedroom.

Still walking, I half-turned, grabbing the cups of my bikini top with both hands and lifting them up and off, flashing my breasts at the cool boys. Their laughter was silenced as if someone had pressed a mute button. Mouths hung open mid-taunt, eyes went round and wide. I covered back up and we continued walking. I took Oliver’s hand in my own, and felt his glow as we walked the rest of the way down to the beach.

In the water up to my chest and his neck, out by the buoys that marked the limit of the swimming area, I let him stick his hand down inside my swimsuit. The cool lake water mixed pleasantly with my wetness. I rubbed his hard-on through the front of his trunks.

Olivia flounced her way down onto the beach in her skimpy red bikini, boobs bobbing with every step, her blonde hair resplendent in the bright summer sun. I stared unabashedly at her, her thick curvaceous thighs, the sexy crease where they met her bikini bottom.

“God, I’d love to lick her pussy,” I sighed.

“Me too,” Oliver intoned wistfully.

“Really?” His dick felt like a Magic Marker inside his swimsuit.

“Shit yeah. I’d lick her cunt in a heartbeat if she ever gave me the chance!”

“Let’s go back to my room,” I said.

We left Olivia sunning herself on the pebbly beach, listening to her iPod and quietly enjoying being the center of attention. Oliver and I hustled back to the resort, my musty room with the lumpy bed and peeling wallpaper. I slammed the door behind us, peeling off my damp swimsuit and tossing it onto the floor.

He stared hungrily at my naked body. “Why don’t you shave your cunt?’ he asked.

“Because I don’t want to,” I told him, “Take off your shorts.”

“Ok” he said.

I lay flat on my back, sprawled lengthwise across the bed with my legs splayed so wide apart that the tendons in my thighs stuck out and ached. Oliver got down on his knees on the plank floor and buried his pasty young face into my crotch.

He was down there for two or three minutes. I have to say, it didn’t do that much for me. He was an inexperienced, indiscriminate licker. When he popped up for air, my wetness shone stickily on his face.

“Did I do ok?” he asked.

“You were awesome,” I said, “Come up here.”

We lay side by side on the bed, our bodies pressed sweatily against each other. I took his hand in mine and guided his finger down between my legs. I showed him how to touch me, moving his hand slowly up and down my pussy, darting inside, spreading the wetness all around. His cock was in my hand, harder than hard.

“A little higher,” I whispered. His fingertip found my swollen clit, and I jumped. “Gentle, gentle… draw little circles around it.” Our hands moved in tandem, my thumb and forefinger encircling his erection. Faster and faster we moved, our breath coming in pants and gasps, our bodies bucking and straining. He lowered his mouth onto one tit, capturing the nipple, sucking hard.

We came together. I felt his cock twitch in my hand just as my own orgasm exploded, wracking my body with shattering jolts of pleasure. His hand never stopped moving the whole way through it. I was crying out loud, shaking, and so was he.

I ended up lying on top of him, my boobs squished against his smooth chest, his come squishing in between our bellies. We were breathing hard and drenched in sweat. I kissed him, and he kissed me softly back, his lips trembling like a butterfly spreading its wings for the first time.

We fell asleep like that for a while in the hot, dark room. When we woke up, my arm had the pins and needles, and we were glued together. The Jewish couple next door was having their afternoon fuck session, and their bed squeaked like a desiccated accordion.

He got up and started pulling on his swim shorts and t-shirt. “I’ve jerked off into her underwear before,” he told me.

“I bet you have,” I said, “I probably would too, in your shoes.”


The last day of vacation dawned rainy and sullen, with low grey clouds hovering overhead. It was humid, and occasional squalls of rain lashed and rattled the windows. My period came on like a sack full of bricks.

I sat, hung-over, bleeding and crampy, in the dining hall, sipping my Bloody Mary and watching the Wall Street family across the room. The parents were silent, aloof. Olivia looked sulky and petulant. Oliver looked irritable and twitchy. The Jewish couple sat down next to me, complaining loudly about the weather. I killed my drink in one long swallow and made my exit.

He tapped on my door right after breakfast. I was packing up my shit, what there was of it. I was wearing cut-off shorts and a black tank top.

“So are you going to suck my dick today, or what?”

“Yeah” I said.

That stopped him short. “For real?” he asked.

“Yes, for real,” I said, not turning around, “Get your ass in here. Close the door.”

He stripped naked for me. Under his round belly, his dick stood straight out, parallel to the floor.

“Stand in front of the mirror,” I told him, licking my fingers seductively.

I knelt on the floor in front of him, his hard cock bobbing gently against my nose. I reached behind him, caressing, spreading his butt cheeks as I teased the shaft of his cock with my hot breath and the tip of my tongue. His dick seemed to swell and strain. Sweet clear pre-come leaked in a long strand out of his pee hole. I stuck out my tongue and caught it. His fingers petted my hair. I put one arm around his waist and sucked two fingers into my mouth, miming a blowjob. I glanced in the mirror at our image: we looked absolutely pornographic.

I took careful aim, and jammed one saliva-wet finger straight up his ass. He screamed like a little girl, his asshole clenching on my probing finger. He tried to pull away, but I held onto him with the arm around his middle.

His ass was impossibly tight. “Take it, Bitch,” I cooed. Ignoring his protests, I wormed another finger up alongside the first, molesting his panicked butt hole, stretching his virgin anus. Finally, both fingers were crammed up inside him, all the way to the knuckles. Even as he whimpered, I lowered my mouth onto his cock, swallowing him whole, sucking furiously like a Hoover gone mad.

He came almost at once, still howling and crying, humping my face as his asshole spasmed convulsively. He flooded my mouth with hot, slimy, salty semen, and I swallowed it all, every last drop. He was already growing hard again. I sucked with renewed vigor, wiggling the fingers up his butt like a maestro asking for a little more allegro from the violin section.

Later, when his penis was soft and tender-sore, and his balls were well and truly empty, we sat side by side on the edge of the bed.

“I wish you’d let me fuck you,” he said.

“I bet you do.”

“I think you’re beautiful,” he told me quietly.

That one took me by surprise. I felt myself blushing, and gave him a little squeeze.

“Thanks,” I said, “You’re going to be all right.”


The last I saw of the Wall Street family, they were driving away in a monstrous white SUV roughly the size and shape of a Spanish galleon. Mom and Dad sat in front, both of them talking intently into their cell phones. The kids slouched in the back seat; Olivia with her mass of blonde locks pressed against the window, headphones on, lost to the world, Oliver next to her. He saw me, and raised two fingers to his lips, forming a V, and waggled his tongue obscenely between them, the international symbol for eating pussy.

I grinned and gave him the finger.  Little shit. I wished him all the luck in the world.


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