Archive for January, 2012

Tuesday Night Soliloquy

10:35 pm

Tiny concentric circles: an infinitesimally reducing radius, a satellite spiraling downward in a slowly decaying orbit, circling just above the surface of the red-hot, pulsating star; coming close, skimming near, but never quite touching. Jessica squirmed around on top of the sheets, glancing over at the computer monitor across her bedroom on her desk. She flexed and arched her back, and paused momentarily to lick her fingers. She tasted sexy, a little salty, a little sweet, a little bit spicy. She loved the taste of her own come. She made a soft little mewing noise, and let her fingertip resume it’s circling.

Masturbation was perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of. How many times had she heard that? Jessica didn’t believe a word of it. At least not the way she did it. What she was doing was abnormal and sick, perverted. But it felt so good she wasn’t about to stop, no way. It wasn’t so much what she was doing; that was harmless, anyone could see that. It was what she was thinking about that was so wrong.

She was drenched. Her juice felt like a lava flow, oozing out of her cunt, a Mauna Loa in miniature. Her finger was coated with warm slickness, gliding on it’s slow, tormenting path around her clit. Her pussy was swollen, spread wide open. Her clit felt like it was the size of a lima bean. It throbbed with every heartbeat, like an over-inflated balloon, distended, enormous and ready to burst.

There was a video clip playing out on the computer screen: two cute girls, a little older than Jessica herself, college-age maybe, were locked in an acrobatic-looking 69, folded over a purple easy chair, vigorously licking each other’s pussy. The girl on the bottom had long, brunette hair that cascaded down off the chair and was piled in a tangled heap on the floor. Her legs kicked as the shorter, blonde girl with the page-boy hair and cut and tatoos licked her pussy. Jessica had seen the video before, many times before, and she knew every move, as if it were a classic ballet. She was idly watching the girls on the screen, but they weren’t what she was thinking about as she slowly circled her clit. Slowly, gently, slower now; she was dangling right on the edge, and the tiniest little bit of extra stimulation would push her straight over the tipping point into a massive orgasm.

The brown-haired girl on the bottom half of the sandwich groped around under the chair, and came up with a small, white, plastic vibrator. A deft twist of the base, and it started humming, the irritating mechanical noise amplified by the microphone on the video camera that was filming them. This was the hottest part. The girl pried the blonde chick’s petite butt cheeks apart, fully exposing her most private bits. She playfully licked between the blonde girl’s cheeks, eliciting a yelp.

Jessica’s nipples were puffy and straining, the skin on her chest mottled pink and red. She slipped one hand back down between her own ass cheeks, her finger exploring, sliding, petting. Everything was sopping wet down there, slick with come and sweat. She was still watching the video, but the scene that was playing out inside her head was even hotter, and far filthier. Her finger found her anus and carefully probed up inside. Oh fuck yess…

On the screen, the long haired girl was insistently working the vibrator up the blonde girl’s butt. The spiky-haired blonde girl was thrashing around, struggling and bucking as the brown-haired girl fucked her ass deeper and deeper, working the little vibrator like a potato masher. She imagined her father’s hard cock, his fat, rigid, urgent erection invading her just like that. She shoved the finger in her own butthole deeper, as deep as she could stand it. Finally, she let herself touch her swollen clit. She arched her back, raising her ass up off the bed, working her clitoris like a pencil eraser. Her eyes squeezed shut and her entire body clenched as she came… Oh YES, oh Daddy, fuck my ass hard, harder!

 

10:37

Frank lay in the darkness next to his sleeping wife, his erection flapping up against his stomach. His wife snored slightly, rasping quietly as she slept. Frank slowly traced one finger up along the length of his shaft, starting where his cock met his crinkled ball sac, up along the big puffy vein, and across the underside of the naked purple crown until he touched the little pink hole at the end, already leaking clear sticky juice. Then he started the long traverse back down again. He was silently torturing himself, and the sensation was exquisite.

What was it like to be in a sexless marriage? If anyone had asked, Frank would have said it was a lot like a regular marriage, only not as much fun. He and Sheila used to have a good sex life, back when they first got together. Relatively vanilla, but steamy hot and energetic and plentiful. Then the kids had come along, first Jessica, and then Brian; they’d fallen out of the habit of having sex, and never fallen back in.

Sheila, his wife, still had a pretty nice body. She ran, she did yoga. Sometimes they talked about having sex again, but they never seemed to find the time. Frank’s pajamas were shoved down around his thighs. He wondered what she’d say if she woke up and realized he was jerking off in bed. Would she be shocked? Disgusted? Angry? Would she take the opportunity to join in, grasping his dick in her own hand for the first time in… he wasn’t even sure how long now.

Keeping silent, keeping absolutely still, that was half the thrill of it. It had been a solid week, maybe more since he had last masturbated, and his balls were heavy, ready to burst. He had been walking around all day with half an erection, just waiting. His fingertip traced an invisible line up his cock and back down again, barely brushing the sensitive flesh. Sticky pre-come was seeping out of his swollen crown, wetting the hair on his tummy. He curled his toes and bit his lower lip hard, savoring the delicious agony of delayed gratification.

Mrs. Cramer. Brian’s high school algebra teacher. The ‘Mrs’ meant nothing, he knew that for a fact; she was divorced. Her first name was Brenda. How old? Thirty-something. Probably in her early thirties. He let his fingertip caress his scrotum, tracing little circles around each painfully eager testicle, before resuming the slow, steady path up and down his engorged, straining cock.

She was short and curvy, with a mop of thick brown hair, reddish undertones, pulled carelessly back and held in place with a scrunchy. Large breasts were concealed under floppy, oversized sweaters. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been wearing a paisley skirt that ended just above her ankles, and showed off her wide, soft, succulent rear end. Oh, how he lusted after that rear end! He’d tried not to stare; he didn’t know if he’d been successful.

He wondered if she had a boyfriend. He wondered if she was seeing anyone. He wondered what she’d do if he were to make a pass at her. Then he wondered what he’d do if she were actually receptive to being hit on. Long ago, in the sex-drenched early days of their relationship, he and Sheila had been lounging around in the golden post-sex glow of a warm bed, and they’d idly talked about threesomes. She hadn’t been opposed to the idea at the time. Theoretically. It was hard to imagine now. He wondered what it would be like to hug Mrs. Cramer from behind, to cup her large breasts in his hands, to press his erection against her big, soft, round bottom, to smell her hair and feel her warmth, to kiss her, and to press up against her, and to feel her press urgently back against him.

His cock twitched involuntarily. He wasn’t going to be able to hold out much longer. It was exquisite torture.

Frank increased his tempo almost imperceptibly, his finger tracing it’s lazy way up his cock and then back down again. If he moved much more than this, the bed would squeak. The muscles in his ass clenched and unclenched in frustration. His cock strained. There was wetness, sticky wetness all over his tummy. Carefully, silently, he peeled back the top sheet; he didn’t want to cause any embarrassing stains.

He imagined Mrs. Cramer asking him to come in and meet with her about his son’s class work. He imagined a coy, tentative flirtation, dancing around their mutual attraction. He imagined kissing her, fondling her breasts, feeling her nipples stiffen through her thick sweater. He imagined lifting her up onto her cluttered desk, her skirt riding up, her legs parting for him. He pictured her thighs, soft and pale and shapely. He wondered what sort of underwear she’d have on: would it be something secret and lacy and sexy, or would she be wearing plain white cotton panties? He could smell her excitement, maybe even see her wetness soaking through the thin material.

Sheila had never really been into being eaten out. She said it was nice, but only as a warm-up for the main event. If Frank ever got her close to orgasm with his tongue, she would push him away and beg him to put his cock inside her so she could come that way. Just once, he wished she’d just come all over his face.

He would peel back Mrs. Cramer’s panties, drag the tip of his tongue up and down her slit, her fat, puffy lips parting for him, her wetness leaking out, coating his tongue, her slick juices all over his face. He’d find her tiny pink clit, tease it, stimulate it, avoid it, slurping up and down her pussy, inserting a finger or two, return to the focus of her pleasure, flick at it with his tongue, listen to the sounds she made, hear her breathing change, feel her thighs squeezing his head, her hands digging into his hair.

Then she’d change positions. She’d turn over, so she was bent over her desk, her rump thrust up and out, her skirt piled up around her waist. He’d kneel behind her, and part the two soft white pillows of her ass, methodically exploring the valley between.

This was the one place that Sheila had always steadfastly refused to let him go.

Brenda’s anus would be small, impossibly small, tender and pink and puckered, like a flower not yet quite in bloom. He’d run his tongue around the little hole, avoiding it for as long as he could stand to, drinking in her sexy, earthy aromas, tasting the musk of her ass. Her breath would be coming in shudders now, she’d be begging him ‘Please, please, please…” He’d press the tip of his tongue against her opening. He’d feel her asshole relax a little, and he’d work his tongue further up inside. He’d reach around to finger her clit, but her fingers would be there already, busily stimulating herself. He’d slide his fingers up her sopping wet pussy, licking her asshole with abandon, straining to get his tongue all the way up her butt as she pressed back against him, grinding her ass into his face, begging for more, more, more…

His balls twitched, his cock jumped, and he spurted a stream of sticky white semen that splashed halfway up his chest. More and more pumped out, he was covered in the stuff. He was breathing hard, and his dick was still twitching, leaking come that threatened to run down his side and onto the bed sheets. He spread it around with his fingers, already cooling in the night air. Sheila shifted in her sleep. As always, he felt guilty now, dirty and embarrassed, like an awkward teen. He’d have to clean up before he went to sleep. He groped toward the side table for a tissue.

10:45 pm

There was a stack of papers on Brenda Cramer’s coffee table. 8th grade algebra homework that had to be graded by morning. She was about halfway through the pile, a red pen in one hand, a glass of cheap Malbec in the other. God, she loathed grading.

Brenda sipped her wine, and picked up the next paper. Troy Grabowski. God, what an obnoxious little smarty-pants! What kind of an eighth-grader wears button-down shirts and ties to school on a daily basis? He was that kid who always knew the answer first, who’s hair was always impeccably combed, the little prick who everyone knew would go on to a fancy school and would have a stellar career. He’d probably end up working for NASA or something.

She marked one of his answers wrong, just for spite. That seven sort of looked like a one. She’d swear his dad did his homework for him, except he aced all his tests too. Obnoxious little shit. He’d probably be a virgin till he was twenty-five.

Now that was an interesting thought. She needed a break from all this grading anyway. Boys that age always had hard-ons. Especially (she smirked a little) if they were forbidden to masturbate.

Brenda kept a pocket-rocket handy, in nifty little jewelry box on top of the DVD player. She glugged a big swallow of her wine and unbuttoned her jeans. She wouldn’t even bother taking her pants all the way off; this wouldn’t take very long.

With a click, the toy started humming, a happy, purposeful little buzz, like a honey bee hard at work. She shuffled her jeans and panties down around her mid-thighs. Her pussy was already damp with anticipation.

She snapped her fingers, and Troy came running; running as best he could, more of a painful-looking shuffle. He’d been grading math homework over at his desk in the corner, and he was wearing a rumpled white button-down shirt and a striped tie, but nothing else. His young cock was hard as bone, but pointed straight down at the floor; it was lashed round and round with a leather thong, and securely leashed to a ten-pound weight, an old cast-iron doorstop, that he dragged along the floor behind him.

He stood nervously at attention in front of the red leather couch where Brenda lounged, a contented, well-fed, pampered pussycat. She reached out and pulled the dangling tail end of the thong through its quick-release loop, and the binding fell away. Troy’s dick sprang straight up like a jack-in-the-box, and he gasped involuntarily.

“Very nice,” Brenda sniggered, “I think you’ve grown since last time.”

He did have a pretty big dick for a boy his age, and it looked painfully hard. It was swollen, quivering, and eager; she could still see the impression of the bindings along his shaft. The kid was practically begging for release; but he knew better than that. He still had livid red stripes across his skinny white from the last time he’d forgotten his place and spoken out of turn.

“I think you’ve got some work to do,” Brenda spread her legs, and lay back on the couch, hands folded behind her head, and Troy automatically got down between her thighs and started licking. The boy was a good student, a quick learner. He knew that if he spent too much time on her pussy he’d earn a vicious yank on his hair; he knew that if he concentrated too much attention directly on her clit he’d earn a stinging slap to the side of his face. He carefully trod a middle road, licking up and down her vulva, occasionally sliding a finger up her wet hole, teasing her, letting his tongue dance agilely around her bulging hard, sensitive clitoris.

He’d look cute, Brenda thought, doing that with a big, fat plug in his butt; the kind that has some kind of cord hanging out the end that she could reach over and tug on at opportune moments. Maybe someday she’d get him one, and make him wear it at school all day under his slacks and tighty-whities. It would be fun to watch him squirm in class. She’d call on him and no-one else that day. Make him get up and do problems on the blackboard.

She’d definitely be buying Troy a butt plug, a big, wide, black one, with bulges and knobs and a real horse-hair tail. But first she wanted to fuck him with a strap-on. She had a dildo and harness on mail-order from California. Anal sex doesn’t have to hurt at all, not even the first time, if done properly; Brenda wanted to make sure that his first time hurt like a motherfucker.

In the scene that was playing out in her imagination, Brenda roughly shoved Troy away, and languidly rolled over onto her side on the blood-red couch, presenting the soft, pale expanse of her posterior to him. He knew what she wanted. He might not like it, but he’d do it anyway; she’d pierced his nipples herself, and they were wonderfully sensitive.

She sighed and purred with delight as his tongue explored up and down her backside, darting into the crease between her cheeks before dancing back out again, up and down, back and forth. Delicious, but she felt like cutting straight to the chase this time. She reached back and spread her butt cheeks for him, an unspoken order that he knew better than to disobey.

His tongue found her sensitive little rosebud and licked all around it before darting into her crinkled little anus, just the way she’d taught him. The sensation was exquisite. His tongue seemed to be exploring meters deep into her asshole. She wished she could see him as he rimmed her, his cock rigid as a totem pole, balls tight and exposed, loosely knotted tie hanging down like a dog’s leash.

Fuck this. In the real world, on her ratty beige couch, Brenda kicked and wiggled out of her jeans, her panties rolled up inside them, an intractable tangle. She needed to be penetrated, to be filled up. She something inside her, right now, and her bag of toys was all the way upstairs.

The half-empty wine bottle was the closest convenient object. Fortunately it was a screw top. She screwed the lid back on and slid the neck of the bottle straight up her hungry, drooling cunt. It felt good. For a second, she imagined doing this in front of her algebra class, sprawled out across her desk in front of thirty impressionable young teenagers. There mouths would gape open and their eyes would stare, wide with horror or fascination. Some of their daddies probably wouldn’t mind taking that spectacle in. Maybe some of the mommies too.

Back in the land of make-believe, Brenda had finally gotten tired of Troy’s oral attentions. She way lying on her back on the black leather couch, and Troy was kneeling between her thick, snowy-white thighs. He was breathing hard, and his pink face was liberally coated with her come.

He was rubbing his penis slowly up and down the folds of her vulva, in between her fat, juicy lips, bumping up against her swollen clitoris in the most delightful way imaginable. His expression was one of extreme concentration: a tightrope walker, an air traffic controller, a chess master locked in a complex endgame. His dick arched up and out from his crotch, his large, vulnerable balls hung down, just begging to be squeezed. He had a soft nest of curly brown pubic hair. The head of his dick was a livid shade of red, and oozed pre-come.

“Do you want to fuck me, Little Boy?” Brenda cooed, “Do you want to put it inside me? Do you want to know what my pussy feels like on your dick? It’s really hot and wet in there, and oh, it’s so tight. How bad do you want to put it in? Would you do anything for me? Anything at all? Do you want to come inside me, come in my pussy?”

Troy stopped suddenly, paralyzed, his mouth hanging comically open, his eyes wide with terror. His jutting cock bobbed and wobbled with a mind of it’s own, and with a little moan, he shot off, squirting gob after sticky gob, like an extruding machine gone mad, all over Brenda’s soaking wet pussy.

“Oh, you’re going to pay for that,” she told him sweetly. “You can think about how I’m going to punish you while you finish grading papers. The longer you take, the worse it will be for you. And you can be sure, however bad you think your punishment is going to be, what I do to you will be even worse. First though, you’ve made quite a mess here. I suggest you clean it up.”

Mortified and abashed and eager to please, Troy got right down to the work of licking up his sticky white semen from Brenda’s sodden crotch. It had gone everywhere, from the crease of her ass all the way up to her deep bellybutton, and everywhere in between. Troy lapped up every last drop. And it felt fantastic.

The wine bottle slipped out of Brenda’s exhausted pussy, and Brenda heaved a low sigh of content and switched off her vibrator. There was still a stack of homework papers to grade, but they’d wait until morning. She unscrewed the cap, and poured herself another glass. She stuck out her tongue, and licked the neck of the bottle, slick with her own juices. It tasted tangy, a little salty, a nice contrast to the harsh bitter-sweetness of the wine. Somebody should market that.

10:47 pm

Troy’s parents thought he was doing his homework on the computer. Half an hour earlier, they would have been right. “What a smart kid,” they gloated to each other, “Such a hard worker. Such a nice boy!”

Math had always come easy to Troy. It was logical, it made sense, it worked forward and backward, and it stayed the same every time. Unlike other subjects. Particularly girls. Troy was certain, done to his absolute core, that he’d never have a girlfriend.

He was still wearing his button-down shirt from school, but nothing else. He didn’t like the way he looked without a shirt on. He had an ugly white scar running from just above his navel, up his sternum, and almost all the way to his neck, a souvenir  from an open-heart surgery he’d had as an infant. He thought his chest looked ugly, hollow and atrophied. He always wore a shirt and tie to school: he was undeniably different, strange, alien; so why not flaunt it?

His dick glistened with lube, excruciatingly purchased from an older female cashier at the same drug store where his mother bought her migraine medicine. ‘Enjoy it,’ she’d said to him as she slipped it into a small plastic bag and handed over the counter. She’d smiled, and he wanted to die. But the humiliation was worth it: jacking off with a good, slippery lubricant all over your dick was light-years of difference from doing it dry.

He could see what the girl saw, in a small window in the bottom right corner of his screen, and when he looked, he winced. But those were her rules. You had to be actively jerking off, and on camera, or she wouldn’t let you watch.

She was achingly familiar. He knew her, he was sure of that; probably from school. He’d only glimpsed her face a few times, she was pretty careful about that. She was beautiful, he thought; not skinny by any means, but certainly not fat, with raven-black hair that matched the hair between her legs, and round breasts like tangerines that jiggled delightfully as she moved. He literally couldn’t imagine her touching him; that was too much, pure science fiction; but he focused on her body as he stroked himself, mimicking her tempo and her rhythm.

She was sitting on a quilt on her bed, her back leaning against the poster-covered wall, her head just outside the frame. Two fingers spread her pussy lips apart, and one finger of the other hand was strumming away at what Troy knew must be her clitoris. He could see the wetness between her legs, and her breasts jiggled as she rubbed herself.

He poured fresh lube onto his dick. The bottle was already half empty. Soon, he’d have to face the ordeal of buying more. He wondered if the same clerk would be working. He wondered if she’d say anything this time. He wondered if he could meet her eye, return her (what was it: disgusted? condescending? amused?) smile. In a strange, perverse way, he was almost looking forward to it. The cool lube felt delicious on his hot, straining penis. It wouldn’t be long now.

Without warning, the girl switched positions. He caught her face for a split second. He knew her, he was sure of it. Who was she? Now she was on all fours on the bed, her rump waggling in front of the camera, much closer up now. He could see every detail of her pussy, the petite lips, the stray hairs, an occasional glimpse of her asshole. Her breasts hung down, swaying like pendulums. He could see just how wet she was.

She had grabbed a hairbrush from somewhere, and with an audible sigh, she slipped the handle straight up her pussy, which devoured the plastic object hungrily. Her finger was still grinding away at her clit, as if she were playing a tiny banjo between her legs. She moaned and cooed as she fucked herself.

It was too much for Troy. He squeezed his dick hard, pumping up and down with white knuckles, churning the lube into a froth, and he exploded, silently as always. A stream of come shot out of the purple head of his dick, landing in spattered drops on his white shirt, congealing in gobs in his pubic hair. He kept massaging his dick, squeezing every drop out, prolonging the orgasm for all pleasure he could, drawing it out. After a while his screen went dark, as it always did after he’d come, but he kept at it. His dick was small and soft and could be squeezed between thumb and forefinger, but it still felt nice. He had to clean up. He’d gotten sticky lube on the mouse and keyboard, and if he didn’t wipe up soon, he’d stain his shirt, and he didn’t know what his mom would say to that. Best not to find out.  He hit the shirt with stain remover and buried it in the laundry. His dick was still leaking a little, dribbling wetness onto his naked thigh. He kind of liked the taste.

It was only after he’d carefully scrubbed off the keyboard and mouse with baby wipes, cleaned himself off, removed every last trace of lube and semen, that he realized he’d been crying.

10:38

There were at least a dozen penises on Angela’s computer screen; a dozen boys or men, from California to the Ukraine, jerking off to her. For her. A solid two meters of dick, each one tall and hard and focused on her and her alone. She slid the hairbrush in and out of her wet pussy, moaning seductively. It didn’t do that much for her, per se, but it drove the guys crazy, and that most definitely turned her crank. Her clit throbbed. If she wasn’t careful, she wouldn’t be able to stop, and she’d come, right on camera.

Angela been on a date earlier, a ‘study date’, with little Jeremy Larkin. It had started off all proper and above-the-board; algebra homework and pb&j’s cut into quarters and brought up to the bedroom by her fussy, protective, and utterly clueless mother, but after the homework was done and the sandwiches were eaten, it had inevitably degenerated into a make-out session. He had squeezed her breasts through her bra, and slipped two fingers up her undeniably wet pussy. She’d had to fake an orgasm to get him to stop.

She had sucked him off after that. She could still taste him in her mouth, a lingering, cloying flavor. The stuff kind of reminded her of tapioca pudding. She knew that a lot of girls hated the taste of it, couldn’t stand it, wouldn’t allow a drop of semen in their mouths, or anywhere near. She didn’t understand that. If boy’s ejaculate wasn’t exactly delicious, it was pretty nifty, and sort of the whole point of the endeavor. Without a mouthful of come at the end, the entire act would seem hollow and incomplete.

She rolled over again, careful to keep her face out of view of the camera. She extracted the hairbrush, sticky and slimy with her come, and set it on the quilt next to her. A few of her boys had shot off already, and she clicked their windows shut. She felt good, really good, high on the sex, riding the razor blade. It wouldn’t be long now. This was better than any drug!

It wasn’t the attention, not exactly. Anyway, it wasn’t just the attention. There was definitely something about the adoration, about having a dozen or more hard cocks pointed straight at her, jerking off to her naked body, that definitely did it for her. But it was more than that. Much more. It was the feeling of power. An erect penis was so needy, so helpless, so dependant on her. It was a rush, a high, an incredible aphrodisiac. It was like being a goddess, and it got her off every time. Angela was addicted.

She stretched and licked her sticky, tangy fingers, and glanced over at the computer monitor. As she watched, one of her guys, an earnest-looking fellow in his twenties or so with glasses and nice muscles, slipped past the point of no return. His face was twisted in an expression of mixed ecstasy and agony as he clenched his body and rapidly jerked his cock, his balls clenched like a fist, coming with a silent shout, squirting a gooey white arc of come toward his webcam. It’s so cool, the way a guy’s orgasm is such a tangible spectacle; no faking it there! Angela loved it when a guy came for her, it was a huge rush, and watching it made her pussy drool and her clit twitch uncontrollably. She reached over and clicked off her camera. Show’s over boys. They could jerk off to her all they wanted, but they would never ever get to see her come.

Dicks were a very fine thing as an appetizer. It was fun manipulating them, and it was really hot being the focus, the sole object of a guy’s fawning adoration, and it was really neat, the visual spectacle of a hard cock shooting off just for you. But they never got much past the surface, they didn’t really hold her interest.

There was no shortage of lesbian porn on the internet, but it didn’t do a thing for her. For the most part, it left her bone-dry. It always looked staged and fake, as chilly as refrigerated coleslaw and about as sexy.

Meredith was this girl who sat next to her in Economics class, and she was the focus of Angela’s latest crush. Cosmo magazine would have called her fat, but Angela loved her body: it was all soft, sensuous angelic curves. She was really quiet, and really really smart, and wore glasses, and had a beautiful tangled mass of curly brown hair. Angela’s finger brushed back and forth across her over-excited clit, sending herself irrevocably over the edge.

How do you hit on a girl? Guys were easy, almost too easy. She and Meredith had barely ever spoken. She knew of girls at school who had done it, or were rumored to have done it, but they were always the ones you’d expect to go lesbo, the bad eggs, the rockers, the party girls. She wasn’t one of them, not when the webcam was turned off, and Meredith certainly wasn’t one either.

Her orgasm came on slow and deep and intense, like a creaky old wooden rollercoaster, rattling up peaks and screaming down valleys, and cranking jerkily around corners, threatening to give her whiplash. She kept her finger lightly on her pulsing clit, prolonging the pleasure, dragging it out.

She imagined going out on a date with Meredith. They wouldn’t call it a date, they’d come up with some excuse, but they’d both know why they were there. They’d hang out, they’d talk, they’d shyly touch each other, in ways that girls can get away with and guys can’t, and slowly, slowly, the sexual tension would build between them until it was unbearable.

She’d drive Meredith home, and they’d say their goodbyes in the driveway, they’d both say they’d had a lot of fun, and they should hang out again sometime soon, and they’d linger, and then that first kiss… and then they’d make out in the car, the steering wheel awkwardly in the way, fogging up the windows, kissing and touching and caressing, getting hotter and hotter and more and more turned on, until they remembered where they were, and broke it off, grinning and slightly abashed, and Meredith would kiss her one last time and then get out of the car and run up her parent’s driveway with a flutter of her fingers, leaving Meredith in sticky wet panties.

Maybe Meredith would invite her over sometime, a study date. They’d go up to her bedroom, and Meredith would hold one finger to her lips, indicating silence. She’d gesture for Angela to undress, and she would, while Meredith watched approvingly. Downstairs, Meredith’s parents would be watching the TV.

She imagined kneeling under Meredith’s desk as she did her homework, hidden under the voluminous folds of Meredith’s dress like a Bedouin tent. Meredith would ignore her, pretend she wasn’t even there, but she knew, and she wasn’t wearing anything under her dress. Angela would nuzzle up into her pussy, the soft, curly hair down there, inhaling her intoxicating aroma. She’d lick her pouting, pretty pussy, up and down, tasting her, teasing her, slowly making her more and more excited until her lips opened up like a rose and her clit poked straight out, and she had to put down her pencil and reach down under her dress and grab the back of Angela’s head and pull her closer, rubbing her hot, wet pussy all over Angela’s face. She’d come with a cute little hiccupping cry, squeezing Angela between her thighs until she was afraid she’d never breath again, then relax and push her gently away, and it would start all over again.

Maybe Meredith would make her lick her asshole. Maybe she’d urinate into her mouth. Maybe she’d be on her period. Angela wouldn’t mind.

Angela held herself perfectly still through the last few twists and turns of her orgasm. Her pussy was sodden, her clit was too tender to be touched. She had made a little wet spot of her own on the bed, but she didn’t mind. She switched off the light and drifted off to sleep.

11:05

Meredith had just put fresh AAs in her electric toothbrush. She’d almost gotten busted that way before.  Her mom had commented snarkily about how many batteries that thing was going through. From then on, she’d made sure to buy her own, and to replace them often.

She was naked on top of her bed. The handle of her toothbrush protruded from between her thighs like a sci-fi parody of a cock. Every time she squeezed her legs together, the rotating head pressed against her clit, and a wave of pleasure sloshed through her entire body. There a magazine spread open on the sheets next to her. Penthouse, April 1982. Before she was even conceived. She’d found a bunch of these magazines in a cardboard box in the basement, under a long-forgotten badminton set. She didn’t like internet porn; it all seemed crude and fake and gross, like artfully posed cadavers or perverse Barbie dolls. The old magazines were different, somehow more palatable. They seemed almost innocent by comparison.

Two girls frolicked in a softly-lit sylvan woodland. They started out dressed in vaguely medieval garb, but quickly shed their clothes. They never actually touched, but as they cavorted through the woods, the fell into more and more suggestive poses together.

They had enormous breasts, the size and shape of cantaloupes, and they both wore shiny pink lip gloss, and their hair was big and heavily hairsprayed, and their pussies were covered with soft, fluffy muffs.

Meredith flipped through the stiff, glossy pages, looking at the pictures and periodically squeezing her legs, stimulating herself with the buzzing toothbrush, but her mind was in a much darker place.

It was a well-used fantasy, many times replayed, edited, refined, recast. Tonight it was Reg Hodgson, but it didn’t have to be him. She’d already played out this scenario with half the guys at school, and all her male teachers.

Reg was in her biology class, and he was on the football team. She could easily imagine being a little scared of him.

He wasn’t a star, but he was on the varsity team. He was arrogant and flip, not especially smart, but not really a stupid jock either. Meredith thought he was dating one of the popular girls. He was big, but more long and lean than bulky. He had never spoken to her.

She closed her eyes and imagined.

She is walking home, and he is following her. It is already getting dark. Reg is a block and a half behind her, but there’s something menacing about the way he walks. She increases her pace, moving her legs a little faster. The streets are silent and empty and the night is coming on like the rising tide. Every time she looks behind, he has drawn a little closer.

She decides to cut through the park, an eerie moonscape in the twilight, trees casting long shadows like grasping hands. When she glances back, he is right there, barely an arms length behind.

He trips her up, pushes her hard between the shoulder blades, and she goes sprawling in the fallen leaves and the muddy grass. Her dress is already ruined.

He is standing in front of her. From this perspective, he towers above her. He grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls her up to her knees. He slaps her across the face, hard. Again, and again, and again, until she is spitting blood, and her jaw rings like an alarm clock with every blow. At last he stops. She kneels stupidly in front of him, her face red and swollen, lips busted, smeared with blood. He unzips his pants.

The irony, of course, is that under other circumstances she’d happily have sucked his cock. It is a nice-looking specimen, not too big or too small, circumcised, with a mushroom-shaped, bulbous head.

He jams his penis into her bruised and bloodied mouth, fucking her face, laughing out loud when she chokes and gags. He manhandles her breasts, pulling and squeezing cruelly at them like udders, enjoying causing her pain.

He yanks his cock out of her mouth. She gasps desperately at the night air, trying to fill  her burning lungs, like a drowning girl breaking the surface. She sees an amused gleam in his serious brown eyes, daring her to scream.

She is shoved roughly down into the mouldy leaves. He lifts her dress, pulls her panties aside, roughly fingers her cunt. Laughs contemptuously when he discovers that she is already soaking wet.

Reg fucks her like he is chopping wood. She grinds her nails in the dirt, holding her breath, wincing and moaning quietly at every thrust of his wicked, sadistic cock. Just before he finishes inside her, he rudely jams his thumb up her asshole, and then she does scream. Afterward, he makes her clean off his still hard dick with her mouth.

On the bed, Meredith trembled through her final orgasm. She pulls the humming toothbrush hurriedly away from her sodden crotch, her clit suddenly too sensitive to be touched. She can taste the dirt and blood in her mouth, feel his malignant sperm in her cunt. In her mind, Reg laughs coldly down at her. “See you in class tomorrow,” he says, leaving her in her misery. She felt dirty and hollow inside as she stashed the old magazine under her bed and turned out the light. She shouldn’t go there, it wasn’t right to think these thoughts. But she knew she’d be back.

11;17

Reg stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the back of his bedroom door. His erect penis stuck straight out from his crotch, exactly perpendicular to his long, lean body. He admired the view in the mirror. He looked fucking hot. One hand cupped his ball sac, tightly clasping his testicles. Three fingers of his other hand were crammed up his butt.

He had a pretty big penis, he thought. At least it looked damn good in the mirror. He wished it was a little bigger, but he wasn’t complaining. It was red-hot and swollen and juicy right now; if he so much as touched it he would explode. He grunted softly and worked his lube-slick fingers deeper up his butt. His wrist was threatening to cramp, but he wasn’t about to stop, no way!

Reg had a girlfriend, Sara Blest, and though she wasn’t ready, she said, to do actual sex, she could (as the guys on the team liked to say) suck a golf ball through a garden hose. She was an attractive girl, beautiful even, and she was pretty good at it. The thing was though, he was bored.

The image in the mirror mesmerized him. Better than porn. He was pretty cut, pretty buff. He’d heard some guys on the swim team shaved it all off, everything. Maybe he’d give that a try. He squeezed his swollen balls and dug in with the fingers lodged in his anus, sending ripples of pleasure up and down his body, making him rock up onto the balls of his feet. His cock strained out. If the football thing didn’t work out, maybe he’d be a male model.

He worked the fingers in his asshole in and out, deeper and deeper. It’s not like he was gay or anything, it just felt so damn good! Maybe if Sara did that once in a while, he’d be more into her; but so far she had been oblivious to the hints he’d dropped. She hadn’t wanted to make a video either, even though he promised he wouldn’t show anyone. Maybe he’d set up a video camera and not tell her.

His frustrated cock was thrusting against the air, the head was red and angry looking. It wouldn’t be long now.

He pictured straddling Felice, a frumpy little girl in his biology class. He’d be naked, she’d be fully clothed. Why Felice? He was pretty sure she was a virgin, certain she’d be impressed. She was a mousy little thing, short and stout. She rarely spoke up in class, and when she did, she had a tendency to squeak.

Reg imagined pulling her shirt open, unclasping he big white bra, sliding his cock between the twin pillows of her tits while she craned her neck to watch, a grateful expression on her face. He imagined slapping her across the face with his erection, until she was begging him to let her suck it, and then he imagined generously jamming it into her open mouth, fucking her mouth like a cunt while she gurgled and gargled appreciatively, shoving it in until his balls were pressed against her chin, and her little brown eyes were bulging out of her head.

When he was ready, he’d whip his cock out of her gaping mouth, and squirt all over her face. She’d eagerly lap it up, and ask for more. And maybe he’d give it to her. And maybe not.

Fuck, that was hot! He squeezed his balls hard, so hard it hurt, and jammed and curled the fingers in his asshole. That image was all he needed; plain, mousey Felice covered in his come and begging for more. He shot off like a can of pressurized Cool-Whip.

It was a good, long come. It almost always was if he could refrain from touching his dick. The intensity of it made him light-headed, his asshole clenching violently on his fingers, his dick jumping and bobbing, spattering white globs of come onto the mirror. Finally, regretfully, Reg pulled his fingers out of his protesting butthole, and milked the last few drops of semen out of his softening cock.

He got down on his knees and licked the salty, slimy come off the smooth, cool surface of the mirror. No sense in letting it go to waste. God, if Coach could see him now! He kind of wished he’d made a video of this one, so he could watch it again later. Just thinking about it made his dick start to tingle all over again.

11:23

In the bunk bed above her, Felice’s sister Hannah was snoring. Her snores were long and drawn out, ragged and moist. They reminded Felice of an asthmatic horse.

Felice couldn’t sleep. She was restless anyway, and the snores were the last straw. She stretched and glared up at the bed springs above her, willing Hannah to roll over. Hannah did not cooperate.

With a sigh, Felice slid a hand down inside her pajama bottoms. She was already moist down there. It felt nice. She rolled over onto her stomach and moved her hand back and forth, up and down, brushing up against that special secret spot.

She was picturing Brian, this boy in her English class. He seemed nice, kind of quiet, kind of smart. She wondered what he looked like naked.

She squeezed her thighs together, and jammed her fingers hard against her wetness. Her hand was moving rapidly now, in spastic little jerks, making the bed squeak. If Hannah woke up, she would totally hear what she was doing, but Felice didn’t care. She imagined Brian doing things to her. Nasty things. She wasn’t sure just what, but that didn’t matter. She would do it all, and beg for more.

The pressure inside her burst like a piñata, and she gasped softly into her pillow, hardly daring to move. Finally, when the last waves of pleasurable sensation had receded, she pulled her hand out from between her legs and sniffed her fingers. She always liked the way she smelled after doing it. Above her, Hannah’s snoring had finally ceased. She pulled up her pajama bottoms and rolled over. Soon, she was fast asleep.

11:58

The sheets and blankets and pillows lay in a heap on his bedroom floor. Brian lay face-down and naked on his bare mattress, a pillow wedged under his chest.  There was a spot there on the mattress worn thin and soft as chamois. His erect penis humped against that worn patch, thrusting desperately. His hands clasped the edges of his mattress like a life raft, knuckles white, fingers curled and clenched.

His older sister Jessica was asleep in the next room, just beyond his bedroom wall. He imagined sneaking into her room, closing the door behind himself, climbing into her bed, lying down on top of her.

She would stir in her sleep, and he would whisper in her ear “Jess, it’s ok”, and she would mumble something unintelligible in reply. He would rub his erection against the soft material of her pajama bottoms, and she would press sleepily back. His cock would slip into the cleft between her firm, soft buttocks, his hands would find hers, and their fingers would intertwine.

Gently, he would pull her pajamas down. She would be naked underneath. “No, you’re my brother.” “It’s ok,” he would whisper in her ear. Her pussy would be wet. He could smell her excitement. He would guide his cock, rubbing it up and down her slit, kissing her hair and the back of her neck. “No, it’s not right,” she would say. He could feel the wetness of her pussy, hot and slick, on the engorged head of his cock. Her long auburn hair tumbled down over her pale shoulder blades. His cock would be poised, nestled at the very entrance to her pussy. His hands would be inside her pajama tops, cupping her breasts, impossibly soft and warm. Her nipples would be stiff against his palms.

“Please,” she’d whisper, and he’d penetrate her, gently, inexorably sliding his penis up her tight, slippery vagina. “Please,” she’d whisper again, more urgently this time.

Brian was humping furiously against his mattress now, fucking a phantom, abandoning himself to the fantasy. He felt himself start to come.

Jessica would be humping back against him now, his penis sliding all the way in and out. She’d make little animal noises as they fucked. Her ass would be naked in front of him, pale and firm and flawless. “Fuck me, Little Brother, fuck me harder!” The bed was squeaking as he humped, and a far-away part of his mind wondered if Jessica could hear it from where she lay.

He came, squirting semen all over the mattress below him. He collapsed, breathing hard, onto the sticky puddle, and lay there a while, panting. The mattress would be stained brown; eventually he would wear all the way through the already thin material. He got up, his chest covered in his own wetness, and quickly wiped up, then guiltily started to re-make the bed. He was a pervert for even thinking these things. He was a sick little fuck, and he knew it.

END

Comments (3)

Gone Fishing

It never occurred to me to find out his name. It was Thursday, and I was down at the Good Times Saloon on Driggs Street, nursing a beer and dicking around on the internet, wasting away the afternoon. I suppose I should have been doing something productive: writing, or researching AIDS drugs, or memorizing the periodic table or something, but I wasn’t. I hadn’t even been actively fishing. He was playing guitar all by himself on a stool in the corner, with an upside-down hat placed optimistically in front of him. He didn’t play badly; nor did he play especially well. He was cute, in an obviously heterosexual kind of way. I put a dollar into his hat. We got to talking. He needed a place to crash, so I invited him over to the apartment.

When we walked in the door of our place on Havemeyer, a rent-stabilized second floor two-bedroom, Re:Becca looked up from the sink full of dishes she’d been doing and beamed at me, a big fat hungry smile full of lust and gluttony.

There hadn’t been any action around the apartment in days, and the sexual frustration was getting heavy, as evidenced by Re:Becca doing chores. She must be horny if she’s voluntarily doing housework. Cassandra was taking her nth bath of the week. The weird sisters, Deidre and Desdemona, were on the couch, skimpily dressed in more or less matching nighties, painting each other’s nails man-killer pink. We all knew where that was going to lead; things would quickly progress from manicure on to hotter and sweatier activities, and before long they would end up a twisted, knotted, slurping, moaning and nibbling mass of intertwined blue flesh, like the reproductive coupling of some weird deep-sea fish. Not that I’d pass up the show. I may be gay, but I’m not above watching a couple hot incestuous hipster chicks going at it on the couch; it’s a guilty pleasure, like watching pro wrestling, old Stallone movies.

My boy was corn-fed and cherubic, a genuine farm kid straight out of the Midwest, complete with faded dungarees, a greasy trucker’s baseball hat, and shit-kicking old work boots. He was a big fellow, six feet tall easy, plump and beefy; he looked like he belonged behind a plow. He had an adorable little beer belly, curly light-brown hair, and a wisp of a goatee. He had a duffel in one hand, his guitar case in the other. I almost felt sorry for him. The girls were already gleefully gloating. In the bathtub, Cassandra flapped her tail excitedly, sloshing warm tub water onto the linoleum of the bathroom floor. Re:Becca was preening and toweling off her hands. She looked like she’d lost twenty pounds already.

He plopped down heavily on the couch, and the girls swarmed all over him, like a cloud of thirsty mosquitoes. Cassandra had pulled on an oversized t-shirt, and was slithering eagerly toward him, leaving a wet trail of bathwater behind her. Deidre and Desdemona were already wrapping their long, clingy limbs around him, like sea anemones ensnaring a passing fish. The two of them are tall and rangy and gaunt, like a pair of ill-proportioned, underfed, blue-skinned supermodels. Of the four girls, Re:Becca is the one who looks closest to normal. She kind of reminds me of Velma from Scooby Doo: short and chunky and kind of schlubby, with big, horn-rimmed glasses, and a shaggy mop of dark hair that mostly covers up the pointy ears. Her skin has a bluish tinge to it that you probably wouldn’t even notice in most light. If one of them has to go out: fishing, or down to the bodega to fetch beer or chips, she’s the one who usually gets sent.

They found me over the internet, through craigslist. None of the girls have jobs, and besides what they pillage from the boys they prey on, they don’t have any income to speak of. Not that they have a lot of expenses either, but they do have to cover rent and utilities, so they needed a roommate. I’ve never had any problem living with them. Re:Becca says it’s not cool to prey on roomies; more to the point I suspect, I’m HIV+, and I’m sure none of the girls want anything to do with the virus floating around in my bloodstream, to say nothing of the pharmaceutical smorgasbord of drugs I ingest every day to keep the HIV under control and my T-count up. Anyway, we all get along ok: I tolerate their eccentricities and they tolerate mine.

The farm boy was telling his story, as best he could, blushing and stuttering a little under the cloying, groping, touchy-feely attentions of four hornily flirtatious girls. Or at least three-and-a-half girls; Cassandra’s lower half is long and cold and twisty, and covered in slick green scales.

He was from Wisconsin, and had the accent to prove it. Two years into college, he’d left school, dropped out or flunked out, or just drifted away, he wasn’t real specific on the why and wherefore. He’d moved to New York with his girlfriend to try and make it in the music scene. Surprise surprise, things hadn’t worked out with the girl. Turns out she was boinking their bandmate, while all the while she’d been telling him she was saving herself for marriage. Now he was sleeping on a friend’s couch and trying to raise money by playing guitar at open mikes in bars, and his friend was showing distinct signs of getting sick of him.

The girls tisked and tut-tutted sadly. Deidre and Desdemona sympathetically rubbed his shoulders, long, hot-pink-nailed fingers kneading into his knotted Midwestern muscles; Cassandra was coiled up around his feet and already had his clunky boots off. Re:Becca, always one to go straight to the point, had pulled her oversized purple sweatshirt off over her head and was going to work on his zipper.

My cute little redneck was goggling. He couldn’t believe his luck. Re:Becca has a really enormous pair of boobs that were tightly constrained under a monstrous white bra that resembled a straightjacket. He boldly busied himself feeling up those titties through the heavy-duty fabric of the brassiere while she deftly extracted his cock from the confines of his blue denim dungarees and white jockey shorts.

He was hung. Ex-girlfriend was definitely missing out. His dick stood up, proud and thick and erect, and circumcised, the purple crown bulbous and swollen. I wouldn’t have minded having a suck off that thing myself. Re:Becca opened her mouth wide and swallowed him whole while he fumbled with the clasp of her bra. She made sexy little slurping noises as she gobbled him, bouncing her head up and down in his lap as her now naked tits shook. I’m not sure whether she was hungrier or hornier. Either way, she was devouring him with gusto.

He was a hairy fellow, which I don’t necessarily mind. Deidre had managed to unbutton the top of his coveralls and remove his undershirt, and was now quite happily running her fingers through his chest hair and toying with his tiny pink nipples, while Desdemona set up an IV. His legs were splayed wide, and he had a plump and furry set of balls, which Re:Becca occasionally paused in her cock-sucking to lavish affection on, licking his wrinkled scrotum and sucking each tender testicle while his wet cock strained eagerly up.

Cassandra had pulled off her damp t-shirt and was playing with her own nipples. She has a pair of beautiful big tits, the size and shape of a pair of ripe cantaloupes, the kind that occasionally make me wish I had breasts of my own. Her nipples were eagerly erect, swollen and pink like a pair of gumdrops. In my own pants, I had developed quite the erection, and despite myself I had to slide a hand down my jeans and give my own cock a squeeze. It wasn’t just been the girls who’d been short on action lately.

Deidre and Desdemona had gotten naked. They looked like a pair of lizards; there isn’t one single strand of body hair between any of my four roommates; and they were taking turns drinking thirstily from the surgical tube protruding from the needle they’d inserted in his left arm, just below the elbow. They were making out with each other and him as they drank, and blood was getting everywhere. He didn’t seem weirded out by the situation at all; he was simply too turned on, and I had to admit the scene was pretty hot.

Re:Becca stood up, stepped out of her dark blue sweat pants, pulled her panties aside, and sat down on his big, hard, All-American erection, engulfing him in her sopping wet pussy with an audible slurp. Cassandra reached up from where she was sprawled on the floor, and carefully inserted one wet finger up into his tiny brown asshole. He moaned deliriously, and started bucking his hips up and down, splashing blood out of the IV onto the long-suffering couch. Re:Becca, glasses askew, eyes clenched tight in ecstasy, bounced along in time with him, her tits shaking violently with every thrust. She was making a fuckload of noise, I pitied our neighbors, and the pitch of her cries was rising and increasing in tempo. Cassandra, with an intently evil grin, slapped Re:Becca’s pale ass, leaving a blue handprint, and twisted the forefinger that was jammed up farm boy’s butt. They both came together, gasping and panting and howling and growling.

Deidre grinned. Both the sisters have scary smiles, dual rows of tiny, needle-sharp teeth like a baby shark, but they’re mostly just for show. “Now you’ve made him get all soft,” she complained languidly, “What about us?”

“Ain’t nothing wrong with his tongue,” Re:Becca responded, kicking off her ruined panties and giving our boy’s wet, wilted cock a final squeeze.

Farm Boy took the opportunity to divest himself of his crumpled dungarees and underpants, which the girls were more than happy to help him with, and obligingly sprawled out on the couch on his back. D&D took up their position, kneeling over his face, taking turns dragging their smooth, slippery-wet pussies across his outstretched tongue. They kissed and made out as he licked them, blackish-red blood smeared all across their lips and faces. They pressed their tits hard against each other, squeezing each other’s ass, the one being serviced groping her sister’s pussy as she ground her clit back and forth across his face.

Meanwhile, Re:Becca had found a razor blade somewhere (you never have to look far to find a razor blade in our apartment), and busied herself making an incision in Farm Boy’s inner thigh. She was an expert. She would just barely nick the femoral artery, enough so that he would spurt blood like a water fountain; not quite enough so that he’d bleed out and die right away. She slurped the arterial blood up thirstily, even as the Weird Sisters, backs arched, frizzy hair shaking, conical breasts bouncing and blushing lavender, traded orgasms, whining impatiently for more.

Farm Boy’s cock was slowly coming back to life, encouraged by occasional gentle petting from Re:Becca’s talented hand as she gorged  herself. I was almost painfully turned on. My dick was swollen, leaky and jutting in my jeans, and it was getting to the point where I was going to have to do something about it. Jerking off to methodical, premeditated murder ooks me out, even when it’s done real slow and sexy. So I kept it in my pants, and bailed on the whole scene. I went over to the Good Times and had a burger and a beer. I ordered the burger well-done. Extra well-done. I didn’t want to see one speck of pink meat.

By the time I got home, Farm Boy was looking pale and diminished, a shell of his former self. Cassandra had him to herself, on the living room floor. She had wrapped the serpentine lower half of her body around his torso, like a python throttling a deer, and with her impossibly strong hands clenched in his tousled brown hair, she was busy force-feeding him her breasts.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t ssstop…” she hissed, as if he had any choice. Cassandra is constantly bemoaning her lack of a pussy, and complaining that her clit aches like the absent limb of an amputee. She can orgasm through nipple stimulation, but it takes a LOT of stimulation to get her off. I went to bed.

I was the first one up the next morning. I could hear Re:Becca snoring away like an enormous, well-fed cat on her futon. I started the coffee and dry-swallowed my first batch of pills of the day on an empty and growling stomach.

The girls weren’t finished with him, not quite yet. He looked as if he’d physically shrunk, like he was wasted away and old. His skin was pale, almost translucent. His back was bent into an uncomfortable-looking ‘C’, his hands and wrists duct-taped together behind him, and somebody’s panties were wadded up and taped to the incision on his thigh, keeping pressure on that artery. He was naked and helpless, and I guess I felt a little bad for him, but I wouldn’t have done anything, except right then, as I was walking back to my room with my mug in hand, he opened his eyes and looked right up at me and said “help”.

There was something about that hoarse, forlorn voice that tugged at my heart strings. And certain other parts. I sighed, and swilled my coffee.

I untied him, massaged his ankles and feet until he could walk again. His dungarees were ruined, shredded and soaked in blood, so I dressed him in a pair of my black jeans that were way too small for him, and one of my old t-shirts. He leaned heavily on me for support. Together, we walked down the stairs and out onto the street, where he blinked stupidly in the morning sun.

I went to the corner bodega, and fed him a V-8, which seemed to perk him up a little, and then I walked him over to my friend Rachel’s place. Rachel is off on tour, and I had soft-heartedly agreed to feed her cat while she was gone. I stripped the clothes off him, and put him to bed, where he more or less instantly passed out, slipping into a deep peaceful-looking slumber. When he woke up, I fed him pierogies and chicken soup from the Polish diner up the street. I made him take a shower, and put a real bandage on his thigh. Then he slept again.

I undressed and climbed into Rachel’s Ikea bed with him, snuggling up against him like spoons in a drawer. His body was warm once again, his shoulders were broad, and his hair smelled nice. I reached around to his front, playing with his soft nest of chest hair, and then exploring further south.

His penis responded instantly to my touch, and he made a cute little mewing noise, wiggling his buns and pressing back against me as I caressed him into full-on hardness. His dick felt nice in my hand, big and thick, and soft and silky, and hot and pleasingly hard. My stroking became more purposeful, I squeezed his cock harder and pumped him faster and faster, until he was gasping and panting, and humping back against my own erection. I leaned forward and kissed him, an urgent, open-mouth kiss right on his chapped, Midwestern, heterosexual lips, and groaning into my mouth, he came, his cock pulsating in my hand, squirting sticky white semen all over Rachel’s bed. I’d have to remember to change her sheets.

After he was finished, after his body relaxed and his dick softened, after I had milked every last drop of come out of him, I tentatively began to rub my own needy meat between his ass cheeks. I was desperately horny at this point; I had been witness to all kinds of twisted, raunchy debauchery over the last twenty-four hours, but I had yet to get any release myself.

To my aching relief, he responded in kind, rubbing his ass up and down against my hard dick. I kissed and nibbled the back of his neck, squeezing him tight around the chest, grinding my cock between his taut buns.

When I couldn’t stand it any more, I pushed him away, fetched a condom out of Rachel’s bedside table (Good girl!), and rolled it down my quivering, over-excited shaft. Farm Boy assumed the position, down on all fours, ass thrust out, cock and balls hanging down, face pressed against the blanket.

Only it wasn’t happening. He was too tight, too nervous, too clenched. We didn’t have enough lubrication, and he wasn’t really into it, even after I had rimmed him a little. With a pang of regret, I rolled off the condom, and offered my dick up for him to suck on, which, to his credit, he willingly did.

That didn’t really work either. It felt nice, and he looked sexy as hell doing it, licking and kissing and doing his damnedest to swallow my hard-on, but he just didn’t have the knack. Every time he achieved a decent rhythm and I started to get close, he choked, or changed tempo, or let me flop wetly out of his mouth while he gasped for hair. My balls were starting to hurt.

I ended up helping him jerk me off, his fingers entwined with mine, our hands moving together up and down my cock until I finally came, squirting gobs and gobs of toxic, HIV+ semen all over his angelic face. It was pretty sweet, and it left me exhausted and glowing. We fell asleep together, holding hands, my come drying on his cheeks and in his goatee.

He was gone when I woke up the next morning. Not that I blame him. He was no more into dudes than he was into hipster vampire chicks. Re:Becca and the girls would be a little bit pissed, but they’d get over it. I have needs too, and they know it. And I had saved them a hassle: disposing of a body is always a pain in the ass. Anyway, there was plenty more where he’d come from

He’d make his way back to Wisconsin, which would be a headache for him without his wallet or any possessions, but he’d manage. He’d go back to Madison, finish school, get himself a BS degree and a pretty little Midwestern girl, and they’d move back to the farm together and slowly go to seed. He’d never visit New York again, and he’d warn all his friends to stay away. “You wouldn’t believe the shit that goes on in the big city,” he’d expound after a couple Bud Lights down at the local bar, “There’s some mighty fucked-up people in that town. And I ain’t fooling. You wanna take my advice, just stay away.”

END

Leave a Comment

The Monkey On My Back

She died suddenly and unexpectedly. Everyone around her was understandably shocked: until very recently she’d been so healthy and so full of life. The bug that killed her wasn’t cancer; it was something more exotic than that, and much more virulent. I don’t remember the name. It was one of those diseases from Nigeria or some shit-hole like that that you hear about on the eleven o’clock news and don’t ever really believe in. The way I heard it, she went in to her doctor with a minor infection, and came out of the hospital six days later in the back of a refrigerator truck. I guess it was pretty ugly.

I met him at the Starbucks near University at 6 a.m. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all, shell-shocked and unshaved and almost gaunt. For all that, he still looked pretty damn good to me, James Bond on a rough morning. It was nearly the first time we had been alone together. We sat on a couch by a low table piled with magazines near the back, as blurry-eyed college kids lined up for the low-wage barristas. My head was throbbing through a red wine hangover.

He did most of the talking. I mostly just nodded and made sympathetic noises and tried to concentrate on what he was saying, battling the twin distractions of my aching head and my horny, twitching pussy. He rambled, talking about everything and anything other than his wife. I noticed that he hadn’t removed his wedding band. Not yet. I placed my palm softly on his trouser-covered thigh, and he appeared not to notice. I felt a secret thrill, a tingle that resonated up and down my body and left me moist and hungry for more. When the opportunity presented itself, I rested my head on his broad shoulder, a gesture of sympathy and support. He idly stroked my hair.

Emboldened, I slid my hand up his leg until I found his package. He did not pull away. I softly petted him, up and down, back and forth, the way you might pet a nervous cat who had finally consented to sit on your lap but might bolt or scratch at any second. I felt him grow and stiffen under the soft touch of my roving fingers, until he was fully hard inside his trousers and I could feel his entire topography, every bump and ridge and valley. It felt delicious, excruciating, and I was sweating cheap malbec and making a sticky mess inside my panties as he idly rambled, talking about baseball, the weather, the Republican caucuses, the Eurozone mess, anything but the passing of his beloved. All the while I kept petting, and he kept getting harder and harder, until he was straining against the fabric that constricted him, about to burst a seam in his crotch. I finally took his hand in mine and tugged him up and away in the direction of the bathroom, and he obediently followed.

I’ve never been a huge fan of bathroom sex. Frankly, I’ve always thought it’s kind of gross, the lingering smell of old urine and other people’s farts is definitely un-sexy in my book. Fortunately this bathroom was freshly cleaned and sanitized, thank you Starbucks employees! It smelled slightly medicinal, eau de industrial cleaning product.

I sat on his lap for a little while, sliding my rump up and down his jutting, pants-covered erection and letting him fondle my tits through my shirt and bra while I craned my neck around and kissed him. I could tell he wasn’t really into the kissing, so I didn’t force the issue. Soon enough, I climbed down off his lap and got down on my knees.

The floor was tile: tiny beige and grey and white tiles set into grout, each one just a hair crooked, like a monochrome mosaic. I unfastened his fly and tugged his trousers and then his briefs down as he perched atop the toilet. His erection flapped up into my face, hard and swollen and eager.

His cock was gorgeous. It was just as I had imagined it, big and hard and thick and beautifully sculpted, crowned with a fat, moist, scarlet head.

There was nothing subtle about the blowjob I gave him. I simply opened my mouth wide, tucked my teeth behind my lips, and bobbed my head rhythmically up and down, letting the underside of his hot dick slide along my tongue. He seemed to appreciate my efforts, and within a few minutes he was actively humping back, urgently and spasmodically fucking my face. His balls were firm and swollen, like over-ripe fruit, and he was squirming on the toilet seat and making little grunting sounds. I knew he was just about there.

I closed my lips around the bulbous head of his cock and did my best impression of a vacuum-pack machine while I wrapped both hands around his shaft and jerked him off as hard and fast as I could. His whole body went rigid and he emitted a strangled, choking cry, and then he came, squirting gob after gob of hot, salty-bitter semen straight into my mouth. I swallowed, and swallowed again. It seemed like he was never going to stop coming. I kept my mouth on his dick until he was soft, swallowing all his come and then fastidiously lapping up the stray droplets I had missed.

He was sprawled, panting across the toilet, head lolled back, shirt disheveled, his pants around his ankles. I couldn’t believe how much come he had just shot off. It was as if he hadn’t gotten off in weeks. Which, upon reflection, was probably true.

I left him there, sitting on the john, while I checked my makeup in the mirror. Before exiting the restroom, I flashed him a smile and a flutter of my fingers. He looked dazed. I’m not sure he even noticed me leave. Outside, the morning rush was in full swing. I could still taste him in my mouth, and my cunt was swollen and juicy. My hangover felt much better already.

*

I texted him a few days later, asked if I could come over. He responded ‘ok’, which wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic endorsement, but was all the invitation I needed.

He looked rough. He still wasn’t sleeping, and it didn’t look like he’d even changed his clothes. The kitchen was overflowing with used to-go containers, and there was a small mountain of junk mail on the counter.

As soon as the front door had closed behind me, I pulled my shirt off over my head. I hadn’t worn a bra. I felt brazen and dangerous, an amazon princess. He looked at me questioningly, his eyes lingering on my swaying tits. I told him that what he needed was a good massage, and he didn’t argue.

He took off his rumpled shirt and his slacks, but left his briefs on. He lay face-down on the brownish-orange carpet of his living room, his arms folded under his head.

I slithered out of my jeans and straddled him, nothing but the skimpiest layer of pink cotton between his naked flesh and my horny pussy. I swear, I was already soaking through my panties. For a few minutes, I made a good-faith effort at rubbing his shoulders, which were tight and knotted with tension.

When I felt like I’d done enough kneading to justify calling it a massage, when I couldn’t stand to wait any longer, I gave it up and dragged my breasts up and down his back, nibbling on the nape of his neck. I hooked my fingers in the waistband of his undies, and tugged. He lifted his hips to help me.

His ass was pale, and tight and muscular, beautifully shaped. He could have been a male tush-model. His rear-end reminded me of some exotic fruit. I stuck out my tongue and sampled him, licking his fat, dangling balls, and then dragging the tip of my tongue lightly all the way up and down his dark, furry crevice, studiously avoiding his butt hole. He tasted clean and musky, male. He groaned audibly as I licked. I felt a jolt of anticipatory pleasure course through my body. My clit throbbed palpably and my pussy drooled with hunger.

His anus was impossibly tiny and pink, like the knotted end of a balloon. He was closed up tight: a bona fide virgin. Like a kid on Christmas morning, I simply couldn’t wait. I pried his butt cheeks apart, as wide as I could, one taut globe in each hand, and pressed my extended tongue hard against his anus. I was rewarded with a sigh and a squirm as he raised his hips, pressing back against me.

His cock was harder than hard, straining straight out underneath him. I slipped one hand under his body and wrapped my fist around his hot shaft as my tongue continued tunneling, insistently drilling my way up his tight, clenched asshole.

He was up on all fours now, his dick thrusting and shaking like a spear. He was nice and thick, and my fingertips barely touched around his girth. I could feel his pulse pounding in his cock as my tongue invaded his asshole, deeper, ever deeper. I wasn’t moving my hand, but he was humping excitedly, like a boy playing air guitar, and I could feel his cock swelling and trembling against my grip. His butt was finally relaxing a little, and my extended tongue was sliding in and out of his dark, musky hole. His balls rested warmly against my chin.

I withdrew my tongue, and gently but firmly and insistently worked on sliding one wet finger up his ass. He whimpered like a kitten and tried to pull away, but I was unrelenting. His asshole was hot, and impossibly tight, but persistence paid off. He was slick with excitement and drenched in my saliva, and my persistent finger slid slowly deeper and deeper until I was buried up to the knuckle in his ass. His anus clenched and grasped at my finger. He was obviously balanced right on the edge, and obviously hungry for more.

Every muscle in his back was flexed in a gorgeous, sweaty bas-relief. He was a pornographic renaissance sculpture, a greek warrior impaled on my extended digit. My panties were soaked through and through, and my thighs were slick with my own oozing come.

The second finger was easier. He was moaning nonstop, and I wasn’t sure if it was asking for more or begging me to stop, but I didn’t really care either. His anus was becoming more and more pliable as I finger-fucked him, deeper and harder until my shoulder ached with the effort and I was groaning just as loud as he was moaning.

Without warning, he came. His entire body went rigid and I felt his dick spasm in my hand, and he made a cute little strangled noise and shot off, his come jetting out a yard and more, splattering all over the hideous orange carpet beneath him. His asshole squeezed my finger hard, relaxed, and clenched again. His cock trembled spasmodically, his big fat balls gathered up tight, and I milked him, squeezing every last drop of come out of his body.

Finally, I withdrew my invading finger. We were both breathing hard. I think he may have been crying. I pulled on my jeans and put on my shoes, and left him there, lying naked on the floor in a self-made puddle of his own sperm.

*

The next time I came over, I didn’t ask permission. Sometimes it’s better that way, and this time it worked out just perfect.

I was wearing nothing but my oversized punk-rock biker’s jacket (a relic of James, my first real boyfriend, who never came back to retrieve it after he broke up with me), and a pair of black leather motorcycle boots that came almost up to my knees. I was naked other than that, and a cool wind caressed my buttocks and tickled the fur of my pussy as I stood at his front door, waiting for him to respond to my knock. My nipples stood out hard, and it wasn’t just the chilly air.

My timing couldn’t have been better. Apparently he’d just gotten back from a jog, and he was still stretching out, adorable in a pair of nylon shorts and a sweat-soaked white t-shirt. The look of surprise on his face when he answered the door was priceless: I don’t know if it was my unexpected presence that was the shock, or the outfit; this was a polar opposite of the image I projected at work, the only context he had for me.

The house was still a mess, but not as bad as it had been. He’d thrown away the empty pizza boxes and to-go containers. I bet if I’d looked hard, there were come stains in the orange carpet. He should get rid of that thing anyway, it looked like something out of the seventies.

I unzipped my jacket, jangling with chains and studs, and appreciated the hungry look on his face when he saw that I was naked underneath. Already his cock was making a delicious lump in the front of his running shorts, straining to be set free.

The bedroom looked as if it hadn’t been touched since she’d been rushed to the hospital. Her stuff was all over the place; her clothes hung up and laid out ready for her to come home. The dresser was covered with her cosmetics and a dish of jewelry that was totally not to my taste. There were photographs of them together, wholesome and happy, a picture of republican family values. I imagined that they’d met since high school, exchanged bracelets, dated all the way through college even though they went to school in different states, and married shortly after graduation, but that was all just fantasy on my part. He was pulling off his running clothes, his cock erect, bobbing and pointing at the ceiling. He’d shaved, and his pubes looked freshly trimmed, as if he’d anticipated my visit.

There was a picture of her on the dresser, overlooking the bed. She was pretty in a way, I supposed, her hair coiffed and frosty and remorselessly hairsprayed into position, shoulder pads under her jacket, an artificial looking blush painted on her cheek, and a slight, possibly smug pout in her lips. I wondered if she used to suck his cock. It was hard to imagine those glossy lips wrapped around his veiny, hard, throbbing dick. Her eyes were slate blue behind her glasses, and it felt like she was watching the whole scene unfold. If she were watching, I could only imagine that she would be horrified.

I sucked his dick a little bit, just an appetizer. He tasted nice, salty and clean. He was already leaking pre-come, and I savored the sweet taste. Just for a moment, though.

His dick flopped wetly out of my mouth as I fell onto my back onto his bed, my legs splayed wide, the matte-black leather of my boots in stark contrast with the white sheets. He got down on his knees and licked, just a perfunctory slurp or two up and down my slit, strictly a pro-forma gesture.

I was more than ready for him, hot and wet and wide open and slippery. He penetrated me, slipped his big cock straight up my hungry cunt, and I savored the exquisite sensation of it, reveling in the filled-up feeling, my clit bulging eagerly out. I craned my neck to watch his come-slick dick sliding in and out of my pussy, and crooned out loud with the pleasure of it. He only fucked me for a few moments though, before pulling out, leaving me gasping, and wanting. His slick, wet dick stood straight up, the crown a livid red, harder and more swollen and erect than ever.

I lifted my legs, hugging my knees toward my chest, exposing myself fully to him. He nuzzled the head of his dick between my ass cheeks, bumping up against my anus, and I gurgled incoherently. Now I was the one squirming in agonizing frustrated desire.

It took him a little while to work his cock up my ass. He was big, thick, and he did it right, taking his time. He’d nudge forward a little bit, then withdraw, rub his fingers up and down my juicy slit, spreading joy juice all over his cock and my ass before once more renewing his assault on my anus. By the time he finally skewered me irrevocably, sliding the bulbous ridges of his fat glans up past my quivering ring of sphincter muscles, I was delirious.

He slid a thumb up my cunt and fucked my ass, forceful but slow, like a wildcat oil drilling rig, sinking his cock deeper and deeper into my butt until he was all the way inside, his entire length and girth crammed up my ass, his balls pressed snugly against my butt cheeks. My clit got a little jolt from his thumb every time he thrust, and now he was fucking me faster, sodomizing me, taking his own pleasure and running with it.

His lips were twisted in a grimace, his eyes were scrunched up, his brow furled. He was pounding my ass hard, and I was just along for the ride. Finally, he made a loud, low animal growl, and came. I felt his cock twitch and twitch again as he squirted off inside me, filling my butt to overflowing with his hot semen.

I was limp as a boneless chicken. He extracted his already softening cock from my ass with an audible *pop*, and went to the bathroom, closing the door behind him, leaving me lying there on the bed, gasping like a trout plucked suddenly from a brook.

I could hear the shower running. I stood up and zipped my jacket and let myself out.

It was cool outside, late morning now, and there were cars and people out. I felt naked, exposed, barely covered up in my oversized biker’s leather. His come was already leaking out my ass, dribbling down the backs of my thighs. I got into my car and drove home, making a sticky puddle of our combined juices on the front seat that squooshed under my butt cheeks as I drove.

I’d whack off all that afternoon and into the night, filthy porn on the computer screen and vibrators and dildos up my cunt, my asshole still too frazzled to be toyed with, my clit swollen and tender and insatiable, visions of his face as he came playing over and over in my mind’s eye, and an image of her face watching implacably over us from her spot on the dresser, prim and disapproving. I’d gotten the monkey off my back, at least for the time being.

END

Comments (8)