Archive for February, 2013

The Summer I Learned to Fly

That summer started out badly, with a pretty much total core meltdown. Our house was being foreclosed on; dad was under indictment (I still don’t know exactly what the crime was—some kind of financial chicanery that was shady and technical); and mom completely lost her shit and had to be hospitalized.

That would have left the three of us—Me, Tacoma, and Ryan—in the lurch in a pretty serious way. Except that Uncle John and Aunt Ellen stepped in and swept us away for the summer, all the way across the country to their immense and rambling old farmhouse in upstate New York.

It was a tough time for me. I’m sure it was hard for my older brother and sister too, but at the time I was too self-centered and wrapped up in my own problems to think about them. I was an awkward kid, introverted and perpetually self-conscious. I have Cerebral Palsy, which means my legs are twisted like pretzels and I need two canes and leg braces to walk; ugly metal braces that clunk with each step. To compound that, I was a late bloomer, compared to all the other girls in my class. I finally hit puberty, and it was like an F-16 switching on the afterburner. Paradoxically, that just made me feel like even more of an outsider. I got my period, fitfully and unpredictably, and I started growing breasts; small but sensitive speed bumps that made me feel like everyone was always staring at my chest. My sexuality suddenly made the quantum leap from occasionally having my G.I. Joes and Barbies play out unnatural acts together to furtive pornography-looking and actual masturbation. Lots and lots of actual masturbation.

I probably would have been miserable anyway, but at the time being yanked away from everything familiar was a kick in the gut.

On the other hand, I had just begun to experiment with my superpowers. Maybe it was a side effect of the CP and maybe not, but I discovered that if I sat very still and concentrated, I could go invisible. It took a fair amount of concentration, and if I stayed that way too long I got a headache, but it worked, and I clasped that knowledge close to me like a precious jewel.

I spent most of the flight from SeaTac to JFK in an aisle seat with my pants around my ankles, playing with my pussy, letting my fingers wander up, down, and sometimes inside my moist slit, idly toying with my clitoris and thinking dirty thoughts. Occasionally, depending on my level of excitement, my focus would lapse, and I’d flicker in and out of view, like interference on a TV set. This caused great consternation for the middle-aged businessman across the aisle. I think I may have given him whiplash: he’d catch a glimpse of me out of the corner of his eye with my pants down, legs splayed into the aisle, shirt lifted up, tits hanging out, my hand busy between my legs; and by the time he’d swiveled his head around, I’d be invisible again.  He must have thought he was hallucinating, or seeing some erotic ghost.

By the time we landed in New York I had a pounding migraine and a very sore pussy. I could hardly walk, never mind the canes and braces. It was hot and humid, and JFK smelled like jet fuel and Porto-potty. I was exhausted.

Uncle John and Aunt Ellen met us just on the other side of security. They were old and fat and homely, a pair of life-sized garden gnomes, complete with little red noses. Uncle John swept us up, Aunt Ellen took control of our luggage, and we all piled into their extended-cab pickup truck. It was ridiculously cramped inside the truck. I was sandwiched uncomfortably in between Tacoma and Ryan. My clit was chaffed, and inside my pants, my panties were obnoxiously damp.

It was a two-hour drive upstate to our Aunt and Uncle’s place, and mercifully, I slept most of the way. When I woke up, it was dark, and we were there, and my leg had fallen asleep. Tacoma laughed at me as I struggled up the steps onto the porch. It was not a very auspicious start to the summer.

I slept hard in a strange bed, and felt better the next morning than I had in weeks, not since all the weirdness with our parents had started going down.

The next morning Uncle John made us a big fat pancake breakfast wearing—literally—nothing but a bathrobe, and Aunt Ellen smoked a doobie and invited us to explore the place. “You guys don’t have to worry about anything,” she said. “You’re family here.” Despite my uncle’s scandalously naked pale hairy thigh and the unaccustomed sickly-sweet reek of marijuana smoke, I had the feeling that it was all going to be OK.

The place was an old apple farm, long gone fallow. It was a sort of heaven for able-bodied kids to explore: there were acres and acres of rolling hills, studded with grassy meadows and bent and gnarled old trees; there were any number of old outbuildings in various states of falling down-ness and disrepair; there was a huge and stately old red barn with an alluring and deeply-dangerous looking hayloft. Ryan and Tacoma promptly disappeared, often all day long, coming home for dinner sunburned, sweaty, scraped-up, muddy, and full of glee.

Me, I kept mostly to the house, which was plenty interesting and challenging all by itself. The place was huge. I never counted rooms, but there must have been well over a dozen. There were three stories, plus an oppressively hot and dusty attic, and all the bedrooms were on the second and third floors. The stairs were tough, steep and winding and more than a little scary, but they were a challenge I was up for, not like the hundred-year old homemade ladder up to the hayloft. While my older brother and sister tore around the property and the surrounding countryside, I methodically explored the house, from the dank and musty basement to the hot and gabled attic. Including, not incidentally, my aunt and uncle’s bedrooms.

Aunt Ellen and Uncle John were not a conventional couple; we figured that out pretty much right away. Aside from the fact that they both smoked a lot of dope (they offered us some; Tacoma and I declined, but Ryan sometimes took them up on it); and the fact that they both had a habit of walking around half- or more than half-naked; aside from all that, they both had separate bedrooms, and from time to time there would be strange cars parked in the driveway at night, cars that would be gone by morning. I can’t have been the only one who noticed that.

They were both professors, and taught at the local community college. They both had summer classes, so they were usually gone for a large portion of the day, which facilitated my mission, because I wasn’t very good at moving quietly around the house.

Aunt Ellen had a huge—and I mean huge—collection of sex toys. It filled an entire drawer in her dresser, and ranged from small and discreet to enormous and frightening. Some of that stuff I didn’t have any clue what you were even supposed to do with. I figured she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed a small, lipstick-shaped vibrator. She would probably never even notice it was missing.

I found a treasure trove of pornography in Uncle John’s room: some VHS tapes and DVDs, but mainly books and magazines. And to my glee, they mainly featured guys. Naked, muscular, well-endowed young guys, erect and flaccid, posing alone or in groups, fucking and getting fucked. I had pretty much hit the jackpot.

Well, whacking off with a stolen vibrator to glossy pictures of teenage boys fucking each other was plenty hot for a summer afternoon or two, but the truth is it mostly just made me hungry for more. I hadn’t gone invisible much yet that summer; there hadn’t really been any reason to, but I decided it was high time I put my superpower to good use.

They rolled in well after midnight. We had all had dinner together (Uncle John always did the cooking), watched some PBS, and then gone to bed. I hadn’t heard them leave, but I did hear them come back. I sat up in bed when I heard the front door slam. I set my jaw, concentrating hard, and went invisible. As quietly as possible, I got up, put on my braces, and then slowly and agonizingly, one foot in front of the other, I traversed my bedroom floor, cracked the door, and peeked out into the hallway.

I was just in time for them to breeze past me. There were four of them: My aunt and uncle, and two girls I didn’t recognize. They reeked of alcohol, tobacco, and marijuana. They were trying to be quiet, but they weren’t succeeding very well. Staying invisible, I followed them up to the third floor, where Aunt Ellen and Uncle John had their bedrooms. Climbing the stairs was terrifying and painfully slow.

Once I was up the stairs, I maneuvered along the hallway as quietly as I could with my canes and braces. The door to Aunt Ellen’s bedroom was ajar. It was almost as if they wanted to get caught. (Maybe that’s exactly what they wanted. That hypothesis didn’t occur to me until much later.)

Secure in my invisibility, I took my time, stealthily creeping into the bedroom and standing by the wall. I probably needn’t have bothered. I doubt they would have noticed me if I’d been fully visible and wearing a Day-Glo safety vest.

The two girls were fairly pretty, a little older than my sister Tacoma. One girl had a mop of curly, chestnut-brown hair. She was a skinny thing, with small, bouncy breasts, not much bigger than my own. The other one was a little chunkier, almost Rubenesque. She was a redhead. They were both dwarfed by the bulk of my aunt and uncle. Uncle John was completely nude. He was splayed out in an easy chair by the bed, jerking off. He had salt-and-pepper pubes, and enormous hairy balls that jiggled and shifted as he masturbated.

Aunt Ellen was flat on her back on the bed. She was naked as well. She was fat, and she had truly immense breasts, and she had her face buried in the skinny girl’s hairless crotch. I could see the wetness, hear the squelching as she licked. The other girl was lying on her stomach, between Aunt Ellen’s monstrous thighs. She was still wearing her lilac panties, and she was busy licking my aunt’s pussy.

I stuck my hand inside my own pajamas, and ran my fingers up and down my slit. I was already sopping wet, and my clit was humming. I began to masturbate in earnest. It was difficult to whack off and stay invisible at the same time, and I may have flickered in and out a little, but like I said before, I don’t think it mattered. They certainly didn’t notice me. They had other things on their minds.

Aunt Ellen licked her fingers, and inserted two of them into the skinny brunette’s asshole. The girl grunted and grimaced, using her hands to spread her ass cheeks wider to give Aunt Ellen better access. Aunt Ellen craned her head, the veins in her neck sticking out, keeping her extended tongue on the girl’s juicy slit, while she finger-fucked her asshole. The girl who had been eating her out scrambled up, straddled her thick leg, and started dragging her pantied crotch back and forth along Aunt Ellen’s thigh. The two girls began kissing each other and playing with each other’s breasts.

Uncle John stood up (his back mostly to me, unfortunately), and started frantically jerking off. He made a sound like a tractor-trailer downshifting, and splattered his come all over the females on the bed. This seemed to set Aunt Ellen off, and she came, screeching like poorly-oiled machinery. I wondered why I’d never heard them before. The reason, I think, was the old house: thick plaster walls and timbers.

Aunt Ellen went to work on the two girl in a serious way, keeping her fingers crammed up inside the skinny one’s ass, she licked up the semen that had splashed across them; and then with both girls lying on their backs on the bed, she alternated licking their pussies, the skinny girls shaved and puffy vulva and lapping the bigger girl through the wet crotch of her panties. She licked and finger-fucked them until they both came.

That was just too much for me. I wanted to come like an overinflated balloon wants to pop. But one thing I couldn’t do was orgasm and stay invisible. It may be that they were too wrapped up in their own orgy to have even noticed me, but I wasn’t about to put that to the test. Pulling up my pajama bottoms (that had somehow crumbled down around my ankles), I gathered my canes and began the long, arduous journey back to my own bed, where I could finish the job properly. And that I did, masturbating until I was sore and silly.

I didn’t get another opportunity for a while, but when I did I jumped on it. I was in the kitchen one hot August afternoon, and looking back, I may have been invisible without realizing it. I had started doing that from time to time. Uncle John and Aunt Ellen walked through the room on their way out to the garden. Uncle John was wearing cut-off shorts that were cut off distressingly high and nothing else; Aunt Ellen was wearing a hideous floral summer dress that violated every known law of aesthetics and barely contained her huge breasts. As they passed, I heard Aunt Ellen say “…going to pick up your sweet little boy toy tonight…”

That was all I needed to hear.

I heard them leave this time. They were actually really quiet and discreet about it, tiptoeing out of the house after we had all gone to bed and not turning on their headlights until they had pulled out of the driveway, but I was listening for them, and I heard the front door click as it closed. I made my painfully slow way upstairs, let myself into Uncle John’s room, sat down on the easy chair, and settled down to wait.

As it happened, I barely had to wait at all.

They pulled into the driveway, and I hastily went invisible. I stood in a corner with my braces leaning up against the wall; the last thing I needed was for somebody to bump into me or accidentally sit on my lap.

The boy looked like a dark-hair Tintin with glasses. He was that cute! He looked like he was about my age, but I’m sure he was older than he appeared: my Aunt and Uncle may have been perverts, but I don’t think they were pedophiles; and he had a big Soviet sickle-and-hammer emblem tattooed across his hairless chest.

The scene this time was much slower and more languid than before. They all three got naked (Tintin had a nice, big, delicious-looking dick that was already hard and waggled as he moved), and smoked something sweet and sickly out of a funky glass pipe that made me a little light-headed. The three of them kissed a lot, sharing the smoke, which smelled like marijuana only more so, and touched each other. Tintin’s penis never flagged; Uncle John and Aunt Ellen seemed to make a point of not touching it, which only seemed to make it harder and more eagerly erect. Uncle John produced a big syringe full of yellow liquid; I hate needles and I flinched as I watched, but I couldn’t make myself look away. First he injected about half the syringe into his own arm, and then he changed needles and gave Tintin a shot in the inner thigh.

The boy looked disoriented, and Uncle John grinned and tweaked both his nipples, hard. Then Aunt Ellen fetched a vibrator that looked more like an industrial kitchen utensil than a sex toy, plugged it in, and turned down the lights. She sprawled out on the bed next to the guys, with the huge white vibrator humming between her thighs. Uncle John lay on his back, and Tintin lay on top of him, in a 69.

I had an absolutely gorgeous view of Uncle John with his head between Tintin’s thighs, licking and kissing and nibbling on that beautiful engorged cock. Every now and then he would divert himself by playing with the boy’s wrinkled ball sac or asshole, but mostly he just slurped at his cock like it was a particularly tasty gobstopper. I wished I could see what Tintin was doing to him, but all I could see was his unruly dark hair bobbing up and down between Uncle John’s thighs. I didn’t want to move around much to get a better view; I was afraid of getting caught.

They went at it for ages! I watched two hours tick by on the clock while they suckled each other and Aunt Ellen lazily masturbated next to them. My pussy was drenched: my juices were literally running down my thighs, and my clit hurt. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, Tintin squealed and came, squirting what I swear looked like several gallons of semen all over Uncle John’s red, chubby face.

Aunt Ellen laughed out loud. Uncle John, viscous white come still streaming down his cheeks, lips, nose, and forehead in sticky little rivulets, squirmed out from under young Tintin, got up on his knees, and vigorously jerked off into the boy’s open mouth.

Uncle John stood up, his fat balls swinging halfway down to his knees, went to the bathroom and washed his face and pissed, all with the door wide open. Aunt Ellen watched Tintin get dressed (I discovered that I adore watching a cute naked guy get dressed), got dressed herself, and took the rather dazed-looking fellow down to the truck. Presumably she gave him a ride home. Uncle John, meanwhile, went to bed.

It was torture getting out of that bedroom. Uncle John snored. The floorboards wanted to squeak under me. My cunt ached. Aunt Ellen had closed the door tight behind her. It took me half a century to gingerly tiptoe out into the hallway. Once I was finally safe, I couldn’t even wait to make it back to my own bedroom. I sat down at the top of the stairwell, spread my legs, and rubbed out a massive orgasm right there. I don’t know if I had ever come so powerfully before. It was the kind of orgasm that seemed to go on and on, like the perfect wave, curling my toes and making my nipples tingle. It made me wish I had a video camera so I could make a recording of myself coming, just so I could whack off to it again later on. Anyone who says girls don’t get off on visual imagery is insane in my book.

I didn’t spend all my time that summer indoors. Sometimes we went to the park, and we all went swimming a couple times, which was fun, and I did a little exploring of my own around the yard. It was just hard because of my mobility.

One night, when it was too hot and humid to sleep, I watched (invisible and from a safe distance) as Uncle John and Aunt Ellen strung a boy up from a twisted and gnarled old apple tree. They stripped him naked, bound his wrists, and hoisted him up until his feet kicked wildly a few inches above the grass. I don’t think it was the same boy as before; this one seemed a little fatter, and I didn’t see the communist sickle and hammer tattoo on his chest. Aunt Ellen and Uncle John took turns sucking his dick and whipping his backside with a willow branch. He howled like a coyote!

Finally, Aunt Ellen cut him down with a scary-looking rigger’s knife. He collapsed, and Uncle John pissed all over his face while Aunt Ellen cackled with laughter, jagged and uproarious. Then they watched while he jerked off, and I felt compelled to join him, curled up in the tall grass, one finger jammed up my asshole while I strummed my clit underneath ten thousand bright and merciless stars.

One hot and sultry day toward the end of August, they took me to the country fair. Ryan and Tacoma declined to go, so it was just the three of us. I had never been to anything like it, and I had a blast! It was a redneck freak show, a raucous anarchy of the senses. We ate sickly-sweet cotton candy and rode the Ferris wheel, and my whole body clenched with the thrill of it. I’ve never been comfortable with heights, and the construction seemed rickety at best. I thought there was a good chance I might die up there, but I didn’t.

The whole time, I felt like Uncle John and Aunt Ellen were on the verge of propositioning me, asking me to join them for some crazy kinky sex. The prospect set me on edge, twisted my stomach, made my pussy salivate and my clit swell and throb, and made me all jumpy and nervous. But there was no innuendo, neither one of them said anything in the least bit inappropriate or suggestive, and when they dropped me off at the farm late that afternoon (they both had faculty meetings at the college to attend, the new semester was getting ready to begin), I couldn’t decide if I was more disappointed or relieved.

On impulse, as their pickup truck pulled out of the driveway, I made my slow and jerky way out to the barn. I had the place to myself; Tacoma and Ryan were out and about. I didn’t have anything particular in mind other than some exploring, and possibly some out-of-doors masturbation. I had slipped my little ‘borrowed’ vibrator into my pants pocket that morning just in case I felt like having a little ‘quiet moment’, and now I thought might be the perfect time to indulge myself, in the quiet musty shade of the old barn.

I slipped in through the enormous barn door that didn’t close all the way, into the cavernous dark and shadowy interior.

As soon as I realized I wasn’t alone, I went invisible.

She was down on all fours on the dusty wooden floor, and he was behind her. They were fucking.

It was my sister Tacoma and my brother Ryan. I could hear them grunting, breathing hard. I could hear his cock squish-squelching in and out of her pussy. She was naked; he was wearing sandals and a white t-shirt.

Tacoma had bigger boobs than I had ever really realized. They hung down like a pair of fat, ripe cantaloupes. I watched, transfixed, as they fucked. My cunt was squishy and wet. I remember thinking ‘They should really be using a condom.’

Ryan pulled his dick out of Tacoma, and she mewed like a kitten. He had a nice-looking cock, not too big, with a well-defined head and a pronounced upward curve. His penis was shiny with Tacoma’s juices, and the crown was bright red and eager. They stood up and kissed, not like a brother and sister kiss, not at all.

Ryan put his hands above his head, Superman-style, and jumped. He did it casually, with no apparent effort. He jumped higher than should have been possible for anyone except maybe an Olympic high-jumper or an NBA star. He caught a rafter with both hands, and hung there, swinging slightly, his crotch right at Tacoma’s face level. I felt a powerful rush of jealousy as I watched, fingering my pussy; not just jealousy for the sex they were having, but jealousy for their able bodies and their agility.

While Ryan dangled from the beam, Tacoma popped the crown of his penis into her mouth, and clasped her hands together as if she was praying. Ryan kicked his legs as she ran her hands quickly up and down the shaft of his cock.

“I’m coming!” he wailed out. Tacoma let his cock pop out of her mouth, but her hands never stopped moving. His stomach tensed, and he squirted pearly-white come all over her tits. I wished I had breasts like that.

When he was all done, he dropped to the floor with a thunk. They kissed a little more, and he rubbed his semen like lotion all over Tacoma’s breasts. Then he pulled on his pants, and left.

She tossed her hair and stared searchingly all around the empty barn, making me flinch.

“I know you’re in here!”

I froze, hand crammed guiltily inside my panties. I concentrated as hard as I could on staying invisible, and tried not to breathe.

“You think you’re so sly, you invisible little skank! If you ever tell anyone—anyone—I’ll fucking kill you. You slimy little cunt, I swear to God, I’ll fucking murder you.” She bundled up her clothes, and stalked out of the barn.

A couple of miserable days went by. I avoided Tacoma as much as possible, and didn’t go invisible at all. Finally, when I couldn’t stand it any more, I pulled her aside and apologized.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I shouldn’t have watched. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“You shouldn’t use your powers to spy on people,” Tacoma said. “It’s really lame.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I won’t do it again.”

“It’s OK,” Tacoma said, squeezing my hand. “Tell me though, did we look hot together?”

“You two looked really hot together.”

Tacoma smiled. “Good. Come out to the barn with me, I want to show you something.”

We walked together out to the barn. She was patient with my snail’s pace, which just made me feel all the more frustrated for being slow.

Once inside, she pointed to the rickety old ladder that led up to the hay loft. “Climb it,” she said. “Go ahead, don’t be scared. I’ll help.”

Climbing that horrible old ladder was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever done in my life. Tacoma helped me though, guiding my legs and holding my feet and talking soothingly to me the whole time. It felt like it took hours, but we finally made it up into the loft. I was covered in sweat, and I felt like puking.

Tacoma wasn’t even out of breath. She stepped lightly over to the edge. Just watching her do that made me dizzy. “Stop it,” I said. “Come back!”

“Watch this,” Tacoma said, and she stepped casually off the edge of the hayloft, out into space.

I started to scream, but instead of plunging the twenty feet down to the floor and shattering her femur or breaking her back, Tacoma just hovered there, like a graceful, long-legged dragonfly.

“I can fly,” she said with a secret little smile. “You can too. Go ahead, try it!”

I shuffled hesitantly closer to the edge. Tacoma took my hand in hers. I swallowed hard, mouth dry as dust, and stepped out into the abyss.


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Vinegar Pie

I arrived at college a virgin. I would stay that way for the next four years and then some, all the way through undergrad school and beyond, out into the big bad world; but I did have some interesting times along the way.

I took a taxi from the airport. It was August, and I remember being oppressed by the unfamiliar heat and humidity. The cab driver dropped me and my luggage off in front of the dorms. The campus seemed huge and aloof, and I didn’t know anybody there. I was determined not to be intimidated. I took a slow, creaky elevator to the sixth floor (even floor were for girls, odd-numbered floors housed guys) and located my room.

I opened the door, and that was when I met Carla for the first time. At that moment all I could think was that I was so glad that my mother hadn’t accompanied me to help me get settled in, as she had threatened.

My roommate was perched on the bottom bunk of her bed, naked except for a scarlet pair of panties, the kind that my mother was convinced was the Devil’s own handiwork. She had fairly enormous breasts, and a mouth full of cock. There was a guy, a naked guy, reclining on her mattress, and Carla was busy sucking his dick. She looked up at me, the livid red crown of his cock captured between her teeth like a small animal in a snare, and she fluttered her fingers in an ‘Oh, hi there!’ gesture. I stood in the doorway and gaped.

Another, more prudish virgin might have run away screaming, gone weeping to the RA. Someone more discreet than me might have gone for a long walk around campus, and come back in half an hour or so. I may have been a virgin, but I was neither prudish nor especially discreet. I walked into the room, trailing my suitcases behind me, and sat down on my own bed to watch the show.

Inexperienced as I was, I figured out pretty quickly that this wasn’t standard blowjob procedure. For one thing, Carla was certainly taking her time about it! The whole event lasted well over two hours: it was about 3 o’clock when I blithely walked into our dorm room; it was after 5 when she finally let him shoot off. And I don’t know how long she’d been working on him before I showed up.

Sometimes she actually sucked his dick, but most of the time she just toyed with it, like a big lazy cat with a wounded mouse. She would lick it, slowly savoring it, as if she were licking a popsicle on a hot summer day; she would stroke his length with her fingertips, up and down, back and forth; she would play with his balls, kissing and slurping at his wrinkly scrotum; sometimes she would slap his cock around, making it sproing from side to side; sometimes she would drag her tits all the way from his balls up to his chin; and sometimes she would pull back, purse her lips, and simply blow on his cock.

Even I knew that a blowjob wasn’t really supposed to include actual blowing.

The guy, whoever he was (I never saw him again and never heard his name) may have taken all this lying down, but he sure didn’t take it quietly. I’m not sure two coherent words come out of his mouth the whole time Carla was blowing him, but that didn’t mean he was silent. On the contrary, he never shut up; hissing and spitting and sputtering like a tea pot boiling over. About the only time he was quiet was when Carla jammed one of her big round boobs into his mouth. That shut him up.

He had a pretty big dick. Later that semester I would see even bigger ones, but his was plenty big. And it was fat and swollen and slick with saliva and over-excited and angry-looking. It was the first one I had ever seen, up close and personal. I wasn’t entirely sure what to make of it. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was supposed to make of my roommate: at one point she had a finger up inside the guy’s asshole, and was vigorously butt-fucking him, which made her large breasts shake like wrecking balls. What I did know was that my pussy was soaking wet.

She withdrew her index finger from the guy’s butthole. He grunted. She pushed his hairy thighs apart and dropped her open mouth onto his erection. She bobbed her head up and down five or six times in rapid succession, then sat up straight, leaving his cock wet and waggling, pointed at the ceiling. He made a strange little noise deep in the back of his throat, kind of like the mewing of a kitten but more guttural. Then his cock twitched, and he shot off. It was beautiful to watch. There was a shockingly large amount of semen, white and pearlescent, and it squirted up in a ballistic arc, splashing down all over his flat, furry tummy.

He got dressed, looking a lot like a wilted flower, and left without a word. He must have known I was in the room, but he never acknowledged me. That proved to be pretty standard behavior.

“Hi, I’m Carla, I’m your roommate!” This I knew already. She made no move to cover up. Her boobs were fairly huge—she made me look positively flat-chested. They weren’t porn star boobies though. They were a little saggy, and had enormous brown areolae, and thick nipples with stray hairs around them.

“Hi,” I said. “It’s, um, nice to meet you.” My panties were drenched and squelchy inside my jeans. I was all sweaty, and it wasn’t just the southern heat of late summer.

“I’m going to masturbate now,” Carla informed me, sitting back down on her bed, facing me. The part she left unspoken was ‘If you don’t mind…’ Fortunately I didn’t mind.

I was curious to see her pussy, but I didn’t get to, not that time. Carla produced a small, silver bullet-shaped vibrator from somewhere, and pressed it against the front of her sinful panties. The little toy hummed with an obnoxiously loud whine, like a dying air-conditioner. Carla pressed it hard against her crotch, and bit down on her lower lip.

“I think I’m going to masturbate too,” I said hesitantly. I had been furtively and guiltily whacking off since middle school, once a day if not more, but I had never ever admitted the fact that I did such a thing. And I’d certainly never done it with someone else in the room. Never mind with someone watching.

And Carla was watching. She didn’t even pretend not to. She grinned and stared, and worked her noisy little toy even harder up and down the front of her scandalous red panties. Dark hairs peeked out to either side of those panties, and I was dying with curiosity to see what was going on inside them.

Feeling equal parts deeply self-conscious and molar-gnashingly horny, I stepped out of my jeans and pulled down my own boring white panties.

I didn’t think I was anything special to watch. I had my technique down. I almost always did it the same way: on my knees, head down, two fingers up inside me, and my hand scrunched up so that the heel of my hand was pressed up against my clitoris. I was already ridiculously excited, and knowing that Carla was watching just made it all that much more intense. I came quick, and God I came hard! Then I turned my head, fingers still buried in my juicy twat, and watched Carla grind her way through a big fat orgasm of her own. College, I decided, was going to be pretty interesting.

We never talked about this stuff, you understand. Carla and I got along pretty well as roommates—neither of us was too slovenly, too neat, or too loud. We respected each other’s things and hung out sometimes, but we never became best friends or anything. The only weird thing was the boys: Carla brought home at least two or three a week. It was never the same guy twice, and I rarely caught his name. I, on the other hand, never brought any boys home.

I still don’t know how Carla did it. She wasn’t really all that attractive. She had kind of a pear-shaped build, and she wore too much makeup. Maybe it was her big tits. Or maybe she was just brazen. Either way, it worked, and I got to reap the voyeuristic benefits.

She wanted to fuck me. She made that clear, from day two. She even told me so.

I slept late that next morning, and when I woke up her bed was empty. Carla came back an hour or so later. I was still wearing my pajamas, drinking orange juice, checking my email, and browsing my morning pornography. She startled me when she walked in through the door, and I quickly snapped closed my laptop.

“I’d really like to fuck you,” she said.

I didn’t know what to say to that. “Thank you,” I said. She said the same thing two or three times over the course of the semester, and I never really knew how to respond.

Carla only very rarely fucked the boys she brought home. Actually, they could consider themselves lucky if they even got to come at all.

She had another guy over a few days later. He was pretty cute; not really my cup of tea, but then again at the time I wasn’t sure I even had a cup of tea. Anyway, they came stumbling and laughing into the room, both of them quite drunk. They were kissing, and the clothes quickly went flying off.

He had a lovely body, and I stared unabashedly. I wasn’t yet used to the sight of naked male flesh right there in my dorm room. It was also the first time, and one of the rare times, that I actually got to see Carla naked. I think she may have been self-conscious about her pussy: she had prominent, meaty labia that hung down below her plump outer lips. Hers did not look like a porn star pussy. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t think it was beautiful.

Anyway, this afternoon she was too drunk and/or horny to care, so off came the panties, and Carla lay down on her back on the cold hard tiles of our dorm room floor. Her guy promptly got down between her thighs, lying on his belly, and started noisily and enthusiastically licking.

I thought this was way hot. Having a guy, a cute, hot, naked guy go down on me was my #2, maybe my #3 fantasy at the time. Watching this dude, his tight naked butt wiggling, his shoulders flexing, slurping away at Carla’s pussy made me instantly, insanely horny.  I got down on my knees, making sure to position myself so I had a good view of the action. I hiked up my skirt, pulled down my panties, and let my fingers do the walking. Already, I was losing any inhibitions about masturbating in front of other people.

It was really sexy to watch. And to listen to. Dude was really into it. He made Clara come at least twice, maybe three times. The sweat beaded up on his back and ran down his spine. Clara pulled his hair viciously, and when she came, she squeezed his head tight between her thick thighs, letting the whole dorm know, loud and clear, that she was enjoying the ride.

Finally, she pushed him away. He was breathing hard, and his face was red and flushed and slick with her juices. His cock jutted eagerly out, quiveringly hard. I never ever got sick of seeing hard dicks bouncing around our dorm room.

“That’ll be all. Get lost,” Carla told him as she tugged her panties back on.


“Did I stutter? Get dressed and get the hell out of here.” I couldn’t believe it either.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“I don’t care. Jerk off, I suppose. In the privacy of your own room.”

I was flabbergasted. What a waste! The guy sullenly got dressed and slunk out of our dorm, and I never stopped masturbating. At that moment, if Carla had offered, I almost certainly would have let her fuck me. But she didn’t pounce. She was already getting dressed; headed off, I suppose, in search of new prey.

Carla was mean to her boys. She loved to torture and torment them. She would pull their nipples like she was trying to rip them straight off their chest. She would yank their hair mercilessly, grind herself all over their faces, not caring whether they could breathe, or if they ever got to get off. I once watched her piss on a guys face while he was in the middle of eating her out; she howled with laughter, and he stayed with her all the way. She loved to have sex with guys while she was menstruating, just to see the expression on the guy’s face when she reached into her panties and pulled out a bloody tampon. “Dive in!” she’d command him with a smirk.  And usually they would.

I never understood her proclivities; I certainly never adopted them myself. Actually, later on when I was out of college and had a sex life all my own, I was just the opposite. I liked it when a guy was a little aggressive, when he’d take control, get caught up in his own desires, use me for his pleasure. But watching Carla do her thing definitely turned my crank, something fierce.

Carla bought me a vibrator. It was a beautiful, expensive one: baby blue silicone with interesting ridges and a saucy arching curve. I took the hint, but I didn’t take her up on it. I did take the vibrator though. It was a revelation, the best thing since I’d first discovered pornography! From that day on, I was never without at least one.

Along with her silver bullet, Carla owned a big black dildo. I was never tempted to borrow it; it was scary big, a parody of a real cock. If she masturbated with it, I never caught her doing so. I did, however, get to watch her fuck a boy with it.

Possibly to Carla’s consternation, he didn’t seem to mind one bit. The harder she fucked him with it, the harder he humped back against her, balls jiggling, and his erect cock smacking audibly against his own tummy like a jib flapping in a gale. They sounded like a pair of jaguars going at it, snarling and hissing and snapping and yowling. When he came, it was one of the most intense male orgasms I’ve ever witnessed.

By the time Carla removed her oversized dildo from the guy’s poor, tired asshole, I had already given myself one orgasm, and was working on a second. I had three fingers crammed up my twat, and my vibrator was humming away pressed against my clitoris. They watched me masturbate, the guy curled up naked on the bottom half of my roommate’s bunk bed, and Carla loitering sardonically next to my own bed,  still wearing the dildo strapped on over her purple panties.

“I could do it to you too, you know.” she said, and that was all it took to push me over the edge into another wailing, toe-curling orgasm. I never seriously considered taking her up on her offer; maybe if her dildo hadn’t been the size of my forearm… maybe. In any event, it would be another ten years before I sampled anal sex, and discovered to my surprise that under the right circumstances, and with plenty of lube, I absolutely adored it.

Carla was a beast. She brought home a guy I recognized from my History survey class, a bit of a jock I thought, a football player wanna-be. They made out for a while on Carla’s bottom bunk while I watched, by this time completely unfazed. I just wanted to see his dick.

Then Carla broke off the kiss. She asked the guy if he wanted a blowjob. Of course he said ‘Yes’. She informed him that she’d be happy to suck his dick, but that if she was going to do that, she got to whip him first. He agreed, a little hesitantly.

Carla had him strip out of his shirt, and handcuffed his wrists together. She snatched a pair of her dirty panties out of her laundry bag, and stuffed them into his mouth, and tied the bundle shut with a bandanna. His eyes were big and brown and wide and full of fear. “What have I gotten myself into?” It was hot. Carla stood him up and turned him around so that he was facing away from me. She tied his handcuffs to the top of her bunk bed. He had nice muscular shoulders and a cute little butt, and I couldn’t wait to see it naked. Then she produced a length of thick hemp rope she’d pillaged from the theatre department, and proceeded to whip him something awful.

I didn’t count, but I’m certain she gave him upwards of twenty lashes. Maybe fifty, I don’t know. By the time she was done, the rope was frayed and stained red, he was hanging limply from the handcuffs, which were cutting cruelly into his wrists, and his back was a bloody mess. It looked like raw hamburger. Carla uncuffed him, and removed her panties from his mouth. He spat dryly. Carla was breathing hard. She had worked up quite a sweat. She tittered and asked if he still wanted that blowjob.

“No thanks.” He gingerly pulled his t-shirt back on. “You rancid fucking cunt,” he said conversationally. Then he left.

The really fucked-up thing was that I was sopping wet.

Another guy she brought home, she fucked cowgirl-style, him flat on his back, right there on her bed, with no preliminaries. She tugged his pants and underwear down, pulled her own panties to one side, rolled a condom on, and rode him while I watched. She punched him while she bounced up and down on his cock, wailing on him like he was a punching bag, her clenched fists pummeling his face, chest, and stomach. She busted his nose, and blood sprayed everywhere. Eventually, he just squirmed out from under her and left, still naked, his clothes in a bundle under one arm, holding a hand to his face, his cock still erect and condom-wrapped.

Once she brought a guy home, and started in with her marathon-blowjob treatment, teasing and tormenting his cock while I watched and lazily touched myself. I knew that this was likely to last for hours, and I was pacing myself. He kept begging her, incessantly whining and wheedling to let him fuck her. Finally Carla had had enough.

“Stand up,” she said, “I want to do something special for you.”

He stood up, wet dick pointing eagerly at the ceiling. “Spread you legs,” Carla said, “put your hands behind your head. Now close your eyes…”

I watched from my kneeling position on my bed, running my fingers up and down my slippery slit, knowing what was coming and not even believing what I was about to see.

Carla didn’t even hesitate. In one smooth motion, as if she were attempting a field goal from the 35 yard line, she kicked him hard in the balls.

It made a sound like a baseball bat hitting a watermelon. He went down, hard, like all his bones had come unstrung. He lay on the floor, curled up in a fetal ball, dry-heaving and weeping.

That was the closest Carla and I ever came to getting it on. The guy was still curled up on the floor, making noises like a sow in labor. “Fuuuuck… God-Damnit… Fuuuuck…” he moaned in between retching. Carla tittered. I got up, stepping gingerly around the guy’s prone and twitching body, crawled into Carla’s bed and lay down on top of her. Carla felt big and soft and warm underneath me. Her large breasts were pressed up against my own. My pussy was soaking wet. I slipped my fingers into my cunt and rubbed my tits against Carla’s breasts. She had one hand inside her own panties, and one hand on my ass, pulling me closer to her. We kissed as we masturbated. I had never kissed a girl before—I had barely even kissed a guy before—and I thought it was super hot. I wished I was a guy, and I could squirt all over the expanse of her belly. I wished her panties were off and it was my hand on her pussy. I wished it was her tongue on my clitoris. I kept picturing the triumphant look on Carla’s face as she smashed that poor guy’s testicles, and I kept getting hotter and more turned on.

We both came at about the same time. As I orgasmed, Carla twisted my tit like she was wringing out a dish towel, and bit down my lip hard enough to draw blood. That seemed to set her off. She threw her head back and howled, tearing at my lip. Later on I had to go to the emergency room and get three stitches; I still have a tiny scar.

By the time we had both settled down, the guy was gone. I don’t know when he had left, or whether Carla had done permanent damage to his testicles, and I can’t really say that I cared. Carla took a shower while I held an icepack to my lip, which wouldn’t stop bleeding.

The next day I went to the RA and requested a new roommate, and I ended up with Michelle, who was quiet and inoffensive. We got along fine. She was a little too neat and tidy for my taste, and rather boring, but that was OK. If Michelle had any sexual thoughts whatsoever, she kept them strictly to herself. Carla and I remained smile-and-wave friendly around campus, but that was all. We didn’t talk or hang out or anything, and by and large I was OK with that too.

I graduated from college, virginity dented but still intact, and moved to New York City, where I pursued my literary career with a vengeance. I lost that pesky virginity of mine to a very sweet Guatemalan boy who had incredible stamina and no idea that he was plucking my cherry.

Shortly after that, I got involved with a pair of brothers, twins actually. Adam picked me up in a bookstore. I was flipping through the erotica section, and he came boldly up to me and asked if I could recommend anything sexy. He was beautiful; tall and winsome with sad brown eyes and unruly hair and strong, clever hands. I was feeling brave and saucy.

“How about me?” I said, “I’m an open book.”

“I’m not looking for a relationship,” he said.

“Neither am I,” I told him.

So I had my first ever one-night stand with Adam, and it was awesome. He was kind and smart and funny, and a wildcat in bed. And he was hung. I went back to his place, a claustrophobic two-bedroom apartment deep in Queens, strewn with sketch pads, drawings, and art supplies. We went straight to bed. I sucked him, he ate me out, we fucked; we slept a few hours, and did it all over again. I woke up in his bed the next morning, feeling sore, a little groggy, slightly disoriented, and very very satisfied. He had gotten up early and had already made coffee.

Adam asked me if I’d be interested in having a threesome with him and his twin brother. I surprised myself by answering “Yes!” without even hesitating. I guess that was Bryan’s cue: he came out of his bedroom wearing nothing but a pair of striped boxers with a delightful-looking lump in the front of them. They were identical twins: I already knew exactly what those boxer shorts contained.

We did it the first time right there in the middle of breakfast. The boys sat on the edge of their coffee table, and I sucked them off, alternating one cock and then the other, and sometimes both at the same time, until they both shot off all over my tits. My pussy was too sore for more fucking right away, but Bryan ate me out while I lay on top of Adam, feeling his cock get hard all over again nestled in between my buttocks. After that I was treated to the sight of the twin brothers kissing and jerking each other off, and I knew that I had hit jackpot.

We were together for over a year. I won’t say I dated them, because there was never any pretense that it was about anything but sex; but they were both very sweet, and the sex was fantastic

What they both really wanted was to make a sandwich out of me; one twin taking me anally while the other one fucked my pussy. I was deeply intrigued, but they weren’t pushy about it, and I was too chicken to give them the green light. In retrospect, I kick myself for passing up on that action, and now I wish they’d been just a tinier bit pushier.

But aside from that, we did just about everything else that three horny people can do together. We experimented freely. I loved to suck them both off, alternating dicks or taking both erections into my mouth. I drank their urine straight from the source, which I was surprised to find neither degrading nor disgusting, but rather shockingly intimate. I got to watch them fuck other girls (one of them at a time—taking both twins at once was a pleasure I reserved for myself). They loved to eat me out, and they’d do so for hours on end; one twin licking my pussy and clit, while the other one tongued and probed my anus. Once I got over being self-conscious about that, it was heaven.  I really enjoyed watching the two of them fool around with each other too; I loved watching them suck each other’s dicks and how loud and excited they’d get before they came. They were beautiful to watch.

One jagged, psychedelic night when we were all three tripping on mescaline, I got to watch Bryan fuck Adam up the ass. He greased up his cock, wrapped his belt around his brother’s neck, and crammed his dick right up Adam’s anus. Bryan yanked on the belt, choking Adam until his eyes bulged out and he choked and retched, and sodomized him like he was driving nails, howling like a cowboy the whole time. I had my mouth on Adam’s dick, and I sucked him through the whole ride, and both brothers came at the same time, Adam filling my mouth with his sweet, sticky jizz just as Bryan snarled and cursed and came in his asshole. That may have been the single hottest event I’ve ever witnessed.

Our standard operating procedure however was more pedestrian. I would suck one brother’s cock while the other one fucked me from behind; and then they would switch places, and then switch again, until all three of us had come at least once. Life was good. I couldn’t believe my luck. It only ended because Bryan went and fell in love and got himself a fiancé and declared himself off limits. Me and Adam continued fucking for a little while after that, but the dynamic had shifted, and it just wasn’t the same. I cried when it was all over, even though I had promised myself that I wouldn’t.

I had a couple of same-sex experiences too. The first was a banal craigslist hookup; an awkward and utterly forgettable drunken grope-fest. We were both really horny and really nervous, but aside from that we had absolutely nothing in common. I felt no attraction toward her whatsoever, but I fucked her anyway, and felt like a dirty ashtray the next morning and had a belly ache and pangs of regret for days after. I swore I’d never do anything of the sort ever again.

My second experience with a girl rocked me to the core, and almost convinced me to switch teams for good.

Sue was a co-worker, nominally my supervisor, but we worked together like partners. We always had good chemistry, but what transpired was completely unplanned, and unfolded organically. We were working late in the office together, and the sexual electricity was crackling between us like static on flannel sheets. A look turned into a touch, and suddenly we were kissing.

“I’d really like to fuck you,” I said.

We took a taxi back to her place, a doorman building on the Upper West Side.

Sue’s place made mine look like a broom closet, a messy broom closet at that. As soon as the door closed behind us, we started kissing again. Clothes came off like falling leaves as we tumbled into her bed. Sweet smelling, freshly washed high-thread count sheets! I got my hand inside her black slack, and found her sopping wet. The last of our clothes were soon piled on the floor, and we were kissing and touching on her bed.

“I want to taste you,” I said. Sue rolled over on her back and spread her legs wide. Her pussy was shaved, as I suppose is fashionable these days. I thought of Carla and her furry muff and thick, pouting lips. Sue’s pussy was petite, and her clitoris was pink and eager. I dived on in.

It wasn’t my first time going down on a girl; ms. craigslist had taken care of that for me. As uninspiring as that first experience had been, I’m glad I had it: this time I had a modicum of a clue what to do while I was down there. I thoroughly enjoyed licking Sue’s pussy, and from the sound of things, and all the wetness, she enjoyed having her kitty licked. I made her come, which made me absolutely glow.

I came up for air, and we kissed a while more. Then Sue’s fingers found my pussy, and then she went down on me, and then we maneuvered into a 69.

In my post-collegiate explorations with guys, I had tried 69 a few times, and decided I didn’t like it. Too distracting, kind of awkward. Somebody inevitably got shortchanged, usually me. 69ing with a girl, or at least with Sue, was a different experience entirely. It was a long, slow, sultry journey, a sexual conversation, a game of give-and-take that seemed to last for hours, bring us both repeatedly to the brink before backing off, tiptoeing away from climax. It felt like we were dancing. I was covered in Sue’s juices, positively soaked. She was on top of me, and when I slipped a finger up her tiny asshole, my thumb into her pussy, and pressed my tongue against her clit, she finally came for me, burying her face in my own cunt, which sent me off like TNT.

It was late. Or rather, early. We kissed and cuddled a little more. I wanted to spend the remainder of the night there, but she seemed uncomfortable, so I left, wired and tired on a four a.m. train to Brooklyn.

At the office the next day, things were palpably awkward. We were both exquisitely polite to each other, like a pair of prizefighters tiptoeing through a tchotchke shop.

I made a bit of an ass of myself over the next week or two, trying to turn a one-night stand into a relationship. Sue clearly wasn’t interested, but couldn’t quite come right out and say so, and I wasn’t in any state to take a hint. Some things are best left alone.

Fortunately I was a freelancer, and my work situation moved on, and Sue and I left things with an empty hug and a promise to keep in touch.

For a while I was obsessed with Sue. Whenever I’d masturbate, I would think of her. I’d imagine her beating my ass raw; yanking my hair; cruelly twisting my nipples; pissing into my mouth; fucking my ass with a big black strap-on; shoving her whole fist up my cunt, and I’d come, howling into the pillow, my vibrator humming its long monotone against my frustrated clit. After a while I moved on, but I still use Sue for some of my kinkier masturbatory imaginings.

I still think of Carla from time to time, usually when I’m home in bed and feeling restless and horny and all alone. I wonder where she is now, how she turned out. Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I’d let her fuck me, back in the Wonderland of my early twenties, when everything was a possibility. I think, once in a while, about looking her up. And then I think of that boy, writhing and puking in pain on our dorm room floor, clutching his bruised and damaged testicles, and I think about how wet it made me. And then I masturbate myself to sleep and let it go.


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