Archive for July, 2013

Molly McKeown


I’ve been waiting for him, waiting patiently, for a very long time.

The sun is already so bright that the glare off the sandy beach, white as uncut Columbian cocaine, makes me squint, even behind my dark sunglasses. A few tourists are up and about, chatting happily, ordering breakfast. Seagulls dodge and swoop in the morning breeze, for the sheer joy of it. The roar of the surf is ceaseless, great Atlantic breakers lining up to slam into the beach. Below that, a constant, barely audible subsonic hum, felt more than heard, tickling the soles of my feet. The Doomsday Machine, percolating away, counting down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds, deep in the vaults below the island.

I idly swirl my straw, tinkling the ice cubes in my glass, agitating the unnaturally blue liquid before drinking it down in one long slow, lazy slurp. The stuff is the color of antifreeze, the consistency of crude oil. Raspberry Nyquil. It numbs the back of my throat, filling me with a sickly rush of nausea. I lift my pinky finger, signaling the waiter. He knows his cue, and brings me a fresh bottle, pre-chilled. They keep a case of the stuff sitting on ice behind the bar, just for me.

White dress with navy-blue polka dots. Classic American cut. My nails are perfectly lacquered, poison-apple red. My hair is neatly coiffed, the same chestnut brown it was twenty years ago when he first came to me, up out of the sea. Thank you, Miss Clairol. Pearl earrings in gold settings. Red belt, red flats. A titanium pendant hangs suspended around my neck. My breasts aren’t the same breasts they were two decades ago, but I do what I can with what I’ve got. Surgery, I always believed, is a liar’s game.

A lone man is swimming toward the beach, diving underneath tremendous crashing breakers, drowned for sure, only to surface again in the bubbling, frothy whitewater. After each set of waves he is a little closer, until he stands up and climbs out of the surf. I pick up my binoculars, and one hand strays between my legs.

There are sharks out there in those waters, out beyond the break.

I am wearing the same dress I wore the day I first met Jack. It is the same dress and it is not the same dress. My cough syrup cocktail sits on the plastic table in front of me, condensation beading up on the sides of the glass, utterly forgotten for the moment. My labia are suddenly swollen and moist. One hand pets my pussy through the sheer fabric of my panties, while the other hand attempts to hold the binoculars steady. He always said he’d be back.

It is him. It is not him, but it is him. He is walking up the beach toward me now, directly toward me, focused with intent. I examine him through the 20x Zhumells. It is not him. This one is young, far too young; his chest is smooth and hairless; he has a tattoo on one arm, a seal balancing a beach ball on its nose; but my imagination lets all that slide. It is him. He wears nothing but black swim trunks, a trim little black backpack, and a combat dagger strapped to his ankle. The swim trunks leave nothing to the imagination. He is not circumcised, and doesn’t suffer from shrinkage. The backpack will contain a delicate little handgun with a big fat silencer, and a bunch of other deadly little gadgets. He has killed before, this one has. He’s got the walk. My cunt is juicy wet, and my clitoris is hard as a diamond.

He walks like a predator, a big jungle cat. They always do. Relaxed but ready. Baryshnikov in a bespoke suit, packing a submachine gun. SAS, SEAL, Spetsnaz; they all have that same walk.

It is my Jack, come back to me from the bosom of the sea, and it is not my Jack.

My dress is piled up on my lap, a confusion of deep blue polka dots. I may be making a spectacle of myself. My fingers slide inside the elastic of my panties and come back wet and slick. I am ready for him.


I was really just a kid. Straight out of the Midwest. A bona fide virgin, as a matter of fact. I was working for Doctor Nyet at the time. He’d been trolling the strip, looking for pretty girls to round out his new headquarters. He was so clumsy and awkward with the girls it was comical, and endearing. We got to talking, and I guess we hit it off. I’d already done a little modeling, the kind you don’t bring home to show mother; and when he offered me the job, I was dancing at a go-go club. So I wasn’t exactly an innocent. But I wasn’t very worldly either. This was before Google, before the internet was everywhere, before everyone had a cell phone, before Cleveland was reduced to a pile of smoking radioactive rubble as a demonstration of Project X. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d do it all over again.

Jack killed him, of course. That was what he’d come to do. Pop,pop…pop,pop,pop. His tiny little automatic sounded just like popcorn. Two bullets in the head, three in the chest just to be sure. I couldn’t watch; I covered my face and sobbed like a little girl. He kissed me before he left, a kiss that told me that he meant it when he said he loved me, and he told me he’d be back. I could still feel the heat of his gun.

I was Dr. Leonid Nyet’s personal secretary, which wasn’t nearly as sordid as you might think. My duties included a little light typing, answering telephones, hanging around and looking pretty; and most importantly holding the key. The key is an interrupt, the stop codon to the Machine. Doctor Nyet hung it around my neck one night, and it has remained there ever since. He told me that he trusted me. He told me to protect it with my life.

Some of the other girls complained about the Doctor. They told whispered stories of girls wrapped up in Saran wrap and left to expire in their own body heat; girls dipped in liquid nitrogen; girls thrown out of helicopters. It was hard for me to imagine the Doctor doing anything of the sort.

They complained about being used as sexual playthings; dancing topless for visiting dignitaries, sucking the cocks of oil sheiks and Russian scientists, stories of getting golden showers and spankings from Korean generals. None of that sounded so bad to me. One girl said she’d been greased-up and butt-fucked by the Doctor himself out in the courtyard above the sea wall. Another claimed he’d raped her. I didn’t believe it. The Doctor, I was fairly certain, was gay. The girls were just bitter. And some of them were lezzies, as I was to discover later on.

Sally Slipknot came to me one night, when the Doctor was celebrating the initial success of Project X with his friends and investors. She was the head of Security, and she was beautiful in the same way that a finely crafted weapon is beautiful. She was strong and lithe and utterly feminine. She reminded me of a snake, and she showed me things that two girls could do together that I hadn’t imagined before. She teased my virginity with her fingers, but never quite plunged inside. She played with my anus as she kissed and nibbled up and down my pussy. Her flicking tongue brought me right over the edge, something that hadn’t happened to me before, not with another person, not without the help of my buzzing pink plastic vibrator. As the sun came up over the storm-churned Atlantic, she kissed me goodnight and slithered out of my bedroom, leaving me dazed, shaky, and confused. Did this mean that I was a lesbian too?

I wanted to be alone. I wanted time to think. I was still wet and sticky and sensitive between my legs. I pulled my navy blue polka dot dress on over my naked body and went down to the beach to walk by the waves.

Jack came to me out of the roaring surf. He wore nothing but black swim trunks, trunks that left nothing to the imagination; a combat dagger on a belt; and a little black backpack that contained, among other things, a tiny automatic handgun, and a beautifully fitted hand-tailored black suit.

He swept me off my feet, quite literally. He was soaking wet and salty from the cool ocean water. His chest was covered in curly dark hair. His muscles rippled smoothly under his skin. He moved like a man who killed men. We ran through the waves together, and he lifted me up and whispered in my ear that I was beautiful and that he wanted to see me again.

My dress was wet with seawater and my pussy was naked and vulnerable underneath. He was hard. He kissed me, and I gave him my passcard, the magnetic-striped card that allowed access to the compound. When I got back, I explained to the guards that I had left earlier without my card, and they let me through without question.

The Doctor had no time for me. He was lying on a bed of heated stones, getting a massage from two young Asian boys. Another Asian boy, who looked like he might have been twelve, was giving his head a fresh shave. It was going to be a busy day in the command center; the American had capitulated after the Doctor’s autonomous robots had incinerated Cleveland, and paid an unprecedented ransom. The next stop was the United Nations. There was to be a teleconference on the Jumbotron with the Secretary General at noon, and all the technicians were getting the gear ready. Sally Slipknot refused to look at me. The Doctor rolled over onto his back, and the solemn-faced Asian boys removed the towel around his waist.

I ran back to my bedroom and took a very long and very hot shower.


The Doctor loved me. He liked me, for sure. He certainly trusted me. He loved me, I’m pretty sure of it, in his own way. He never knew his own father, he told me once. My dad ran out on us when I was little. I think Dr. Nyet liked to think of me as the daughter he knew he’d never have.

Sometimes at night, when the Imetrex won’t keep the migraines at bay and the Ambien is useless or worse, and I can’t stomach the Sertindole, I take the pendant off my neck and open the little titanium tube. There is a slip inside; not paper and not plastic and not metal, with numbers printed on it. Hundreds of digits, almost too small to read. It makes one number, one very big number. The Doctor said it was the product of two primes, the biggest one his computers could find. That is the key, the one and only key that will stop the Doomsday Machine. He gave it to me, and told me to keep it safe.

He trusted me, and now he’s dead.

Sometimes at night I masturbate, and sometimes I find I’ve forgotten how.


Jack met me for lunch at the tiny little seaside café that catered to the island’s tourists. He had changed into a sleek, well-made black suit, and he moved like a panther. I was still wearing my navy-blue polka dot dress, but this time I had panties on underneath, and pearl earrings set in gold. We sat under an umbrella and drank Mai Tais and talked for what seemed like hours. We were both, it turned out, from Ohio. His parents had owned a small farm, a gardenia plantation on the outskirts of Cleveland. He placed his hand on my knee as he talked about the summers of his boyhood, skinny-dipping in the Cuyahoga River. As we talked, his hand slowly moved further and further up my leg.

He came back with me to my bedroom. Security didn’t even blink. The Doctor was in the middle of presenting his ultimatum to the U.N. and all eyes were on the television. A guard nodded absently in my direction as I scanned my card, Jack in tow behind me.

I thought he’d drag me straight to bed as soon as the bedroom door closed behind us, but he didn’t. He picked out a CD and slipped it into the hi-fi—this was before iPods or anything of the sort; the Doctor himself had a twenty pound ‘laptop’ with the launch codes inside that he had a minion lug around—and we danced together on the balcony, under the equatorial sun.

Oh Man, could he dance! I hadn’t danced much before, other than gyrating around a pole, but he held me and guided my movements. He stood a head taller than me. I felt small and safe in his arms. While we spun and swayed on the balcony to the strains of Tchaikovsky, time seemed to stand still. The chemistry that had sparked between us on the sand that morning grew and intensified. The more we danced, the more ready I felt. And he was ready too. I could feel it.

When Jack finally took me to bed, I nearly wept with relief. He removed my dress and underwear as if he were skinning a deer. Then he took off his own clothes. He had an evil-looking scar just below his shoulder blades that I hadn’t seen before. It was white and raised. Courtesy of the mujahedeen, he told me. His cock was erect, and big enough to be a little scary.

I told him I was a virgin, and asked him, my voice quavering a little, to be gentle.

Oh, he was gentle! It is amazing to me that someone so deadly could also be so patient and careful. He touched me slow soft, until I thought I was going to burst. When he finally did enter me, he did it so deliberately and carefully that it didn’t hurt. Not one bit, not at all. He did it to me slowly, holding my hands and kissing me as if he’d never kissed a girl before, and when he came, he exploded deep inside me. I nearly came right along with him, almost, but not quite. I got nervous at the last second and my orgasm fluttered away.

We talked afterward. I answered his questions. I told him about the secret passage into the command center. He kissed me, and told me he’d come back someday.

I followed him, keeping a safe distance. I’m not sure why I did that. I think I couldn’t quite believe that Jack was going to do what he’d come to do. Maybe he just wanted to talk. Maybe he’d just arrest Nyet. I was so innocent back in those days!

After the deed was done, klaxons were going off and equipment was exploding in showers of high-voltage sparks, and Security was shooting at each other and Jack and at the commandos who were now swarming the compound, dressed up in composite body armor, Spetsnaz or Delta Force I think, but I wasn’t asking and they weren’t saying. They blew up everything in sight, the whole command center, but they couldn’t breach the one door that really mattered, and their higher-ups figured out soon enough that blowing through that door would be a really bad idea anyway. Before he left, Jack squeezed my hand one last time and promised me he’d come back someday.


He must have known he was going to die, or suspected he would anyway. Project X was just too risky, the stakes were too high. So he designed the Doomsday Machine as a kind of insurance plan, or a post-mortem revenge plan, I don’t know which.

The autonomous robots have two modes. In their primary mode, they are hypersonic little nuclear smartbombs the size of motor scooters, capable of destroying any city on earth within an hour of receiving the launch code. In secondary mode, however, they can be set to reproduce, building exact copies of themselves out of raw materials, the population growing exponentially like bacteria in an agar dish, until they reach a certain critical mass.


He is not my Jack. Same species, different animal. He is not my Jack, but he’ll do.

When he walks up to my deck chair and greets me, his voice holds a slight twang; West Texas, or perhaps Arkansas. He is unfailingly polite. He stands by my deck chair and asks if he can join me, and I lick my finger thoughtfully, as if I’m actually thinking it over.

He tells me his name, and I forget it immediately. He puts his hand on my knee, and tells me that he hadn’t expected me to be so beautiful. Base flattery, but it works. I ask him to tell me about himself.

He joined the Navy over his mother’s objections, because he couldn’t face putting the family in debt just so he could go to college. He volunteered for SEAL training half as a joke, and when he got accepted, he discovered that he was too proud to quit, no matter what the instructors did to them. He tells me about giving CPR to a classmate after the kid drowned during an underwater swimming test. He tells me they run training missions against mock-ups of the autonomous robots; they have a kill rate of about one in ten.

He asks me to dance with him. They must have a file on me somewhere, where it says I love to dance. I wonder if all the agents have to take ballroom lessons from an unsmiling old dowager with huge bosoms and an iron spine before they slip off the aircraft carrier into shark-infested waters to infiltrate me. It works anyway. Like a fucking charm.

We dance on the beach, leaving our footprints in the firm wet sand by the sea. He holds me close, guiding my steps, and I feel his hardness pressed up against me, through his damp shorts. I place my hands on his tight, muscular buns, pulling him closer. He squeezes me tight. It is time. I whisper in his ear that he should ask me now.

I’m rich, I suppose. Doctor Nyet left me a big fat 401(k) and an interest-bearing numbered Swiss bank account; but I never bothered to take much out beyond what I need for food and drink. The compound has been falling apart for years. Soon it will be just rubble; jumbled blocks of hardened concrete and rusting rebar. The only part I’ve bothered to maintain at all is my old bedroom.

He’s kind of a tornado in bed, which surprises me because Jack was so slow and deliberate. He undresses me with the urgency of youth, pulling my polka dot dress off over my head and tossing it aside. His erection is straining out from his shorts.

I remove his swim trunks for him, and his cock pops out, glad to be free of the restraining fabric. He’s a little smaller than Jack, or maybe it is just 20/20 hindsight; either way I’m not complaining. His cock has a curious corkscrew twist, and a slight upward curve, and the head was fat and purple. He looks delicious.

He pulls off my lacy white panties, and jams them against his face, inhaling deeply. I don’t think he’s faking this, but if he is faking it, he’s doing a damn fine job. His cock is rigidly erect, and bounces as he moves. His balls are drawn in tight.

He goes down on me for what feels like an hour. He does not hesitate to touch me in my most private places, licking me greedily from asshole to clitoris and back again. He plunges his thick fingers deep inside me, probing me, playing me like an instrument. I come on his face, and I threaten to come again. Finally I push him away, if only because I want some of that dick for myself.

I swallow him whole, and I enjoy every centimeter of it. I lavish my tongue around his swollen head. I lick his balls, and up and down his shaft. I tease his pee-hole with the tip of my tongue. I stick my face between his ass-cheeks and lick his anus until he mews like a kitten.

He offers to put a condom on, but I am way beyond such mundane worries. I tell him to just hurry up and fuck me, and he complies. He fucks me hard and deep and ferociously, and I fuck him right back, pulling him deeper inside, urging him to do it harder, faster. I surprise myself by coming on him, coming on his thrusting dick. Wonders will never cease. He pulls out, gasping, his cock slick and sticky with my juice.

I ask him where he wants to come, and he responds shyly, “Your ass.”

I tell him that what’s mine is his. I get down on all fours on the bed, my rump thrust up and out, my breasts hanging down in a parody of their former glory, and he comes hungrily at me from behind. He eats my ass out, which no-one has ever done to me before, and when he replaces his tongue with a finger, I find myself humping back against it, trying to get more inside. Before long, I am begging for his cock.

He slides it in, easy as slicing Jell-O. It does not hurt. Having his cock in my asshole feels strange… strange, but good. Very good.

He fucks my ass slowly, methodically. One hand reaches down, finds my aching clitoris. I cannot believe how wet my pussy is. I collapse on the bed under his weight. He is slowly losing control, and I am losing it along with him. We are both gasping and panting as he thrusts. Finally he comes, swelling and shooting his semen deep into my asshole, and I surprise myself by coming right along with him.

We talk afterward, snuggling together in the warm and sticky afterglow. He keeps his soft cock lodged up inside me, which feels odd, but nice. He asks me questions, and I answer him honestly. It isn’t my fault he doesn’t know the right question to ask. And then I feel him getting hard, and he is ready to go all over again, and so we go.

Soon, all too soon, he leaves me. Off into the darkness, out into the surf. I go back to my deck chair and my cough syrup cocktails, waiting, patiently waiting. Deep underground, in windowless vaults beneath the island, behind triple-steel doors that would let loose a swarm of nuclear-armed autonomous robots if ever they were breached, the Doomsday machine is counting down, ticking out the hours, minutes, seconds, picoseconds. The hum of their machinations tickles the soles of my feet as the robots forge new copies of themselves, doubling themselves, relentless exponents of two, getting closer and closer to that secret magic number that equals deployment.


Jack will come back for me someday. I know he will, because he is my Love. And I will be waiting for him, here by the sea. He’ll be older, I know, but I will be too. He will know the right question to ask. Even if he doesn’t, I will tell him. If there is still time, I will give him the key, the stop codon. I will give it to him freely. But he’ll have to work a little bit first to get it out of me.


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My Mother’s White Wedding Dress

I should have been writing, but I wasn’t. Instead, I was admiring the waistband of Daniel Haite’s tighty-whities, and speculating as to what exactly was kept snug inside them. My boy Danny had an ass straight off a Calvin Klein billboard.

It was Ms. Hasen’s sixth period Creative Writing class, and Dan sat directly in front of me. What he was doing in Creative Writing at all was a bit of a mystery. Danny was an unapologetic football jock. Ms. Hasen had assured us all at the beginning of the semester that this would be no easy A; and sure enough I spent more time on her homework than for any other class. But Danny held his own. His writing wasn’t great, but it certainly wasn’t bad either. He might have been a jock with a gorgeous body, but there was clearly a lot more to him than just that.

I looked him up on Facebook recently. After high school, he went on to be a Rhodes Scholar and a Navy SEAL; apparently he teaches English Comp at a community college in Wisconsin these days. I’ve even contemplated getting in touch with him, but I seriously doubt he would remember me at all.

I squeezed my thighs together, imagining him turning around, asking me out. I would have jumped his bones in a heartbeat. I didn’t think it was going to happen, but it made for a nice fantasy. I started writing. This was definitely not the kind of short story Ms. Hasen was looking for. But I didn’t care.

In retrospect, I probably should have asked him out. He probably would have been thrilled. I think he may have just been shy. When I look back at high school pictures, I can see that I really was actually pretty hot, in a young-and-awkward-librarian sort of a way. If I had taken that leap, a lot of things might have played out very differently in my life. Might have.

By the time the bell rang for the end of class, my panties were seriously damp, and I had eight blank pages that had to be filled before tomorrow afternoon. Well, the pages weren’t quite blank, but what I had written during class, I wasn’t about to turn in to Ms. Hasen.

I fidgeted through dinner, a silent and formal affair with me and Dad at opposite ends of the long, dark dining room table, with place settings as always laid out for three. I was looking forward to cloistering myself in my bedroom, having an epic masturbatory session starring Danny Haite and his penis, and then busting out some homework. But at the end of the meal my dad cleared his throat, and asked to speak with me in his study.

After the dishes were rinsed and put in the wash, I tapped nervously on the door of the study. What he wanted to discuss, I had no idea. Dad and I led very separate lives; on most days I would only see him at dinner. Sometimes we’d sit and read together of an evening, but that was fairly rare. His eyes always seemed to drill through my skull. I preferred the privacy of my own room.

He was sitting in his easy chair, wearing a grey linen suit—I could literally count the number of times I’ve seen my father not wearing a suit—with a tall glass of whiskey close at hand. He gazed at me, aloof and austere, his pale sea-blue eyes unreadable behind his black-rimmed glasses.

Self-consciously, I sat down opposite him, in my reading chair, feeling rather like a specimen on a microscope slide. My mother had left us when I was not quite ten, slamming the door and striding purposefully out of our lives into a waiting yellow cab. Since then it had been a strange and austere kind of life. We didn’t talk much, Dad and me.

“You’ve grown up a lot,” he said.

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.

“So…” he said at last, when the silence between us had become unbearable. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

We’d never had a discussion about dating; I’m not the kind of girl who gets asked out a lot. Hell, we’d never even had the sex talk. Between library books and internet porn, I’d figured it out on my own.

“Yes,” I blurted out. “His name is Daniel Haite.”

“Very good…” he said thoughtfully, letting it hang out there in the air between us. I squirmed uncomfortably as he sipped his whiskey. “Are you two doing anything together?” he asked placidly. “Sexually speaking?”

I was blushing furiously. “No,” I told my father. “Not yet anyway.”

“I see,” he went on after an awful long pause that seemed to stretch out like a flat, unbroken stretch of Midwestern highway. “Well, have you started to masturbate yet?”

It was all I could do to shake my head ‘No’.

It was a lie. I had, of course been whacking off for years, ever since I had found a copy of Buttman’s European Vacation that my dad had left in the VCR. And before that, even. My preferred method usually involved one or two fingers sliding in and out my pussy, with the heel of my hand pressed hard against my clit. And sometimes a hairbrush handle up my butt at the same time. I was just that kind of a girl. Still am.

“It’s completely normal and nothing to be ashamed of,” Dad went on, as casually pedantic as if he was explaining how to program the dishwasher. “Take your pants off and I’ll show you how to do it.”

I still don’t know why I did it. I should have told him it was none of his business, and walked right out of the room. But I was so flabbergasted that I found myself doing exactly what he said, unbuttoning my jeans and sliding them down my legs. “Panties too,” Dad added pedantically.

Mortified but compliant, I rolled my underwear down my legs, kicking them off my ankles, keeping my knees pressed firmly together.

Dad took another sip from his whiskey. “Good,” he said. “Now show me how you think it should be done.”

I may have been mortified, but I was also inexplicably sopping, dripping, droolingly wet. I allowed my knees to part, reached down between my legs, and slowly inserted my middle finger all the way up to the knuckle in my hot, slippery pussy. I couldn’t believe I was doing this in front of him; I couldn’t believe he was watching me do it. It was somewhere between unbelievably horrible and unbelievably hot.

“No, no, no,” my father chided. “Show me your clit. You do know where your clitoris is, don’t you?” I nodded my head meekly.

“Show me,” he said. Blushing hard, I pulled back the folds to reveal my pink little button, which, despite—or because of—the bizarre situation, was swollen and erect.

“Wet your finger,” he instructed. His pale blue eyes felt like lasers burning holes in me. My feet were up on the seat of the chair, knees apart, all modesty temporarily forgotten. I licked my index finger, trembling under his steady gaze like a poor, doomed bunny rabbit in the headlights of an oncoming semi.

“Now draw little circles around your clitoris,” he said, “Softly! Don’t touch it! Just circle close. Closer… Yes, that’s it. You can play with your breasts too, if you want.”

Yes, that was certainly doing the trick. Dad had simultaneously shown me a more efficient method of masturbation, and ruined it for me forever. Either way, I was going to fucking come. I reached up under my t-shirt and tweaked my nipple. Faster and faster, I drew tiny concentric circles around my swollen, aching clit. The sensation was amazing, I was drenched, juice was leaking out of me like Niagara freaking falls, and Dad’s eyes staring at my wide-open cunt just made it all the more intense.

“Now touch it,” he said, “Touch your clitoris and come for me!”

And I did. Just barely brushing my finger across the top of my little button set me off. I rubbed it like a fiend, abandoning any remaining restraint, choking down a guttural cry and blasting off into high earth orbit as my finger skated back and forth across my clit.

“That was very good,” Dad smiled benevolently, “for a first time. Now, off to bed with you.” There was an enormous and obvious lump in the front of his grey linen pants, and it disturbed me just how interested I was in finding out just what exactly was going on inside my father’s trousers. “I really think you should start exploring your sexuality with this boyfriend of yours. Of course, I’ll want to hear all about it.”

Without another word I pulled my pants back on and went up to bed.


I stayed late at the library after school, scribbling dirty stories in my yellow notebook and furtively petting myself under the table, through the soft material of my panties. For dinner, I ate Taco Bell all by myself. My pussy was wet and my clit just wouldn’t settle down.

Dad was waiting for me when I got home.

“Well,” my father asked, aloof and unreadable as always. “How did it go?”

I felt myself blushing despite myself. “It was nice,” I said. “We went out for burgers and cokes after the show.”

“Is that all you did?”

“Well, after that he wanted to find somewhere to park and fool around a little.”

“And you agreed to this?”


“What happened?”

“Well, we found somewhere to park, next to a construction site. We kissed for a while. He wanted to… see my breasts. And touch them. So I let him. He also wanted to… touch my, um, pussy.”

“And you let him?”


“What happened then? Touch yourself while you tell me.”

That’s what I was waiting for. It was almost a relief. My panties we already sopping wet. I shucked down my jeans and my underwear and put my feet up on the arms of the chair, exposing my sex. I could feel the intensity of my father’s gaze on my cunt, and that only made my clit bulge out more.

“He fingered my pussy, but it was kind of annoying because he couldn’t find my clit. He just kept shoving his big fingers inside me. It felt kind of nice, but it wasn’t really doing the trick either.” I drew little circles around my pink, swollen clitoris while my dad watched, making up the story as I went along.

“It was so frustrating, and I was getting so horny! I reached over and unzipped his pants, and fished out his penis. It wasn’t as big as I expected it to be, but it felt nice in my hand. We kissed a little more while I handled his penis. He kept fingering my pussy, and I was starting to get sore, so I figured that the best way to make him stop was to make him come.

“It worked. When I wrapped my hand around his shaft and started sliding it up and down the silky-soft skin of his hard penis, he lay back in the driver’s seat and pulled his fingers out of my pussy. They were all stuck together with my juice. I was kind of shocked at how wet he’d made me!”

There was a large and prominent lump in the crotch of my dad’s grey suit pants. A part of me, a shamefully large and perverted part of me, really wanted him to fish out the cause of that lump. It must have taken a lot of willpower on his part not to touch himself. I kept on masturbating while I told my story.

“I moved my hand up and down the length of his shaft. His penis seemed like it had grown a little since I first wrapped my hand around it. His breathing changed, getting shallower and more rapid. His stomach flexed. His balls tightened up. He started to beg me. It was really hot.”

It was really hot. I was getting extremely turned on describing a scene that had never happened. What I really wished was that it had, on a real, actual date with a flesh-and-blood Danny, and that I wouldn’t have had to relate every last gory detail to my father afterward.

“Faster and faster I moved my hand. He wrapped his own hand around mine, guiding me. My arm was starting to ache. Suddenly, without any warning, he made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. I felt his penis swell up under my hand, and he exploded. He shot white sticky stuff all over his bare stomach and all the way up the front of his shirt. Oh… fuck!”

Without meaning to, I had totally brought myself off. The image of me jerking off Danny Haite in his car, making him squirt semen all over his nice clean t-shirt was just too much for me. I didn’t process until much later that this was the very first time I had ever used the word ‘fuck’ in front of my father. He watched placidly as the orgasm rocked through me, his erection straining against the thin fabric of his linen pants. I could make out the contours of his glans, outlined in stark relief through the thin fabric. I clenched my teeth, petting my sensitive, engorged clitoris, trying not to moan out loud.

“And then we cleaned up and he dropped me off at home…” I panted. “Fuck.”

“Next time,” my father said pedantically, “You should suck his dick.”

Next week, I described to my dad how at first I’d been nervous about going down on Dan, afraid I wouldn’t like the taste, afraid that I wouldn’t know what to do. I described tentatively licking his cock, finding that I didn’t mind it at all, opening my mouth wide and trying to get him all the way down my throat, with semi-disastrous results. I described finding the happy medium, wrapping my lips around the swollen crown, trying to keep my teeth tucked safely out of the way, bobbing my head up and down while stroking the shaft of his penis with my hand at the same time. That, I told him, seemed to do the trick quite nicely.

In my story, though, I’m not quite able to push him over the edge. He apologetically pulls away from me, his engorged cock slick and dripping with my saliva. He climbs on top of me, straddling my chest, and jerking off onto my bare boobs. He comes, squirting his jizz all over my breasts, all the way up my neck and onto my chin.

The image was enough to set me off, and Dad watched patiently while I writhed through an orgasm, my slippery fingers dancing gingerly on my clit, biting down hard to keep from howling out loud. For whatever reason I hated making noise when I came in front of my dad.

When I had settled down, Dad took a big fat sip of whiskey from his tumbler. His erection was straining visibly in the front of his grey pants.

“Try just keeping the crown inside your mouth while you stroke the shaft; swirl your tongue around the head,” my father suggested, “Gently play with his anus with one wet finger and see what happens.”

After my next fictional date with Danny, I described the blowjob I had given him after the movie we had supposedly gone to together. I wrapped my hand around his cock and pumped, slurping hungrily at his swollen, crimson crown. When I sensed that he was close, I wet one finger and carefully slipped it up his tight asshole. He made a cute little sound like a puppy dog, and exploded into my mouth. The taste, I reported, wasn’t bad at all.

Back in the study, I focused on the lump in the front of my dad’s trousers as I brought myself off, circling my clit the way he liked me to do it, occasionally letting a finger or two slip up inside my hungry, juicy pussy. Once again a part of me; a large, horny, and perverted part of me; wanted to see just exactly what was causing that lump, and maybe just maybe do something about it. Maybe he was just waiting for me to ask him to unzip and show it to me.

Don’t think that I never thought about it, because I did.

I had this whole fantasy worked out where, for whatever Freudian reason, I would come to his bedroom late at night, wearing my mother’s old wedding dress. I’d pull down the zipper of his trousers—in my mind’s eye he was always still wearing his grey linen suit—and use my hands, breasts, and tongue to bring his cock to its full state of hardness. When my father’s dick was completely erect, straining up toward the ceiling, I’d climb on top of him, and straddle his crotch. I’d rub the swollen mushroom-shaped head up and down the length of my vulva, smearing my wetness all over his cock. When neither one of us could stand it any longer I’d slowly, very slowly lower myself onto his cock. I’d savor the sensation of him penetrating my pussy. When he was finally all the way in, I’d ride him like a cowgirl, gratuitously taking my perverted pleasure from his incestuous prick, bucking, moaning, and grinding my way to an outrageous screaming orgasm. He’d come at the same time as me, and I’d feel him shoot his hot semen into my grasping pussy. I’d reach down and scoop up a big gob of his come, feed it to him with my finger, and then kiss him full on the mouth.

Looking back, I’m honestly not sure why I never did that, or something like it. I’m pretty sure that’s more or less exactly what he wanted. In the end I think I just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

I did ask Dad once if I should fuck Danny. He told me no, that I should make him wait.

The whole charade was just too weird and too stressful. I finally told Dad that Danny had jilted me. He’d been kind about it, I said, managing to sound as if I was trying not to cry. He’d said that he liked me, but he felt like it just wasn’t working out. He thought we should just be friends.

“Are you alright?” Dad asked.

I nodded. “I think he was just disappointed that I wouldn’t fuck him,” I said.

“Why don’t you tell me about it,” my father said, indicating for me to pull down my pants. “Tell me what it would be like to fuck a boy.”

I left home shortly after that. Moved in with my friend Katri. Relations with my dad remained cordial, but weird and formal. He paid for my college education without complaint, and he never forgot my birthday, but aside from that we were strangers.


I went over to see my dad when I was home for Christmas break once, in the middle of undergrad school. The house looked exactly the same. I hadn’t been there in a long time. Dad’s forehead was a little higher, his hair a little more grey, and he moved a little stiffer. He now had just the suggestion of a pot belly under his grey linen suit, but mostly he was the same as always: dry, terse, and authoritarian. He poured himself a tall snifter of brandy and offered me a glass. I declined. I was more of a beer drinker, in those days.

“You look good,” he said.

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“College is treating you well, I see. So, have you lost your virginity yet?”

I had, as a matter of fact. I’d taken care of that bit of business the first semester I was at school.

It was a Friday night, and I was out in the quad. It was hot, and it was humid, and I couldn’t sleep in the non-air conditioned dorms. I was sitting on a bench, composing a short story by the light of the gibbous moon. I had words that I needed to get out of my head. I had started writing erotica, really raunchy sex stories, scribbled in my nearly illegible handwriting on a yellow legal pad; the basis for my first published collection.

Everyone else was out doing whatever college kids do on a Friday night: playing beer pong or trying to get laid. The only person out in the quad with me was Nate, this kid from my poetry composition class. Nate was very tall, very skinny, very pale, and had oversized hands, hollow cheeks, and big brown eyes. He would end up being one of my best friends, and sometime fuckbuddy, but at the time I barely knew him.

I felt like being alone, so of course, he came over and asked if he could share the bench with me. “Look,” I said, “I don’t want to sound rude, but I’m not interested in hooking up with anyone. And I’m definitely not looking for a boyfriend.”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not like that.”

“You don’t want anything to do with me,” I said, “I’m damaged goods.”

“Damaged goods?” Nate laughed bitterly. “I’ll tell you about damaged goods. My dad used to come home drunk and make me watch him jerk off….” He paused and gazed up at the fat, orange moon. “Fuck it, I’ll tell you. Sometimes he used to make me jerk him off too. He’d pour baby oil all over my hands and close his eyes while I jacked him off.” He held his big hands out, palm-up, for me to inspect. “He called me his little faggot.” Nate stuck out his chin defiantly. “He always threatened to fuck me up the ass, but he never did. He said if I ever told anyone, he’d waterboard me. He said nobody would ever believe me anyway, he said they’d just laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing,” I said. “I believe you.”

We sat together under the moonlight for a while. He put his arm around me. We kissed a little bit. It felt nice. I put my hand in his lap. His dick was hard.

“You should come on back up to my dorm room,” I said.

Up in my dorm, Leslie, my roommate, appeared to be sound asleep. That girl seemed like she could sleep through anything. Nate and I got busy on my bed. We kissed a lot, and touched. He was a good kisser, but a little shy about the touching. I made up for that in spades. I stuck my hand right down his pants, and liked what I found.

Our clothes were sweaty and in the way anyway. We got naked. I got a look at what I had groped before, and I liked what I saw. Nate seemed to like what he saw as well.

He knelt on my bed, his nearly-hairless dick pointing straight up and out, like the prow of a ship. It was my first look, in person, at an actual, naked penis. The tip was bulbous, red and swollen. A strand of clear drool leaked out the end, forming a gossamer thread that threatened to drip onto my sheets. His balls hung heavy and low. His skin was flushed and sweaty. He looked delicious.

And then I thought of my dad, and imagined him watching us, sitting in his easy chair, directing our actions like my own personal film auteur, instructing me in his calm, pedantic tone exactly what to do next and when and how, and gently correcting me when I strayed from the script. It was a bit of a buzzkill. I tried to block him out of my head.

“Should I lick your pussy?” Nate asked me. Over the next four years, he would spend a lot of time doing exactly that, and he would get quite good at it. For a gay guy.

“No, I think you should just fuck me.” His cock seemed to swell and grow. I could almost see it throbbing in time with his heart.

“I’m sort of a virgin,” he said apologetically.

“I am too,” I told him. My knees were as wide apart as I could stretch them. I could feel my clit bulging out. I reached down and parted my labia apart for him. I was soaking wet.

“Shouldn’t we use a condom?”

“Fuck it, just screw me!” As long as I was being idiotic, I might as well go for it.

He positioned himself between my spread legs, and plunged inside with a huff of sharply exhaled air. It hurt for a second, I’d been afraid it would be much worse, but it wasn’t bad. It was like the pinch of a needle when you get an injection. After a second the pain melted right away, and it just felt good.

He was thrusting slowly in and out, his jaw tight, and his eyes locked on mine. “Uh, fuck. Shit, I’m not going to last. I’m going to fucking come.”

“Fuck me hard,” I told him, and he did, bucking up and down on top of me, sliding his dick wildly in and out, making a delicious squishing squelching sound, battering my pussy, and nearly, but not quite pushing me over the edge along with him.

I felt him swell and explode inside me, and I relished the sensation, and the dazed look of pleasure on his face. Slowly and carefully, he extracted his slippery, wilting penis from my cunt. I had bled like a sacrificial lamb; all over his cock and all over my sheets.

“Thank you,” he gasped, and I kissed him on the lips.

“No, thank you!” I replied. Over in her bed, Leslie was still snoring softly.

After Nate was gone, I masturbated; a finger in my asshole, a finger up my tender pussy, and the palm of my hand mashed hard against my clit. I came hard, screaming softly into my pillow.

I kind of lost track of Nate after we graduated. I know he moved to San Francisco and got a boyfriend, and I think he got ordained as a minister, but we haven’t really kept in touch.

“Tell me how you lost your virginty,” my dad said, sipping his brandy and watching me intently.

Either from force of old habit, classical conditioning, or something else, my pussy was damp and my clit was fat and tingling. I lifted up my skirt and peeled my panties off down my legs. The ghost of a smile flitted across my father’s face as I exposed my clitoris. I started drawing tiny little circles around my bulging pink button, circling close but not quite touching.

“It was at a party,” I extemporized, “a beach party. The moon was full, and a bunch of us decided to go skinny-dipping.

“I swam out to a dock and climbed out of the water. There were two guys there already. They were naked, and they were kissing, and their bodies glistened in the moonlight. Both their cocks were already big and hard. They were beautiful together.

“When they noticed me watching, they both started kissing and touching me. One guy had his hand on my breast, the other guy slipped his hand between my legs. It felt really good. I reached out and grabbed a cock with both hands.

“One of the guys offered me his dick, and I got down on all fours and started sucking it, just the way you taught me. It felt really good to be naked and sucking him, under the sky, out on the water. The other guy came from behind me, and started rubbing his penis up and down my pussy. I was soaking wet and slippery.”

“Did he have a condom on?” My dad interrupted.

“Of course,” I said, “They had brought a fanny-pack out to the raft with them. It had condoms in it.”

“Excellent,” he said, “Please, go on.”

My cunt was swollen and juicy with the fantasy. I let my fingers stray inside, sliding my digits up into my hot and slippery hole. My dad raised an eyebrow, and I returned to circling my clit.

“Slowly and carefully, he slid his dick up inside me. ‘Damn, you’re tight’, he grunted. I wondered if he could tell I was a virgin. It didn’t hurt at all, and I moaned onto the other guy’s dick.

“They flipped me over so I was on my back. The other guy put on a condom too. They took turns fucking me; and the whole time they were kissing and jerking each other off. It was incredibly hot.”

Back in my dad’s study, my heels were up on the seat cushion, and I was strumming my clit like a banjo. “I can’t tell you how many orgasms I had. I just kept going off, like it was the Fourth of July. I really wanted a dick in my mouth, and I was just about to tell them that, when another guy climbed up onto the raft. This guy was younger, my age, and black. His skin was the color of dark chocolate, and his dick stuck straight out from his crotch. He didn’t hesitate, but climbed right aboard, straddling my chest and feeding me his cock. I sucked him hungrily, licking the shaft, his balls, and tracing my tongue around his asshole while he masturbated and mashed the head of his dick between my lips.

“Meanwhile, the guy who was fucking me pulled out, tore the condom off, and came with a shout, splashing come all the way up my belly. His buddy took his place, fucking my pussy, while the first guy lapped up his own come and tickled my clit with his tongue. The second dude came inside his condom, grunting like a bear. Oh fuck.”

Without meaning to, I had pushed myself right over the edge of the precipice, and I came hard and sudden. I had to bite down hard on my own shoulder to stop from yelling out loud. The next day, I had a wicked bruise.

After I had calmed down enough, I went on with my story. “The two guys watched while I sucked off the black kid. I buried a finger in his asshole and wrapped my lips around his purple head and jerked him off until he came. I sucked every drop of come out of his dick. Then the three of them slipped back into the water and swam off into the night, leaving me gasping for air like a stranded mermaid.”

My dad emptied his snifter. The lump in his pants bulged prominently. “You’ve come a long way,” he told me approvingly. “I’ve taught you well.”


One year, for my birthday, my dad sent me a vibrator; one of those ‘rabbit’ ones with all the whistles and bells: a wiggling, waggling, squirming, rotating dildo and a built-in clit stimulator. I threw it away unused.

Afterward, I kicked myself for doing that. Those things ain’t cheap, and I was going through a long dry spell.


Just before I turned thirty, my dad suffered a stroke. It was a pretty bad one; it left his mind intact, but the entire left side of his body was paralyzed, and he was confined to a wheelchair. He had to move into a home. It was almost impossible for me to imagine my father being anything but independent.

I went to visit him in the assisted living facility. The place was bare, utilitarian. It reminded me of a Marine Corps barracks.

He was still wearing his trademark grey linen suit, but he seemed diminished. He looked different, His hair was greyer and more sparse, but his eyes were just as intense as ever.

“I’ve been dating a girl,” I told him. He smiled a weirdly lopsided smile, and it took me a moment to realize that it was because the muscles on the left side of his face were all slack.

Janie was in my writing group. We’d been flirting for months, with less and less subtlety. At the last meeting, where I’d presented a fairly raunchy and highly personal short story, her feet had found mine under the table. We’d gone out for drinks afterward, and the veiled attraction between us came bubbling up to the surface. She put her hand on my lap. My nipples strained inside my bra. This could no longer be ignored; it had to be dealt with. One way or another.

We took a cab back to her apartment, and made out in the back the whole way. She was a good kisser, and at least as horny as I was. I’d never done anything with a girl before, though I’d certainly masturbated to the idea plenty of times. That was about to change.

Up in her bedroom, Janie more-or-less threw me onto her bed, and pounced on top of me. Her shirt had somehow come off, and the bra underneath it. Her breasts felt really good pressed up against mine; I could feel the heat of her crotch near my own. She kissed me fiercely, pulling my hair and biting my lips while she fumbled in her nightstand drawer.

She came up with a pair of shiny, nickel-plated handcuffs, and proceeded to shackle my wrists to her headboard.

“I didn’t know you were into S&M,” I said, a little nervously, but not unhappily.

“I’m not especially,” Janie replied. “I just want to make sure your hands don’t get in the way.”

She tugged off my jeans and panties, leaving me naked and exposed from the waist down. My pussy was soaking wet and drooling, and my clit ached.

Janie stuck her head between my thighs, and spent a lot of time carefully and enthusiastically licking my pussy.

Nobody other than Nate had spent more than two minutes licking my kitty before. He used to spend what seemed like hours going down on me in my dorm room (after freshman year I’d had my own tiny private room in the old dorm building). He used to concentrate on my clit, like it was a tiny penis, giving me a mini-blowjob. He was never able to make me come that way, but it was always deliciously, excruciatingly good, and he never seemed to get tired of trying.

Janie was really good at it too, although her technique was utterly different from Nate’s. She had more of a butterfly, scatter-shot style, flitting and teasing up and down and all around my hyper-excited vulva, rarely pausing at any one location for more than a lick or two. It felt really good—amazingly good—but it wasn’t going to make me come.

She finally came up for air, beaming from ear to ear. “You’re delicious!”

“Thanks,” I said weakly. Getting eaten out like that was like surviving a severe attack of tickling. My cunt was so horny it hurt, and if my hands hadn’t been cuffed, they would have been busy between my legs.

“I am going to make you come,” she went on, “One way or another.”

She fucked me with both hands, two fingers of one hand in my asshole, two fingers of the other hand pistoning in and out of my pussy. At first she would bend over from time to time and lick my clit while she double-fucked me; but as we both got more and more into it she stopped that and just concentrated on fucking the living shit out of me. She was pounding my asshole and my vagina, alternating thrusts like a cybernetic fucking machine, her tits shaking, and her forehead wrinkled with concentration. I saw sweat running down her chest between her breasts.

It worked. The thing snuck up on me, and before I really realized what was going on, I was coming. My entire body shook and strained, and I screamed like she was murdering me, screaming out loud for all of New York Fucking City to hear, and she stayed with me, fucking me slow and deep all the way through my orgasm.

It was the first time I’d ever come from another human being touching me.

I was shaking. “Are you alright?” She undid the cuffs and held me tight, hugging me close. I wept onto her shoulder for probably half an hour.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized that while she’d given me an orgasm, I hadn’t returned the favor. When I pointed this out to Janie, she said “Oh, not to worry… there will be plenty of time for that!”

I slept over that night. It was good.

“It’s a good idea to experiment a little,” my dad said, smiling his weird half-smile benevolently at me from his wheelchair. I could already see the erection rising in his pants. “So… tell me all about it.”

I pulled down the collar of my shirt and peeled back the bra cup, exposing my left breast, and the shiny steel barbell that bisected the nipple. Janie had held my hand while I got them pierced.

“Use your imagination,” I said to my dad, and turned around and walked out of the room, out of the assisted living facility, and out onto the street. I never looked back.


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