Archive for sex

If And Only If


It has been a long dry spell, and my whole body vaguely aches for it, from the heels of my feet to the root of my cock and beyond. It has been a very long dry spell, for complicated reasons that I won’t go into here, and that I don’t fully understand myself. So when my hot sort-of co-worker Leighla asked me to go to this party with her, I didn’t hesitate one moment. I said “Yes.” Not that I had anything else going on tonight anyway.

Leighla navigates me confidently through an Upper West Side neighborhood that could be in another state, in another country as far as I’m concerned. This is not my New York City, not by a thousand miles. Here, I am the foreigner. Leighla’s skirt swishes as she walks, concealing hidden pleasures within, and I become acutely aware of the balls and penis hanging thick between my legs. We stop at a bodega, and she picks out two pieces of fruit that I do not recognize. She hands me one, and we eat as we walk. It is cloyingly sweet, and the juice runs down my face and sloshes all over my hands and runs down my neck. It makes me think of eating pussy, which makes me think of *her* pussy, and I blush.

I don’t know Leighla well. I don’t, in fact, know much more about her than her name. She works on a different floor from me; sometimes I see her in meetings, or in the building lobby, or sitting on a bench in the atrium, eating lunch out of a battered old X-Men lunchbox, circa 1980. She is attractive in a not-my-type sort of way. Not that I’m entirely sure I even have a type. I suspect that she is out of my league in any case. She reminds me of a tree, maybe a mountain ash: tall and slender and lithe; rooted but always in motion, crowned with a canopy of burgundy curls.

It is not my kind of party, not that I have a particular party type. It’s not my scene, not at all. I lose Leighla almost immediately, and find myself tossed adrift on a stormy sea, full of social flotsam and jetsam. Graduate students and their professors, all talking shop, the dialect of a tribe I am not conversant in. A smug-looking 20-something kid with a epic sideburns, a flannel lumberjack shirt and a John Deere baseball cap is holding court on the couch, surrounded by professor’s wives, regaling them all with some utterly fictional story about hunting deer in the Catskills. Even I can see the size of the bulge in his crotch, and I’m not in the habit of checking out other dude’s packages. The kid is preening like a well-fed house cat, reveling gleefully in the attention, absolutely bubbling over with smug self-satisfaction. I go off in search of a drink.

I do obtain a drink for myself, and set off to do some prowling of my own. I overhear someone whisper that the punch has been spiked with MDMA. This does not unduly concern me.I wander into the kitchen and get cornered next to the refrigerator by a woman ten years older than me, twenty pounds heavier, with a big fat diamond ring weighing down her left hand. She has olive skin and sad, hungry brown eyes, and she is wearing tight black pleather leggings that it looks like she has been extruded into: some industrial process involving pistons and hydraulic rams. Her thighs are thick and soft; her sweater is deep and voluminous. She tells me that she is working on a project to decode the genome of the malayan tapir. While she is talking, she makes flirtatiously aggressive eye contact and fiddles the stir stick in her cocktail suggestively, and I am just starting to think that I may be getting somewhere with her, and that getting somewhere might not be an at all bad thing when Leighla swoops back in.

“Hey, I heard there’s roof access,” she says, deftly cutting me off from Mrs. Horny Geneticist and tugging me along behind her. “Let’s sneak up onto the top of the building and fool around!”

‘Fool around’? I’m not sure exactly what she means by that, but my dick has it’s won suspicions. I follow Leighla, abandoning my new friend to the tides.

This apartment is HUGE. Just enormous, almost an embarrassment. You could fit like 6 of my studios in here, and still have room left over to sublet. None of the rooms seem to have the rumored roof access. There is a fire escape behind the kitchen window, but the way out is obstructed by a jungle of potted plants and dangling Le Creuset pans that appear to have never been sullied by the crass act of actual cooking.

It is late, and the ecstasy likes to dilate time and space. I may have placed my hand on Leighla’s breast as we rounded a corner into another dead end; she may have gently but firmly removed it. Without bothering to knock, we barge straight through a closed door into the master bedroom, and that is when I see him.  My young hipster nemesis, of recent couch fame. He has brought a friend along with him, and they are tangled up atop the sheets, sullying our host’s linen. His shirt is off, his chest smooth and pink, decorated with an obligatory tattoo. She is older than I am; tall and blonde and busty, with thick, pale thighs, and just a little bit of a poochy belly bulging over her Vicky’s Secret purple panties, extra high-cut up the sides and sporting a little pink bow front and center. Her tits are big, and if they were probably a little bit perkier fifteen years ago, they are still pretty damn nice. Nipples fat, stiff and pink; pearl earrings and a discrete little tattoo of pink and blue stars on her ankle. Ring on her finger. She is somebody else’s wife. There is a lot of that going around tonight.

Through his tight black hipster jeans, I can clearly see the outline of his cock. Damn, the kid is really hung. Leighla sees it too. She nudges me and grins. All wrapped up in their own thing, they haven’t noticed us yet.

Sweet mercy, it’s been a long time! My brain seethes with jealousy while my less judgmental cock sproings up into an unabashedly erect state. Leighla and I watch the two of them make out on the bed, getting hotter and heavier by the minute, hands and mouths roaming with frenzied urgency, a pair of over-aged horny teens making out on the sly. It is better than any porn video I’ve ever watched. He is slobbering all over her big, beautiful tits, and I am hating his guts.

Her panties come down. Her pussy is shaved bald, puffy lips pouting open, hints of moist pink treasures within. Four eager hands unbutton and remove the kid’s exceedingly tight hipster pants. A fat cock, large and rubbery, disturbingly realistic, held in place with straps and harness, flops free. Below the dildo, his own penis, not exactly tiny, but certainly not large by any stretch of the imagination, points straight out: bobbing up and down like an eager kid in the third-grade class who knows the answer. “Call on me! Call on me!”

She is unamused by his little deception, I can see it all over her face, a frown of reprobation: teacher caught the kid cheating. But she doesn’t say anything; she is also too far gone to stop now. Perhaps that was his gambit all along. They lay face-to-face atop the fancy white linens, naked but for his white socks and strap-on rig; his hands fondling her buttocks, her fingers busy with her own pussy. Leighla takes my hand and squeezes.

“The very least you could do,” she tells him huskily, “is lick my little kitty.”

Apparently, that is the very least he could do. I can almost hear him sigh with the annoyance of the chore. She sprawls on her back across the bed, legs splayed wide open, breasts pancaked. and he crawls in between her thighs and half-hearted laps at her pussy. This is when she sees us, Leighla and I, standing by the door. She raises an eyebrow and makes a wry face. ‘See what I’ve gotten myself into,’ she seems to be saying.

I would have spent a lot longer, and been way more enthusiastic about eating her out, but hey, that’s me and my appetites, and I’ve been deprived lately. Anyway, after a quick two minutes, he comes up with a smug air of completion on his face, apparently feeling like he’s done his duty and is ready for the next act.

She does not argue the point. They roll over and once again he is on the bottom. He still has not seen us. She straddles him, facing us, reverse-cowgirl style. She grins and winks in our direction, grabs his big fat strap-on dildo, and inserts it into her pussy. It slides easily up inside, and she sighs a deep, fat sigh of contentment. She starts riding him, bouncing up and down, grinding back and forth. Her pussy makes sexy slurping sounds as it devours the dildo. She plays with her clit, pinching it delicately between two ladylike fingers as she fucks. His real, undersized but flesh-and-blood penis bounces futilely as they fuck, oozing frustration and pre-come.

Leighla nudges me, then nudges me again. With her eyes, she tells me what she wants me to do. Not exactly my cup of tea, but I do not object.

I climb up on the bed with them, insinuate myself in between his legs, and proceed to suck his cock while she rides the dildo.

This is not the first time I’ve sucked a dick, but it has been a very, very long time; and I was never what you’d call an expert at it. In fact my experience was limited to a brief, mutually-embarrassed week-long fling, my freshman year of college. But, frankly, it isn’t that complicated. Especially with a fairly small and over-excited cock, there really ain’t that much to it.

Thank whatever god you want: my hipster practices good hygiene. He’s clean and freshly washed. His dick feels kind of nice in my mouth. I let it slide in between my lips, alternating swallowing him whole with just sucking on the tip while stroking the shaft with my hand. Her bald pussy is slurping up the dildo right next to my face. The scent of sex is deeply intoxicating, and has an additive effect with the MDMA that is either delightful or excruciating. She is still scrubbing away at her pink, inflated clit while she fucks the dildo. She grins down at me. I lift my mouth off his penis, grin back, press the flat of my tongue hard against the underside of his glans, and jerk him off, hard and fast.

He makes a little “I’m coming” noise, kind of a squeak honestly, and squirts off, right into my open mouth. It doesn’t take bad; it doesn’t taste particularly good either. I swallow it all, and pop my mouth back over his softening cock and suck out the remainder of his salty, bitter semen.

She is grimacing, brow furrowed, bouncing up and down on his dildo with a literal vengeance, scrubbing at her clit like she’s trying to erase a bad word. She needs to come, in the worst possible way. I wet one finger, reach around her backside and part her cheeks, and slip my fingertip just inside her asshole. That was all she needs. It sets her off, and she comes, tits shaking and blushing, abdomen heaving, hair flying everywhere, howling at the top of her lungs. It’s a beautiful sight to witness.

I let his soft little dick slide out from between my legs and crawl off the bed, disentangling myself before things get complicated. More so, that is, than they are already.

My own dick is throbbingly hard, protruding awkwardly from the front of my pants.

There is a little hatch in the ceiling, with its very own ship’s ladder, in the far corner of the bedroom. Leighla and I climb up the ladder, through the hatch, and out onto the roof.

The sun is not quite up yet. We stand at the parapet and look out over the magnificent twilight spectacle of lower Manhattan, ghostly towers rising in the morning mist before us, sunlight just now glinting off the very tallest spires.

Leighla stands behind me, wraps her arms around me, kisses the nape of my neck. Her soft breasts are pressed against my shoulder blades. I can feel her heat, and it makes me ache. A good kind of ache.

She deftly unbuttons my pants, tugs my paisley boxers down around my knees, my cock jutting out like a bowsprit, cooled by the soft morning breeze. She takes my dick in one hand, pumping fast and hard, and, hiking up her skirt, she grinds her pantied crotch against my bare asscheeks while she jerks me off. She rides me hard, kissing and biting the back of my neck, and we come at exactly the same moment, gasping and crying out loud as the sun rises over the East River. My semen jets out in a ballistic arc, spattering down onto the sidewalk five stories below.

We compose ourselves, and together we descend through the hatch, back into the rapidly dwindling party. There is no sign of the hipster kid or his bedmate; my olive-skinned geneticist is passed out on the couch in the arms of another woman. The ecstasy is wearing off now, a lingering tingle in my nose and toes and cock. We slip out the door and down the stairs, and out onto the streets of a city that is just now starting to wake up.

Leighla slips something into my hand just before we part ways at the subway station. Her panties, white cotton with the chemical symbols of the periodic table printed all over. The crotch is soaked through and through. “I think,” she says, looking at me seriously, weighing her words carefully, “I think that you just might be a keeper.”


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The Willow Tree


It was early spring, and the morning sky was the color of a robin’s egg. It was going to be a beautiful day. Hot, even. Not a cloud in the sky, and the leaves were not yet unfurled. Up on the cliffs there would be no shade. If I were a different, younger man, I’d already be out rock climbing. But I wasn’t, and this morning I was up early, in the back yard of the old upstate farmhouse we’d bought a couple years before, splitting wood under the bare branches of the old willow tree.

Sweat was already running down my chest and tickling my shoulder blades. I took off my shirt. The young sun felt good on my naked skin. I’d probably burn.

As always, it felt wrong to be splitting firewood while the sun shone. We wouldn’t be burning this wood until the winter after next, but I’d be glad of it when the time came. I found an easy rhythm with the heavy ax, and let my mind wander.

It so happened that I’d gotten laid the night before. These things happen, from time to time when one is married; once ever six weeks, couple of months these days. Matilda and I have been together north of twenty years now; in the early days we used to go at it like rabbits. Lately, we barely go at it at all. “Slow,” I thought, “Like old people fucking.”

It had been nice sex. Who wants nice sex though? It had been ages and ages since I’d put my dick anywhere other than in Matilda’s pussy. It just seemed like too much effort these days. Still and all, I could feel my cock swelling at the memory.

It was about then that I looked up and noticed her. A young girl, a wisp of a thing, with strawberry-blonde hair down to the middle of her back. She was lying in the short grass under the willow tree, and she looked like she’d been there a while. Her eyes were gold, the color of fallen leaves, and they were fixed directly on me. She was wearing some kind of sheer top which showed off her breasts, such as they were, quite clearly. I could see the dark of her nipples. She was wearing a short green leather skirt, which rode up high on her skinny pale thighs. By the looks of her, the girl couldn’t have been much older then twelve. I felt a pang of guilt for looking at her like that. But that didn’t keep me from looking.

“Well don’t stop on my account,” she said. Her voice was soft and musical. “I was enjoying the show.”

Her hand darted between her legs and her leather skirt slipped up higher. I caught a glimpse of soft, sparse, curly hair, the exact color of the hair on her head. I was going straight to hell and I knew it. But I did not look away.

She got up from where she had been lounging in the grass. Not a blade was bent to show she’d been there. The girl might have weighed eighty pounds, soaking wet. There was something slightly unearthly about the way she walked. Her bare feet didn’t seem to actually touch the ground.

When she was so close that I could feel her body heat, she stopped. “I’ve been watching you,” she said, kneeling down. “For a long time now.”

Long, clever fingers were already undoing my zipper. My cock was straining inside my jeans. I hadn’t been this hard since my fucking wedding.

She deftly extracted my dick from my pants. My hardness ached, straining out toward her, the head purple and swollen, drooling pre-come. Her fingers encircled the shaft. I hadn’t been touched by hands other than mine or Matilda’s in… decades. She looked up at me, smiled, opened her mouth wide, and swallowed me whole.

Her pale, pink little-girl lips closed fast around my erection. It was then, I suppose, that I noticed her ears: long and pointy Mr. Spock ears. Not that I had much time or inclination to think about it. Despite myself, I was already humping her, fucking her wet little mouth with my hard cock.

She leapt up, leaving my wet cock bouncing in the bright morning sunlight. “Oh no you don’t,” she laughed merrily. “I’ll suck you dry another day. This time you’re all mine.”

She took a step back, shedding her clothes like a chrysalis. She was short, barely reaching past my navel, and slender as a willow wand. Her budding little breasts stuck out, proud and firm. A fluffy triangular patch of reddish hair crowned her puffy little pussy, like the poof of a dandelion.

Four iridescent dragonfly wings sprouted from between her shoulder blades. They quivered with excitement, catching the morning sun, shimmering and glinting. Very gracefully and deliberately, she raised her left leg high above her head, resting the ankle on my shoulder. Then she lowered her pouting pink pussy onto my engorged cock.

I didn’t think it would fit, I honestly didn’t. She was so tiny. I slid right in though. Her pussy was scalding hot and slick and soaking wet, and it seemed to grasp my dick like a fist.

“Oooh,” she cooed, “I love mortal cock!” Her face was right at the level of my sternum. She grasped me by the shoulders, and wrapped both legs around my back. We fucked like that, her small titties bouncing up and down, her wings vibrating like a hummingbird. It was glorious.

“Pinch my nipples!” she cried, “Pinch them hard!”

I did just that, pulling and twisting her pink nipples like my hands were a pair of vice-grips. I could feel the semen bubbling up in my balls, urgent for release. I wasn’t going to be able to hold on much longer. My pixie was bouncing up and down on my cock, her strong legs squeezing me tight, her pussy making happy squooshing sounds as we fucked.

“I’m going to come!” I managed to choke out.

“Me too!” she giggled. “Stick a finger in my asshole!”

I obliged her, releasing her cute little nipples, which were now hard as pencil erasers, spreading her buttocks, and jamming one finger against her tiny little rosebud.

She threw back her neck and came, singing like a morning songbird, her small breasts jiggling and blushing mottled red. I came right along with her, pumping what felt like gallons of cream into her convulsing juicy pussy.

Finally we disentangled from each other. I tucked my wet and tired penis away, and she gathered up her clothes without the slightest hint of modesty.

“See you soon,” she grinned and winked.

“What’s your name?” I managed to ask.

“Ah,” she laughed, “now that would be telling!”


I made love to Matilda that night. Partly it was because I felt guilty about what I’d done that morning; but mostly it was because thinking back on the strange encounter and playing the details over and over again in my head made me incredibly horny.

Matilda was pleased, if surprised. We hadn’t done it two nights in a row in I don’t know how many years. She rubbed her clit while I fucked her. I love watching her touch herself. She isn’t a skinny woman, not by a long stretch, but damn is she sexy!

Instead of coming inside her, the way I normally do, I pulled out at the last second and shot off all over her large round breasts. She liked that.  I put a finger inside her while she masturbated again, and then we cleaned up and went to sleep, sleeping like spoons.


I was repairing the fence around Matilda’s garden. Damn rabbits are always finding a way in. Matilda was at the grocery store. It was mid-morning, and I was just starting to think about lunch.

She was perched atop a fence post, legs crossed at the ankle, knees apart, watching me work with an amused little smile on her face.

“You look just delicious,” she said. “Good enough to eat.” She lifted up her skirt, revealing the blossoming petals of her pussy. I could see the moisture, and the little pink pea of her clit from where I knelt with my staple gun and pliers.

She grinned, fluttering her wings, and plunged two fingers deep into her juicy little pussy. “Guess what I’m having for lunch?” she asked.

She hopped down from her perch, landing on the grass next to me. My cock was already hard as a rock. “Take off those silly clothes, and I’ll do the rest.”

Quick as a bunny, I pulled off my jeans and underwear, letting my cock flap free in the warm sunlight. “And the shirt too,” she said.

I pulled off my t-shirt and lay naked in the grass. She grinned broadly, golden eyes sparkling, and peeled off her own skirt and top. Her small breasts bounced proudly. She straddled me, parting her puffy outer labia, and dragged her pussy up and down the length of my cock. She was very wet.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” she said, “ever since the first time I saw you. I’m so glad you bought this house.” Her hot and slippery pussy traversed the length of my dick, hesitated at the very tip, and then started the return journey back down toward my balls. “The last owners were a pair of spinster sisters with no sex drive at all.” We’d purchased the house two years before, moving away from the city after Matilda’s book deal came through. “I haven’t had any mortal action in years.”

She hopped up, leaving my penis twitching and damp with her juice. With a wicked grin, she again inserted two long fingers into her pretty little pussy, pulled them out, and licked them off with a satisfied smirk. “I am going to suck you dry!” she declared.

Matilda used to give a fairly competent blowjob, but it had been years.

She then proceeded to do exactly that, though she certainly took her time about it. She started out by encircling the shaft of my cock with both her little hands, and just flicking at the plum head with the tip of her tongue. When I couldn’t stand that anymore, she opened up her mouth and captured the swollen, throbbing head of my cock while moving her hands more rapidly up and down. I raised my hips up off the grass and started humping back against her. Her timing was exquisite. Just as I started to get over-excited, approaching the point of no return, she stopped.

Grinning from pointy ear to pointy ear, she slurped the underside of my cock, from my swollen balls all the way up to the little crease before the crown. I winced as she took one testicle into her mouth, swirling her tongue all around the sensitive little gland. It was an incredibly erotic feeling, though a little scary.

“Don’t worry,” she said, spitting my tender ball out of her mouth, “I won’t hurt you… unless you want me to.”

She had two fingers in her pussy again. She was certainly enjoying herself. “Come in my mouth mortal,” she said. “Don’t hold back. I want you to.”

Her mouth engulfed the top of my cock once more, and one hand busily stroking up and down the shaft. Her other hand went exploring, probing down behind my ball sac, back between my ass cheeks. This was new territory for me. Her finger found my asshole, which was suddenly super-sensitive, and brushed against it, circling all around my anus. Then, very gently and carefully, she inserted the tip of her finger into my virgin hole.

It was just too much for me. Howling, I humped at her face hard, desperate to get off. She stayed right with me, never losing her rhythm, while her probing finger delved deeper and deeper up inside me.

I came, and came hard, squirting my semen into her mouth. She hungrily devoured it, milking me for all I was worth, not spilling one drop. Reluctantly, she let my softening cock slip out from between her lips, and extracted her long finger from my butt. I was still gasping.

“That,” she said with satisfaction, “was delicious. Now you owe me one!”

And, gathering up her clothes, she lifted up into the air and disappeared.


I had every intention of pouncing on Matilda when she got home, seducing her for some lovely afternoon sex like we used to have. But she was busy with chores and writing, and kind of crabby, and then it was dinner, and by the time we went to bed we were both too tired.

The next morning though, I slipped into the shower with her. She was surprised, but not in a bad way.

We fucked under the warm falling water, and it was pretty glorious. Then she surprised me by lifting off my aching cock, getting down on her knees in the shower stall, and taking my dick in her mouth.

Sucking me was never really her forte, but it did feel really good, though she wasn’t going to get me off. She looked really pretty like that, hair wet and stringy, tits hanging down, lips wrapped around my cock. Soon enough, she came up for air.

“My pussy’s a little sore,” she explained, “from all the attention it’s been getting lately. Not that I’m complaining…”

She stood up and turned around, capturing me between soft and pillowy butt cheeks, and I grasped her big fat breasts and kissed the back of her neck and slid my penis up and down the warm, soapy cleft of her ass until I came with a shout.

That,” she said, “was the nicest shower I’ve had in years. Thank you. We should do that more often!”


I was mowing the lawn when I saw her next. She was lounging, naked, on a low branch in the big old willow tree over by the woodpile. Her golden eyes glittered with mischief, and the little triangle of pubic hair looked soft and inviting in the warm sun. She kicked her legs playfully.

“Come her mortal,” she called, “It’s time to pay the piper!”

I shut down the mower and jogged over. She smiled and spread her legs. Her pussy was already moist and excited. My own cock was firm too.

“I want you to eat my pussy… I want to feel your tongue… I want you to make me come.”

I’d always enjoyed going down on Matilda, but she’d always been rather shy about asking for it, and I never felt like I was doing it right. I’d never made her come that way.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, parting her lips and exposing her pink clit. “Come on! Don’t worry, I’ll tell you what to do.”

She was right at head level on her branch, which made things easy for me. I dove in and started licking, aiming my tongue at the button of her clitoris.

She tasted like clover honey.

“No, too fast!” she tugged on my hair. “Start slowly. Run your tongue up and down my pussy, get me really wet, and then go to work on my clit.”

I did that, dragging the flat of my tongue across her vulva, studiously avoiding her clit, and that seemed to do the trick nicely. I couldn’t believe how wet she was getting.

“Now lick my clit,” she told me. “But gentle!”

I flicked her little pink button with the tip of my tongue, and she sighed, leaning back like a kid on a swing. “Put a finger inside!”

Following her instructions, I slid a finger up inside her pussy. She was very hot, and very wet. I kept on licking at her clit, finding a rhythm she seemed to like.

“Play with my asshole…!” she gasped, and I did, running another finger up and down her butt crack, toying with her anus. This made her even wetter. Her feet were flying high in the air. Her pussy and ass were totally exposed and beautiful.

On impulse, I released her swollen clit and stuck my face between her petite ass cheeks. I stuck out my tongue and tentatively licked her anus.

“Oooh, yes! Do that!” I attacked her asshole with my tongue, burrowing it up inside her like a tunneling worm while I finger-fucked her pussy. She came like that, kicking her legs and singing like a robin. It was beautiful.

When she’d calmed down a little, she slipped down off her branch and kissed me. “You could fuck my ass,” she said with a smile, “If you want to.”

She turned around, spreading her cheeks, offering herself up to me. There was no way, I thought, that I was going to fit. Her asshole was tiny and glistening wet, a miniature rosebud, crinkled tight. You couldn’t slip a pencil up that, I thought, never mind my erection which, I have to say, is not small.

Nonetheless, I was willing to give it a go. Dropping my trousers, I pressed the purple crown of my erection against her butt hole. I was liberally leaking slick clear precome. She giggled and pressed back against me.

We stayed like that for a while, locked together, my horny cock grinding against her tiny little anus, rocking back and forth. I cupped her small breasts with my hands, squeezing them hard. She made a little sighing, grunting noise, bent over, and bore down hard against me.

I felt her open up and yield, and the head of my cock slipped inside. She was vice-tight. “Slow, slow…” she whispered through clenched teeth. “Oh, it feels good.”

Slowly, carefully, I worked my way inside her, her anus stretched tight around my dick. We were both excited beyond belief now. Finally, my cock was all the way inside, her girly butt cheeks pressed against my hips. “Fuck me,” she growled, and I did, slow and deep, working my dick in and out as her asshole clenched at me. She reached down and stroked her clit, and she fucked right back at me. I was going to come.

“You horny old goat, just what ARE you doing?”

It was Matilda, in a floral summer dress, two tall glasses of lemonade in her hands. I looked guiltily down. My pants were around my ankles, and my hard cock was stuffed into a small knothole in the trunk of the old willow tree.

“Come over her and fuck me properly, right here in the grass,” Matilda said. She licked her lips. “God, you’re a randy old thing. I like that. On second thought, why don’t you fuck me on the front porch… where the neighbors can see.”


I never saw her again after that.

Matilda and my sex life has taken off like a rocket though. We used to get it on once every month or two; now we are doing it two or three times a week. Sometimes more. We’ve both been boning up on our oral sex skills, and I’ve caught her looking at pornography on the computer when she’s supposed to be writing. Lately she’s even dropped some pretty broad hints about wanting to try anal sex out for size.

One night in October, I woke up to find the bed empty next to me. It was after midnight.

I went downstairs to take a piss and have a drink of water. A harvest moon was on the rise, hanging fat and low over the hills, casting long, weird, blue shadows among the half-naked trees and across the leaf-strewn grass of the yard.

Some movement caught my eye. I grabbed the binoculars we kept by the kitchen window for bird watching.

There she was, under the old willow tree. Matilda was stark naked, riding a twisted old root like a cowgirl. Her back was arched, her head thrown back, her eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy. Her breasts shook like piñatas. She was tangled in a thicket of willow branches, wrapped head to toe, long slender branches curling around her buttocks, caressing her neck, rubbing up against her wide, dark nipples, and circled around her waist with the intimate embrace of a lover. I zoomed in on her pussy. She was sliding back and forth, up and down on the outstretched root. I could almost see the wetness on the root as she ground herself back and forth on a woody knob.

My own erection jutted out from my pajama bottoms. She looked beautiful like that. I let her be, left her to her own pleasure, and went back to bed, falling asleep to weird, horny, disjointed dreams. The next morning, we had slow, sultry, lazy, sweet morning sex, some of the best sex we’ve ever had.


The days are short in December where we live, and this day was the shortest of the year. Not even four, and it was already dark outside.

We were sitting in the living room, enjoying the warmth of the fire. Matilda was reading her book, and I was working the crossword. We’d already fucked once that day, on the floor in front of the wood stove, her on all fours and me taking her from behind with a finger up her asshole. Our bellies were full from dinner, we were sleepy from drinking wine, and we were contemplating going to bed early.

There was a knock-knocking at the door. We weren’t expecting any visitors. I got up to answer it.

Sitting on the matt, just outside the front door, someone had left a tiny, swaddled newborn baby. The little thing was wrapped in blankets, snug against the cold night air inside a wicker basket. He had Matilda’s nose and my chin, and golden eyes the color of fallen leaves. We named him Willow.


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Shave and a Hair Cut


I can’t think of many fates more frustrating than growing up a smart, horny, deeply closeted lesbian in a small town in upstate New York. I took all the hard classes, banged out homework, and remained studiously indifferent whenever anybody brought up the subject of boys or dating. Meanwhile I whacked off furiously to all the girls at school, but Tara Franks in particular. She was in my AP English class: a strawberry-blonde volleyball star, honors society president, presumptive valedictorian, straight as an arrow and totally out of my league.

In retrospect, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fooling anyone, my parents in particular.

The house across the street from us finally sold. It was one of those awful McMansions, immense and generic, and in immensely poor taste, and it had stood empty for years, a monolithic testament to the recession and the financial crisis.

The people who bought the place were from New York City. Yuppies. Weekenders.

They were a gay couple (which I thought was cool, though I don’t think that has anything to do with this story) and they had kids — two girls, identical twins actually — who were almost exactly my own age. They were cute, in a wholesome Life Magazine sort of way, but they were from an utterly different world. They went to school at some fancy private school down in the city. I rarely ever even saw them, but they seemed nice enough. At least Faith did; Grace struck me as a bit of a twat. Actually, I had trouble telling them apart. But that didn’t stop me from whacking off to them.

Like I said, I didn’t see them very often. But one fine Saturday morning in September, when my parents were at the god-damned farmer’s market and I was home alone in my bedroom, horny and kind of bored as usual, I happened to look out the window and saw one of the twins sitting alone on her white plastic front porch, reading a book. Some combination of boredom, lust, and curiosity impelled me to cross the street and go say ‘hi’ to her.

She closed her book and watched me approach, making me feel self-conscious in the extreme as I plodded across their neatly manicured lawn.

“Hi,” she said, “I’m glad you came over! I’m Faith by the way. It’s OK, people get us mixed up all the time. Do you want to do something? Do you want to go for a hike?”

Did I ever!

“Cool, it’ll be a hoot. Come on upstairs with me while I change.”

I didn’t know why she needed to change clothes – she was wearing jeans and a light sweater – but I didn’t mind. I followed her inside and up the stairs to the bedroom she shared with her twin.

The place was sterile, operating-room clean, far cleaner than our house had been, ever. I felt schlubby and corn-fed in those austere surroundings. We went into a bedroom that looked like a page out of the Ikea catalogue. The door closed behind me, and Faith pulled her sweater off over her head.

Her boobs weren’t all that big, but she was wearing an expensive-looking lacy and frilly scarlet bra, the kind that I didn’t own and probably never would. It looked damn good on her. She flashed me a smile – didn’t even try to hide it – and slithered out of her jeans. Her panties – what there were of them – matched the bra.

“Do you like them?” Faith asked, “Do you want to see what’s inside?”

I just stammered and gaped.

“I’ve been following your eyes,” she said, “Go ahead, you know you want to. It’s no big deal.” She tossed her blonde hair fetchingly. “Practically everyone at our school does it.”

I emitted an unsexy squeak that must have sounded close enough to a ‘yes’. Faith peeled off her skimpy, sassy panties. Her tan lines were starkly defined, and her pussy was shaved just as bare as in the pornos. She looked beautiful.

My own panties were sopping wet, and my clit was at rigid attention. I wanted to lick her cunt in the worst sort of way.

Faith sat down on the edge of her bed and spread her legs apart. Petite lips pouted slightly open. Her labia glistened wetly, and a strand of drool hung tantalizingly suspended in space. She was excited too.

“Go ahead, have a lick,” she told me, biting her lips flirtatiously, just like a magazine model. “I want you to.”

I got down on my knees with my face so close to her pussy I could feel the heat radiating off it. She sighed softly and ran her fingers through my hair. “Lick me,” she whispered. Her clit was fat and pink, and seemed to strain out toward me.

I’d tasted plenty of pussy before: my own. This was an entirely different kettle of fish. I shivered with anticipatory delight. I stuck my tongue out and gently traced the opening of her slit, all the way from the fold of her butt-cheeks to her hooded clit. She was salty and musky and I was immediately addicted.

Faith moaned out loud and gripped my hair tighter as I licked her pussy. I didn’t know what I was doing; I made it up as I went along, probing the depths of her pussy and circling her clit. Whatever I was doing, it sure seemed to be working: she was soaking wet and huffing and puffing like a steam train. Of course, the more excited she got, the wetter that made me.

I slid a finger, then two, up inside her pussy. She was hot and tight inside, and her pussy seemed to gobble me up. She was flat on her back on the bed now, moaning and groaning in a most gratifying way. Her wetness was all over my face as I tickled her bulging clit with the tip of my tongue.

“Put a finger in my ass!” she begged/commanded. Her butthole was tiny and crinkled and sexy. I withdrew one of the fingers from her pussy, slick with her juice, and pressed it against her winking anus. It slid right up inside, captured by the little ring of muscle.

“Oh fuck me!” Faith wailed. Her legs were kicking wildly in the air, her hips were bucking hard, mashing her wet pussy against my face. I kept my tongue glued to her clit as I fucked her pussy and her ass with my long fingers.

“I’m going to fucking come! …You’re going to make me come! Holy shit, I’m coming! I’M FUCKING COMING!!”

I couldn’t breathe, and I didn’t much care. I stayed with her all the way through her flailing, thrashing orgasm. When she finally settled down, I came up for air, grinning like a fiend. I felt like Queen of Fucking Everything.

“Well let the whole block know, why don’t you?” Faith’s sister Grace was leaning in the doorway, applauding sarcastically. “Nicely done,” she said to me. “Now are we going to the fucking mall, or what?”

Faith got dressed without a sideways glance at me. I followed them downstairs. They got into their sporty little red convertible, and since they didn’t seem inclined to invite me along, I plodded back across the road to my own house, feeling like a fall leaf tossed and tumbled in the wind.


It was the next Saturday morning, and I was raking leaves. It seemed like a pretty pointless activity to me; they just blew back down again, and they’d all be covered with snow soon anyway; but my Dad insisted, and he paid my allowance.

I was lost in meandering thought, playing back in my head the events of the previous weekend while the rake rasped, when I happened to look up. There she was, standing not six feet away from me, watching me work with an appraising look on her face.

Despite myself, I broke out into a huge, idiotic grin.

“You’re really good at it,” she said. “Or that’s what my sister says.”

Oh fuck. It was her.

Grace stuck her tongue out at me. “You looked really good at it too,” she said. “Only one way to be sure though. Come on over.”

I let the rake fall, the handle burying itself in grass and brown leaves. I’d spend half an hour searching for it later on. I followed Grace blindly across the street, dodging an SUV that was doing at least twice the speed limit.

Inside the house, Faith was sitting by the coffee table with their two dads and some grown up guests. She flashed me a sweet smile as I followed her sister meekly up the stairs.

In the bedroom, the door closed behind me with a click. Good thing. I’m not sure I would have had the presence of mind to close it myself.

Grace turned to face me. She shrugged and brushed the hair out of her face. “You want me? Go ahead and undress me.”

I could hear muffled conversation downstairs. Feeling clumsy and slightly ridiculous, I lifted her pink sweater up and pulled it off over her head. Grace stood passively, barely raising her arms to help.

She stood in front of me in a black lace bra and jeans. I got down on my knees and unlaced her tennis shoes, pulling them off one at a time. When I pulled her socks off, she raised her legs, one at a time, offering me the soles of her feet to kiss. My panties were sticky and drenched, my clit throbbing.

I fumbled with the fly of her jeans while she smirked down at me. I could feel the heat of her pussy even through the denim. Finally I got them unbuttoned and tugged them down around her ankles. She was wearing black panties that matched her bra. My own underwear hardly ever matched.

She sighed dramatically, reached around her back, and unsnapped her own bra, letting it fall on the floor beside me. I gazed up at her tits as she pulled and pinched her own nipples.

“Go on,” she said impatiently. “While we’re still young here.”

I pulled her panties down. They slid down her smooth legs and settled in a small heap around her ankles. Grace’s pussy was bare as a baby’s. Not a single stray hair, no hint of stubble. She was drooling wet, and her clit bulged expectantly out. Even that up close and personal, I couldn’t tell her apart from her sister.

“Lick,” Grace said, squeezing her fat labia with two fingers, making her clit bulge out even more. I licked, flicking my tongue like a kitten drinking from a bowl of milk. She tasted like sex; that is to say salty and tangy, and if not actually delicious then absolutely intoxicating. She seemed to like what I was doing: my lips were covered in her wetness and her juices were dribbling down my chin.

“You look fucking horny like that,” Grace told me. I grinned into her pussy and redoubled my efforts, lapping until my tongue ached.

“I want to feel inside you,” I told her, running my fingers up and down her juicy, swollen vulva, teasing in between the lips.

“Oh no you don’t,” Grace said, grabbing my hand and moving it out of the way. “Not unless you’re rich. I’m a virgin. Bonafide. And I intend to stay that way until I get a suitable offer. Now keep licking.”

I kept licking.

It didn’t take her very long. When Grace came, she grabbed me by the hair and mashed my face into her pussy, grinding my outstretched tongue against her clitoris. She sucked air in through her teeth with a hiss, stood up on her tip-toes, and her whole body quivered. I felt like God. My cunt had never been wetter.

When she was done, she took a step back, pushing me away. I had soaked straight through my jeans.

“You are good,” she said with a satisfied grin. “Now that you’ve had lunch, are you ready for dessert?”

She turned around, bent over the bed, presenting her gorgeous pale ass to me. I swear, it was like she could read my filthy mind. I dove in, sticking my face right between her cheeks and lapping eagerly at her dainty little asshole while she masturbated. It was fucking hot.

Grace came again, with that same quivering hiss, and I almost came right along with her, just from the raunchiness of the situation. My face was slick with her come, and there was a massive dark wet spot in the crotch of my jeans.

She finally pulled away from me, and I fell to the floor, panting. Grace turned around to face me, and ran one lazy finger in between her puffy labia, slowly and deliberately licking her juices off of it. Her sister cleared her throat, directly behind me.

“I came up to see if you guys wanted any cookies,” Faith said. “But I see you’ve already eaten.”


“Honey, your friends are here.”

I’d been upstairs, slogging away at homework, and thinking seriously about ditching it and whacking off instead. Faith and Grace had become my favorite masturbatory subjects of late, though Tana was still a close second.

There they were, framed in the doorway, their sporty little red convertible parked in our driveway.

“You should go out with them,” my mom said. “You’re always so diligent about schoolwork. Go out and have some fun for once!”

Two minutes later I was wedged into the back of that red convertible while the twins exceeded the speed limit by an order of magnitude.

We went to the Blue Stone Tavern, a bar my parents went to sometimes. Nobody seemed to look twice at us as we sat down at a table and ordered drinks. I asked for a whiskey sour. It felt cool and exciting to be masquerading as an adult.

The twins took pills with their vodka tonics; a handful of multi-colored capsules apiece. They didn’t offer me any. The place was dark and musty and the music was loud. Grace deftly unbuttoned my pants.

Faith was on my left, and Grace was on my right. “Pull your panties down,” Grace whispered in my ear.

I did as I was told, feeling wild and totally out of control. I was, of course, soaking wet and slick already.

Grace and Faith were wearing matching cute little schoolgirl skirts. I slid a hand under both their skirts and found out that they weren’t wearing panties. Both of them were slick and wet. They reached across my lap and started touching me under the table, running their fingers up and down my clit, darting inside my pussy, circling my clit. I could feel their thighs pressed against my own. Above the table, we maintained a façade of normal conversation. They were bitching about the allowance they got from their dads, which was about ninety dollars a week more than I got.

A redneck with a denim jacket, a skanky beard, and a faded blue denim jacket sat nonchalantly down at our table. The girls, their fingers buried to the hilt in my crotch, smiled like they’d been expecting him.

There was a transaction. Between the cocktail and the fingers that never stopped molesting my cunt, I was fuzzy as to the details; but Dude handed Grace a rolled-up wad of cash, a lot of twenties rubber-banded together; and Faith discretely passed him a ziplock bag.

“Who’s your friend?” the redneck leered. “She’s awful quiet.”

“She’d love to suck your dick,” Grace said.

“But it’ll cost you double,” Faith put in.

Dude laughed like he was in on the joke, and disappeared into the crowded bar. I squirmed, squelching in a puddle of my own making, aching to come.

“I’ve got to pee,” Grace announced.

“Care to join us in the ladies?” Faith asked.

I hurriedly pulled up my panties and buttoned my pants, and followed the twins to the bathroom.

Thank God it was clean. Faith and Grace snorted lines of what I assume was coke off the sink. Then Faith sat down on the toilet and spread her legs, and I got down on my knees and licked her wet pussy until she came, while Grace filmed us with her iPhone.

They traded places. I took the opportunity to pull down my pants again. “That’s right babe,” Grace said, “Masturbate for us.”

Someone knocked on the door. “Just a minute,” Faith called, as she slipped the tip of one wet finger up my asshole. I lapped furiously at Grace’s pussy.

Grace came hard, kicking her legs and hissing like a cat. I was just about there myself. Faith’s finger was insinuating itself deeper and deeper up my butt.

“Don’t move,” Grace growled, and I didn’t. My face was coated in her tangy, slick juice, my tongue pressed against her slick swollen cunt.

The knock at the door again, more insistent this time. “Just a minute,” Faith repeated, extracting her finger from my gasping butt hole.

Grace urinated right into my mouth. It took me by surprise, so some if it splashed onto my face and shirt, but mostly the warm, salty liquid just filled my mouth like some weird kind of sports drink. I swallowed thirstily. It didn’t taste gross or anything; I didn’t think it was nasty, just super hot. When she was done, I licked her clean, we all three got dressed, and left the bathroom, parading smugly past a line of impatient women.

In the back seat, on the way home, I spread my legs and whacked off furiously while Grace and Faith watched in the rear-view mirror.

“We’re having a party at the house next weekend,” Grace said.

“Our dads are staying down in the city, so it’ll be just us,” Faith put in. “Will you be our guest?”

“You’ll be the piñata,” Grace said.

Of course I would come.


Everyone was there. All the jocks, all the rich and popular kids; everyone I would never hang out with. It was a party I would never ever have been invited to.

Tara Franks was there, looking gorgeous and effervescent in a fluffy pink sweater. Her boyfriend was there too, Cliff Something-Or-Other, the quarterback of the football team and class president.

The music was blastingly loud, Lady Gaga or some shit that I don’t listen to. Everyone was drinking, and the whole house reeked of pot.

They led me upstairs, into the bedroom. They’d shoved the bed to one side and set up the big, class-topped coffee table in the middle of the floor.

I stripped while the twins watched me objectively. There was only one bed in the bedroom, I noticed for the first time. They must sleep in it together at night. The implications of that made me a little weak in the knees.

When I was naked, they had me kneel atop the coffee table. Faith produced a pair of shiny steel chrome handcuffs and secured my hands behind my back. The window panes rattled in time with the bass line.

Grace had a large and expensive-looking bottle in her hand. “Have you ever had a champagne enema?” Faith asked me.

I’d never had an enema of any sort.

“You’ll love it,” Grace told me, and gave her sister’s boob an affectionate squeeze through her shirt. “Bend over.”

I lay my head down on the glass tabletop, with my naked rump thrust up in the air. After a bit of a struggle the sisters got the cork out with a satisfying *pop*, and foamy liquid came bubbling out. Grace proceeded to shove the neck of the bottle up my ass.

It felt distinctly strange. First of all, getting it in kind of hurt, and Grace wasn’t gentle about it. Once the neck of the bottle was in past my anus though, it mostly just felt weird. I felt vulnerable and kind and ridiculous, but my clit was definitely singing. The bubbly liquid stung and cramped as it infiltrated my bowels. I moaned, and Grace giggled. I wished I could touch my clit, but my hands were cuffed behind my back. The position I was in was deeply humiliating, and I felt totally out of control. Grace was right, I did love it.

Without any warning, she yanked the bottle out, leaving my asshole gasping. I went off like a geyser, spraying champagne across the bedroom. Both girls squealed with hysterical laughter.

It was about then that it hit me, like a framing hammer right in the forehead, that I was drunk. Fucked-up, shattered, shitfaced drunk.

Faith opened the door to the bedroom, and kids came in and started milling around. It should have freaked me out to be naked and on display in front of all the popular kids from school, but between the alcohol and my libido, I don’t remember it bothering me at all.

“Everything is free tonight,” announced Grace, “Everything is on the house. You want something to take home, just talk to Faith.”

You know how some people black out when they get too drunk, and can’t remember a thing? Well I remember it all, in glorious living Technicolor, though it has a disjointed quality to it, like someone’s vacation slides where the sequence got all mixed up.

I remember random people squeezing my butt and my boobs. I remember seeing a bunch of kids doing lines off the top of the dresser. I remember seeing Cliff Something-Or-Other, with Faith’s help, shoving a big needle into his muscular forearm. I remember Tara screaming at him, calling him an asshole, and a bunch of people laughing.

Then Cliff got naked and climbed onto the bed, and Faith and Grace stripped down to their underwear and snorted fat lines of cocaine off his erect cock.

I’d never seen an actual erection before, and I remember thinking it looked strangely biological. I didn’t find it disgusting or anything, just odd. What a weird design. I don’t know how anyone kind finds the things attractive. But to each their own…

The lights got turned down, and it got quieter, and I think the mood and focus of the party shifted. I saw Grace and Faith in bed together, tangled up in a 69, while Cliff masturbated.

Then someone tried to stick his dick in my pussy, but came before he could get it inside. Someone else was trying to stuff his cock into my mouth, but it wouldn’t seem to get hard, and he was yelling furiously at me and slapping me across the face like it was all my fault or something.

And then Tara grabbed me and pulled me away and helped me get down the stairs, and we ended up in another bedroom, the Dads I guess, and we were kissing in the dark, and then her clothes came off and I was eating her pussy out like a starving woman.

She had soft fur down there, and she was very wet, and she tasted like some spice I can’t think of, and she came so long and hard and loud that it was kind of scary.

Then I started to feel a little sick, then a lot sick, and then I was dry-heaving, and struggling my way out of the house and across the lawn and across the street and into my own front yard. I crawled the last little way into the house, gagging and sobbing.

My mom, to whom I am forever grateful, didn’t ask any questions beyond “Are you OK?”. She cleaned me up, used a bobby pin to unlock the handcuffs, got some pajamas on me, and put me to bed. I slept long and hard, and felt like shit the next day.


American History was my worst class. It was the only class I had that wasn’t A.P. or honors, and it was painfully boring. I still felt shaky and fragile, and I knew that half the school had seen me naked, and it was only Monday morning and I already wanted the day to be over. Mr. Crowfoot, the teacher, was droning on and on about the Reconstruction, and I was more or less wishing I was dead, when Cliff What’s-His-Name collapsed.

I’d never paid much attention to Cliff: he sat in the back of the class and was kind of a loudmouth joker. The only reason I’d even been aware of him was that he was my primary crush’s boyfriend. Anyway, he fell out of his seat like a big bag of potatoes, and the whole class kind of gasped simultaneously, and then things started happening really fast. Mr. Crowfoot walked over and checked his pulse, and then yelled “Someone call 911!” and started doing CPR, and suddenly there were sirens everywhere and people were sobbing and parents were showing up and grabbing their kids and no-one seemed to know what was going on.

In the end, eight kids died that day, and another thirteen were in critical condition. The word was someone had been selling bad heroin from down in the city. Later that day, every cop car in the world converged on the house across the street. By that weekend, a For Sale sign had gone up. I never saw or heard from Faith and Grace again.


Tara Franks caught up with me in the hall.

“How are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m OK,” I said cautiously, “How is your boyfriend?”

“Cliff,” she said. “Ex-boyfriend. He’s still in the hospital. They say he might have brain damage. I’m not sure how they could tell.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. Listen,” Tara said, and suddenly she was very close to me, and my heart was pounding in my chest. “Listen, you made me feel really good the other night at the party. I’d like to make you feel good too. Do you think you could teach me?”

I took her hand, and she squeezed my fingers. My clit jumped and my pussy drooled. She did not let go of my hand. “I’d be happy,” I said, “to teach you anything you want to learn.”


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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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The Nuclear Option

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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David and Aphrodite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touch her!” Emily urged.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was SO hot!” I told her.

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

“Your turn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Play with her asshole,” Emily whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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Rome Was Not Burned in a Day

Ugh. Monday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this seat taken?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you,” he croaked.

“Take his fingernails,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her scent still lingered on my fingers.

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


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